Text stringlengths 1 42.7k ⌀ | Speaker stringclasses 528 values | Text_10_word_context stringlengths 44 42.8k | Text_20_word_context stringlengths 74 42.8k | Text_100_word_context stringlengths 291 43.2k | Text_200_word_context stringlengths 562 43.7k | Text_400_word_context stringlengths 1.08k 44.7k | Text_800_word_context stringlengths 2.14k 46.9k | Text_1600_word_context stringlengths 4.17k 51.3k | Text_variable_400_to_1200_word_context stringlengths 1.36k 47.7k | Book stringclasses 47 values |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
"You ought to." | Robert Cohn | don't worry about," I said.<|quote|>"You ought to."</|quote|>"I've had plenty to worry | serious." "It's one thing I don't worry about," I said.<|quote|>"You ought to."</|quote|>"I've had plenty to worry about one time or other. | realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?" "Yes, every once in a while." "Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we'll be dead?" "What the hell, Robert," I said. "What the hell." "I'm serious." "It's one thing I don't worry about," I said.<|quote|>"You ought to."</|quote|>"I've had plenty to worry about one time or other. I'm through worrying." "Well, I want to go to South America." "Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing | bottles in bins around the wall. "This is a good place," he said. "There's a lot of liquor," I agreed. "Listen, Jake," he leaned forward on the bar. "Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?" "Yes, every once in a while." "Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we'll be dead?" "What the hell, Robert," I said. "What the hell." "I'm serious." "It's one thing I don't worry about," I said.<|quote|>"You ought to."</|quote|>"I've had plenty to worry about one time or other. I'm through worrying." "Well, I want to go to South America." "Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing to that." "But you've never been to South America." "South America hell! If you went there the way you feel now it would be exactly the same. This is a good town. Why don't you start living your life in Paris?" "I'm sick of Paris, and I'm sick of the | We went down the stairs to the caf on the ground floor. I had discovered that was the best way to get rid of friends. Once you had a drink all you had to say was: "Well, I've got to get back and get off some cables," and it was done. It is very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we went down-stairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda. Cohn looked at the bottles in bins around the wall. "This is a good place," he said. "There's a lot of liquor," I agreed. "Listen, Jake," he leaned forward on the bar. "Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?" "Yes, every once in a while." "Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we'll be dead?" "What the hell, Robert," I said. "What the hell." "I'm serious." "It's one thing I don't worry about," I said.<|quote|>"You ought to."</|quote|>"I've had plenty to worry about one time or other. I'm through worrying." "Well, I want to go to South America." "Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing to that." "But you've never been to South America." "South America hell! If you went there the way you feel now it would be exactly the same. This is a good town. Why don't you start living your life in Paris?" "I'm sick of Paris, and I'm sick of the Quarter." "Stay away from the Quarter. Cruise around by yourself and see what happens to you." "Nothing happens to me. I walked alone all one night and nothing happened except a bicycle cop stopped me and asked to see my papers." "Wasn't the town nice at night?" "I don't care for Paris." So there you were. I was sorry for him, but it was not a thing you could do anything about, because right away you ran up against the two stubbornnesses: South America could fix it and he did not like Paris. He got the first idea out of | a trip like that," Cohn said. He sat down. "I'll be too old before I can ever do it." "Don't be a fool," I said. "You can go anywhere you want. You've got plenty of money." "I know. But I can't get started." "Cheer up," I said. "All countries look just like the moving pictures." But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly. "I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really living it." "Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bull-fighters." "I'm not interested in bull-fighters. That's an abnormal life. I want to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip." "Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot?" "No, I wouldn't like that." "I'd go there with you." "No; that doesn't interest me." "That's because you never read a book about it. Go on and read a book all full of love affairs with the beautiful shiny black princesses." "I want to go to South America." He had a hard, Jewish, stubborn streak. "Come on down-stairs and have a drink." "Aren't you working?" "No," I said. We went down the stairs to the caf on the ground floor. I had discovered that was the best way to get rid of friends. Once you had a drink all you had to say was: "Well, I've got to get back and get off some cables," and it was done. It is very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we went down-stairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda. Cohn looked at the bottles in bins around the wall. "This is a good place," he said. "There's a lot of liquor," I agreed. "Listen, Jake," he leaned forward on the bar. "Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?" "Yes, every once in a while." "Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we'll be dead?" "What the hell, Robert," I said. "What the hell." "I'm serious." "It's one thing I don't worry about," I said.<|quote|>"You ought to."</|quote|>"I've had plenty to worry about one time or other. I'm through worrying." "Well, I want to go to South America." "Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing to that." "But you've never been to South America." "South America hell! If you went there the way you feel now it would be exactly the same. This is a good town. Why don't you start living your life in Paris?" "I'm sick of Paris, and I'm sick of the Quarter." "Stay away from the Quarter. Cruise around by yourself and see what happens to you." "Nothing happens to me. I walked alone all one night and nothing happened except a bicycle cop stopped me and asked to see my papers." "Wasn't the town nice at night?" "I don't care for Paris." So there you were. I was sorry for him, but it was not a thing you could do anything about, because right away you ran up against the two stubbornnesses: South America could fix it and he did not like Paris. He got the first idea out of a book, and I suppose the second came out of a book too. "Well," I said, "I've got to go up-stairs and get off some cables." "Do you really have to go?" "Yes, I've got to get these cables off." "Do you mind if I come up and sit around the office?" "No, come on up." He sat in the outer room and read the papers, and the Editor and Publisher and I worked hard for two hours. Then I sorted out the carbons, stamped on a by-line, put the stuff in a couple of big manila envelopes and rang for a boy to take them to the Gare St. Lazare. I went out into the other room and there was Robert Cohn asleep in the big chair. He was asleep with his head on his arms. I did not like to wake him up, but I wanted to lock the office and shove off. I put my hand on his shoulder. He shook his head. "I can't do it," he said, and put his head deeper into his arms. "I can't do it. Nothing will make me do it." "Robert," I said, and shook him by the shoulder. He | not so pleasant to have around. Also, playing for higher stakes than he could afford in some rather steep bridge games with his New York connections, he had held cards and won several hundred dollars. It made him rather vain of his bridge game, and he talked several times of how a man could always make a living at bridge if he were ever forced to. Then there was another thing. He had been reading W. H. Hudson. That sounds like an innocent occupation, but Cohn had read and reread "The Purple Land." "The Purple Land" is a very sinister book if read too late in life. It recounts splendid imaginary amorous adventures of a perfect English gentleman in an intensely romantic land, the scenery of which is very well described. For a man to take it at thirty-four as a guide-book to what life holds is about as safe as it would be for a man of the same age to enter Wall Street direct from a French convent, equipped with a complete set of the more practical Alger books. Cohn, I believe, took every word of "The Purple Land" as literally as though it had been an R. G. Dun report. You understand me, he made some reservations, but on the whole the book to him was sound. It was all that was needed to set him off. I did not realize the extent to which it had set him off until one day he came into my office. "Hello, Robert," I said. "Did you come in to cheer me up?" "Would you like to go to South America, Jake?" he asked. "No." "Why not?" "I don't know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway." "They're not the real South Americans." "They look awfully real to me." I had a boat train to catch with a week's mail stories, and only half of them written. "Do you know any dirt?" I asked. "No." "None of your exalted connections getting divorces?" "No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?" "Why me?" "You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us." "No," I said, "I like this town and I go to Spain in the summer-time." "All my life I've wanted to go on a trip like that," Cohn said. He sat down. "I'll be too old before I can ever do it." "Don't be a fool," I said. "You can go anywhere you want. You've got plenty of money." "I know. But I can't get started." "Cheer up," I said. "All countries look just like the moving pictures." But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly. "I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really living it." "Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bull-fighters." "I'm not interested in bull-fighters. That's an abnormal life. I want to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip." "Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot?" "No, I wouldn't like that." "I'd go there with you." "No; that doesn't interest me." "That's because you never read a book about it. Go on and read a book all full of love affairs with the beautiful shiny black princesses." "I want to go to South America." He had a hard, Jewish, stubborn streak. "Come on down-stairs and have a drink." "Aren't you working?" "No," I said. We went down the stairs to the caf on the ground floor. I had discovered that was the best way to get rid of friends. Once you had a drink all you had to say was: "Well, I've got to get back and get off some cables," and it was done. It is very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we went down-stairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda. Cohn looked at the bottles in bins around the wall. "This is a good place," he said. "There's a lot of liquor," I agreed. "Listen, Jake," he leaned forward on the bar. "Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?" "Yes, every once in a while." "Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we'll be dead?" "What the hell, Robert," I said. "What the hell." "I'm serious." "It's one thing I don't worry about," I said.<|quote|>"You ought to."</|quote|>"I've had plenty to worry about one time or other. I'm through worrying." "Well, I want to go to South America." "Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing to that." "But you've never been to South America." "South America hell! If you went there the way you feel now it would be exactly the same. This is a good town. Why don't you start living your life in Paris?" "I'm sick of Paris, and I'm sick of the Quarter." "Stay away from the Quarter. Cruise around by yourself and see what happens to you." "Nothing happens to me. I walked alone all one night and nothing happened except a bicycle cop stopped me and asked to see my papers." "Wasn't the town nice at night?" "I don't care for Paris." So there you were. I was sorry for him, but it was not a thing you could do anything about, because right away you ran up against the two stubbornnesses: South America could fix it and he did not like Paris. He got the first idea out of a book, and I suppose the second came out of a book too. "Well," I said, "I've got to go up-stairs and get off some cables." "Do you really have to go?" "Yes, I've got to get these cables off." "Do you mind if I come up and sit around the office?" "No, come on up." He sat in the outer room and read the papers, and the Editor and Publisher and I worked hard for two hours. Then I sorted out the carbons, stamped on a by-line, put the stuff in a couple of big manila envelopes and rang for a boy to take them to the Gare St. Lazare. I went out into the other room and there was Robert Cohn asleep in the big chair. He was asleep with his head on his arms. I did not like to wake him up, but I wanted to lock the office and shove off. I put my hand on his shoulder. He shook his head. "I can't do it," he said, and put his head deeper into his arms. "I can't do it. Nothing will make me do it." "Robert," I said, and shook him by the shoulder. He looked up. He smiled and blinked. "Did I talk out loud just then?" "Something. But it wasn't clear." "God, what a rotten dream!" "Did the typewriter put you to sleep?" "Guess so. I didn't sleep all last night." "What was the matter?" "Talking," he said. I could picture it. I have a rotten habit of picturing the bedroom scenes of my friends. We went out to the Caf Napolitain to have an _ap ritif_ and watch the evening crowd on the Boulevard. CHAPTER 3 It was a warm spring night and I sat at a table on the terrace of the Napolitain after Robert had gone, watching it get dark and the electric signs come on, and the red and green stop-and-go traffic-signal, and the crowd going by, and the horse-cabs clippety-clopping along at the edge of the solid taxi traffic, and the _poules_ going by, singly and in pairs, looking for the evening meal. I watched a good-looking girl walk past the table and watched her go up the street and lost sight of her, and watched another, and then saw the first one coming back again. She went by once more and I caught her eye, and she came over and sat down at the table. The waiter came up. "Well, what will you drink?" I asked. "Pernod." "That's not good for little girls." "Little girl yourself. Dites gar on, un pernod." "A pernod for me, too." "What's the matter?" she asked. "Going on a party?" "Sure. Aren't you?" "I don't know. You never know in this town." "Don't you like Paris?" "No." "Why don't you go somewhere else?" "Isn't anywhere else." "You're happy, all right." "Happy, hell!" Pernod is greenish imitation absinthe. When you add water it turns milky. It tastes like licorice and it has a good uplift, but it drops you just as far. We sat and drank it, and the girl looked sullen. "Well," I said, "are you going to buy me a dinner?" She grinned and I saw why she made a point of not laughing. With her mouth closed she was a rather pretty girl. I paid for the saucers and we walked out to the street. I hailed a horse-cab and the driver pulled up at the curb. Settled back in the slow, smoothly rolling _fiacre_ we moved up the Avenue de l'Op ra, passed the locked doors of the shops, | "I'm not interested in bull-fighters. That's an abnormal life. I want to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip." "Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot?" "No, I wouldn't like that." "I'd go there with you." "No; that doesn't interest me." "That's because you never read a book about it. Go on and read a book all full of love affairs with the beautiful shiny black princesses." "I want to go to South America." He had a hard, Jewish, stubborn streak. "Come on down-stairs and have a drink." "Aren't you working?" "No," I said. We went down the stairs to the caf on the ground floor. I had discovered that was the best way to get rid of friends. Once you had a drink all you had to say was: "Well, I've got to get back and get off some cables," and it was done. It is very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we went down-stairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda. Cohn looked at the bottles in bins around the wall. "This is a good place," he said. "There's a lot of liquor," I agreed. "Listen, Jake," he leaned forward on the bar. "Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?" "Yes, every once in a while." "Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we'll be dead?" "What the hell, Robert," I said. "What the hell." "I'm serious." "It's one thing I don't worry about," I said.<|quote|>"You ought to."</|quote|>"I've had plenty to worry about one time or other. I'm through worrying." "Well, I want to go to South America." "Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing to that." "But you've never been to South America." "South America hell! If you went there the way you feel now it would be exactly the same. This is a good town. Why don't you start living your life in Paris?" "I'm sick of Paris, and I'm sick of the Quarter." "Stay away from the Quarter. Cruise around by yourself and see what happens to you." "Nothing happens to me. I walked alone all one night and nothing happened except a bicycle cop stopped me and asked to see my papers." "Wasn't the town nice at night?" "I don't care for Paris." So there you were. I was sorry for him, but it was not a thing you could do anything about, because right away you ran up against the two stubbornnesses: South America could fix it and he did not like Paris. He got the first idea out of a book, and I suppose the second came out of a | The Sun Also Rises |
"We should have come to you ourselves and not left an important message to be passed along by word of mouth in that fashion. Anyhow, the mistake has been made and the only thing to do is to set it right. Can we send the child back to the asylum? I suppose they'll take her back, won't they?" | Marilla Cuthbert | own fault," said Marilla resignedly.<|quote|>"We should have come to you ourselves and not left an important message to be passed along by word of mouth in that fashion. Anyhow, the mistake has been made and the only thing to do is to set it right. Can we send the child back to the asylum? I suppose they'll take her back, won't they?"</|quote|>"I suppose so," said Mrs. | her heedlessness." "It was our own fault," said Marilla resignedly.<|quote|>"We should have come to you ourselves and not left an important message to be passed along by word of mouth in that fashion. Anyhow, the mistake has been made and the only thing to do is to set it right. Can we send the child back to the asylum? I suppose they'll take her back, won't they?"</|quote|>"I suppose so," said Mrs. Spencer thoughtfully, "but I don't | too bad; but it certainly wasn't my fault, you see, Miss Cuthbert. I did the best I could and I thought I was following your instructions. Nancy is a terrible flighty thing. I've often had to scold her well for her heedlessness." "It was our own fault," said Marilla resignedly.<|quote|>"We should have come to you ourselves and not left an important message to be passed along by word of mouth in that fashion. Anyhow, the mistake has been made and the only thing to do is to set it right. Can we send the child back to the asylum? I suppose they'll take her back, won't they?"</|quote|>"I suppose so," said Mrs. Spencer thoughtfully, "but I don't think it will be necessary to send her back. Mrs. Peter Blewett was up here yesterday, and she was saying to me how much she wished she'd sent by me for a little girl to help her. Mrs. Peter has | Mrs. Spencer in distress. "Why, Robert sent word down by his daughter Nancy and she said you wanted a girl--didn't she Flora Jane?" appealing to her daughter who had come out to the steps. "She certainly did, Miss Cuthbert," corroborated Flora Jane earnestly. "I'm dreadful sorry," said Mrs. Spencer. "It's too bad; but it certainly wasn't my fault, you see, Miss Cuthbert. I did the best I could and I thought I was following your instructions. Nancy is a terrible flighty thing. I've often had to scold her well for her heedlessness." "It was our own fault," said Marilla resignedly.<|quote|>"We should have come to you ourselves and not left an important message to be passed along by word of mouth in that fashion. Anyhow, the mistake has been made and the only thing to do is to set it right. Can we send the child back to the asylum? I suppose they'll take her back, won't they?"</|quote|>"I suppose so," said Mrs. Spencer thoughtfully, "but I don't think it will be necessary to send her back. Mrs. Peter Blewett was up here yesterday, and she was saying to me how much she wished she'd sent by me for a little girl to help her. Mrs. Peter has a large family, you know, and she finds it hard to get help. Anne will be the very girl for you. I call it positively providential." Marilla did not look as if she thought Providence had much to do with the matter. Here was an unexpectedly good chance to get | as well as can be expected, thank you," said Anne smilelessly. A blight seemed to have descended on her. "I suppose we'll stay a little while to rest the mare," said Marilla, "but I promised Matthew I'd be home early. The fact is, Mrs. Spencer, there's been a queer mistake somewhere, and I've come over to see where it is. We send word, Matthew and I, for you to bring us a boy from the asylum. We told your brother Robert to tell you we wanted a boy ten or eleven years old." "Marilla Cuthbert, you don't say so!" said Mrs. Spencer in distress. "Why, Robert sent word down by his daughter Nancy and she said you wanted a girl--didn't she Flora Jane?" appealing to her daughter who had come out to the steps. "She certainly did, Miss Cuthbert," corroborated Flora Jane earnestly. "I'm dreadful sorry," said Mrs. Spencer. "It's too bad; but it certainly wasn't my fault, you see, Miss Cuthbert. I did the best I could and I thought I was following your instructions. Nancy is a terrible flighty thing. I've often had to scold her well for her heedlessness." "It was our own fault," said Marilla resignedly.<|quote|>"We should have come to you ourselves and not left an important message to be passed along by word of mouth in that fashion. Anyhow, the mistake has been made and the only thing to do is to set it right. Can we send the child back to the asylum? I suppose they'll take her back, won't they?"</|quote|>"I suppose so," said Mrs. Spencer thoughtfully, "but I don't think it will be necessary to send her back. Mrs. Peter Blewett was up here yesterday, and she was saying to me how much she wished she'd sent by me for a little girl to help her. Mrs. Peter has a large family, you know, and she finds it hard to get help. Anne will be the very girl for you. I call it positively providential." Marilla did not look as if she thought Providence had much to do with the matter. Here was an unexpectedly good chance to get this unwelcome orphan off her hands, and she did not even feel grateful for it. She knew Mrs. Peter Blewett only by sight as a small, shrewish-faced woman without an ounce of superfluous flesh on her bones. But she had heard of her. "A terrible worker and driver," Mrs. Peter was said to be; and discharged servant girls told fearsome tales of her temper and stinginess, and her family of pert, quarrelsome children. Marilla felt a qualm of conscience at the thought of handing Anne over to her tender mercies. "Well, I'll go in and we'll talk the matter over," | a gull? I think I would--that is, if I couldn't be a human girl. Don't you think it would be nice to wake up at sunrise and swoop down over the water and away out over that lovely blue all day; and then at night to fly back to one's nest? Oh, I can just imagine myself doing it. What big house is that just ahead, please?" "That's the White Sands Hotel. Mr. Kirke runs it, but the season hasn't begun yet. There are heaps of Americans come there for the summer. They think this shore is just about right." "I was afraid it might be Mrs. Spencer's place," said Anne mournfully. "I don't want to get there. Somehow, it will seem like the end of everything." CHAPTER VI. Marilla Makes Up Her Mind |GET there they did, however, in due season. Mrs. Spencer lived in a big yellow house at White Sands Cove, and she came to the door with surprise and welcome mingled on her benevolent face. "Dear, dear," she exclaimed, "you're the last folks I was looking for today, but I'm real glad to see you. You'll put your horse in? And how are you, Anne?" "I'm as well as can be expected, thank you," said Anne smilelessly. A blight seemed to have descended on her. "I suppose we'll stay a little while to rest the mare," said Marilla, "but I promised Matthew I'd be home early. The fact is, Mrs. Spencer, there's been a queer mistake somewhere, and I've come over to see where it is. We send word, Matthew and I, for you to bring us a boy from the asylum. We told your brother Robert to tell you we wanted a boy ten or eleven years old." "Marilla Cuthbert, you don't say so!" said Mrs. Spencer in distress. "Why, Robert sent word down by his daughter Nancy and she said you wanted a girl--didn't she Flora Jane?" appealing to her daughter who had come out to the steps. "She certainly did, Miss Cuthbert," corroborated Flora Jane earnestly. "I'm dreadful sorry," said Mrs. Spencer. "It's too bad; but it certainly wasn't my fault, you see, Miss Cuthbert. I did the best I could and I thought I was following your instructions. Nancy is a terrible flighty thing. I've often had to scold her well for her heedlessness." "It was our own fault," said Marilla resignedly.<|quote|>"We should have come to you ourselves and not left an important message to be passed along by word of mouth in that fashion. Anyhow, the mistake has been made and the only thing to do is to set it right. Can we send the child back to the asylum? I suppose they'll take her back, won't they?"</|quote|>"I suppose so," said Mrs. Spencer thoughtfully, "but I don't think it will be necessary to send her back. Mrs. Peter Blewett was up here yesterday, and she was saying to me how much she wished she'd sent by me for a little girl to help her. Mrs. Peter has a large family, you know, and she finds it hard to get help. Anne will be the very girl for you. I call it positively providential." Marilla did not look as if she thought Providence had much to do with the matter. Here was an unexpectedly good chance to get this unwelcome orphan off her hands, and she did not even feel grateful for it. She knew Mrs. Peter Blewett only by sight as a small, shrewish-faced woman without an ounce of superfluous flesh on her bones. But she had heard of her. "A terrible worker and driver," Mrs. Peter was said to be; and discharged servant girls told fearsome tales of her temper and stinginess, and her family of pert, quarrelsome children. Marilla felt a qualm of conscience at the thought of handing Anne over to her tender mercies. "Well, I'll go in and we'll talk the matter over," she said. "And if there isn't Mrs. Peter coming up the lane this blessed minute!" exclaimed Mrs. Spencer, bustling her guests through the hall into the parlor, where a deadly chill struck on them as if the air had been strained so long through dark green, closely drawn blinds that it had lost every particle of warmth it had ever possessed. "That is real lucky, for we can settle the matter right away. Take the armchair, Miss Cuthbert. Anne, you sit here on the ottoman and don't wiggle. Let me take your hats. Flora Jane, go out and put the kettle on. Good afternoon, Mrs. Blewett. We were just saying how fortunate it was you happened along. Let me introduce you two ladies. Mrs. Blewett, Miss Cuthbert. Please excuse me for just a moment. I forgot to tell Flora Jane to take the buns out of the oven." Mrs. Spencer whisked away, after pulling up the blinds. Anne sitting mutely on the ottoman, with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, stared at Mrs Blewett as one fascinated. Was she to be given into the keeping of this sharp-faced, sharp-eyed woman? She felt a lump coming up in her throat | much when they're not quite--always. They had a good deal to worry them, you know. It's a very trying to have a drunken husband, you see; and it must be very trying to have twins three times in succession, don't you think? But I feel sure they meant to be good to me." Marilla asked no more questions. Anne gave herself up to a silent rapture over the shore road and Marilla guided the sorrel abstractedly while she pondered deeply. Pity was suddenly stirring in her heart for the child. What a starved, unloved life she had had--a life of drudgery and poverty and neglect; for Marilla was shrewd enough to read between the lines of Anne's history and divine the truth. No wonder she had been so delighted at the prospect of a real home. It was a pity she had to be sent back. What if she, Marilla, should indulge Matthew's unaccountable whim and let her stay? He was set on it; and the child seemed a nice, teachable little thing. "She's got too much to say," thought Marilla, "but she might be trained out of that. And there's nothing rude or slangy in what she does say. She's ladylike. It's likely her people were nice folks." The shore road was "woodsy and wild and lonesome." On the right hand, scrub firs, their spirits quite unbroken by long years of tussle with the gulf winds, grew thickly. On the left were the steep red sandstone cliffs, so near the track in places that a mare of less steadiness than the sorrel might have tried the nerves of the people behind her. Down at the base of the cliffs were heaps of surf-worn rocks or little sandy coves inlaid with pebbles as with ocean jewels; beyond lay the sea, shimmering and blue, and over it soared the gulls, their pinions flashing silvery in the sunlight. "Isn't the sea wonderful?" said Anne, rousing from a long, wide-eyed silence. "Once, when I lived in Marysville, Mr. Thomas hired an express wagon and took us all to spend the day at the shore ten miles away. I enjoyed every moment of that day, even if I had to look after the children all the time. I lived it over in happy dreams for years. But this shore is nicer than the Marysville shore. Aren't those gulls splendid? Would you like to be a gull? I think I would--that is, if I couldn't be a human girl. Don't you think it would be nice to wake up at sunrise and swoop down over the water and away out over that lovely blue all day; and then at night to fly back to one's nest? Oh, I can just imagine myself doing it. What big house is that just ahead, please?" "That's the White Sands Hotel. Mr. Kirke runs it, but the season hasn't begun yet. There are heaps of Americans come there for the summer. They think this shore is just about right." "I was afraid it might be Mrs. Spencer's place," said Anne mournfully. "I don't want to get there. Somehow, it will seem like the end of everything." CHAPTER VI. Marilla Makes Up Her Mind |GET there they did, however, in due season. Mrs. Spencer lived in a big yellow house at White Sands Cove, and she came to the door with surprise and welcome mingled on her benevolent face. "Dear, dear," she exclaimed, "you're the last folks I was looking for today, but I'm real glad to see you. You'll put your horse in? And how are you, Anne?" "I'm as well as can be expected, thank you," said Anne smilelessly. A blight seemed to have descended on her. "I suppose we'll stay a little while to rest the mare," said Marilla, "but I promised Matthew I'd be home early. The fact is, Mrs. Spencer, there's been a queer mistake somewhere, and I've come over to see where it is. We send word, Matthew and I, for you to bring us a boy from the asylum. We told your brother Robert to tell you we wanted a boy ten or eleven years old." "Marilla Cuthbert, you don't say so!" said Mrs. Spencer in distress. "Why, Robert sent word down by his daughter Nancy and she said you wanted a girl--didn't she Flora Jane?" appealing to her daughter who had come out to the steps. "She certainly did, Miss Cuthbert," corroborated Flora Jane earnestly. "I'm dreadful sorry," said Mrs. Spencer. "It's too bad; but it certainly wasn't my fault, you see, Miss Cuthbert. I did the best I could and I thought I was following your instructions. Nancy is a terrible flighty thing. I've often had to scold her well for her heedlessness." "It was our own fault," said Marilla resignedly.<|quote|>"We should have come to you ourselves and not left an important message to be passed along by word of mouth in that fashion. Anyhow, the mistake has been made and the only thing to do is to set it right. Can we send the child back to the asylum? I suppose they'll take her back, won't they?"</|quote|>"I suppose so," said Mrs. Spencer thoughtfully, "but I don't think it will be necessary to send her back. Mrs. Peter Blewett was up here yesterday, and she was saying to me how much she wished she'd sent by me for a little girl to help her. Mrs. Peter has a large family, you know, and she finds it hard to get help. Anne will be the very girl for you. I call it positively providential." Marilla did not look as if she thought Providence had much to do with the matter. Here was an unexpectedly good chance to get this unwelcome orphan off her hands, and she did not even feel grateful for it. She knew Mrs. Peter Blewett only by sight as a small, shrewish-faced woman without an ounce of superfluous flesh on her bones. But she had heard of her. "A terrible worker and driver," Mrs. Peter was said to be; and discharged servant girls told fearsome tales of her temper and stinginess, and her family of pert, quarrelsome children. Marilla felt a qualm of conscience at the thought of handing Anne over to her tender mercies. "Well, I'll go in and we'll talk the matter over," she said. "And if there isn't Mrs. Peter coming up the lane this blessed minute!" exclaimed Mrs. Spencer, bustling her guests through the hall into the parlor, where a deadly chill struck on them as if the air had been strained so long through dark green, closely drawn blinds that it had lost every particle of warmth it had ever possessed. "That is real lucky, for we can settle the matter right away. Take the armchair, Miss Cuthbert. Anne, you sit here on the ottoman and don't wiggle. Let me take your hats. Flora Jane, go out and put the kettle on. Good afternoon, Mrs. Blewett. We were just saying how fortunate it was you happened along. Let me introduce you two ladies. Mrs. Blewett, Miss Cuthbert. Please excuse me for just a moment. I forgot to tell Flora Jane to take the buns out of the oven." Mrs. Spencer whisked away, after pulling up the blinds. Anne sitting mutely on the ottoman, with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, stared at Mrs Blewett as one fascinated. Was she to be given into the keeping of this sharp-faced, sharp-eyed woman? She felt a lump coming up in her throat and her eyes smarted painfully. She was beginning to be afraid she couldn't keep the tears back when Mrs. Spencer returned, flushed and beaming, quite capable of taking any and every difficulty, physical, mental or spiritual, into consideration and settling it out of hand. "It seems there's been a mistake about this little girl, Mrs. Blewett," she said. "I was under the impression that Mr. and Miss Cuthbert wanted a little girl to adopt. I was certainly told so. But it seems it was a boy they wanted. So if you're still of the same mind you were yesterday, I think she'll be just the thing for you." Mrs. Blewett darted her eyes over Anne from head to foot. "How old are you and what's your name?" she demanded. "Anne Shirley," faltered the shrinking child, not daring to make any stipulations regarding the spelling thereof, "and I'm eleven years old." "Humph! You don't look as if there was much to you. But you're wiry. I don't know but the wiry ones are the best after all. Well, if I take you you'll have to be a good girl, you know--good and smart and respectful. I'll expect you to earn your keep, and no mistake about that. Yes, I suppose I might as well take her off your hands, Miss Cuthbert. The baby's awful fractious, and I'm clean worn out attending to him. If you like I can take her right home now." Marilla looked at Anne and softened at sight of the child's pale face with its look of mute misery--the misery of a helpless little creature who finds itself once more caught in the trap from which it had escaped. Marilla felt an uncomfortable conviction that, if she denied the appeal of that look, it would haunt her to her dying day. More-over, she did not fancy Mrs. Blewett. To hand a sensitive, "highstrung" child over to such a woman! No, she could not take the responsibility of doing that! "Well, I don't know," she said slowly. "I didn't say that Matthew and I had absolutely decided that we wouldn't keep her. In fact I may say that Matthew is disposed to keep her. I just came over to find out how the mistake had occurred. I think I'd better take her home again and talk it over with Matthew. I feel that I oughtn't to decide on anything | the steep red sandstone cliffs, so near the track in places that a mare of less steadiness than the sorrel might have tried the nerves of the people behind her. Down at the base of the cliffs were heaps of surf-worn rocks or little sandy coves inlaid with pebbles as with ocean jewels; beyond lay the sea, shimmering and blue, and over it soared the gulls, their pinions flashing silvery in the sunlight. "Isn't the sea wonderful?" said Anne, rousing from a long, wide-eyed silence. "Once, when I lived in Marysville, Mr. Thomas hired an express wagon and took us all to spend the day at the shore ten miles away. I enjoyed every moment of that day, even if I had to look after the children all the time. I lived it over in happy dreams for years. But this shore is nicer than the Marysville shore. Aren't those gulls splendid? Would you like to be a gull? I think I would--that is, if I couldn't be a human girl. Don't you think it would be nice to wake up at sunrise and swoop down over the water and away out over that lovely blue all day; and then at night to fly back to one's nest? Oh, I can just imagine myself doing it. What big house is that just ahead, please?" "That's the White Sands Hotel. Mr. Kirke runs it, but the season hasn't begun yet. There are heaps of Americans come there for the summer. They think this shore is just about right." "I was afraid it might be Mrs. Spencer's place," said Anne mournfully. "I don't want to get there. Somehow, it will seem like the end of everything." CHAPTER VI. Marilla Makes Up Her Mind |GET there they did, however, in due season. Mrs. Spencer lived in a big yellow house at White Sands Cove, and she came to the door with surprise and welcome mingled on her benevolent face. "Dear, dear," she exclaimed, "you're the last folks I was looking for today, but I'm real glad to see you. You'll put your horse in? And how are you, Anne?" "I'm as well as can be expected, thank you," said Anne smilelessly. A blight seemed to have descended on her. "I suppose we'll stay a little while to rest the mare," said Marilla, "but I promised Matthew I'd be home early. The fact is, Mrs. Spencer, there's been a queer mistake somewhere, and I've come over to see where it is. We send word, Matthew and I, for you to bring us a boy from the asylum. We told your brother Robert to tell you we wanted a boy ten or eleven years old." "Marilla Cuthbert, you don't say so!" said Mrs. Spencer in distress. "Why, Robert sent word down by his daughter Nancy and she said you wanted a girl--didn't she Flora Jane?" appealing to her daughter who had come out to the steps. "She certainly did, Miss Cuthbert," corroborated Flora Jane earnestly. "I'm dreadful sorry," said Mrs. Spencer. "It's too bad; but it certainly wasn't my fault, you see, Miss Cuthbert. I did the best I could and I thought I was following your instructions. Nancy is a terrible flighty thing. I've often had to scold her well for her heedlessness." "It was our own fault," said Marilla resignedly.<|quote|>"We should have come to you ourselves and not left an important message to be passed along by word of mouth in that fashion. Anyhow, the mistake has been made and the only thing to do is to set it right. Can we send the child back to the asylum? I suppose they'll take her back, won't they?"</|quote|>"I suppose so," said Mrs. Spencer thoughtfully, "but I don't think it will be necessary to send her back. Mrs. Peter Blewett was up here yesterday, and she was saying to me how much she wished she'd sent by me for a little girl to help her. Mrs. Peter has a large family, you know, and she finds it hard to get help. Anne will be the very girl for you. I call it positively providential." Marilla did not look as if she thought Providence had much to do with the matter. Here was an unexpectedly good chance to get this unwelcome orphan off her hands, and she did not even feel grateful for it. She knew Mrs. Peter Blewett only by sight as a small, shrewish-faced woman without an ounce of superfluous flesh on her bones. But she had heard of her. "A terrible worker and driver," Mrs. Peter was said to be; and discharged servant girls told fearsome tales of her temper and stinginess, and her family of pert, quarrelsome children. Marilla felt a qualm of conscience at the thought of handing Anne over to her tender mercies. "Well, I'll go in and we'll talk the matter over," she said. "And if there isn't Mrs. Peter coming up the lane this blessed minute!" exclaimed Mrs. Spencer, bustling her guests through the hall into the parlor, where a deadly chill struck on them as if the air had been strained so long through dark green, closely drawn blinds that it had lost every particle of warmth it had ever possessed. "That is real lucky, for we can settle the matter right away. Take the armchair, Miss Cuthbert. Anne, you sit here on the ottoman and don't wiggle. Let me take your hats. Flora Jane, go out and put the kettle on. Good afternoon, Mrs. Blewett. We were just saying how fortunate it was you happened along. Let me introduce you two ladies. Mrs. Blewett, Miss Cuthbert. Please excuse me for just a moment. I forgot to tell Flora Jane to take the buns out of the oven." Mrs. Spencer whisked away, after pulling up the blinds. Anne sitting mutely on the ottoman, with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, stared at Mrs Blewett as one fascinated. Was she to be given into the keeping of this sharp-faced, sharp-eyed woman? She felt a lump coming up in her throat and her eyes smarted painfully. She was beginning to be afraid she couldn't keep the tears back when Mrs. Spencer returned, flushed and beaming, quite capable of taking any and every | Anne Of Green Gables |
"We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up." | Boatswain | again. I'm no use here."<|quote|>"We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up."</|quote|>"But aren't we soon going | I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here."<|quote|>"We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up."</|quote|>"But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself | give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?" said Jem, with a groan. "Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here."<|quote|>"We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up."</|quote|>"But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself you may get a run ashore at the Cape or at Singapore; but most likely you won't leave the ship till we get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?" "Yes, China. What of that?" "China!" cried Jem. | lad," he continued, turning to Don, "you've got too much stuff in you to lie about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air." "I feel so weak, sir; I don't think I could stand." "Oh, yes, you can," said the boatswain. "That's better. If you give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?" said Jem, with a groan. "Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here."<|quote|>"We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up."</|quote|>"But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself you may get a run ashore at the Cape or at Singapore; but most likely you won't leave the ship till we get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?" "Yes, China. What of that?" "China!" cried Jem. "Why, I thought we were sailing round to Plymouth or Portsmouth, or some place like that. China?" "We're going straight away or China, my lad, to be on that station for some time." "And when are we coming back, sir?" "In about three years." "Mas' Don," said Jem, dolefully; "let's | that they took all that trouble to bring me aboard to make a sailor of me, and they'll never do it. I'm fit to go into a hospital, and that's about all I'm fit for. Sailor? Why, I can't even stand upright on the precious deck." "Well, my lads," said a hearty voice just then; "how long are you going to play at being old women? Come, rouse a bit." "No, thankye, sir," said Jem, in a miserable tone. "Bit? I haven't bit anything since I've been aboard." "Then rouse up, and bite something now," cried the boatswain. "Come, my lad," he continued, turning to Don, "you've got too much stuff in you to lie about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air." "I feel so weak, sir; I don't think I could stand." "Oh, yes, you can," said the boatswain. "That's better. If you give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?" said Jem, with a groan. "Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here."<|quote|>"We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up."</|quote|>"But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself you may get a run ashore at the Cape or at Singapore; but most likely you won't leave the ship till we get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?" "Yes, China. What of that?" "China!" cried Jem. "Why, I thought we were sailing round to Plymouth or Portsmouth, or some place like that. China?" "We're going straight away or China, my lad, to be on that station for some time." "And when are we coming back, sir?" "In about three years." "Mas' Don," said Jem, dolefully; "let's get up on deck, sir, and jump overboard, so as to make an end of it." "You'd better not," said the boatswain, laughing at Jem's miserable face. "You're in the king's service now, and you've got to work. There, rouse up, and act like a man." "But can't we send a letter home, sir?" asked Don. "Oh, yes, if you like, at the first port we touch at, or by any ship we speak. But come, my lad, you've been sea-sick for days; don't begin to be home sick. You've been pressed as many a better fellow has been before | seemed half angry, half-amused. "Pretty way this is, of manning His Majesty's ships. There, down with you. Get 'em all below." Don did not know how he got below. He had some recollection of knocking the skin off his elbows, and being half dragged into a corner of the lower deck, where, for three days, he lay in the most abjectly miserable state, listening to the sighs and groans of his equally unfortunate companions, and the remarks of Jem, who kept up in his waking moments a running commentary on the miseries of going to sea. "It's wuss than anything I ever felt or saw," he muttered. "I've been ill, and I've been in hospital, but this here's about the most terrible. I say, Mas' Don, how do you feel now?" "As if I'd give anything to have the ship stopped, for us to be set ashore." "No, no, you can't feel like that, Mas' Don, because that's exactly how I feel. I am so ill. Well, all I can say is that it serves the captain and the lieutenant and all the rest of 'em jolly well right for press-ganging me." "What do you mean?" said Don, dolefully. "Why, that they took all that trouble to bring me aboard to make a sailor of me, and they'll never do it. I'm fit to go into a hospital, and that's about all I'm fit for. Sailor? Why, I can't even stand upright on the precious deck." "Well, my lads," said a hearty voice just then; "how long are you going to play at being old women? Come, rouse a bit." "No, thankye, sir," said Jem, in a miserable tone. "Bit? I haven't bit anything since I've been aboard." "Then rouse up, and bite something now," cried the boatswain. "Come, my lad," he continued, turning to Don, "you've got too much stuff in you to lie about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air." "I feel so weak, sir; I don't think I could stand." "Oh, yes, you can," said the boatswain. "That's better. If you give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?" said Jem, with a groan. "Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here."<|quote|>"We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up."</|quote|>"But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself you may get a run ashore at the Cape or at Singapore; but most likely you won't leave the ship till we get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?" "Yes, China. What of that?" "China!" cried Jem. "Why, I thought we were sailing round to Plymouth or Portsmouth, or some place like that. China?" "We're going straight away or China, my lad, to be on that station for some time." "And when are we coming back, sir?" "In about three years." "Mas' Don," said Jem, dolefully; "let's get up on deck, sir, and jump overboard, so as to make an end of it." "You'd better not," said the boatswain, laughing at Jem's miserable face. "You're in the king's service now, and you've got to work. There, rouse up, and act like a man." "But can't we send a letter home, sir?" asked Don. "Oh, yes, if you like, at the first port we touch at, or by any ship we speak. But come, my lad, you've been sea-sick for days; don't begin to be home sick. You've been pressed as many a better fellow has been before you. The king wants men, and he must have them. Now, young as you are, show that you can act like a man." Don gave him an agonised look, but the bluff boatswain did not see it. "Here, you fellows," he cried to the rest of the sick men; "we've given you time enough now. You must get up and shake all this off. You'll all be on deck in a quarter of an hour, so look sharp." "This here's a nice game, Mas' Don. Do you know how I feel?" "No, Jem; but I know how I feel." "How's that, sir?" "That if I had been asked to serve the king I might have joined a ship; but I've been dragged here in a cruel way, and the very first time I can get ashore, I mean to stay." "Well, I felt something like that, Mas' Don; but they'd call it desertion." "Let them call it what they like, Jem. They treated us like dogs, and I will not stand it. I shall leave the ship first chance. You can do as you like, but that's what I mean to do." "Oh, I shall do as you do, Mas' | shall speak out to the officer and tell him how we've been treated." "You'd better make haste, then, Mas' Don, for if the thing keeps on moving like this, I sha'n't be able to stand and hear what you have to say." For a good breeze was blowing from the south coast, sufficient to make the waves curl over, and the sloop behave in rather a lively way; the more so that she had a good deal of canvas spread, and heeled over and dipped her nose sufficiently to admit a great wave from time to time to well splash the forward part of the deck. Don made no reply, for he felt white, but he attributed it to the mental excitement from which he suffered. There were thirty pressed men on deck, for the most part old sailors from the mercantile marine, and these men were drafted off into various watches, the trouble to the officers being that of arranging the fate of the landsmen, who looked wretched in the extreme. "'Pon my word, Jones," said a smart-looking, middle-aged man in uniform, whom Don took to be the first lieutenant, "about as sorry a lot of Bristol sweepings as ever I saw." "Not bad men, sir," said the petty officer addressed. "Wait till they've shaken down into their places." "Now's your time, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "Now or never." Don was on the alert, but just as the officer neared them the vessel gave a sudden pitch, and of the men standing in a row the minute before, not one remained upon his feet. For it seemed as if the deck had suddenly dropped down; and as Don and Jem rolled over into the lee scuppers, they were pretty well doused by the water that came splashing over the bows, and when, amidst a shout of laughter from the sailors, the order was given for them to get up and form in line again, Jem clung tightly to Don, and said, dolefully,-- "It's of no use, Mas' Don; I can't. It's like trying to stand on running barrels; and--oh, dear me!--I do feel so precious bad." Don made no reply, but caught at the side of the vessel, for everything around seemed to be swimming, and a peculiarly faint sensation had attacked him, such as he had never experienced before. "There, send 'em all below," said the officer, who seemed half angry, half-amused. "Pretty way this is, of manning His Majesty's ships. There, down with you. Get 'em all below." Don did not know how he got below. He had some recollection of knocking the skin off his elbows, and being half dragged into a corner of the lower deck, where, for three days, he lay in the most abjectly miserable state, listening to the sighs and groans of his equally unfortunate companions, and the remarks of Jem, who kept up in his waking moments a running commentary on the miseries of going to sea. "It's wuss than anything I ever felt or saw," he muttered. "I've been ill, and I've been in hospital, but this here's about the most terrible. I say, Mas' Don, how do you feel now?" "As if I'd give anything to have the ship stopped, for us to be set ashore." "No, no, you can't feel like that, Mas' Don, because that's exactly how I feel. I am so ill. Well, all I can say is that it serves the captain and the lieutenant and all the rest of 'em jolly well right for press-ganging me." "What do you mean?" said Don, dolefully. "Why, that they took all that trouble to bring me aboard to make a sailor of me, and they'll never do it. I'm fit to go into a hospital, and that's about all I'm fit for. Sailor? Why, I can't even stand upright on the precious deck." "Well, my lads," said a hearty voice just then; "how long are you going to play at being old women? Come, rouse a bit." "No, thankye, sir," said Jem, in a miserable tone. "Bit? I haven't bit anything since I've been aboard." "Then rouse up, and bite something now," cried the boatswain. "Come, my lad," he continued, turning to Don, "you've got too much stuff in you to lie about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air." "I feel so weak, sir; I don't think I could stand." "Oh, yes, you can," said the boatswain. "That's better. If you give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?" said Jem, with a groan. "Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here."<|quote|>"We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up."</|quote|>"But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself you may get a run ashore at the Cape or at Singapore; but most likely you won't leave the ship till we get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?" "Yes, China. What of that?" "China!" cried Jem. "Why, I thought we were sailing round to Plymouth or Portsmouth, or some place like that. China?" "We're going straight away or China, my lad, to be on that station for some time." "And when are we coming back, sir?" "In about three years." "Mas' Don," said Jem, dolefully; "let's get up on deck, sir, and jump overboard, so as to make an end of it." "You'd better not," said the boatswain, laughing at Jem's miserable face. "You're in the king's service now, and you've got to work. There, rouse up, and act like a man." "But can't we send a letter home, sir?" asked Don. "Oh, yes, if you like, at the first port we touch at, or by any ship we speak. But come, my lad, you've been sea-sick for days; don't begin to be home sick. You've been pressed as many a better fellow has been before you. The king wants men, and he must have them. Now, young as you are, show that you can act like a man." Don gave him an agonised look, but the bluff boatswain did not see it. "Here, you fellows," he cried to the rest of the sick men; "we've given you time enough now. You must get up and shake all this off. You'll all be on deck in a quarter of an hour, so look sharp." "This here's a nice game, Mas' Don. Do you know how I feel?" "No, Jem; but I know how I feel." "How's that, sir?" "That if I had been asked to serve the king I might have joined a ship; but I've been dragged here in a cruel way, and the very first time I can get ashore, I mean to stay." "Well, I felt something like that, Mas' Don; but they'd call it desertion." "Let them call it what they like, Jem. They treated us like dogs, and I will not stand it. I shall leave the ship first chance. You can do as you like, but that's what I mean to do." "Oh, I shall do as you do, Mas' Don. I was never meant for a sailor, and I shall get away as soon as I can." "Shall you?" said a voice that seemed familiar; and they both turned in the direction from which it came, to see a dark figure rise from beside the bulk head, where it had lain unnoticed by the invalids, though if they had noted its presence, they would have taken it for one of their fellow-sufferers. "What's it got to do with you?" said Jem, shortly, as he scowled at the man, who now came forward sufficiently near the dim light for them to recognise the grim, sinister-looking sailor, who had played so unpleasant a part at the _rendez-vous_ where they were taken after being seized. "What's it got to do with me? Everything. So you're goin' to desert, both of you, are you? Do you know what that means?" "No; nor don't want," growled Jem. "Then I'll tell you. Flogging, for sartain, and p'r'aps stringing up at the yard-arm, as an example to others." "Ho!" said Jem; "do it? Well, you look the sort o' man as is best suited for that; and just you look here. Nex' time I ketches you spying and listening to what I say, I shall give you a worse dressing down than I give you last time, so be off." "Mutinous, threatening, and talking about deserting," said the sinister-looking sailor, with a harsh laugh, which sounded as if he had a young watchman's rattle somewhere in his chest. "Nice thing to report. I think this will do." He went off rubbing his hands softly, and mounted the ladder, Jem watching him till his legs had disappeared, when he turned sharply to Don. "Him and me's going to have a regular set-to some day, Mas' Don. He makes me feel warm, and somehow that bit of a row has done me no end o' good. Here, come on deck, and let's see if he's telling tales. Come on, lad. P'r'aps I've got a word or two to say as well." Don had not realised it before, but as he followed Jem, he suddenly woke to the fact that he did not feel so weak and giddy, while, by the time he was on deck, it as suddenly occurred to him that he could eat some breakfast. "I thought as much," said Jem. "Lookye there, Mas' Don. Did | for us to be set ashore." "No, no, you can't feel like that, Mas' Don, because that's exactly how I feel. I am so ill. Well, all I can say is that it serves the captain and the lieutenant and all the rest of 'em jolly well right for press-ganging me." "What do you mean?" said Don, dolefully. "Why, that they took all that trouble to bring me aboard to make a sailor of me, and they'll never do it. I'm fit to go into a hospital, and that's about all I'm fit for. Sailor? Why, I can't even stand upright on the precious deck." "Well, my lads," said a hearty voice just then; "how long are you going to play at being old women? Come, rouse a bit." "No, thankye, sir," said Jem, in a miserable tone. "Bit? I haven't bit anything since I've been aboard." "Then rouse up, and bite something now," cried the boatswain. "Come, my lad," he continued, turning to Don, "you've got too much stuff in you to lie about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air." "I feel so weak, sir; I don't think I could stand." "Oh, yes, you can," said the boatswain. "That's better. If you give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?" said Jem, with a groan. "Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here."<|quote|>"We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up."</|quote|>"But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself you may get a run ashore at the Cape or at Singapore; but most likely you won't leave the ship till we get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?" "Yes, China. What of that?" "China!" cried Jem. "Why, I thought we were sailing round to Plymouth or Portsmouth, or some place like that. China?" "We're going straight away or China, my lad, to be on that station for some time." "And when are we coming back, sir?" "In about three years." "Mas' Don," said Jem, dolefully; "let's get up on deck, sir, and jump overboard, so as to make an end of it." "You'd better not," said the boatswain, laughing at Jem's miserable face. "You're in the king's service now, and you've got to work. There, rouse up, and act like a man." "But can't we send a letter home, sir?" asked Don. "Oh, yes, if you like, at the first port we touch at, or by any ship we speak. But come, my lad, you've been sea-sick for days; don't begin to be home sick. You've been pressed as many a better fellow has been before you. The king wants men, and he must have them. Now, young as you are, show that you can act like a man." Don gave him an agonised look, but the bluff boatswain did not see it. "Here, you fellows," he cried to the rest of the sick men; "we've given you time enough now. You must get up and shake all this off. You'll all be on deck in a quarter of an hour, so look sharp." "This here's a nice game, Mas' Don. Do you know how I feel?" "No, Jem; but I know how I feel." "How's that, sir?" "That if I had been asked to serve the king I might | Don Lavington |
"I have a date." | Robert Cohn | to the Lilas," I said.<|quote|>"I have a date."</|quote|>"What time?" "Frances is coming | the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said.<|quote|>"I have a date."</|quote|>"What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen." "There she | tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said.<|quote|>"I have a date."</|quote|>"What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen." "There she is." Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so | never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said.<|quote|>"I have a date."</|quote|>"What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen." "There she is." Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you." "Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled. "Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one" "--shaking her head at Cohn--" "didn't come home for lunch." "I wasn't supposed to." "Oh, | good body, and he kept it in shape; he handled his cards well at bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful. I do not believe he thought about his clothes much. Externally he had been formed at Princeton. Internally he had been moulded by the two women who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of cheerfulness that had never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said.<|quote|>"I have a date."</|quote|>"What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen." "There she is." Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you." "Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled. "Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one" "--shaking her head at Cohn--" "didn't come home for lunch." "I wasn't supposed to." "Oh, I know. But you didn't say anything about it to the cook. Then I had a date myself, and Paula wasn't at her office. I went to the Ritz and waited for her, and she never came, and of course I didn't have enough money to lunch at the Ritz----" "What did you do?" "Oh, went out, of course." She spoke in a sort of imitation joyful manner. "I always keep my appointments. No one keeps theirs, nowadays. I ought to know better. How are you, Jake, anyway?" "Fine." "That was a fine girl you had at the dance, and | to me." "Come on, Harvey," I said. "Have another porto." "No," he said. "I'm going up the street and eat. See you later, Jake." He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic. "He always gets me sore," Cohn said. "I can't stand him." "I like him," I said. "I'm fond of him. You don't want to get sore at him." "I know it," Cohn said. "He just gets on my nerves." "Write this afternoon?" "No. I couldn't get it going. It's harder to do than my first book. I'm having a hard time handling it." The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he returned from America early in the spring was gone. Then he had been sure of his work, only with these personal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was gone. Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly. The reason is that until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice to watch on the tennis-court, he had a good body, and he kept it in shape; he handled his cards well at bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful. I do not believe he thought about his clothes much. Externally he had been formed at Princeton. Internally he had been moulded by the two women who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of cheerfulness that had never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said.<|quote|>"I have a date."</|quote|>"What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen." "There she is." Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you." "Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled. "Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one" "--shaking her head at Cohn--" "didn't come home for lunch." "I wasn't supposed to." "Oh, I know. But you didn't say anything about it to the cook. Then I had a date myself, and Paula wasn't at her office. I went to the Ritz and waited for her, and she never came, and of course I didn't have enough money to lunch at the Ritz----" "What did you do?" "Oh, went out, of course." She spoke in a sort of imitation joyful manner. "I always keep my appointments. No one keeps theirs, nowadays. I ought to know better. How are you, Jake, anyway?" "Fine." "That was a fine girl you had at the dance, and then went off with that Brett one." "Don't you like her?" Cohn asked. "I think she's perfectly charming. Don't you?" Cohn said nothing. "Look, Jake. I want to talk with you. Would you come over with me to the Dome? You'll stay here, won't you, Robert? Come on, Jake." We crossed the Boulevard Montparnasse and sat down at a table. A boy came up with the _Paris Times_, and I bought one and opened it. "What's the matter, Frances?" "Oh, nothing," she said, "except that he wants to leave me." "How do you mean?" "Oh, he told every one that we were going to be married, and I told my mother and every one, and now he doesn't want to do it." "What's the matter?" "He's decided he hasn't lived enough. I knew it would happen when he went to New York." She looked up, very bright-eyed and trying to talk inconsequentially. "I wouldn't marry him if he doesn't want to. Of course I wouldn't. I wouldn't marry him now for anything. But it does seem to me to be a little late now, after we've waited three years, and I've just gotten my divorce." I said nothing. "We were | I'm like a cat." I felt in my pocket. "Would a hundred help you any, Harvey?" "Yes." "Come on. Let's go and eat." "There's no hurry. Have a drink." "Better eat." "No. When I get like this I don't care whether I eat or not." We had a drink. Harvey added my saucer to his own pile. "Do you know Mencken, Harvey?" "Yes. Why?" "What's he like?" "He's all right. He says some pretty funny things. Last time I had dinner with him we talked about Hoffenheimer." 'The trouble is,' "he said," 'he's a garter snapper.' "That's not bad." "That's not bad." "He's through now," Harvey went on. "He's written about all the things he knows, and now he's on all the things he doesn't know." "I guess he's all right," I said. "I just can't read him." "Oh, nobody reads him now," Harvey said, "except the people that used to read the Alexander Hamilton Institute." "Well," I said. "That was a good thing, too." "Sure," said Harvey. So we sat and thought deeply for a while. "Have another port?" "All right," said Harvey. "There comes Cohn," I said. Robert Cohn was crossing the street. "That moron," said Harvey. Cohn came up to our table. "Hello, you bums," he said. "Hello, Robert," Harvey said. "I was just telling Jake here that you're a moron." "What do you mean?" "Tell us right off. Don't think. What would you rather do if you could do anything you wanted?" Cohn started to consider. "Don't think. Bring it right out." "I don't know," Cohn said. "What's it all about, anyway?" "I mean what would you rather do. What comes into your head first. No matter how silly it is." "I don't know," Cohn said. "I think I'd rather play football again with what I know about handling myself, now." "I misjudged you," Harvey said. "You're not a moron. You're only a case of arrested development." "You're awfully funny, Harvey," Cohn said. "Some day somebody will push your face in." Harvey Stone laughed. "You think so. They won't, though. Because it wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm not a fighter." "It would make a difference to you if anybody did it." "No, it wouldn't. That's where you make your big mistake. Because you're not intelligent." "Cut it out about me." "Sure," said Harvey. "It doesn't make any difference to me. You don't mean anything to me." "Come on, Harvey," I said. "Have another porto." "No," he said. "I'm going up the street and eat. See you later, Jake." He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic. "He always gets me sore," Cohn said. "I can't stand him." "I like him," I said. "I'm fond of him. You don't want to get sore at him." "I know it," Cohn said. "He just gets on my nerves." "Write this afternoon?" "No. I couldn't get it going. It's harder to do than my first book. I'm having a hard time handling it." The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he returned from America early in the spring was gone. Then he had been sure of his work, only with these personal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was gone. Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly. The reason is that until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice to watch on the tennis-court, he had a good body, and he kept it in shape; he handled his cards well at bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful. I do not believe he thought about his clothes much. Externally he had been formed at Princeton. Internally he had been moulded by the two women who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of cheerfulness that had never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said.<|quote|>"I have a date."</|quote|>"What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen." "There she is." Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you." "Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled. "Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one" "--shaking her head at Cohn--" "didn't come home for lunch." "I wasn't supposed to." "Oh, I know. But you didn't say anything about it to the cook. Then I had a date myself, and Paula wasn't at her office. I went to the Ritz and waited for her, and she never came, and of course I didn't have enough money to lunch at the Ritz----" "What did you do?" "Oh, went out, of course." She spoke in a sort of imitation joyful manner. "I always keep my appointments. No one keeps theirs, nowadays. I ought to know better. How are you, Jake, anyway?" "Fine." "That was a fine girl you had at the dance, and then went off with that Brett one." "Don't you like her?" Cohn asked. "I think she's perfectly charming. Don't you?" Cohn said nothing. "Look, Jake. I want to talk with you. Would you come over with me to the Dome? You'll stay here, won't you, Robert? Come on, Jake." We crossed the Boulevard Montparnasse and sat down at a table. A boy came up with the _Paris Times_, and I bought one and opened it. "What's the matter, Frances?" "Oh, nothing," she said, "except that he wants to leave me." "How do you mean?" "Oh, he told every one that we were going to be married, and I told my mother and every one, and now he doesn't want to do it." "What's the matter?" "He's decided he hasn't lived enough. I knew it would happen when he went to New York." She looked up, very bright-eyed and trying to talk inconsequentially. "I wouldn't marry him if he doesn't want to. Of course I wouldn't. I wouldn't marry him now for anything. But it does seem to me to be a little late now, after we've waited three years, and I've just gotten my divorce." I said nothing. "We were going to celebrate so, and instead we've just had scenes. It's so childish. We have dreadful scenes, and he cries and begs me to be reasonable, but he says he just can't do it." "It's rotten luck." "I should say it is rotten luck. I've wasted two years and a half on him now. And I don't know now if any man will ever want to marry me. Two years ago I could have married anybody I wanted, down at Cannes. All the old ones that wanted to marry somebody chic and settle down were crazy about me. Now I don't think I could get anybody." "Sure, you could marry anybody." "No, I don't believe it. And I'm fond of him, too. And I'd like to have children. I always thought we'd have children." She looked at me very brightly. "I never liked children much, but I don't want to think I'll never have them. I always thought I'd have them and then like them." "He's got children." "Oh, yes. He's got children, and he's got money, and he's got a rich mother, and he's written a book, and nobody will publish my stuff; nobody at all. It isn't bad, either. And I haven't got any money at all. I could have had alimony, but I got the divorce the quickest way." She looked at me again very brightly. "It isn't right. It's my own fault and it's not, too. I ought to have known better. And when I tell him he just cries and says he can't marry. Why can't he marry? I'd be a good wife. I'm easy to get along with. I leave him alone. It doesn't do any good." "It's a rotten shame." "Yes, it is a rotten shame. But there's no use talking about it, is there? Come on, let's go back to the caf ." "And of course there isn't anything I can do." "No. Just don't let him know I talked to you. I know what he wants." Now for the first time she dropped her bright, terribly cheerful manner. "He wants to go back to New York alone, and be there when his book comes out so when a lot of little chickens like it. That's what he wants." "Maybe they won't like it. I don't think he's that way. Really." "You don't know him like I do, Jake. That's what he | with Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice to watch on the tennis-court, he had a good body, and he kept it in shape; he handled his cards well at bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful. I do not believe he thought about his clothes much. Externally he had been formed at Princeton. Internally he had been moulded by the two women who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of cheerfulness that had never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said.<|quote|>"I have a date."</|quote|>"What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen." "There she is." Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you." "Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled. "Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one" "--shaking her head at Cohn--" "didn't come home for lunch." "I wasn't supposed to." "Oh, I know. But you didn't say anything about it to the cook. Then I had a date myself, and Paula wasn't at her office. I went to the Ritz and waited for her, and she never came, and of course I didn't have enough money to lunch at the Ritz----" "What did you do?" "Oh, went out, of course." She spoke in a sort of imitation joyful manner. "I always keep my appointments. No one keeps theirs, nowadays. I ought to know better. How are you, Jake, anyway?" "Fine." "That was a fine girl you had at the dance, and then went off with that Brett one." "Don't you like her?" Cohn asked. "I think she's perfectly charming. Don't you?" Cohn said nothing. "Look, Jake. I want to talk with you. Would you come over with me to the Dome? You'll stay here, won't you, Robert? Come on, Jake." We crossed the Boulevard Montparnasse and sat down at a table. A | The Sun Also Rises |
he said; | No speaker | begin to feel this, Katharine?"<|quote|>he said;</|quote|>"for it isn t true | and there. "When did you begin to feel this, Katharine?"<|quote|>he said;</|quote|>"for it isn t true to say that you ve | the fairy tale who were lost in a wood, and with this in her mind she noticed the scattering of dead leaves all round them which had been blown by the wind into heaps, a foot or two deep, here and there. "When did you begin to feel this, Katharine?"<|quote|>he said;</|quote|>"for it isn t true to say that you ve always felt it. I admit I was unreasonable the first night when you found that your clothes had been left behind. Still, where s the fault in that? I could promise you never to interfere with your clothes again. I | where the bracken was brown and shriveled beneath an oak-tree. He assented. Once more he gave a great sigh, and wiped his eyes with a childlike unconsciousness, and began to speak without a trace of his previous anger. The idea came to her that they were like the children in the fairy tale who were lost in a wood, and with this in her mind she noticed the scattering of dead leaves all round them which had been blown by the wind into heaps, a foot or two deep, here and there. "When did you begin to feel this, Katharine?"<|quote|>he said;</|quote|>"for it isn t true to say that you ve always felt it. I admit I was unreasonable the first night when you found that your clothes had been left behind. Still, where s the fault in that? I could promise you never to interfere with your clothes again. I admit I was cross when I found you upstairs with Henry. Perhaps I showed it too openly. But that s not unreasonable either when one s engaged. Ask your mother. And now this terrible thing" He broke off, unable for the moment to proceed any further. "This decision you say | tears. In her bewilderment at this apparition she stood aghast for a second. With a desperate sense that this horror must, at all costs, be stopped, she then put her arms about him, drew his head for a moment upon her shoulder, and led him on, murmuring words of consolation, until he heaved a great sigh. They held fast to each other; her tears, too, ran down her cheeks; and were both quite silent. Noticing the difficulty with which he walked, and feeling the same extreme lassitude in her own limbs, she proposed that they should rest for a moment where the bracken was brown and shriveled beneath an oak-tree. He assented. Once more he gave a great sigh, and wiped his eyes with a childlike unconsciousness, and began to speak without a trace of his previous anger. The idea came to her that they were like the children in the fairy tale who were lost in a wood, and with this in her mind she noticed the scattering of dead leaves all round them which had been blown by the wind into heaps, a foot or two deep, here and there. "When did you begin to feel this, Katharine?"<|quote|>he said;</|quote|>"for it isn t true to say that you ve always felt it. I admit I was unreasonable the first night when you found that your clothes had been left behind. Still, where s the fault in that? I could promise you never to interfere with your clothes again. I admit I was cross when I found you upstairs with Henry. Perhaps I showed it too openly. But that s not unreasonable either when one s engaged. Ask your mother. And now this terrible thing" He broke off, unable for the moment to proceed any further. "This decision you say you ve come to have you discussed it with any one? Your mother, for example, or Henry?" "No, no, of course not," she said, stirring the leaves with her hand. "But you don t understand me, William" "Help me to understand you" "You don t understand, I mean, my real feelings; how could you? I ve only now faced them myself. But I haven t got the sort of feeling love, I mean I don t know what to call it" she looked vaguely towards the horizon sunk under mist "but, anyhow, without it our marriage would be a farce" | nor had she the force to resist what now seemed to her his enormously superior strength. Very well; she would submit, as her mother and her aunt and most women, perhaps, had submitted; and yet she knew that every second of such submission to his strength was a second of treachery to him. "I did say I would marry you, but it was wrong," she forced herself to say, and she stiffened her arm as if to annul even the seeming submission of that separate part of her; "for I don t love you, William; you ve noticed it, every one s noticed it; why should we go on pretending? When I told you I loved you, I was wrong. I said what I knew to be untrue." As none of her words seemed to her at all adequate to represent what she felt, she repeated them, and emphasized them without realizing the effect that they might have upon a man who cared for her. She was completely taken aback by finding her arm suddenly dropped; then she saw his face most strangely contorted; was he laughing, it flashed across her? In another moment she saw that he was in tears. In her bewilderment at this apparition she stood aghast for a second. With a desperate sense that this horror must, at all costs, be stopped, she then put her arms about him, drew his head for a moment upon her shoulder, and led him on, murmuring words of consolation, until he heaved a great sigh. They held fast to each other; her tears, too, ran down her cheeks; and were both quite silent. Noticing the difficulty with which he walked, and feeling the same extreme lassitude in her own limbs, she proposed that they should rest for a moment where the bracken was brown and shriveled beneath an oak-tree. He assented. Once more he gave a great sigh, and wiped his eyes with a childlike unconsciousness, and began to speak without a trace of his previous anger. The idea came to her that they were like the children in the fairy tale who were lost in a wood, and with this in her mind she noticed the scattering of dead leaves all round them which had been blown by the wind into heaps, a foot or two deep, here and there. "When did you begin to feel this, Katharine?"<|quote|>he said;</|quote|>"for it isn t true to say that you ve always felt it. I admit I was unreasonable the first night when you found that your clothes had been left behind. Still, where s the fault in that? I could promise you never to interfere with your clothes again. I admit I was cross when I found you upstairs with Henry. Perhaps I showed it too openly. But that s not unreasonable either when one s engaged. Ask your mother. And now this terrible thing" He broke off, unable for the moment to proceed any further. "This decision you say you ve come to have you discussed it with any one? Your mother, for example, or Henry?" "No, no, of course not," she said, stirring the leaves with her hand. "But you don t understand me, William" "Help me to understand you" "You don t understand, I mean, my real feelings; how could you? I ve only now faced them myself. But I haven t got the sort of feeling love, I mean I don t know what to call it" she looked vaguely towards the horizon sunk under mist "but, anyhow, without it our marriage would be a farce" "How a farce?" he asked. "But this kind of analysis is disastrous!" he exclaimed. "I should have done it before," she said gloomily. "You make yourself think things you don t think," he continued, becoming demonstrative with his hands, as his manner was. "Believe me, Katharine, before we came here we were perfectly happy. You were full of plans for our house the chair-covers, don t you remember? like any other woman who is about to be married. Now, for no reason whatever, you begin to fret about your feeling and about my feeling, with the usual result. I assure you, Katharine, I ve been through it all myself. At one time I was always asking myself absurd questions which came to nothing either. What you want, if I may say so, is some occupation to take you out of yourself when this morbid mood comes on. If it hadn t been for my poetry, I assure you, I should often have been very much in the same state myself. To let you into a secret," he continued, with his little chuckle, which now sounded almost assured, "I ve often gone home from seeing you in such a state of | was out of the question? She did not want to marry any one. She wanted to go away by herself, preferably to some bleak northern moor, and there study mathematics and the science of astronomy. Twenty words would explain the whole situation to him. He had ceased to speak; he had told her once more how he loved her and why. She summoned her courage, fixed her eyes upon a lightning-splintered ash-tree, and, almost as if she were reading a writing fixed to the trunk, began: "I was wrong to get engaged to you. I shall never make you happy. I have never loved you." "Katharine!" he protested. "No, never," she repeated obstinately. "Not rightly. Don t you see, I didn t know what I was doing?" "You love some one else?" he cut her short. "Absolutely no one." "Henry?" he demanded. "Henry? I should have thought, William, even you" "There is some one," he persisted. "There has been a change in the last few weeks. You owe it to me to be honest, Katharine." "If I could, I would," she replied. "Why did you tell me you would marry me, then?" he demanded. Why, indeed? A moment of pessimism, a sudden conviction of the undeniable prose of life, a lapse of the illusion which sustains youth midway between heaven and earth, a desperate attempt to reconcile herself with facts she could only recall a moment, as of waking from a dream, which now seemed to her a moment of surrender. But who could give reasons such as these for doing what she had done? She shook her head very sadly. "But you re not a child you re not a woman of moods," Rodney persisted. "You couldn t have accepted me if you hadn t loved me!" he cried. A sense of her own misbehavior, which she had succeeded in keeping from her by sharpening her consciousness of Rodney s faults, now swept over her and almost overwhelmed her. What were his faults in comparison with the fact that he cared for her? What were her virtues in comparison with the fact that she did not care for him? In a flash the conviction that not to care is the uttermost sin of all stamped itself upon her inmost thought; and she felt herself branded for ever. He had taken her arm, and held her hand firmly in his, nor had she the force to resist what now seemed to her his enormously superior strength. Very well; she would submit, as her mother and her aunt and most women, perhaps, had submitted; and yet she knew that every second of such submission to his strength was a second of treachery to him. "I did say I would marry you, but it was wrong," she forced herself to say, and she stiffened her arm as if to annul even the seeming submission of that separate part of her; "for I don t love you, William; you ve noticed it, every one s noticed it; why should we go on pretending? When I told you I loved you, I was wrong. I said what I knew to be untrue." As none of her words seemed to her at all adequate to represent what she felt, she repeated them, and emphasized them without realizing the effect that they might have upon a man who cared for her. She was completely taken aback by finding her arm suddenly dropped; then she saw his face most strangely contorted; was he laughing, it flashed across her? In another moment she saw that he was in tears. In her bewilderment at this apparition she stood aghast for a second. With a desperate sense that this horror must, at all costs, be stopped, she then put her arms about him, drew his head for a moment upon her shoulder, and led him on, murmuring words of consolation, until he heaved a great sigh. They held fast to each other; her tears, too, ran down her cheeks; and were both quite silent. Noticing the difficulty with which he walked, and feeling the same extreme lassitude in her own limbs, she proposed that they should rest for a moment where the bracken was brown and shriveled beneath an oak-tree. He assented. Once more he gave a great sigh, and wiped his eyes with a childlike unconsciousness, and began to speak without a trace of his previous anger. The idea came to her that they were like the children in the fairy tale who were lost in a wood, and with this in her mind she noticed the scattering of dead leaves all round them which had been blown by the wind into heaps, a foot or two deep, here and there. "When did you begin to feel this, Katharine?"<|quote|>he said;</|quote|>"for it isn t true to say that you ve always felt it. I admit I was unreasonable the first night when you found that your clothes had been left behind. Still, where s the fault in that? I could promise you never to interfere with your clothes again. I admit I was cross when I found you upstairs with Henry. Perhaps I showed it too openly. But that s not unreasonable either when one s engaged. Ask your mother. And now this terrible thing" He broke off, unable for the moment to proceed any further. "This decision you say you ve come to have you discussed it with any one? Your mother, for example, or Henry?" "No, no, of course not," she said, stirring the leaves with her hand. "But you don t understand me, William" "Help me to understand you" "You don t understand, I mean, my real feelings; how could you? I ve only now faced them myself. But I haven t got the sort of feeling love, I mean I don t know what to call it" she looked vaguely towards the horizon sunk under mist "but, anyhow, without it our marriage would be a farce" "How a farce?" he asked. "But this kind of analysis is disastrous!" he exclaimed. "I should have done it before," she said gloomily. "You make yourself think things you don t think," he continued, becoming demonstrative with his hands, as his manner was. "Believe me, Katharine, before we came here we were perfectly happy. You were full of plans for our house the chair-covers, don t you remember? like any other woman who is about to be married. Now, for no reason whatever, you begin to fret about your feeling and about my feeling, with the usual result. I assure you, Katharine, I ve been through it all myself. At one time I was always asking myself absurd questions which came to nothing either. What you want, if I may say so, is some occupation to take you out of yourself when this morbid mood comes on. If it hadn t been for my poetry, I assure you, I should often have been very much in the same state myself. To let you into a secret," he continued, with his little chuckle, which now sounded almost assured, "I ve often gone home from seeing you in such a state of nerves that I had to force myself to write a page or two before I could get you out of my head. Ask Denham; he ll tell you how he met me one night; he ll tell you what a state he found me in." Katharine started with displeasure at the mention of Ralph s name. The thought of the conversation in which her conduct had been made a subject for discussion with Denham roused her anger; but, as she instantly felt, she had scarcely the right to grudge William any use of her name, seeing what her fault against him had been from first to last. And yet Denham! She had a view of him as a judge. She figured him sternly weighing instances of her levity in this masculine court of inquiry into feminine morality and gruffly dismissing both her and her family with some half-sarcastic, half-tolerant phrase which sealed her doom, as far as he was concerned, for ever. Having met him so lately, the sense of his character was strong in her. The thought was not a pleasant one for a proud woman, but she had yet to learn the art of subduing her expression. Her eyes fixed upon the ground, her brows drawn together, gave William a very fair picture of the resentment that she was forcing herself to control. A certain degree of apprehension, occasionally culminating in a kind of fear, had always entered into his love for her, and had increased, rather to his surprise, in the greater intimacy of their engagement. Beneath her steady, exemplary surface ran a vein of passion which seemed to him now perverse, now completely irrational, for it never took the normal channel of glorification of him and his doings; and, indeed, he almost preferred the steady good sense, which had always marked their relationship, to a more romantic bond. But passion she had, he could not deny it, and hitherto he had tried to see it employed in his thoughts upon the lives of the children who were to be born to them. "She will make a perfect mother a mother of sons," he thought; but seeing her sitting there, gloomy and silent, he began to have his doubts on this point. "A farce, a farce," he thought to himself. "She said that our marriage would be a farce," and he became suddenly aware of their situation, | she repeated them, and emphasized them without realizing the effect that they might have upon a man who cared for her. She was completely taken aback by finding her arm suddenly dropped; then she saw his face most strangely contorted; was he laughing, it flashed across her? In another moment she saw that he was in tears. In her bewilderment at this apparition she stood aghast for a second. With a desperate sense that this horror must, at all costs, be stopped, she then put her arms about him, drew his head for a moment upon her shoulder, and led him on, murmuring words of consolation, until he heaved a great sigh. They held fast to each other; her tears, too, ran down her cheeks; and were both quite silent. Noticing the difficulty with which he walked, and feeling the same extreme lassitude in her own limbs, she proposed that they should rest for a moment where the bracken was brown and shriveled beneath an oak-tree. He assented. Once more he gave a great sigh, and wiped his eyes with a childlike unconsciousness, and began to speak without a trace of his previous anger. The idea came to her that they were like the children in the fairy tale who were lost in a wood, and with this in her mind she noticed the scattering of dead leaves all round them which had been blown by the wind into heaps, a foot or two deep, here and there. "When did you begin to feel this, Katharine?"<|quote|>he said;</|quote|>"for it isn t true to say that you ve always felt it. I admit I was unreasonable the first night when you found that your clothes had been left behind. Still, where s the fault in that? I could promise you never to interfere with your clothes again. I admit I was cross when I found you upstairs with Henry. Perhaps I showed it too openly. But that s not unreasonable either when one s engaged. Ask your mother. And now this terrible thing" He broke off, unable for the moment to proceed any further. "This decision you say you ve come to have you discussed it with any one? Your mother, for example, or Henry?" "No, no, of course not," she said, stirring the leaves with her hand. "But you don t understand me, William" "Help me to understand you" "You don t understand, I mean, my real feelings; how could you? I ve only now faced them myself. But I haven t got the sort of feeling love, I mean I don t know what to call it" she looked vaguely towards the horizon sunk under mist "but, anyhow, without it our marriage would be a farce" "How a farce?" he asked. "But this kind of analysis is disastrous!" he exclaimed. "I should have done it before," she said gloomily. "You make yourself think things you don t think," he continued, becoming demonstrative with his hands, as his manner was. "Believe me, Katharine, before we came here we were perfectly happy. You were full of plans for our house the chair-covers, don t you remember? like any other woman who is about to be married. Now, for no reason whatever, you begin to fret about your feeling and about my feeling, with the usual result. I assure you, Katharine, I ve been through it all myself. At one time I was always asking myself absurd questions which came to nothing either. What you want, if I may say so, is some occupation to take you out of yourself when this morbid mood comes on. If it hadn t been for my poetry, I assure you, I should often have been very much in the same state myself. To let you into a secret," he continued, with his little chuckle, which now sounded almost assured, "I ve often gone home from seeing you in such a state of nerves that I had to force myself to write a page or two before I could get you out of my head. Ask Denham; he ll tell you how he met me one night; he ll | Night And Day |
"that I'm sure I'm dead and buried, and this dear old place is heaven;" | Ellen Olenska | centuries; so long," she said,<|quote|>"that I'm sure I'm dead and buried, and this dear old place is heaven;"</|quote|>which, for reasons he could | long time." "Oh, centuries and centuries; so long," she said,<|quote|>"that I'm sure I'm dead and buried, and this dear old place is heaven;"</|quote|>which, for reasons he could not define, struck Newland Archer | so unseemly a picture of the august tribunal before which, at that very moment, her case was being tried. Nothing could be in worse taste than misplaced flippancy; and he answered somewhat stiffly: "Yes, you have been away a very long time." "Oh, centuries and centuries; so long," she said,<|quote|>"that I'm sure I'm dead and buried, and this dear old place is heaven;"</|quote|>which, for reasons he could not define, struck Newland Archer as an even more disrespectful way of describing New York society. III. It invariably happened in the same way. Mrs. Julius Beaufort, on the night of her annual ball, never failed to appear at the Opera; indeed, she always gave | swept the horse-shoe curve of boxes. "Ah, how this brings it all back to me--I see everybody here in knickerbockers and pantalettes," she said, with her trailing slightly foreign accent, her eyes returning to his face. Agreeable as their expression was, the young man was shocked that they should reflect so unseemly a picture of the august tribunal before which, at that very moment, her case was being tried. Nothing could be in worse taste than misplaced flippancy; and he answered somewhat stiffly: "Yes, you have been away a very long time." "Oh, centuries and centuries; so long," she said,<|quote|>"that I'm sure I'm dead and buried, and this dear old place is heaven;"</|quote|>which, for reasons he could not define, struck Newland Archer as an even more disrespectful way of describing New York society. III. It invariably happened in the same way. Mrs. Julius Beaufort, on the night of her annual ball, never failed to appear at the Opera; indeed, she always gave her ball on an Opera night in order to emphasise her complete superiority to household cares, and her possession of a staff of servants competent to organise every detail of the entertainment in her absence. The Beauforts' house was one of the few in New York that possessed a ball-room | give you leave. She says she used to play with you when you were children." She made way for him by pushing back her chair, and promptly, and a little ostentatiously, with the desire that the whole house should see what he was doing, Archer seated himself at the Countess Olenska's side. "We DID use to play together, didn't we?" she asked, turning her grave eyes to his. "You were a horrid boy, and kissed me once behind a door; but it was your cousin Vandie Newland, who never looked at me, that I was in love with." Her glance swept the horse-shoe curve of boxes. "Ah, how this brings it all back to me--I see everybody here in knickerbockers and pantalettes," she said, with her trailing slightly foreign accent, her eyes returning to his face. Agreeable as their expression was, the young man was shocked that they should reflect so unseemly a picture of the august tribunal before which, at that very moment, her case was being tried. Nothing could be in worse taste than misplaced flippancy; and he answered somewhat stiffly: "Yes, you have been away a very long time." "Oh, centuries and centuries; so long," she said,<|quote|>"that I'm sure I'm dead and buried, and this dear old place is heaven;"</|quote|>which, for reasons he could not define, struck Newland Archer as an even more disrespectful way of describing New York society. III. It invariably happened in the same way. Mrs. Julius Beaufort, on the night of her annual ball, never failed to appear at the Opera; indeed, she always gave her ball on an Opera night in order to emphasise her complete superiority to household cares, and her possession of a staff of servants competent to organise every detail of the entertainment in her absence. The Beauforts' house was one of the few in New York that possessed a ball-room (it antedated even Mrs. Manson Mingott's and the Headly Chiverses'); and at a time when it was beginning to be thought "provincial" to put a "crash" over the drawing-room floor and move the furniture upstairs, the possession of a ball-room that was used for no other purpose, and left for three-hundred-and-sixty-four days of the year to shuttered darkness, with its gilt chairs stacked in a corner and its chandelier in a bag; this undoubted superiority was felt to compensate for whatever was regrettable in the Beaufort past. Mrs. Archer, who was fond of coining her social philosophy into axioms, had | each other without a word seemed to the young man to bring them nearer than any explanation would have done. Her eyes said: "You see why Mamma brought me," and his answered: "I would not for the world have had you stay away." "You know my niece Countess Olenska?" Mrs. Welland enquired as she shook hands with her future son-in-law. Archer bowed without extending his hand, as was the custom on being introduced to a lady; and Ellen Olenska bent her head slightly, keeping her own pale-gloved hands clasped on her huge fan of eagle feathers. Having greeted Mrs. Lovell Mingott, a large blonde lady in creaking satin, he sat down beside his betrothed, and said in a low tone: "I hope you've told Madame Olenska that we're engaged? I want everybody to know--I want you to let me announce it this evening at the ball." Miss Welland's face grew rosy as the dawn, and she looked at him with radiant eyes. "If you can persuade Mamma," she said; "but why should we change what is already settled?" He made no answer but that which his eyes returned, and she added, still more confidently smiling: "Tell my cousin yourself: I give you leave. She says she used to play with you when you were children." She made way for him by pushing back her chair, and promptly, and a little ostentatiously, with the desire that the whole house should see what he was doing, Archer seated himself at the Countess Olenska's side. "We DID use to play together, didn't we?" she asked, turning her grave eyes to his. "You were a horrid boy, and kissed me once behind a door; but it was your cousin Vandie Newland, who never looked at me, that I was in love with." Her glance swept the horse-shoe curve of boxes. "Ah, how this brings it all back to me--I see everybody here in knickerbockers and pantalettes," she said, with her trailing slightly foreign accent, her eyes returning to his face. Agreeable as their expression was, the young man was shocked that they should reflect so unseemly a picture of the august tribunal before which, at that very moment, her case was being tried. Nothing could be in worse taste than misplaced flippancy; and he answered somewhat stiffly: "Yes, you have been away a very long time." "Oh, centuries and centuries; so long," she said,<|quote|>"that I'm sure I'm dead and buried, and this dear old place is heaven;"</|quote|>which, for reasons he could not define, struck Newland Archer as an even more disrespectful way of describing New York society. III. It invariably happened in the same way. Mrs. Julius Beaufort, on the night of her annual ball, never failed to appear at the Opera; indeed, she always gave her ball on an Opera night in order to emphasise her complete superiority to household cares, and her possession of a staff of servants competent to organise every detail of the entertainment in her absence. The Beauforts' house was one of the few in New York that possessed a ball-room (it antedated even Mrs. Manson Mingott's and the Headly Chiverses'); and at a time when it was beginning to be thought "provincial" to put a "crash" over the drawing-room floor and move the furniture upstairs, the possession of a ball-room that was used for no other purpose, and left for three-hundred-and-sixty-four days of the year to shuttered darkness, with its gilt chairs stacked in a corner and its chandelier in a bag; this undoubted superiority was felt to compensate for whatever was regrettable in the Beaufort past. Mrs. Archer, who was fond of coining her social philosophy into axioms, had once said: "We all have our pet common people--" and though the phrase was a daring one, its truth was secretly admitted in many an exclusive bosom. But the Beauforts were not exactly common; some people said they were even worse. Mrs. Beaufort belonged indeed to one of America's most honoured families; she had been the lovely Regina Dallas (of the South Carolina branch), a penniless beauty introduced to New York society by her cousin, the imprudent Medora Manson, who was always doing the wrong thing from the right motive. When one was related to the Mansons and the Rushworths one had a "droit de cite" (as Mr. Sillerton Jackson, who had frequented the Tuileries, called it) in New York society; but did one not forfeit it in marrying Julius Beaufort? The question was: who was Beaufort? He passed for an Englishman, was agreeable, handsome, ill-tempered, hospitable and witty. He had come to America with letters of recommendation from old Mrs. Manson Mingott's English son-in-law, the banker, and had speedily made himself an important position in the world of affairs; but his habits were dissipated, his tongue was bitter, his antecedents were mysterious; and when Medora Manson announced her cousin's | of the younger men begin behind him (everybody talked through the Mephistopheles-and-Martha scenes), "after all, just WHAT happened?" "Well--she left him; nobody attempts to deny that." "He's an awful brute, isn't he?" continued the young enquirer, a candid Thorley, who was evidently preparing to enter the lists as the lady's champion. "The very worst; I knew him at Nice," said Lawrence Lefferts with authority. "A half-paralysed white sneering fellow--rather handsome head, but eyes with a lot of lashes. Well, I'll tell you the sort: when he wasn't with women he was collecting china. Paying any price for both, I understand." There was a general laugh, and the young champion said: "Well, then----?" "Well, then; she bolted with his secretary." "Oh, I see." The champion's face fell. "It didn't last long, though: I heard of her a few months later living alone in Venice. I believe Lovell Mingott went out to get her. He said she was desperately unhappy. That's all right--but this parading her at the Opera's another thing." "Perhaps," young Thorley hazarded, "she's too unhappy to be left at home." This was greeted with an irreverent laugh, and the youth blushed deeply, and tried to look as if he had meant to insinuate what knowing people called a "double entendre." "Well--it's queer to have brought Miss Welland, anyhow," some one said in a low tone, with a side-glance at Archer. "Oh, that's part of the campaign: Granny's orders, no doubt," Lefferts laughed. "When the old lady does a thing she does it thoroughly." The act was ending, and there was a general stir in the box. Suddenly Newland Archer felt himself impelled to decisive action. The desire to be the first man to enter Mrs. Mingott's box, to proclaim to the waiting world his engagement to May Welland, and to see her through whatever difficulties her cousin's anomalous situation might involve her in; this impulse had abruptly overruled all scruples and hesitations, and sent him hurrying through the red corridors to the farther side of the house. As he entered the box his eyes met Miss Welland's, and he saw that she had instantly understood his motive, though the family dignity which both considered so high a virtue would not permit her to tell him so. The persons of their world lived in an atmosphere of faint implications and pale delicacies, and the fact that he and she understood each other without a word seemed to the young man to bring them nearer than any explanation would have done. Her eyes said: "You see why Mamma brought me," and his answered: "I would not for the world have had you stay away." "You know my niece Countess Olenska?" Mrs. Welland enquired as she shook hands with her future son-in-law. Archer bowed without extending his hand, as was the custom on being introduced to a lady; and Ellen Olenska bent her head slightly, keeping her own pale-gloved hands clasped on her huge fan of eagle feathers. Having greeted Mrs. Lovell Mingott, a large blonde lady in creaking satin, he sat down beside his betrothed, and said in a low tone: "I hope you've told Madame Olenska that we're engaged? I want everybody to know--I want you to let me announce it this evening at the ball." Miss Welland's face grew rosy as the dawn, and she looked at him with radiant eyes. "If you can persuade Mamma," she said; "but why should we change what is already settled?" He made no answer but that which his eyes returned, and she added, still more confidently smiling: "Tell my cousin yourself: I give you leave. She says she used to play with you when you were children." She made way for him by pushing back her chair, and promptly, and a little ostentatiously, with the desire that the whole house should see what he was doing, Archer seated himself at the Countess Olenska's side. "We DID use to play together, didn't we?" she asked, turning her grave eyes to his. "You were a horrid boy, and kissed me once behind a door; but it was your cousin Vandie Newland, who never looked at me, that I was in love with." Her glance swept the horse-shoe curve of boxes. "Ah, how this brings it all back to me--I see everybody here in knickerbockers and pantalettes," she said, with her trailing slightly foreign accent, her eyes returning to his face. Agreeable as their expression was, the young man was shocked that they should reflect so unseemly a picture of the august tribunal before which, at that very moment, her case was being tried. Nothing could be in worse taste than misplaced flippancy; and he answered somewhat stiffly: "Yes, you have been away a very long time." "Oh, centuries and centuries; so long," she said,<|quote|>"that I'm sure I'm dead and buried, and this dear old place is heaven;"</|quote|>which, for reasons he could not define, struck Newland Archer as an even more disrespectful way of describing New York society. III. It invariably happened in the same way. Mrs. Julius Beaufort, on the night of her annual ball, never failed to appear at the Opera; indeed, she always gave her ball on an Opera night in order to emphasise her complete superiority to household cares, and her possession of a staff of servants competent to organise every detail of the entertainment in her absence. The Beauforts' house was one of the few in New York that possessed a ball-room (it antedated even Mrs. Manson Mingott's and the Headly Chiverses'); and at a time when it was beginning to be thought "provincial" to put a "crash" over the drawing-room floor and move the furniture upstairs, the possession of a ball-room that was used for no other purpose, and left for three-hundred-and-sixty-four days of the year to shuttered darkness, with its gilt chairs stacked in a corner and its chandelier in a bag; this undoubted superiority was felt to compensate for whatever was regrettable in the Beaufort past. Mrs. Archer, who was fond of coining her social philosophy into axioms, had once said: "We all have our pet common people--" and though the phrase was a daring one, its truth was secretly admitted in many an exclusive bosom. But the Beauforts were not exactly common; some people said they were even worse. Mrs. Beaufort belonged indeed to one of America's most honoured families; she had been the lovely Regina Dallas (of the South Carolina branch), a penniless beauty introduced to New York society by her cousin, the imprudent Medora Manson, who was always doing the wrong thing from the right motive. When one was related to the Mansons and the Rushworths one had a "droit de cite" (as Mr. Sillerton Jackson, who had frequented the Tuileries, called it) in New York society; but did one not forfeit it in marrying Julius Beaufort? The question was: who was Beaufort? He passed for an Englishman, was agreeable, handsome, ill-tempered, hospitable and witty. He had come to America with letters of recommendation from old Mrs. Manson Mingott's English son-in-law, the banker, and had speedily made himself an important position in the world of affairs; but his habits were dissipated, his tongue was bitter, his antecedents were mysterious; and when Medora Manson announced her cousin's engagement to him it was felt to be one more act of folly in poor Medora's long record of imprudences. But folly is as often justified of her children as wisdom, and two years after young Mrs. Beaufort's marriage it was admitted that she had the most distinguished house in New York. No one knew exactly how the miracle was accomplished. She was indolent, passive, the caustic even called her dull; but dressed like an idol, hung with pearls, growing younger and blonder and more beautiful each year, she throned in Mr. Beaufort's heavy brown-stone palace, and drew all the world there without lifting her jewelled little finger. The knowing people said it was Beaufort himself who trained the servants, taught the chef new dishes, told the gardeners what hot-house flowers to grow for the dinner-table and the drawing-rooms, selected the guests, brewed the after-dinner punch and dictated the little notes his wife wrote to her friends. If he did, these domestic activities were privately performed, and he presented to the world the appearance of a careless and hospitable millionaire strolling into his own drawing-room with the detachment of an invited guest, and saying: "My wife's gloxinias are a marvel, aren't they? I believe she gets them out from Kew." Mr. Beaufort's secret, people were agreed, was the way he carried things off. It was all very well to whisper that he had been "helped" to leave England by the international banking-house in which he had been employed; he carried off that rumour as easily as the rest--though New York's business conscience was no less sensitive than its moral standard--he carried everything before him, and all New York into his drawing-rooms, and for over twenty years now people had said they were "going to the Beauforts'" with the same tone of security as if they had said they were going to Mrs. Manson Mingott's, and with the added satisfaction of knowing they would get hot canvas-back ducks and vintage wines, instead of tepid Veuve Clicquot without a year and warmed-up croquettes from Philadelphia. Mrs. Beaufort, then, had as usual appeared in her box just before the Jewel Song; and when, again as usual, she rose at the end of the third act, drew her opera cloak about her lovely shoulders, and disappeared, New York knew that meant that half an hour later the ball would begin. The Beaufort house was | Welland's face grew rosy as the dawn, and she looked at him with radiant eyes. "If you can persuade Mamma," she said; "but why should we change what is already settled?" He made no answer but that which his eyes returned, and she added, still more confidently smiling: "Tell my cousin yourself: I give you leave. She says she used to play with you when you were children." She made way for him by pushing back her chair, and promptly, and a little ostentatiously, with the desire that the whole house should see what he was doing, Archer seated himself at the Countess Olenska's side. "We DID use to play together, didn't we?" she asked, turning her grave eyes to his. "You were a horrid boy, and kissed me once behind a door; but it was your cousin Vandie Newland, who never looked at me, that I was in love with." Her glance swept the horse-shoe curve of boxes. "Ah, how this brings it all back to me--I see everybody here in knickerbockers and pantalettes," she said, with her trailing slightly foreign accent, her eyes returning to his face. Agreeable as their expression was, the young man was shocked that they should reflect so unseemly a picture of the august tribunal before which, at that very moment, her case was being tried. Nothing could be in worse taste than misplaced flippancy; and he answered somewhat stiffly: "Yes, you have been away a very long time." "Oh, centuries and centuries; so long," she said,<|quote|>"that I'm sure I'm dead and buried, and this dear old place is heaven;"</|quote|>which, for reasons he could not define, struck Newland Archer as an even more disrespectful way of describing New York society. III. It invariably happened in the same way. Mrs. Julius Beaufort, on the night of her annual ball, never failed to appear at the Opera; indeed, she always gave her ball on an Opera night in order to emphasise her complete superiority to household cares, and her possession of a staff of servants competent to organise every detail of the entertainment in her absence. The Beauforts' house was one of the few in New York that possessed a ball-room (it antedated even Mrs. Manson Mingott's and the Headly Chiverses'); and at a time when it was beginning to be thought "provincial" to put a "crash" over the drawing-room floor and move the furniture upstairs, the possession of a ball-room that was used for no other purpose, and left for three-hundred-and-sixty-four days of the year to shuttered darkness, with its gilt chairs stacked in a corner and its chandelier in a bag; this undoubted superiority was felt to compensate for whatever was regrettable in the Beaufort past. Mrs. Archer, who was fond of coining her social philosophy into axioms, had once said: "We all have our pet common people--" and though the phrase was a daring one, its truth was secretly admitted in many an exclusive bosom. But the Beauforts were not exactly common; some people said they were even worse. Mrs. Beaufort belonged indeed to one of America's most honoured families; she had been the lovely Regina Dallas (of the South Carolina branch), a penniless beauty introduced to New York society by her cousin, the imprudent Medora Manson, who was always doing the wrong thing from the right motive. When one was related to the Mansons and the Rushworths one had a "droit de cite" (as Mr. Sillerton Jackson, who had frequented the Tuileries, called it) in New York | The Age Of Innocence |
"His name is Gogol," | The President | finger firm on the trigger.<|quote|>"His name is Gogol,"</|quote|>said the President. "He is | rose from his seat, his finger firm on the trigger.<|quote|>"His name is Gogol,"</|quote|>said the President. "He is that hairy humbug over there | flat hand on the table like the fin of some huge fish. "Yes," he said slowly, "there is a spy in this room. There is a traitor at this table. I will waste no more words. His name" Syme half rose from his seat, his finger firm on the trigger.<|quote|>"His name is Gogol,"</|quote|>said the President. "He is that hairy humbug over there who pretends to be a Pole." Gogol sprang to his feet, a pistol in each hand. With the same flash three men sprang at his throat. Even the Professor made an effort to rise. But Syme saw little of the | even unto death, is this, that there should be one actually among us who is not of us, who knows our grave purpose, but does not share it, who" The Secretary screamed out suddenly like a woman. "It can't be!" he cried, leaping. "There can't" The President flapped his large flat hand on the table like the fin of some huge fish. "Yes," he said slowly, "there is a spy in this room. There is a traitor at this table. I will waste no more words. His name" Syme half rose from his seat, his finger firm on the trigger.<|quote|>"His name is Gogol,"</|quote|>said the President. "He is that hairy humbug over there who pretends to be a Pole." Gogol sprang to his feet, a pistol in each hand. With the same flash three men sprang at his throat. Even the Professor made an effort to rise. But Syme saw little of the scene, for he was blinded with a beneficent darkness; he had sunk down into his seat shuddering, in a palsy of passionate relief. CHAPTER VII. THE UNACCOUNTABLE CONDUCT OF PROFESSOR DE WORMS "Sit down!" said Sunday in a voice that he used once or twice in his life, a voice | as if he had never really astonished them until now. They all moved feverishly in their seats, except Syme. He sat stiff in his, with his hand in his pocket, and on the handle of his loaded revolver. When the attack on him came he would sell his life dear. He would find out at least if the President was mortal. Sunday went on smoothly "You will probably understand that there is only one possible motive for forbidding free speech at this festival of freedom. Strangers overhearing us matters nothing. They assume that we are joking. But what would matter, even unto death, is this, that there should be one actually among us who is not of us, who knows our grave purpose, but does not share it, who" The Secretary screamed out suddenly like a woman. "It can't be!" he cried, leaping. "There can't" The President flapped his large flat hand on the table like the fin of some huge fish. "Yes," he said slowly, "there is a spy in this room. There is a traitor at this table. I will waste no more words. His name" Syme half rose from his seat, his finger firm on the trigger.<|quote|>"His name is Gogol,"</|quote|>said the President. "He is that hairy humbug over there who pretends to be a Pole." Gogol sprang to his feet, a pistol in each hand. With the same flash three men sprang at his throat. Even the Professor made an effort to rise. But Syme saw little of the scene, for he was blinded with a beneficent darkness; he had sunk down into his seat shuddering, in a palsy of passionate relief. CHAPTER VII. THE UNACCOUNTABLE CONDUCT OF PROFESSOR DE WORMS "Sit down!" said Sunday in a voice that he used once or twice in his life, a voice that made men drop drawn swords. The three who had risen fell away from Gogol, and that equivocal person himself resumed his seat. "Well, my man," said the President briskly, addressing him as one addresses a total stranger, "will you oblige me by putting your hand in your upper waistcoat pocket and showing me what you have there?" The alleged Pole was a little pale under his tangle of dark hair, but he put two fingers into the pocket with apparent coolness and pulled out a blue strip of card. When Syme saw it lying on the table, he woke | have any notion of the blow that was about to fall. As for him, he had merely the feeling of a man mounting the scaffold with the intention, at any rate, of making a good speech. "Comrades," said the President, suddenly rising, "we have spun out this farce long enough. I have called you down here to tell you something so simple and shocking that even the waiters upstairs (long inured to our levities) might hear some new seriousness in my voice. Comrades, we were discussing plans and naming places. I propose, before saying anything else, that those plans and places should not be voted by this meeting, but should be left wholly in the control of some one reliable member. I suggest Comrade Saturday, Dr. Bull." They all stared at him; then they all started in their seats, for the next words, though not loud, had a living and sensational emphasis. Sunday struck the table. "Not one word more about the plans and places must be said at this meeting. Not one tiny detail more about what we mean to do must be mentioned in this company." Sunday had spent his life in astonishing his followers; but it seemed as if he had never really astonished them until now. They all moved feverishly in their seats, except Syme. He sat stiff in his, with his hand in his pocket, and on the handle of his loaded revolver. When the attack on him came he would sell his life dear. He would find out at least if the President was mortal. Sunday went on smoothly "You will probably understand that there is only one possible motive for forbidding free speech at this festival of freedom. Strangers overhearing us matters nothing. They assume that we are joking. But what would matter, even unto death, is this, that there should be one actually among us who is not of us, who knows our grave purpose, but does not share it, who" The Secretary screamed out suddenly like a woman. "It can't be!" he cried, leaping. "There can't" The President flapped his large flat hand on the table like the fin of some huge fish. "Yes," he said slowly, "there is a spy in this room. There is a traitor at this table. I will waste no more words. His name" Syme half rose from his seat, his finger firm on the trigger.<|quote|>"His name is Gogol,"</|quote|>said the President. "He is that hairy humbug over there who pretends to be a Pole." Gogol sprang to his feet, a pistol in each hand. With the same flash three men sprang at his throat. Even the Professor made an effort to rise. But Syme saw little of the scene, for he was blinded with a beneficent darkness; he had sunk down into his seat shuddering, in a palsy of passionate relief. CHAPTER VII. THE UNACCOUNTABLE CONDUCT OF PROFESSOR DE WORMS "Sit down!" said Sunday in a voice that he used once or twice in his life, a voice that made men drop drawn swords. The three who had risen fell away from Gogol, and that equivocal person himself resumed his seat. "Well, my man," said the President briskly, addressing him as one addresses a total stranger, "will you oblige me by putting your hand in your upper waistcoat pocket and showing me what you have there?" The alleged Pole was a little pale under his tangle of dark hair, but he put two fingers into the pocket with apparent coolness and pulled out a blue strip of card. When Syme saw it lying on the table, he woke up again to the world outside him. For although the card lay at the other extreme of the table, and he could read nothing of the inscription on it, it bore a startling resemblance to the blue card in his own pocket, the card which had been given to him when he joined the anti-anarchist constabulary. "Pathetic Slav," said the President, "tragic child of Poland, are you prepared in the presence of that card to deny that you are in this company shall we say _de trop?_" "Right oh!" said the late Gogol. It made everyone jump to hear a clear, commercial and somewhat cockney voice coming out of that forest of foreign hair. It was irrational, as if a Chinaman had suddenly spoken with a Scotch accent. "I gather that you fully understand your position," said Sunday. "You bet," answered the Pole. "I see it's a fair cop. All I say is, I don't believe any Pole could have imitated my accent like I did his." "I concede the point," said Sunday. "I believe your own accent to be inimitable, though I shall practise it in my bath. Do you mind leaving your beard with your card?" "Not a | was his last triumph over these lunatics to go down into their dark room and die for something that they could not even understand. The barrel-organ seemed to give the marching tune with the energy and the mingled noises of a whole orchestra; and he could hear deep and rolling, under all the trumpets of the pride of life, the drums of the pride of death. The conspirators were already filing through the open window and into the rooms behind. Syme went last, outwardly calm, but with all his brain and body throbbing with romantic rhythm. The President led them down an irregular side stair, such as might be used by servants, and into a dim, cold, empty room, with a table and benches, like an abandoned boardroom. When they were all in, he closed and locked the door. The first to speak was Gogol, the irreconcilable, who seemed bursting with inarticulate grievance. "Zso! Zso!" he cried, with an obscure excitement, his heavy Polish accent becoming almost impenetrable. "You zay you nod ide. You zay you show himselves. It is all nuzzinks. Ven you vant talk importance you run yourselves in a dark box!" The President seemed to take the foreigner's incoherent satire with entire good humour. "You can't get hold of it yet, Gogol," he said in a fatherly way. "When once they have heard us talking nonsense on that balcony they will not care where we go afterwards. If we had come here first, we should have had the whole staff at the keyhole. You don't seem to know anything about mankind." "I die for zem," cried the Pole in thick excitement, "and I slay zare oppressors. I care not for these games of gonzealment. I would zmite ze tyrant in ze open square." "I see, I see," said the President, nodding kindly as he seated himself at the top of a long table. "You die for mankind first, and then you get up and smite their oppressors. So that's all right. And now may I ask you to control your beautiful sentiments, and sit down with the other gentlemen at this table. For the first time this morning something intelligent is going to be said." Syme, with the perturbed promptitude he had shown since the original summons, sat down first. Gogol sat down last, grumbling in his brown beard about gombromise. No one except Syme seemed to have any notion of the blow that was about to fall. As for him, he had merely the feeling of a man mounting the scaffold with the intention, at any rate, of making a good speech. "Comrades," said the President, suddenly rising, "we have spun out this farce long enough. I have called you down here to tell you something so simple and shocking that even the waiters upstairs (long inured to our levities) might hear some new seriousness in my voice. Comrades, we were discussing plans and naming places. I propose, before saying anything else, that those plans and places should not be voted by this meeting, but should be left wholly in the control of some one reliable member. I suggest Comrade Saturday, Dr. Bull." They all stared at him; then they all started in their seats, for the next words, though not loud, had a living and sensational emphasis. Sunday struck the table. "Not one word more about the plans and places must be said at this meeting. Not one tiny detail more about what we mean to do must be mentioned in this company." Sunday had spent his life in astonishing his followers; but it seemed as if he had never really astonished them until now. They all moved feverishly in their seats, except Syme. He sat stiff in his, with his hand in his pocket, and on the handle of his loaded revolver. When the attack on him came he would sell his life dear. He would find out at least if the President was mortal. Sunday went on smoothly "You will probably understand that there is only one possible motive for forbidding free speech at this festival of freedom. Strangers overhearing us matters nothing. They assume that we are joking. But what would matter, even unto death, is this, that there should be one actually among us who is not of us, who knows our grave purpose, but does not share it, who" The Secretary screamed out suddenly like a woman. "It can't be!" he cried, leaping. "There can't" The President flapped his large flat hand on the table like the fin of some huge fish. "Yes," he said slowly, "there is a spy in this room. There is a traitor at this table. I will waste no more words. His name" Syme half rose from his seat, his finger firm on the trigger.<|quote|>"His name is Gogol,"</|quote|>said the President. "He is that hairy humbug over there who pretends to be a Pole." Gogol sprang to his feet, a pistol in each hand. With the same flash three men sprang at his throat. Even the Professor made an effort to rise. But Syme saw little of the scene, for he was blinded with a beneficent darkness; he had sunk down into his seat shuddering, in a palsy of passionate relief. CHAPTER VII. THE UNACCOUNTABLE CONDUCT OF PROFESSOR DE WORMS "Sit down!" said Sunday in a voice that he used once or twice in his life, a voice that made men drop drawn swords. The three who had risen fell away from Gogol, and that equivocal person himself resumed his seat. "Well, my man," said the President briskly, addressing him as one addresses a total stranger, "will you oblige me by putting your hand in your upper waistcoat pocket and showing me what you have there?" The alleged Pole was a little pale under his tangle of dark hair, but he put two fingers into the pocket with apparent coolness and pulled out a blue strip of card. When Syme saw it lying on the table, he woke up again to the world outside him. For although the card lay at the other extreme of the table, and he could read nothing of the inscription on it, it bore a startling resemblance to the blue card in his own pocket, the card which had been given to him when he joined the anti-anarchist constabulary. "Pathetic Slav," said the President, "tragic child of Poland, are you prepared in the presence of that card to deny that you are in this company shall we say _de trop?_" "Right oh!" said the late Gogol. It made everyone jump to hear a clear, commercial and somewhat cockney voice coming out of that forest of foreign hair. It was irrational, as if a Chinaman had suddenly spoken with a Scotch accent. "I gather that you fully understand your position," said Sunday. "You bet," answered the Pole. "I see it's a fair cop. All I say is, I don't believe any Pole could have imitated my accent like I did his." "I concede the point," said Sunday. "I believe your own accent to be inimitable, though I shall practise it in my bath. Do you mind leaving your beard with your card?" "Not a bit," answered Gogol; and with one finger he ripped off the whole of his shaggy head-covering, emerging with thin red hair and a pale, pert face. "It was hot," he added. "I will do you the justice to say," said Sunday, not without a sort of brutal admiration, "that you seem to have kept pretty cool under it. Now listen to me. I like you. The consequence is that it would annoy me for just about two and a half minutes if I heard that you had died in torments. Well, if you ever tell the police or any human soul about us, I shall have that two and a half minutes of discomfort. On your discomfort I will not dwell. Good day. Mind the step." The red-haired detective who had masqueraded as Gogol rose to his feet without a word, and walked out of the room with an air of perfect nonchalance. Yet the astonished Syme was able to realise that this ease was suddenly assumed; for there was a slight stumble outside the door, which showed that the departing detective had not minded the step. "Time is flying," said the President in his gayest manner, after glancing at his watch, which like everything about him seemed bigger than it ought to be. "I must go off at once; I have to take the chair at a Humanitarian meeting." The Secretary turned to him with working eyebrows. "Would it not be better," he said a little sharply, "to discuss further the details of our project, now that the spy has left us?" "No, I think not," said the President with a yawn like an unobtrusive earthquake. "Leave it as it is. Let Saturday settle it. I must be off. Breakfast here next Sunday." But the late loud scenes had whipped up the almost naked nerves of the Secretary. He was one of those men who are conscientious even in crime. "I must protest, President, that the thing is irregular," he said. "It is a fundamental rule of our society that all plans shall be debated in full council. Of course, I fully appreciate your forethought when in the actual presence of a traitor" "Secretary," said the President seriously, "if you'd take your head home and boil it for a turnip it might be useful. I can't say. But it might." The Secretary reared back in a kind of equine | loud, had a living and sensational emphasis. Sunday struck the table. "Not one word more about the plans and places must be said at this meeting. Not one tiny detail more about what we mean to do must be mentioned in this company." Sunday had spent his life in astonishing his followers; but it seemed as if he had never really astonished them until now. They all moved feverishly in their seats, except Syme. He sat stiff in his, with his hand in his pocket, and on the handle of his loaded revolver. When the attack on him came he would sell his life dear. He would find out at least if the President was mortal. Sunday went on smoothly "You will probably understand that there is only one possible motive for forbidding free speech at this festival of freedom. Strangers overhearing us matters nothing. They assume that we are joking. But what would matter, even unto death, is this, that there should be one actually among us who is not of us, who knows our grave purpose, but does not share it, who" The Secretary screamed out suddenly like a woman. "It can't be!" he cried, leaping. "There can't" The President flapped his large flat hand on the table like the fin of some huge fish. "Yes," he said slowly, "there is a spy in this room. There is a traitor at this table. I will waste no more words. His name" Syme half rose from his seat, his finger firm on the trigger.<|quote|>"His name is Gogol,"</|quote|>said the President. "He is that hairy humbug over there who pretends to be a Pole." Gogol sprang to his feet, a pistol in each hand. With the same flash three men sprang at his throat. Even the Professor made an effort to rise. But Syme saw little of the scene, for he was blinded with a beneficent darkness; he had sunk down into his seat shuddering, in a palsy of passionate relief. CHAPTER VII. THE UNACCOUNTABLE CONDUCT OF PROFESSOR DE WORMS "Sit down!" said Sunday in a voice that he used once or twice in his life, a voice that made men drop drawn swords. The three who had risen fell away from Gogol, and that equivocal person himself resumed his seat. "Well, my man," said the President briskly, addressing him as one addresses a total stranger, "will you oblige me by putting your hand in your upper waistcoat pocket and showing me what you have there?" The alleged Pole was a little pale under his tangle of dark hair, but he put two fingers into the pocket with apparent coolness and pulled out a blue strip of card. When Syme saw it lying on the table, he woke up again to the world outside him. For although the card lay at the other extreme of the table, | The Man Who Was Thursday |
she began-- | No speaker | from reality, you adorable dreamer,”<|quote|>she began--</|quote|>“and unless you stick to | tossed down. “You’re so detached from reality, you adorable dreamer,”<|quote|>she began--</|quote|>“and unless you stick to _that_ you might as well | 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,”<|quote|>she began--</|quote|>“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 | 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,”<|quote|>she began--</|quote|>“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 | 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,”<|quote|>she began--</|quote|>“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 | 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,”<|quote|>she began--</|quote|>“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. “No kind of a furious flaunting one, under _my_ patronage, that I can prevent, my boy! The Dedborough picture in the market--owing to horrid little circumstances that regard myself alone--is the Dedborough picture at a decent, sufficient, civilised Dedborough price, and nothing else whatever; which I beg you will take as my last word on the subject.” Lord John, trying whether he _could_ take it, momentarily mingled his hushed state with that of their hostess, to whom he addressed a helpless look; after which, however, he appeared to find that he could only reassert himself. “May I nevertheless reply that I think you’ll not be able to prevent _anything?_--since the discussed object will | 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,” Lord John asked of the master of that seat, “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,”<|quote|>she began--</|quote|>“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. “No kind of a furious flaunting one, under _my_ patronage, that I can prevent, my boy! The Dedborough picture in the market--owing to horrid little circumstances that regard myself alone--is the Dedborough picture at a decent, sufficient, civilised Dedborough price, and nothing else whatever; which I beg you will take as my last word on the subject.” Lord John, trying whether he _could_ take it, momentarily mingled his hushed state with that of their hostess, to whom he addressed a helpless look; after which, however, he appeared to find that he could only reassert himself. “May I nevertheless reply that I think you’ll not be able to prevent _anything?_--since the discussed object will completely escape your control in New York!” “And almost any discussed object” --Lady Sand-gate rose to the occasion also-- “is in New York, by what one hears, easily _worth_ a Hundred Thousand!” Lord Theign looked from one of them to the other. “I sell the man a Hundred Thousand worth of swagger and advertisement; and of fraudulent swagger and objectionable advertisement at that?” “Well” --Lord John was but briefly baffled-- “when the picture’s his you can’t help its doing what it can and what it will for him anywhere!” “Then it isn’t his yet,” the elder man retorted-- “and I promise you never will be if he has _sent_ you to me with his big drum!” Lady Sandgate turned sadly on this to her associate in patience, as if the case were now really beyond them. “Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?” Her question was unanswerable. “It’s the first time in all my life I’ve known a man feel insulted, in such a piece of business, by happening _not_ to be, in the usual way, more or less swindled!” “Theign is unable to take it in,” her ladyship explained, “that--as I’ve heard it said of all these money-monsters of the new type--Bender simply can’t _afford_ not to be cited and celebrated as the biggest buyer who ever lived.” “Ah, cited and celebrated at my _expense_--say it at once and have it over, that I may enjoy what you all want to do to me!” “The dear man’s inimitable--at his ‘expense’!” It was more than Lord John could bear as he fairly flung himself off in his derisive impotence and addressed his wail to Lady Sandgate. “Yes, at my expense is exactly what I mean,” Lord Theign asseverated-- “at the expense of my modest claim to regulate my behaviour by my own standards. There you perfectly _are_ about the man, and it’s precisely what I say--that he’s to hustle and harry me _because_ he’s a money-monster: which I never for a moment dreamed of, please understand, when I let you, John, thrust him at me as a pecuniary resource at Dedborough. I didn’t put my property on view that _he_ might blow about it------!” “No, if you like it,” Lady Sandgate returned; “but you certainly didn’t so arrange” --she seemed to think her point somehow would help-- “that you might | 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,” Lord John asked of the master of that seat, “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,”<|quote|>she began--</|quote|>“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. “No kind of a furious flaunting one, under _my_ patronage, that I can prevent, my boy! The Dedborough picture in the market--owing to horrid little circumstances that regard myself alone--is the Dedborough picture at a decent, sufficient, civilised Dedborough price, and nothing else whatever; which I beg you will take as my last word on the subject.” Lord John, trying whether he _could_ take it, momentarily mingled his hushed state with that of their hostess, to whom he addressed a helpless look; after which, however, he appeared to find that he could only reassert himself. “May I nevertheless reply that I think you’ll not be able to prevent _anything?_--since the discussed object will completely escape your control in New York!” “And almost any discussed object” --Lady Sand-gate rose to the occasion also-- “is in New York, by what one hears, easily _worth_ a Hundred Thousand!” Lord Theign looked from one of them to the other. “I sell the man a Hundred Thousand worth of swagger and advertisement; and of fraudulent swagger and objectionable advertisement at that?” “Well” --Lord John was but briefly baffled-- “when the picture’s his you can’t help its doing what | The Outcry |
When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. | No speaker | then. I'll ring the bell."<|quote|>When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things.</|quote|>"So much for my infidelity," | dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell."<|quote|>When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things.</|quote|>"So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious | Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell."<|quote|>When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things.</|quote|>"So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding | his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell."<|quote|>When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things.</|quote|>"So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said | I want to go on the pier." "Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell."<|quote|>When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things.</|quote|>"So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl," they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie with skee-ball. Tony's conduct confirmed the view of human | anything could be got ready. There were no ices, much to Winnie's annoyance. She ate grapefruit and kippers and scrambled eggs on toast, complaining fitfully about her wet clothing. After breakfast Tony sent her upstairs to change and himself smoked a pipe in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers. Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop. "We missed you last night," he said. "We went to a party." "You shouldn't have done that--not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes, in the dining-room with Winnie." "But, Mr Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants." "Well, I didn't like to wake Milly." "She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep. "She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier." "Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell."<|quote|>When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things.</|quote|>"So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl," they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie with skee-ball. Tony's conduct confirmed the view of human nature derived from the weekly newspapers which they had all been reading that morning. * * * * * "Well," said Brenda's solicitor. "We have our case now, all quite regular and complete. I don't think it can come on until next term--there's a great rush at the moment, but there's no harm in you having your own evidence ready. I've got it typed out for you. You'd better keep it by you and get it clear in your mind." "_...My marriage was an ideally happy one_," she read "_until shortly before Christmas last year when I began to suspect that my husband's attitude had changed towards me. He always remained in the country when my studies took me to London. I realized that he no longer cared for me as he used to. He began to drink heavily and on one occasion made a disturbance at our flat in London, constantly ringing up when drunk and sending a drunken friend round to knock on the door._ "Is that necessary?" "Not strictly, but it is advisable to put it in. A great deal depends on psychological impression. Judges in their more lucid moments sometimes wonder why perfectly respectable, happily married | exhaustion she put her head on his shoulder and her hand in his. When they reached their rooms, however, she said, "Go quietly. We don't want to wake Winnie." For an hour or so Tony lay in the warm little bedroom, reviewing over and over again the incidents of the last three months; then he too fell asleep. * * * * * He was awakened by Winnie. "Mother's still asleep," she said. Tony looked at his watch. "So I should think," he said. It was a quarter-past seven. "Go back to bed." "No, I'm dressed. Let's go out." She went to the window and pulled back the curtains, filling the room with glacial, morning light. "It's hardly raining at all," she said. "What do you want to do?" "I want to go on the pier." "It won't be open yet." "Well, I want to go down to the sea. Come on." Tony knew that he would not get to sleep again that morning. "All right. You go and wait while I dress." "I'll wait here. Mother snores so." Twenty minutes later they went downstairs into the hall where aproned waiters were piling up the furniture and brushing the carpets. A keen wind met them as they emerged from the swing door. The asphalt promenade was wet with spray and rain. Two or three female figures were scudding along, bowed to the wind, prayer-books clutched in their gloved hands. Four or five rugged old men were hobbling down to bathe, hissing like ostlers. "Oh, come on," said Winnie. They went down to the beach and stumbled painfully across the shingle to the margin of the sea. Winnie threw some stones. The bathers were in the water now; some of them had dogs who swam snorting beside them. "Why don't you bathe?" asked Winnie. "Far too cold." "But _they're_ bathing. I want to." "You must ask your mother." "I believe you're afraid. Can you swim?" "Yes." "Well, why don't you? Bet you can't." "All right. I can't." "Then why did you say you could. Fibber." They walked along the shingle. Winnie slithered about astride a backwater. "Now my knickers are wet," she said. "Better come back and change." "It feels horrible. Let's go and have breakfast." The hotel did not, as a rule, cater for guests who breakfasted downstairs at eight o'clock on Sunday morning. It took a long time before anything could be got ready. There were no ices, much to Winnie's annoyance. She ate grapefruit and kippers and scrambled eggs on toast, complaining fitfully about her wet clothing. After breakfast Tony sent her upstairs to change and himself smoked a pipe in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers. Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop. "We missed you last night," he said. "We went to a party." "You shouldn't have done that--not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes, in the dining-room with Winnie." "But, Mr Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants." "Well, I didn't like to wake Milly." "She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep. "She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier." "Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell."<|quote|>When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things.</|quote|>"So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl," they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie with skee-ball. Tony's conduct confirmed the view of human nature derived from the weekly newspapers which they had all been reading that morning. * * * * * "Well," said Brenda's solicitor. "We have our case now, all quite regular and complete. I don't think it can come on until next term--there's a great rush at the moment, but there's no harm in you having your own evidence ready. I've got it typed out for you. You'd better keep it by you and get it clear in your mind." "_...My marriage was an ideally happy one_," she read "_until shortly before Christmas last year when I began to suspect that my husband's attitude had changed towards me. He always remained in the country when my studies took me to London. I realized that he no longer cared for me as he used to. He began to drink heavily and on one occasion made a disturbance at our flat in London, constantly ringing up when drunk and sending a drunken friend round to knock on the door._ "Is that necessary?" "Not strictly, but it is advisable to put it in. A great deal depends on psychological impression. Judges in their more lucid moments sometimes wonder why perfectly respectable, happily married men go off for week-ends to the seaside with women they do not know. It is always helpful to offer evidence of general degeneracy." "I see," said Brenda. "_From then onwards I had him watched by private agents and as a result of what they told me, I left my husband's house on April 5th._ "Yes, that all seems quite clear." [III] Lady St Cloud preserved an atavistic faith in the authority and preternatural good judgment of the Head of the Family; accordingly, her first act, on learning from Marjorie of Brenda's wayward behaviour, was to cable for Reggie's return from Tunisia where he was occupied in desecrating some tombs. His departure, like all his movements, was leisurely. He did not take the first available boat or the second, but eventually he arrived in London on the Monday after Tony's visit to Brighton. He held a family conclave in his library, consisting of his mother, Brenda, Marjorie, Allan and the solicitor; later he discussed the question fully with each of them severally; he took Beaver out to luncheon; he dined with Jock; he even called on Tony's Aunt Frances. Finally, on Thursday evening he arranged to meet Tony for dinner at Brown's. He was eight years older than Brenda; very occasionally a fugitive, indefinable likeness was detectable between him and Marjorie, but both in character and appearance he was as different from Brenda as it was possible to imagine. He was prematurely, unnaturally stout, and he carried his burden of flesh as though he were not yet used to it; as though it had been buckled on to him that morning for the first time and he were still experimenting for its better adjustment; there was an instability in his gait and in his eyes a furtive look as though he were at any moment liable to ambush and realized that he was unfairly handicapped for flight. This impression, however, was due solely to his physical appearance; it was the deep bed of fat in which his eyes lay that gave them this look of suspicion; the caution of his movements resulted from the exertion of keeping his balance and not from any embarrassment at his own clumsiness, for it had never occurred to him that he looked at all unusual. Rather more than half Reggie St Cloud's time and income was spent abroad in modest archaeological expeditions. His house | the sea. Winnie threw some stones. The bathers were in the water now; some of them had dogs who swam snorting beside them. "Why don't you bathe?" asked Winnie. "Far too cold." "But _they're_ bathing. I want to." "You must ask your mother." "I believe you're afraid. Can you swim?" "Yes." "Well, why don't you? Bet you can't." "All right. I can't." "Then why did you say you could. Fibber." They walked along the shingle. Winnie slithered about astride a backwater. "Now my knickers are wet," she said. "Better come back and change." "It feels horrible. Let's go and have breakfast." The hotel did not, as a rule, cater for guests who breakfasted downstairs at eight o'clock on Sunday morning. It took a long time before anything could be got ready. There were no ices, much to Winnie's annoyance. She ate grapefruit and kippers and scrambled eggs on toast, complaining fitfully about her wet clothing. After breakfast Tony sent her upstairs to change and himself smoked a pipe in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers. Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop. "We missed you last night," he said. "We went to a party." "You shouldn't have done that--not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes, in the dining-room with Winnie." "But, Mr Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants." "Well, I didn't like to wake Milly." "She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep. "She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier." "Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell."<|quote|>When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things.</|quote|>"So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl," they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie with skee-ball. Tony's conduct confirmed the view of human nature derived from the weekly newspapers which they had all been reading that morning. * * * * * "Well," said Brenda's solicitor. "We have our case now, all quite regular and complete. I don't think it can come on until next term--there's a great rush at the moment, but there's no harm in you having your own evidence ready. I've got it typed out for you. You'd better keep it by you and get it clear in your mind." "_...My marriage was an ideally happy one_," she read "_until shortly before Christmas last year when I began to suspect that my husband's attitude had changed towards me. He always remained in the country when my studies took me to London. I realized that he no longer cared for me as he used to. He began to drink heavily and on one occasion made a disturbance at our flat in London, constantly ringing up when drunk and sending a drunken friend round to knock on the door._ "Is that necessary?" "Not strictly, but it is advisable to put it in. A great deal depends on psychological impression. Judges in their more lucid moments sometimes wonder why perfectly respectable, happily married men go off for week-ends to the seaside with women they do not know. It is always helpful to offer evidence of general degeneracy." "I see," said Brenda. | A Handful Of Dust |
"You have tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the last straw; you might have dispensed with it." | Alcee Arobin | in the morning," he said.<|quote|>"You have tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the last straw; you might have dispensed with it."</|quote|>"Yes," she admitted; "it was | will feel better and happier in the morning," he said.<|quote|>"You have tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the last straw; you might have dispensed with it."</|quote|>"Yes," she admitted; "it was stupid." "No, it was delightful; | touch conveyed to her a certain physical comfort. She could have fallen quietly asleep there if he had continued to pass his hand over her hair. He brushed the hair upward from the nape of her neck. "I hope you will feel better and happier in the morning," he said.<|quote|>"You have tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the last straw; you might have dispensed with it."</|quote|>"Yes," she admitted; "it was stupid." "No, it was delightful; but it has worn you out." His hand had strayed to her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response of her flesh to his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly upon the shoulder. "I thought | had snapped." She rested her head against the table upon her bare arm. "You want to rest," he said, "and to be quiet. I'll go; I'll leave you and let you rest." "Yes," she replied. He stood up beside her and smoothed her hair with his soft, magnetic hand. His touch conveyed to her a certain physical comfort. She could have fallen quietly asleep there if he had continued to pass his hand over her hair. He brushed the hair upward from the nape of her neck. "I hope you will feel better and happier in the morning," he said.<|quote|>"You have tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the last straw; you might have dispensed with it."</|quote|>"Yes," she admitted; "it was stupid." "No, it was delightful; but it has worn you out." His hand had strayed to her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response of her flesh to his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly upon the shoulder. "I thought you were going away," she said, in an uneven voice. "I am, after I have said good night." "Good night," she murmured. He did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did not say good night until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive entreaties. XXXII When | On the floor was a fresh matting, covered with a rug or two; and on the walls hung a few tasteful pictures. But the room was filled with flowers. These were a surprise to her. Arobin had sent them, and had had Celestine distribute them during Edna's absence. Her bedroom was adjoining, and across a small passage were the dining-room and kitchen. Edna seated herself with every appearance of discomfort. "Are you tired?" he asked. "Yes, and chilled, and miserable. I feel as if I had been wound up to a certain pitch too tight and something inside of me had snapped." She rested her head against the table upon her bare arm. "You want to rest," he said, "and to be quiet. I'll go; I'll leave you and let you rest." "Yes," she replied. He stood up beside her and smoothed her hair with his soft, magnetic hand. His touch conveyed to her a certain physical comfort. She could have fallen quietly asleep there if he had continued to pass his hand over her hair. He brushed the hair upward from the nape of her neck. "I hope you will feel better and happier in the morning," he said.<|quote|>"You have tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the last straw; you might have dispensed with it."</|quote|>"Yes," she admitted; "it was stupid." "No, it was delightful; but it has worn you out." His hand had strayed to her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response of her flesh to his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly upon the shoulder. "I thought you were going away," she said, in an uneven voice. "I am, after I have said good night." "Good night," she murmured. He did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did not say good night until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive entreaties. XXXII When Mr. Pontellier learned of his wife's intention to abandon her home and take up her residence elsewhere, he immediately wrote her a letter of unqualified disapproval and remonstrance. She had given reasons which he was unwilling to acknowledge as adequate. He hoped she had not acted upon her rash impulse; and he begged her to consider first, foremost, and above all else, what people would say. He was not dreaming of scandal when he uttered this warning; that was a thing which would never have entered into his mind to consider in connection with his wife's name or his own. | her down the steps. "Will you have a spray of jessamine?" he asked, breaking off a few blossoms as he passed. "No; I don't want anything." She seemed disheartened, and had nothing to say. She took his arm, which he offered her, holding up the weight of her satin train with the other hand. She looked down, noticing the black line of his leg moving in and out so close to her against the yellow shimmer of her gown. There was the whistle of a railway train somewhere in the distance, and the midnight bells were ringing. They met no one in their short walk. The "pigeon house" stood behind a locked gate, and a shallow _parterre_ that had been somewhat neglected. There was a small front porch, upon which a long window and the front door opened. The door opened directly into the parlor; there was no side entry. Back in the yard was a room for servants, in which old Celestine had been ensconced. Edna had left a lamp burning low upon the table. She had succeeded in making the room look habitable and homelike. There were some books on the table and a lounge near at hand. On the floor was a fresh matting, covered with a rug or two; and on the walls hung a few tasteful pictures. But the room was filled with flowers. These were a surprise to her. Arobin had sent them, and had had Celestine distribute them during Edna's absence. Her bedroom was adjoining, and across a small passage were the dining-room and kitchen. Edna seated herself with every appearance of discomfort. "Are you tired?" he asked. "Yes, and chilled, and miserable. I feel as if I had been wound up to a certain pitch too tight and something inside of me had snapped." She rested her head against the table upon her bare arm. "You want to rest," he said, "and to be quiet. I'll go; I'll leave you and let you rest." "Yes," she replied. He stood up beside her and smoothed her hair with his soft, magnetic hand. His touch conveyed to her a certain physical comfort. She could have fallen quietly asleep there if he had continued to pass his hand over her hair. He brushed the hair upward from the nape of her neck. "I hope you will feel better and happier in the morning," he said.<|quote|>"You have tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the last straw; you might have dispensed with it."</|quote|>"Yes," she admitted; "it was stupid." "No, it was delightful; but it has worn you out." His hand had strayed to her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response of her flesh to his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly upon the shoulder. "I thought you were going away," she said, in an uneven voice. "I am, after I have said good night." "Good night," she murmured. He did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did not say good night until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive entreaties. XXXII When Mr. Pontellier learned of his wife's intention to abandon her home and take up her residence elsewhere, he immediately wrote her a letter of unqualified disapproval and remonstrance. She had given reasons which he was unwilling to acknowledge as adequate. He hoped she had not acted upon her rash impulse; and he begged her to consider first, foremost, and above all else, what people would say. He was not dreaming of scandal when he uttered this warning; that was a thing which would never have entered into his mind to consider in connection with his wife's name or his own. He was simply thinking of his financial integrity. It might get noised about that the Pontelliers had met with reverses, and were forced to conduct their _m nage_ on a humbler scale than heretofore. It might do incalculable mischief to his business prospects. But remembering Edna's whimsical turn of mind of late, and foreseeing that she had immediately acted upon her impetuous determination, he grasped the situation with his usual promptness and handled it with his well-known business tact and cleverness. The same mail which brought to Edna his letter of disapproval carried instructions the most minute instructions to a well-known architect concerning the remodeling of his home, changes which he had long contemplated, and which he desired carried forward during his temporary absence. Expert and reliable packers and movers were engaged to convey the furniture, carpets, pictures everything movable, in short to places of security. And in an incredibly short time the Pontellier house was turned over to the artisans. There was to be an addition a small snuggery; there was to be frescoing, and hardwood flooring was to be put into such rooms as had not yet been subjected to this improvement. Furthermore, in one of the daily | it," looking up at her with caressing eyes. The touch of his lips was like a pleasing sting to her hand. She lifted the garland of roses from his head and flung it across the room. "Come, Victor; you've posed long enough. Give Mrs. Highcamp her scarf." Mrs. Highcamp undraped the scarf from about him with her own hands. Miss Mayblunt and Mr. Gouvernail suddenly conceived the notion that it was time to say good night. And Mr. and Mrs. Merriman wondered how it could be so late. Before parting from Victor, Mrs. Highcamp invited him to call upon her daughter, who she knew would be charmed to meet him and talk French and sing French songs with him. Victor expressed his desire and intention to call upon Miss Highcamp at the first opportunity which presented itself. He asked if Arobin were going his way. Arobin was not. The mandolin players had long since stolen away. A profound stillness had fallen upon the broad, beautiful street. The voices of Edna's disbanding guests jarred like a discordant note upon the quiet harmony of the night. XXXI "Well?" questioned Arobin, who had remained with Edna after the others had departed. "Well," she reiterated, and stood up, stretching her arms, and feeling the need to relax her muscles after having been so long seated. "What next?" he asked. "The servants are all gone. They left when the musicians did. I have dismissed them. The house has to be closed and locked, and I shall trot around to the pigeon house, and shall send Celestine over in the morning to straighten things up." He looked around, and began to turn out some of the lights. "What about upstairs?" he inquired. "I think it is all right; but there may be a window or two unlatched. We had better look; you might take a candle and see. And bring me my wrap and hat on the foot of the bed in the middle room." He went up with the light, and Edna began closing doors and windows. She hated to shut in the smoke and the fumes of the wine. Arobin found her cape and hat, which he brought down and helped her to put on. When everything was secured and the lights put out, they left through the front door, Arobin locking it and taking the key, which he carried for Edna. He helped her down the steps. "Will you have a spray of jessamine?" he asked, breaking off a few blossoms as he passed. "No; I don't want anything." She seemed disheartened, and had nothing to say. She took his arm, which he offered her, holding up the weight of her satin train with the other hand. She looked down, noticing the black line of his leg moving in and out so close to her against the yellow shimmer of her gown. There was the whistle of a railway train somewhere in the distance, and the midnight bells were ringing. They met no one in their short walk. The "pigeon house" stood behind a locked gate, and a shallow _parterre_ that had been somewhat neglected. There was a small front porch, upon which a long window and the front door opened. The door opened directly into the parlor; there was no side entry. Back in the yard was a room for servants, in which old Celestine had been ensconced. Edna had left a lamp burning low upon the table. She had succeeded in making the room look habitable and homelike. There were some books on the table and a lounge near at hand. On the floor was a fresh matting, covered with a rug or two; and on the walls hung a few tasteful pictures. But the room was filled with flowers. These were a surprise to her. Arobin had sent them, and had had Celestine distribute them during Edna's absence. Her bedroom was adjoining, and across a small passage were the dining-room and kitchen. Edna seated herself with every appearance of discomfort. "Are you tired?" he asked. "Yes, and chilled, and miserable. I feel as if I had been wound up to a certain pitch too tight and something inside of me had snapped." She rested her head against the table upon her bare arm. "You want to rest," he said, "and to be quiet. I'll go; I'll leave you and let you rest." "Yes," she replied. He stood up beside her and smoothed her hair with his soft, magnetic hand. His touch conveyed to her a certain physical comfort. She could have fallen quietly asleep there if he had continued to pass his hand over her hair. He brushed the hair upward from the nape of her neck. "I hope you will feel better and happier in the morning," he said.<|quote|>"You have tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the last straw; you might have dispensed with it."</|quote|>"Yes," she admitted; "it was stupid." "No, it was delightful; but it has worn you out." His hand had strayed to her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response of her flesh to his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly upon the shoulder. "I thought you were going away," she said, in an uneven voice. "I am, after I have said good night." "Good night," she murmured. He did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did not say good night until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive entreaties. XXXII When Mr. Pontellier learned of his wife's intention to abandon her home and take up her residence elsewhere, he immediately wrote her a letter of unqualified disapproval and remonstrance. She had given reasons which he was unwilling to acknowledge as adequate. He hoped she had not acted upon her rash impulse; and he begged her to consider first, foremost, and above all else, what people would say. He was not dreaming of scandal when he uttered this warning; that was a thing which would never have entered into his mind to consider in connection with his wife's name or his own. He was simply thinking of his financial integrity. It might get noised about that the Pontelliers had met with reverses, and were forced to conduct their _m nage_ on a humbler scale than heretofore. It might do incalculable mischief to his business prospects. But remembering Edna's whimsical turn of mind of late, and foreseeing that she had immediately acted upon her impetuous determination, he grasped the situation with his usual promptness and handled it with his well-known business tact and cleverness. The same mail which brought to Edna his letter of disapproval carried instructions the most minute instructions to a well-known architect concerning the remodeling of his home, changes which he had long contemplated, and which he desired carried forward during his temporary absence. Expert and reliable packers and movers were engaged to convey the furniture, carpets, pictures everything movable, in short to places of security. And in an incredibly short time the Pontellier house was turned over to the artisans. There was to be an addition a small snuggery; there was to be frescoing, and hardwood flooring was to be put into such rooms as had not yet been subjected to this improvement. Furthermore, in one of the daily papers appeared a brief notice to the effect that Mr. and Mrs. Pontellier were contemplating a summer sojourn abroad, and that their handsome residence on Esplanade Street was undergoing sumptuous alterations, and would not be ready for occupancy until their return. Mr. Pontellier had saved appearances! Edna admired the skill of his maneuver, and avoided any occasion to balk his intentions. When the situation as set forth by Mr. Pontellier was accepted and taken for granted, she was apparently satisfied that it should be so. The pigeon house pleased her. It at once assumed the intimate character of a home, while she herself invested it with a charm which it reflected like a warm glow. There was with her a feeling of having descended in the social scale, with a corresponding sense of having risen in the spiritual. Every step which she took toward relieving herself from obligations added to her strength and expansion as an individual. She began to look with her own eyes; to see and to apprehend the deeper undercurrents of life. No longer was she content to "feed upon opinion" when her own soul had invited her. After a little while, a few days, in fact, Edna went up and spent a week with her children in Iberville. They were delicious February days, with all the summer's promise hovering in the air. How glad she was to see the children! She wept for very pleasure when she felt their little arms clasping her; their hard, ruddy cheeks pressed against her own glowing cheeks. She looked into their faces with hungry eyes that could not be satisfied with looking. And what stories they had to tell their mother! About the pigs, the cows, the mules! About riding to the mill behind Gluglu; fishing back in the lake with their Uncle Jasper; picking pecans with Lidie's little black brood, and hauling chips in their express wagon. It was a thousand times more fun to haul real chips for old lame Susie's real fire than to drag painted blocks along the banquette on Esplanade Street! She went with them herself to see the pigs and the cows, to look at the darkies laying the cane, to thrash the pecan trees, and catch fish in the back lake. She lived with them a whole week long, giving them all of herself, and gathering and filling herself with their young existence. | Celestine had been ensconced. Edna had left a lamp burning low upon the table. She had succeeded in making the room look habitable and homelike. There were some books on the table and a lounge near at hand. On the floor was a fresh matting, covered with a rug or two; and on the walls hung a few tasteful pictures. But the room was filled with flowers. These were a surprise to her. Arobin had sent them, and had had Celestine distribute them during Edna's absence. Her bedroom was adjoining, and across a small passage were the dining-room and kitchen. Edna seated herself with every appearance of discomfort. "Are you tired?" he asked. "Yes, and chilled, and miserable. I feel as if I had been wound up to a certain pitch too tight and something inside of me had snapped." She rested her head against the table upon her bare arm. "You want to rest," he said, "and to be quiet. I'll go; I'll leave you and let you rest." "Yes," she replied. He stood up beside her and smoothed her hair with his soft, magnetic hand. His touch conveyed to her a certain physical comfort. She could have fallen quietly asleep there if he had continued to pass his hand over her hair. He brushed the hair upward from the nape of her neck. "I hope you will feel better and happier in the morning," he said.<|quote|>"You have tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the last straw; you might have dispensed with it."</|quote|>"Yes," she admitted; "it was stupid." "No, it was delightful; but it has worn you out." His hand had strayed to her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response of her flesh to his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly upon the shoulder. "I thought you were going away," she said, in an uneven voice. "I am, after I have said good night." "Good night," she murmured. He did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did not say good night until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive entreaties. XXXII When Mr. Pontellier learned of his wife's intention to abandon her home and take up her residence elsewhere, he immediately wrote her a letter of unqualified disapproval and remonstrance. She had given reasons which he was unwilling to acknowledge as adequate. He hoped she had not acted upon her rash impulse; and he begged her to consider first, foremost, and above all else, what people would say. He was not dreaming of scandal when he uttered this warning; that was a thing which would never have entered into his mind to consider in connection with his wife's name or his own. He was simply thinking of his financial integrity. It might get noised about that the Pontelliers had met with reverses, and were forced to conduct their _m nage_ on a humbler scale than heretofore. It might do incalculable mischief to his business prospects. But remembering Edna's whimsical turn of mind of late, and foreseeing that she had immediately acted upon her impetuous determination, he grasped the situation with his usual promptness and handled it with his well-known business tact and cleverness. The same mail which brought to Edna his letter of disapproval carried instructions the most minute instructions to a well-known architect concerning the remodeling of his home, changes which he had long contemplated, and which he desired carried forward during his temporary absence. Expert and reliable packers and movers were engaged to convey the furniture, carpets, pictures everything movable, in short to places of security. And in an incredibly short time the Pontellier house was turned over to the artisans. There was to be an addition a small snuggery; there was to be frescoing, and hardwood flooring was to be put into such rooms as had not yet been subjected to this improvement. Furthermore, in one of the daily papers appeared a brief notice to the effect that Mr. and Mrs. Pontellier were contemplating a summer sojourn abroad, and that their handsome residence on Esplanade Street was undergoing sumptuous alterations, and would not be ready for occupancy until their return. Mr. Pontellier had saved appearances! Edna admired the skill of his maneuver, and avoided any occasion to balk his intentions. When the situation as set forth by Mr. Pontellier was accepted and taken for granted, she was apparently satisfied that it should be so. The pigeon house pleased her. It at once assumed the intimate character of a home, while she herself invested it with a charm which it reflected like a warm glow. There was with her a feeling of having | The Awakening |
"I know he won t like it," | Helen | I could answer for--not Charles."<|quote|>"I know he won t like it,"</|quote|>said Helen. "But I am | rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles."<|quote|>"I know he won t like it,"</|quote|>said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of | she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles."<|quote|>"I know he won t like it,"</|quote|>said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice | "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles."<|quote|>"I know he won t like it,"</|quote|>said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little," said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They | are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles."<|quote|>"I know he won t like it,"</|quote|>said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little," said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then | felt it." "Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I ve a startling idea." "What is it?" "Drink some milk to steady you." Margaret obeyed. "No, I won t tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry. Let s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing." They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn t you and I camp out in this house for the night?" "I don t think we could well do that," said Margaret. "Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles."<|quote|>"I know he won t like it,"</|quote|>said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little," said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles. "Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. "Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to | failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It is always Meg." They looked into each other s eyes. The inner life had paid. Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. "Little boy, what do you want?" "Please, I am the milk." "Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply. "Yes, please." "Then take it back and say we require no milk." While she called to Helen, "No, it s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one." "But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?" "Do you? Oh, very well. But we ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the can." "Please, I m to call in the morning for the can," said the boy. "The house will be locked up then." "In the morning would I bring eggs too?" "Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?" The child hung his head. "Well, run away and do it again." "Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what s your name? Mine s Helen." "Tom." That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return. "Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we ve another called Tibby." "Mine are lop-eareds," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit. "You re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.--Isn t he charming?" "Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers." "What do you mean?" "I don t know." "Because I probably agree with you." "It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live." "I do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "But you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago." "Meaning that I was dead. I felt it." "Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I ve a startling idea." "What is it?" "Drink some milk to steady you." Margaret obeyed. "No, I won t tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry. Let s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing." They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn t you and I camp out in this house for the night?" "I don t think we could well do that," said Margaret. "Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles."<|quote|>"I know he won t like it,"</|quote|>said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little," said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles. "Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. "Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the man s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who had not been "told," ran out with offers of tea. He refused them, and ordered them to wheel baby s perambulator away, as they desired to be alone. "But the diddums can t listen; he isn t nine months old," she pleaded. "That s not what I was saying," retorted her father-in-law. Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear about the crisis till later years. It was now the turn of Margaret. "Is it what we feared?" he asked. "It is." "Dear girl," he began, "there is a troublesome business ahead of us, and nothing but the most absolute honesty and plain speech will see us through." Margaret bent her head. "I am obliged to question you on subjects we d both prefer to leave untouched. As you know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who consider nothing sacred. To speak as I must will pain me, but there are occasions--We are husband and wife, not children. I am a man of the world, and you are a most exceptional woman." All Margaret s senses forsook her. She blushed, and looked past him at the Six Hills, covered with spring herbage. Noting her colour, he grew still more kind. "I see that you feel as I felt when--My poor little wife! Oh, be brave! Just one or two questions, and I have done with you. Was your sister wearing a wedding-ring?" Margaret stammered a "No." There was an appalling silence. "Henry, I really came to ask a favour about Howards End." "One point at a time. I am now obliged to ask for the name of her seducer." She rose to her feet and held the chair between them. Her colour had ebbed, and she was grey. It did not displease him that she should receive his question thus. "Take your time," he counselled her. "Remember that this is far worse for me than for you." She swayed; he feared she was going | was dead. I felt it." "Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I ve a startling idea." "What is it?" "Drink some milk to steady you." Margaret obeyed. "No, I won t tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry. Let s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing." They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn t you and I camp out in this house for the night?" "I don t think we could well do that," said Margaret. "Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles."<|quote|>"I know he won t like it,"</|quote|>said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little," said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles. "Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. "Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began | Howards End |
"But this _is_ Me!" | Winnie-the-pooh | a great friend of his."<|quote|>"But this _is_ Me!"</|quote|>said Bear, very much surprised. | friend Pooh Bear, who is a great friend of his."<|quote|>"But this _is_ Me!"</|quote|>said Bear, very much surprised. "What sort of Me?" "Pooh | be." "Oh!" said Pooh. He took his head out of the hole, and had another think, and then he put it back, and said: "Well, could you very kindly tell me where Rabbit is?" "He has gone to see his friend Pooh Bear, who is a great friend of his."<|quote|>"But this _is_ Me!"</|quote|>said Bear, very much surprised. "What sort of Me?" "Pooh Bear." "Are you sure?" said Rabbit, still more surprised. "Quite, quite sure," said Pooh. "Oh, well, then, come in." So Pooh pushed and pushed and pushed his way through the hole, and at last he got in. "You were quite | somebody there, because somebody must have _said_ 'Nobody.'" So he put his head back in the hole, and said: "Hallo, Rabbit, isn't that you?" "No," said Rabbit, in a different sort of voice this time. "But isn't that Rabbit's voice?" "I don't _think_ so," said Rabbit. "It isn't _meant_ to be." "Oh!" said Pooh. He took his head out of the hole, and had another think, and then he put it back, and said: "Well, could you very kindly tell me where Rabbit is?" "He has gone to see his friend Pooh Bear, who is a great friend of his."<|quote|>"But this _is_ Me!"</|quote|>said Bear, very much surprised. "What sort of Me?" "Pooh Bear." "Are you sure?" said Rabbit, still more surprised. "Quite, quite sure," said Pooh. "Oh, well, then, come in." So Pooh pushed and pushed and pushed his way through the hole, and at last he got in. "You were quite right," said Rabbit, looking at him all over. "It _is_ you. Glad to see you." "Who did you think it was?" "Well, I wasn't sure. You know how it is in the Forest. One can't have _anybody_ coming into one's house. One has to be _careful_. What about a mouthful | and Listening-to-Me-Humming and such like. _Rum-tum-tum-tiddle-um._" So he bent down, put his head into the hole, and called out: "Is anybody at home?" There was a sudden scuffling noise from inside the hole, and then silence. "What I said was, 'Is anybody at home?'" called out Pooh very loudly. "No!" said a voice; and then added, "You needn't shout so loud. I heard you quite well the first time." "Bother!" said Pooh. "Isn't there anybody here at all?" "Nobody." Winnie-the-Pooh took his head out of the hole, and thought for a little, and he thought to himself, "There must be somebody there, because somebody must have _said_ 'Nobody.'" So he put his head back in the hole, and said: "Hallo, Rabbit, isn't that you?" "No," said Rabbit, in a different sort of voice this time. "But isn't that Rabbit's voice?" "I don't _think_ so," said Rabbit. "It isn't _meant_ to be." "Oh!" said Pooh. He took his head out of the hole, and had another think, and then he put it back, and said: "Well, could you very kindly tell me where Rabbit is?" "He has gone to see his friend Pooh Bear, who is a great friend of his."<|quote|>"But this _is_ Me!"</|quote|>said Bear, very much surprised. "What sort of Me?" "Pooh Bear." "Are you sure?" said Rabbit, still more surprised. "Quite, quite sure," said Pooh. "Oh, well, then, come in." So Pooh pushed and pushed and pushed his way through the hole, and at last he got in. "You were quite right," said Rabbit, looking at him all over. "It _is_ you. Glad to see you." "Who did you think it was?" "Well, I wasn't sure. You know how it is in the Forest. One can't have _anybody_ coming into one's house. One has to be _careful_. What about a mouthful of something?" Pooh always liked a little something at eleven o'clock in the morning, and he was very glad to see Rabbit getting out the plates and mugs; and when Rabbit said, "Honey or condensed milk with your bread?" he was so excited that he said, "Both," and then, so as not to seem greedy, he added, "But don't bother about the bread, please." And for a long time after that he said nothing ... until at last, humming to himself in a rather sticky voice, he got up, shook Rabbit lovingly by the paw, and said that he must | Winnie-the-Pooh--_bump, bump, bump_--going up the stairs behind him. CHAPTER II IN WHICH POOH GOES VISITING AND GETS INTO A TIGHT PLACE Edward Bear, known to his friends as Winnie-the-Pooh, or Pooh for short, was walking through the forest one day, humming proudly to himself. He had made up a little hum that very morning, as he was doing his Stoutness Exercises in front of the glass: _Tra-la-la, tra-la-la_, as he stretched up as high as he could go, and then _Tra-la-la, tra-la--oh, help!--la_, as he tried to reach his toes. After breakfast he had said it over and over to himself until he had learnt it off by heart, and now he was humming it right through, properly. It went like this: "_Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,_ _Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,_ _Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum._ _Tiddle-iddle, tiddle-iddle,_ _Tiddle-iddle, tiddle-iddle,_ _Rum-tum-tum-tiddle-um._" Well, he was humming this hum to himself, and walking along gaily, wondering what everybody else was doing, and what it felt like, being somebody else, when suddenly he came to a sandy bank, and in the bank was a large hole. "Aha!" said Pooh. (_Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum._) "If I know anything about anything, that hole means Rabbit," he said, "and Rabbit means Company," he said, "and Company means Food and Listening-to-Me-Humming and such like. _Rum-tum-tum-tiddle-um._" So he bent down, put his head into the hole, and called out: "Is anybody at home?" There was a sudden scuffling noise from inside the hole, and then silence. "What I said was, 'Is anybody at home?'" called out Pooh very loudly. "No!" said a voice; and then added, "You needn't shout so loud. I heard you quite well the first time." "Bother!" said Pooh. "Isn't there anybody here at all?" "Nobody." Winnie-the-Pooh took his head out of the hole, and thought for a little, and he thought to himself, "There must be somebody there, because somebody must have _said_ 'Nobody.'" So he put his head back in the hole, and said: "Hallo, Rabbit, isn't that you?" "No," said Rabbit, in a different sort of voice this time. "But isn't that Rabbit's voice?" "I don't _think_ so," said Rabbit. "It isn't _meant_ to be." "Oh!" said Pooh. He took his head out of the hole, and had another think, and then he put it back, and said: "Well, could you very kindly tell me where Rabbit is?" "He has gone to see his friend Pooh Bear, who is a great friend of his."<|quote|>"But this _is_ Me!"</|quote|>said Bear, very much surprised. "What sort of Me?" "Pooh Bear." "Are you sure?" said Rabbit, still more surprised. "Quite, quite sure," said Pooh. "Oh, well, then, come in." So Pooh pushed and pushed and pushed his way through the hole, and at last he got in. "You were quite right," said Rabbit, looking at him all over. "It _is_ you. Glad to see you." "Who did you think it was?" "Well, I wasn't sure. You know how it is in the Forest. One can't have _anybody_ coming into one's house. One has to be _careful_. What about a mouthful of something?" Pooh always liked a little something at eleven o'clock in the morning, and he was very glad to see Rabbit getting out the plates and mugs; and when Rabbit said, "Honey or condensed milk with your bread?" he was so excited that he said, "Both," and then, so as not to seem greedy, he added, "But don't bother about the bread, please." And for a long time after that he said nothing ... until at last, humming to himself in a rather sticky voice, he got up, shook Rabbit lovingly by the paw, and said that he must be going on. "Must you?" said Rabbit politely. "Well," said Pooh, "I could stay a little longer if it--if you----" and he tried very hard to look in the direction of the larder. "As a matter of fact," said Rabbit, "I was going out myself directly." "Oh, well, then, I'll be going on. Good-bye." "Well, good-bye, if you're sure you won't have any more." "_Is_ there any more?" asked Pooh quickly. Rabbit took the covers off the dishes, and said, "No, there wasn't." "I thought not," said Pooh, nodding to himself. "Well, good-bye. I must be going on." So he started to climb out of the hole. He pulled with his front paws, and pushed with his back paws, and in a little while his nose was out in the open again ... and then his ears ... and then his front paws ... and then his shoulders ... and then---- "Oh, help!" said Pooh. "I'd better go back." "Oh, bother!" said Pooh. "I shall have to go on." "I can't do either!" said Pooh. "Oh, help _and_ bother!" Now by this time Rabbit wanted to go for a walk too, and finding the front door full, he went out | let go of the string, he would fall--_bump_--and he didn't like the idea of that. So he thought for a long time, and then he said: "Christopher Robin, you must shoot the balloon with your gun. Have you got your gun?" "Of course I have," you said. "But if I do that, it will spoil the balloon," you said. "But if you _don't_," said Pooh, "I shall have to let go, and that would spoil _me_." When he put it like this, you saw how it was, and you aimed very carefully at the balloon, and fired. "_Ow!_" said Pooh. "Did I miss?" you asked. "You didn't exactly _miss_," said Pooh, "but you missed the _balloon_." "I'm so sorry," you said, and you fired again, and this time you hit the balloon, and the air came slowly out, and Winnie-the-Pooh floated down to the ground. But his arms were so stiff from holding on to the string of the balloon all that time that they stayed up straight in the air for more than a week, and whenever a fly came and settled on his nose he had to blow it off. And I think--but I am not sure--that _that_ is why he was always called Pooh. * * * * * "Is that the end of the story?" asked Christopher Robin. "That's the end of that one. There are others." "About Pooh and Me?" "And Piglet and Rabbit and all of you. Don't you remember?" "I do remember, and then when I try to remember, I forget." "That day when Pooh and Piglet tried to catch the Heffalump----" "They didn't catch it, did they?" "No." "Pooh couldn't, because he hasn't any brain. Did _I_ catch it?" "Well, that comes into the story." Christopher Robin nodded. "I do remember," he said, "only Pooh doesn't very well, so that's why he likes having it told to him again. Because then it's a real story and not just a remembering." "That's just how _I_ feel," I said. Christopher Robin gave a deep sigh, picked his Bear up by the leg, and walked off to the door, trailing Pooh behind him. At the door he turned and said, "Coming to see me have my bath?" "I might," I said. "I didn't hurt him when I shot him, did I?" "Not a bit." He nodded and went out, and in a moment I heard Winnie-the-Pooh--_bump, bump, bump_--going up the stairs behind him. CHAPTER II IN WHICH POOH GOES VISITING AND GETS INTO A TIGHT PLACE Edward Bear, known to his friends as Winnie-the-Pooh, or Pooh for short, was walking through the forest one day, humming proudly to himself. He had made up a little hum that very morning, as he was doing his Stoutness Exercises in front of the glass: _Tra-la-la, tra-la-la_, as he stretched up as high as he could go, and then _Tra-la-la, tra-la--oh, help!--la_, as he tried to reach his toes. After breakfast he had said it over and over to himself until he had learnt it off by heart, and now he was humming it right through, properly. It went like this: "_Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,_ _Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,_ _Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum._ _Tiddle-iddle, tiddle-iddle,_ _Tiddle-iddle, tiddle-iddle,_ _Rum-tum-tum-tiddle-um._" Well, he was humming this hum to himself, and walking along gaily, wondering what everybody else was doing, and what it felt like, being somebody else, when suddenly he came to a sandy bank, and in the bank was a large hole. "Aha!" said Pooh. (_Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum._) "If I know anything about anything, that hole means Rabbit," he said, "and Rabbit means Company," he said, "and Company means Food and Listening-to-Me-Humming and such like. _Rum-tum-tum-tiddle-um._" So he bent down, put his head into the hole, and called out: "Is anybody at home?" There was a sudden scuffling noise from inside the hole, and then silence. "What I said was, 'Is anybody at home?'" called out Pooh very loudly. "No!" said a voice; and then added, "You needn't shout so loud. I heard you quite well the first time." "Bother!" said Pooh. "Isn't there anybody here at all?" "Nobody." Winnie-the-Pooh took his head out of the hole, and thought for a little, and he thought to himself, "There must be somebody there, because somebody must have _said_ 'Nobody.'" So he put his head back in the hole, and said: "Hallo, Rabbit, isn't that you?" "No," said Rabbit, in a different sort of voice this time. "But isn't that Rabbit's voice?" "I don't _think_ so," said Rabbit. "It isn't _meant_ to be." "Oh!" said Pooh. He took his head out of the hole, and had another think, and then he put it back, and said: "Well, could you very kindly tell me where Rabbit is?" "He has gone to see his friend Pooh Bear, who is a great friend of his."<|quote|>"But this _is_ Me!"</|quote|>said Bear, very much surprised. "What sort of Me?" "Pooh Bear." "Are you sure?" said Rabbit, still more surprised. "Quite, quite sure," said Pooh. "Oh, well, then, come in." So Pooh pushed and pushed and pushed his way through the hole, and at last he got in. "You were quite right," said Rabbit, looking at him all over. "It _is_ you. Glad to see you." "Who did you think it was?" "Well, I wasn't sure. You know how it is in the Forest. One can't have _anybody_ coming into one's house. One has to be _careful_. What about a mouthful of something?" Pooh always liked a little something at eleven o'clock in the morning, and he was very glad to see Rabbit getting out the plates and mugs; and when Rabbit said, "Honey or condensed milk with your bread?" he was so excited that he said, "Both," and then, so as not to seem greedy, he added, "But don't bother about the bread, please." And for a long time after that he said nothing ... until at last, humming to himself in a rather sticky voice, he got up, shook Rabbit lovingly by the paw, and said that he must be going on. "Must you?" said Rabbit politely. "Well," said Pooh, "I could stay a little longer if it--if you----" and he tried very hard to look in the direction of the larder. "As a matter of fact," said Rabbit, "I was going out myself directly." "Oh, well, then, I'll be going on. Good-bye." "Well, good-bye, if you're sure you won't have any more." "_Is_ there any more?" asked Pooh quickly. Rabbit took the covers off the dishes, and said, "No, there wasn't." "I thought not," said Pooh, nodding to himself. "Well, good-bye. I must be going on." So he started to climb out of the hole. He pulled with his front paws, and pushed with his back paws, and in a little while his nose was out in the open again ... and then his ears ... and then his front paws ... and then his shoulders ... and then---- "Oh, help!" said Pooh. "I'd better go back." "Oh, bother!" said Pooh. "I shall have to go on." "I can't do either!" said Pooh. "Oh, help _and_ bother!" Now by this time Rabbit wanted to go for a walk too, and finding the front door full, he went out by the back door, and came round to Pooh, and looked at him. "Hallo, are you stuck?" he asked. "N-no," said Pooh carelessly. "Just resting and thinking and humming to myself." "Here, give us a paw." Pooh Bear stretched out a paw, and Rabbit pulled and pulled and pulled.... "_Ow!_" cried Pooh. "You're hurting!" "The fact is," said Rabbit, "you're stuck." "It all comes," said Pooh crossly, "of not having front doors big enough." "It all comes," said Rabbit sternly, "of eating too much. I thought at the time," said Rabbit, "only I didn't like to say anything," said Rabbit, "that one of us was eating too much," said Rabbit, "and I knew if wasn't _me_," he said. "Well, well, I shall go and fetch Christopher Robin." Christopher Robin lived at the other end of the Forest, and when he came back with Rabbit, and saw the front half of Pooh, he said, "Silly old Bear," in such a loving voice that everybody felt quite hopeful again. "I was just beginning to think," said Bear, sniffing slightly, "that Rabbit might never be able to use his front door again. And I should _hate_ that," he said. "So should I," said Rabbit. "Use his front door again?" said Christopher Robin. "Of course he'll use his front door again." "Good," said Rabbit. "If we can't pull you out, Pooh, we might push you back." Rabbit scratched his whiskers thoughtfully, and pointed out that, when once Pooh was pushed back, he was back, and of course nobody was more glad to see Pooh than _he_ was, still there it was, some lived in trees and some lived underground, and---- "You mean I'd _never_ get out?" said Pooh. "I mean," said Rabbit, "that having got _so_ far, it seems a pity to waste it." Christopher Robin nodded. "Then there's only one thing to be done," he said. "We shall have to wait for you to get thin again." "How long does getting thin take?" asked Pooh anxiously. "About a week, I should think." "But I can't stay here for a _week_!" "You can _stay_ here all right, silly old Bear. It's getting you out which is so difficult." "We'll read to you," said Rabbit cheerfully. "And I hope it won't snow," he added. "And I say, old fellow, you're taking up a good deal of room in my house--_do_ you mind if I use | "They didn't catch it, did they?" "No." "Pooh couldn't, because he hasn't any brain. Did _I_ catch it?" "Well, that comes into the story." Christopher Robin nodded. "I do remember," he said, "only Pooh doesn't very well, so that's why he likes having it told to him again. Because then it's a real story and not just a remembering." "That's just how _I_ feel," I said. Christopher Robin gave a deep sigh, picked his Bear up by the leg, and walked off to the door, trailing Pooh behind him. At the door he turned and said, "Coming to see me have my bath?" "I might," I said. "I didn't hurt him when I shot him, did I?" "Not a bit." He nodded and went out, and in a moment I heard Winnie-the-Pooh--_bump, bump, bump_--going up the stairs behind him. CHAPTER II IN WHICH POOH GOES VISITING AND GETS INTO A TIGHT PLACE Edward Bear, known to his friends as Winnie-the-Pooh, or Pooh for short, was walking through the forest one day, humming proudly to himself. He had made up a little hum that very morning, as he was doing his Stoutness Exercises in front of the glass: _Tra-la-la, tra-la-la_, as he stretched up as high as he could go, and then _Tra-la-la, tra-la--oh, help!--la_, as he tried to reach his toes. After breakfast he had said it over and over to himself until he had learnt it off by heart, and now he was humming it right through, properly. It went like this: "_Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,_ _Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,_ _Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum._ _Tiddle-iddle, tiddle-iddle,_ _Tiddle-iddle, tiddle-iddle,_ _Rum-tum-tum-tiddle-um._" Well, he was humming this hum to himself, and walking along gaily, wondering what everybody else was doing, and what it felt like, being somebody else, when suddenly he came to a sandy bank, and in the bank was a large hole. "Aha!" said Pooh. (_Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum._) "If I know anything about anything, that hole means Rabbit," he said, "and Rabbit means Company," he said, "and Company means Food and Listening-to-Me-Humming and such like. _Rum-tum-tum-tiddle-um._" So he bent down, put his head into the hole, and called out: "Is anybody at home?" There was a sudden scuffling noise from inside the hole, and then silence. "What I said was, 'Is anybody at home?'" called out Pooh very loudly. "No!" said a voice; and then added, "You needn't shout so loud. I heard you quite well the first time." "Bother!" said Pooh. "Isn't there anybody here at all?" "Nobody." Winnie-the-Pooh took his head out of the hole, and thought for a little, and he thought to himself, "There must be somebody there, because somebody must have _said_ 'Nobody.'" So he put his head back in the hole, and said: "Hallo, Rabbit, isn't that you?" "No," said Rabbit, in a different sort of voice this time. "But isn't that Rabbit's voice?" "I don't _think_ so," said Rabbit. "It isn't _meant_ to be." "Oh!" said Pooh. He took his head out of the hole, and had another think, and then he put it back, and said: "Well, could you very kindly tell me where Rabbit is?" "He has gone to see his friend Pooh Bear, who is a great friend of his."<|quote|>"But this _is_ Me!"</|quote|>said Bear, very much surprised. "What sort of Me?" "Pooh Bear." "Are you sure?" said Rabbit, still more surprised. "Quite, quite sure," said Pooh. "Oh, well, then, come in." So Pooh pushed and pushed and pushed his way through the hole, and at last he got in. "You were quite right," said Rabbit, looking at him all over. "It _is_ you. Glad to see you." "Who did you think it was?" "Well, I wasn't sure. You know how it is in the Forest. One can't have _anybody_ coming into one's house. One has to be _careful_. What about a mouthful of something?" Pooh always liked a little something at eleven o'clock in the morning, and he was very glad to see Rabbit getting out the plates and mugs; and when Rabbit said, "Honey or condensed milk with your bread?" he was so excited that he said, "Both," and then, so as not to seem greedy, he added, "But don't bother about the bread, please." And for a long time after that he said nothing ... until at last, humming to himself in a rather sticky voice, he got up, shook Rabbit lovingly by the paw, and said that he must be going on. "Must you?" said Rabbit politely. "Well," said Pooh, "I could stay a little longer if it--if you----" and he tried very hard to look in the direction of the larder. "As a matter of fact," said Rabbit, "I was going out myself directly." "Oh, well, then, I'll be going on. Good-bye." "Well, good-bye, if you're sure you won't have any more." "_Is_ there any more?" asked Pooh quickly. Rabbit took the covers off the dishes, and said, "No, there wasn't." "I thought not," said Pooh, | Winnie The Pooh |
"Not that I know of." | Lucy | is anything on to-morrow week?"<|quote|>"Not that I know of."</|quote|>"Then I want to ask | growing half suburban." "I say, is anything on to-morrow week?"<|quote|>"Not that I know of."</|quote|>"Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday | tiresome you've been! You have no business to take them bathing in the Sacred Lake; it's much too public. It was all right for you but most awkward for everyone else. Do be more careful. You forget the place is growing half suburban." "I say, is anything on to-morrow week?"<|quote|>"Not that I know of."</|quote|>"Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis." "Oh, I wouldn't do that, Freddy, I wouldn't do that with all this muddle." "What's wrong with the court? They won't mind a bump or two, and I've ordered new balls." "I meant it's better not. I really mean | mentioned Miss Bartlett's letter. She must be more careful; her mother was rather inquisitive, and might have asked what it was about. Oh, dear, what should she do?--and then Freddy came bounding upstairs, and joined the ranks of the ill-behaved. "I say, those are topping people." "My dear baby, how tiresome you've been! You have no business to take them bathing in the Sacred Lake; it's much too public. It was all right for you but most awkward for everyone else. Do be more careful. You forget the place is growing half suburban." "I say, is anything on to-morrow week?"<|quote|>"Not that I know of."</|quote|>"Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis." "Oh, I wouldn't do that, Freddy, I wouldn't do that with all this muddle." "What's wrong with the court? They won't mind a bump or two, and I've ordered new balls." "I meant it's better not. I really mean it." He seized her by the elbows and humorously danced her up and down the passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. | any other time. "Go and dress, dear; you'll be late." "All right, mother--" "Don't say" 'All right' "and stop. Go" ." She obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the landing window. It faced north, so there was little view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in the winter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One connected the landing window with depression. No definite problem menaced her, but she sighed to herself, "Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I do?" It seemed to her that everyone else was behaving very badly. And she ought not to have mentioned Miss Bartlett's letter. She must be more careful; her mother was rather inquisitive, and might have asked what it was about. Oh, dear, what should she do?--and then Freddy came bounding upstairs, and joined the ranks of the ill-behaved. "I say, those are topping people." "My dear baby, how tiresome you've been! You have no business to take them bathing in the Sacred Lake; it's much too public. It was all right for you but most awkward for everyone else. Do be more careful. You forget the place is growing half suburban." "I say, is anything on to-morrow week?"<|quote|>"Not that I know of."</|quote|>"Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis." "Oh, I wouldn't do that, Freddy, I wouldn't do that with all this muddle." "What's wrong with the court? They won't mind a bump or two, and I've ordered new balls." "I meant it's better not. I really mean it." He seized her by the elbows and humorously danced her up and down the passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch opened her door and said: "Lucy, what a noise you're making! I have something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter from Charlotte?" and Freddy ran away. "Yes. I really can't stop. I must dress too." "How's Charlotte?" "All right." "Lucy!" The unfortunate girl returned. "You've a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one's sentences. Did Charlotte mention her boiler?" "Her WHAT?" "Don't you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October, and her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?" "I can't remember all | that upset him--he is easily upset by ugly things--he is not uncivil to PEOPLE." "Is it a thing or a person when Freddy sings?" "You can't expect a really musical person to enjoy comic songs as we do." "Then why didn't he leave the room? Why sit wriggling and sneering and spoiling everyone's pleasure?" "We mustn't be unjust to people," faltered Lucy. Something had enfeebled her, and the case for Cecil, which she had mastered so perfectly in London, would not come forth in an effective form. The two civilizations had clashed--Cecil hinted that they might--and she was dazzled and bewildered, as though the radiance that lies behind all civilization had blinded her eyes. Good taste and bad taste were only catchwords, garments of diverse cut; and music itself dissolved to a whisper through pine-trees, where the song is not distinguishable from the comic song. She remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. Honeychurch changed her frock for dinner; and every now and then she said a word, and made things no better. There was no concealing the fact, Cecil had meant to be supercilious, and he had succeeded. And Lucy--she knew not why--wished that the trouble could have come at any other time. "Go and dress, dear; you'll be late." "All right, mother--" "Don't say" 'All right' "and stop. Go" ." She obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the landing window. It faced north, so there was little view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in the winter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One connected the landing window with depression. No definite problem menaced her, but she sighed to herself, "Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I do?" It seemed to her that everyone else was behaving very badly. And she ought not to have mentioned Miss Bartlett's letter. She must be more careful; her mother was rather inquisitive, and might have asked what it was about. Oh, dear, what should she do?--and then Freddy came bounding upstairs, and joined the ranks of the ill-behaved. "I say, those are topping people." "My dear baby, how tiresome you've been! You have no business to take them bathing in the Sacred Lake; it's much too public. It was all right for you but most awkward for everyone else. Do be more careful. You forget the place is growing half suburban." "I say, is anything on to-morrow week?"<|quote|>"Not that I know of."</|quote|>"Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis." "Oh, I wouldn't do that, Freddy, I wouldn't do that with all this muddle." "What's wrong with the court? They won't mind a bump or two, and I've ordered new balls." "I meant it's better not. I really mean it." He seized her by the elbows and humorously danced her up and down the passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch opened her door and said: "Lucy, what a noise you're making! I have something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter from Charlotte?" and Freddy ran away. "Yes. I really can't stop. I must dress too." "How's Charlotte?" "All right." "Lucy!" The unfortunate girl returned. "You've a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one's sentences. Did Charlotte mention her boiler?" "Her WHAT?" "Don't you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October, and her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?" "I can't remember all Charlotte's worries," said Lucy bitterly. "I shall have enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with Cecil." Mrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said: "Come here, old lady--thank you for putting away my bonnet--kiss me." And, though nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment that her mother and Windy Corner and the Weald in the declining sun were perfect. So the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy Corner. At the last minute, when the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one member or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despised their methods--perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own. Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drew up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry. Nothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy said: "Lucy, what's Emerson like?" "I saw him in Florence," said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a reply. "Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?" "Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here." "He is the clever sort, like myself," said Cecil. Freddy looked | have done. Lucy soothed him and tinkered at the conversation in a way that promised well for their married peace. No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser to discover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed, though not in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains nothing satisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded the teaching as profound, and applied it to her lover. "Lucy," said her mother, when they got home, "is anything the matter with Cecil?" The question was ominous; up till now Mrs. Honeychurch had behaved with charity and restraint. "No, I don't think so, mother; Cecil's all right." "Perhaps he's tired." Lucy compromised: perhaps Cecil was a little tired. "Because otherwise" "--she pulled out her bonnet-pins with gathering displeasure--" "because otherwise I cannot account for him." "I do think Mrs. Butterworth is rather tiresome, if you mean that." "Cecil has told you to think so. You were devoted to her as a little girl, and nothing will describe her goodness to you through the typhoid fever. No--it is just the same thing everywhere." "Let me just put your bonnet away, may I?" "Surely he could answer her civilly for one half-hour?" "Cecil has a very high standard for people," faltered Lucy, seeing trouble ahead. "It's part of his ideals--it is really that that makes him sometimes seem--" "Oh, rubbish! If high ideals make a young man rude, the sooner he gets rid of them the better," said Mrs. Honeychurch, handing her the bonnet. "Now, mother! I've seen you cross with Mrs. Butterworth yourself!" "Not in that way. At times I could wring her neck. But not in that way. No. It is the same with Cecil all over." "By-the-by--I never told you. I had a letter from Charlotte while I was away in London." This attempt to divert the conversation was too puerile, and Mrs. Honeychurch resented it. "Since Cecil came back from London, nothing appears to please him. Whenever I speak he winces;--I see him, Lucy; it is useless to contradict me. No doubt I am neither artistic nor literary nor intellectual nor musical, but I cannot help the drawing-room furniture; your father bought it and we must put up with it, will Cecil kindly remember." "I--I see what you mean, and certainly Cecil oughtn't to. But he does not mean to be uncivil--he once explained--it is the things that upset him--he is easily upset by ugly things--he is not uncivil to PEOPLE." "Is it a thing or a person when Freddy sings?" "You can't expect a really musical person to enjoy comic songs as we do." "Then why didn't he leave the room? Why sit wriggling and sneering and spoiling everyone's pleasure?" "We mustn't be unjust to people," faltered Lucy. Something had enfeebled her, and the case for Cecil, which she had mastered so perfectly in London, would not come forth in an effective form. The two civilizations had clashed--Cecil hinted that they might--and she was dazzled and bewildered, as though the radiance that lies behind all civilization had blinded her eyes. Good taste and bad taste were only catchwords, garments of diverse cut; and music itself dissolved to a whisper through pine-trees, where the song is not distinguishable from the comic song. She remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. Honeychurch changed her frock for dinner; and every now and then she said a word, and made things no better. There was no concealing the fact, Cecil had meant to be supercilious, and he had succeeded. And Lucy--she knew not why--wished that the trouble could have come at any other time. "Go and dress, dear; you'll be late." "All right, mother--" "Don't say" 'All right' "and stop. Go" ." She obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the landing window. It faced north, so there was little view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in the winter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One connected the landing window with depression. No definite problem menaced her, but she sighed to herself, "Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I do?" It seemed to her that everyone else was behaving very badly. And she ought not to have mentioned Miss Bartlett's letter. She must be more careful; her mother was rather inquisitive, and might have asked what it was about. Oh, dear, what should she do?--and then Freddy came bounding upstairs, and joined the ranks of the ill-behaved. "I say, those are topping people." "My dear baby, how tiresome you've been! You have no business to take them bathing in the Sacred Lake; it's much too public. It was all right for you but most awkward for everyone else. Do be more careful. You forget the place is growing half suburban." "I say, is anything on to-morrow week?"<|quote|>"Not that I know of."</|quote|>"Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis." "Oh, I wouldn't do that, Freddy, I wouldn't do that with all this muddle." "What's wrong with the court? They won't mind a bump or two, and I've ordered new balls." "I meant it's better not. I really mean it." He seized her by the elbows and humorously danced her up and down the passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch opened her door and said: "Lucy, what a noise you're making! I have something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter from Charlotte?" and Freddy ran away. "Yes. I really can't stop. I must dress too." "How's Charlotte?" "All right." "Lucy!" The unfortunate girl returned. "You've a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one's sentences. Did Charlotte mention her boiler?" "Her WHAT?" "Don't you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October, and her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?" "I can't remember all Charlotte's worries," said Lucy bitterly. "I shall have enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with Cecil." Mrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said: "Come here, old lady--thank you for putting away my bonnet--kiss me." And, though nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment that her mother and Windy Corner and the Weald in the declining sun were perfect. So the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy Corner. At the last minute, when the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one member or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despised their methods--perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own. Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drew up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry. Nothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy said: "Lucy, what's Emerson like?" "I saw him in Florence," said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a reply. "Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?" "Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here." "He is the clever sort, like myself," said Cecil. Freddy looked at him doubtfully. "How well did you know them at the Bertolini?" asked Mrs. Honeychurch. "Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did." "Oh, that reminds me--you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter." "One thing and another," said Lucy, wondering whether she would get through the meal without a lie. "Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't." "Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind." "She was a novelist," said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one, for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety by print. Her attitude was: "If books must be written, let them be written by men"; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played at "This year, next year, now, never," with his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother's wrath. But soon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost--that touch of lips on her cheek--had surely been laid long ago; it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once. But it had begotten a spectral family--Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett's letter, Mr. Beebe's memories of violets--and one or other of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil's very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now, and with appalling vividness. "I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte's. How is she?" "I tore the thing up." "Didn't she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?" "Oh, yes I suppose so--no--not very cheerful, I suppose." "Then, depend upon it, it IS the boiler. I know myself how water preys upon one's mind. I would rather anything else--even a misfortune with the meat." Cecil laid his hand over his eyes. "So would I," asserted Freddy, backing his mother up--backing up the spirit of her remark rather than the substance. "And I have been thinking," she added rather nervously, "surely we could squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday while plumbers at | No. It is the same with Cecil all over." "By-the-by--I never told you. I had a letter from Charlotte while I was away in London." This attempt to divert the conversation was too puerile, and Mrs. Honeychurch resented it. "Since Cecil came back from London, nothing appears to please him. Whenever I speak he winces;--I see him, Lucy; it is useless to contradict me. No doubt I am neither artistic nor literary nor intellectual nor musical, but I cannot help the drawing-room furniture; your father bought it and we must put up with it, will Cecil kindly remember." "I--I see what you mean, and certainly Cecil oughtn't to. But he does not mean to be uncivil--he once explained--it is the things that upset him--he is easily upset by ugly things--he is not uncivil to PEOPLE." "Is it a thing or a person when Freddy sings?" "You can't expect a really musical person to enjoy comic songs as we do." "Then why didn't he leave the room? Why sit wriggling and sneering and spoiling everyone's pleasure?" "We mustn't be unjust to people," faltered Lucy. Something had enfeebled her, and the case for Cecil, which she had mastered so perfectly in London, would not come forth in an effective form. The two civilizations had clashed--Cecil hinted that they might--and she was dazzled and bewildered, as though the radiance that lies behind all civilization had blinded her eyes. Good taste and bad taste were only catchwords, garments of diverse cut; and music itself dissolved to a whisper through pine-trees, where the song is not distinguishable from the comic song. She remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. Honeychurch changed her frock for dinner; and every now and then she said a word, and made things no better. There was no concealing the fact, Cecil had meant to be supercilious, and he had succeeded. And Lucy--she knew not why--wished that the trouble could have come at any other time. "Go and dress, dear; you'll be late." "All right, mother--" "Don't say" 'All right' "and stop. Go" ." She obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the landing window. It faced north, so there was little view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in the winter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One connected the landing window with depression. No definite problem menaced her, but she sighed to herself, "Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I do?" It seemed to her that everyone else was behaving very badly. And she ought not to have mentioned Miss Bartlett's letter. She must be more careful; her mother was rather inquisitive, and might have asked what it was about. Oh, dear, what should she do?--and then Freddy came bounding upstairs, and joined the ranks of the ill-behaved. "I say, those are topping people." "My dear baby, how tiresome you've been! You have no business to take them bathing in the Sacred Lake; it's much too public. It was all right for you but most awkward for everyone else. Do be more careful. You forget the place is growing half suburban." "I say, is anything on to-morrow week?"<|quote|>"Not that I know of."</|quote|>"Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis." "Oh, I wouldn't do that, Freddy, I wouldn't do that with all this muddle." "What's wrong with the court? They won't mind a bump or two, and I've ordered new balls." "I meant it's better not. I really mean it." He seized her by the elbows and humorously danced her up and down the passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch opened her door and said: "Lucy, what a noise you're making! I have something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter from Charlotte?" and Freddy ran away. "Yes. I really can't stop. I must dress too." "How's Charlotte?" "All right." "Lucy!" The unfortunate girl returned. "You've a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one's sentences. Did Charlotte mention her boiler?" "Her WHAT?" "Don't you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October, and her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?" "I can't remember all Charlotte's worries," said Lucy bitterly. "I shall have enough of | A Room With A View |
"Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see that I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wrists. Still, I bear no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board. If you want to hear my story I have no wish to hold it back. What I say to you is God s truth, every word of it. Thank you; you can put the glass beside me here, and I ll put my lips to it if I am dry." | Wooden-Legged Man | have been on your side."<|quote|>"Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see that I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wrists. Still, I bear no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board. If you want to hear my story I have no wish to hold it back. What I say to you is God s truth, every word of it. Thank you; you can put the glass beside me here, and I ll put my lips to it if I am dry."</|quote|>"I am a Worcestershire man | how far justice may originally have been on your side."<|quote|>"Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see that I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wrists. Still, I bear no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board. If you want to hear my story I have no wish to hold it back. What I say to you is God s truth, every word of it. Thank you; you can put the glass beside me here, and I ll put my lips to it if I am dry."</|quote|>"I am a Worcestershire man myself, born near Pershore. I | terror which had possessed Major Sholto when he first learned that the injured convict was upon his track. "You forget that we know nothing of all this," said Holmes quietly. "We have not heard your story, and we cannot tell how far justice may originally have been on your side."<|quote|>"Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see that I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wrists. Still, I bear no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board. If you want to hear my story I have no wish to hold it back. What I say to you is God s truth, every word of it. Thank you; you can put the glass beside me here, and I ll put my lips to it if I am dry."</|quote|>"I am a Worcestershire man myself, born near Pershore. I dare say you would find a heap of Smalls living there now if you were to look. I have often thought of taking a look round there, but the truth is that I was never much of a credit to | of stoicism, and all this came out in a wild whirl of words, while his eyes blazed, and the handcuffs clanked together with the impassioned movement of his hands. I could understand, as I saw the fury and the passion of the man, that it was no groundless or unnatural terror which had possessed Major Sholto when he first learned that the injured convict was upon his track. "You forget that we know nothing of all this," said Holmes quietly. "We have not heard your story, and we cannot tell how far justice may originally have been on your side."<|quote|>"Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see that I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wrists. Still, I bear no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board. If you want to hear my story I have no wish to hold it back. What I say to you is God s truth, every word of it. Thank you; you can put the glass beside me here, and I ll put my lips to it if I am dry."</|quote|>"I am a Worcestershire man myself, born near Pershore. I dare say you would find a heap of Smalls living there now if you were to look. I have often thought of taking a look round there, but the truth is that I was never much of a credit to the family, and I doubt if they would be so very glad to see me. They were all steady, chapel-going folk, small farmers, well-known and respected over the country-side, while I was always a bit of a rover. At last, however, when I was about eighteen, I gave them no | with ague, bullied by every cursed black-faced policeman who loved to take it out of a white man. That was how I earned the Agra treasure; and you talk to me of justice because I cannot bear to feel that I have paid this price only that another may enjoy it! I would rather swing a score of times, or have one of Tonga s darts in my hide, than live in a convict s cell and feel that another man is at his ease in a palace with the money that should be mine." Small had dropped his mask of stoicism, and all this came out in a wild whirl of words, while his eyes blazed, and the handcuffs clanked together with the impassioned movement of his hands. I could understand, as I saw the fury and the passion of the man, that it was no groundless or unnatural terror which had possessed Major Sholto when he first learned that the injured convict was upon his track. "You forget that we know nothing of all this," said Holmes quietly. "We have not heard your story, and we cannot tell how far justice may originally have been on your side."<|quote|>"Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see that I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wrists. Still, I bear no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board. If you want to hear my story I have no wish to hold it back. What I say to you is God s truth, every word of it. Thank you; you can put the glass beside me here, and I ll put my lips to it if I am dry."</|quote|>"I am a Worcestershire man myself, born near Pershore. I dare say you would find a heap of Smalls living there now if you were to look. I have often thought of taking a look round there, but the truth is that I was never much of a credit to the family, and I doubt if they would be so very glad to see me. They were all steady, chapel-going folk, small farmers, well-known and respected over the country-side, while I was always a bit of a rover. At last, however, when I was about eighteen, I gave them no more trouble, for I got into a mess over a girl, and could only get out of it again by taking the Queen s shilling and joining the 3rd Buffs, which was just starting for India." "I wasn t destined to do much soldiering, however. I had just got past the goose-step, and learned to handle my musket, when I was fool enough to go swimming in the Ganges. Luckily for me, my company sergeant, John Holder, was in the water at the same time, and he was one of the finest swimmers in the service. A crocodile took me, | throw, and easier for you to recover," he answered, with a shrewd, sidelong look. "The man that was clever enough to hunt me down is clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of a river. Now that they are scattered over five miles or so, it may be a harder job. It went to my heart to do it, though. I was half mad when you came up with us. However, there s no good grieving over it. I ve had ups in my life, and I ve had downs, but I ve learned not to cry over spilled milk." "This is a very serious matter, Small," said the detective. "If you had helped justice, instead of thwarting it in this way, you would have had a better chance at your trial." "Justice!" snarled the ex-convict. "A pretty justice! Whose loot is this, if it is not ours? Where is the justice that I should give it up to those who have never earned it? Look how I have earned it! Twenty long years in that fever-ridden swamp, all day at work under the mangrove-tree, all night chained up in the filthy convict-huts, bitten by mosquitoes, racked with ague, bullied by every cursed black-faced policeman who loved to take it out of a white man. That was how I earned the Agra treasure; and you talk to me of justice because I cannot bear to feel that I have paid this price only that another may enjoy it! I would rather swing a score of times, or have one of Tonga s darts in my hide, than live in a convict s cell and feel that another man is at his ease in a palace with the money that should be mine." Small had dropped his mask of stoicism, and all this came out in a wild whirl of words, while his eyes blazed, and the handcuffs clanked together with the impassioned movement of his hands. I could understand, as I saw the fury and the passion of the man, that it was no groundless or unnatural terror which had possessed Major Sholto when he first learned that the injured convict was upon his track. "You forget that we know nothing of all this," said Holmes quietly. "We have not heard your story, and we cannot tell how far justice may originally have been on your side."<|quote|>"Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see that I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wrists. Still, I bear no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board. If you want to hear my story I have no wish to hold it back. What I say to you is God s truth, every word of it. Thank you; you can put the glass beside me here, and I ll put my lips to it if I am dry."</|quote|>"I am a Worcestershire man myself, born near Pershore. I dare say you would find a heap of Smalls living there now if you were to look. I have often thought of taking a look round there, but the truth is that I was never much of a credit to the family, and I doubt if they would be so very glad to see me. They were all steady, chapel-going folk, small farmers, well-known and respected over the country-side, while I was always a bit of a rover. At last, however, when I was about eighteen, I gave them no more trouble, for I got into a mess over a girl, and could only get out of it again by taking the Queen s shilling and joining the 3rd Buffs, which was just starting for India." "I wasn t destined to do much soldiering, however. I had just got past the goose-step, and learned to handle my musket, when I was fool enough to go swimming in the Ganges. Luckily for me, my company sergeant, John Holder, was in the water at the same time, and he was one of the finest swimmers in the service. A crocodile took me, just as I was half-way across, and nipped off my right leg as clean as a surgeon could have done it, just above the knee. What with the shock and the loss of blood, I fainted, and should have drowned if Holder had not caught hold of me and paddled for the bank. I was five months in hospital over it, and when at last I was able to limp out of it with this timber toe strapped to my stump I found myself invalided out of the army and unfitted for any active occupation." "I was, as you can imagine, pretty down on my luck at this time, for I was a useless cripple though not yet in my twentieth year. However, my misfortune soon proved to be a blessing in disguise. A man named Abel White, who had come out there as an indigo-planter, wanted an overseer to look after his coolies and keep them up to their work. He happened to be a friend of our colonel s, who had taken an interest in me since the accident. To make a long story short, the colonel recommended me strongly for the post and, as the work was | no money there is no pay. This night s work would have been worth a tenner each to Sam Brown and me if the treasure had been there." "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man," I said. "He will see that you are rewarded, treasure or no." The inspector shook his head despondently, however. "It s a bad job," he repeated; "and so Mr. Athelney Jones will think." His forecast proved to be correct, for the detective looked blank enough when I got to Baker Street and showed him the empty box. They had only just arrived, Holmes, the prisoner, and he, for they had changed their plans so far as to report themselves at a station upon the way. My companion lounged in his arm-chair with his usual listless expression, while Small sat stolidly opposite to him with his wooden leg cocked over his sound one. As I exhibited the empty box he leaned back in his chair and laughed aloud. "This is your doing, Small," said Athelney Jones, angrily. "Yes, I have put it away where you shall never lay hand upon it," he cried, exultantly. "It is my treasure; and if I can t have the loot I ll take darned good care that no one else does. I tell you that no living man has any right to it, unless it is three men who are in the Andaman convict-barracks and myself. I know now that I cannot have the use of it, and I know that they cannot. I have acted all through for them as much as for myself. It s been the sign of four with us always. Well I know that they would have had me do just what I have done, and throw the treasure into the Thames rather than let it go to kith or kin of Sholto or of Morstan. It was not to make them rich that we did for Achmet. You ll find the treasure where the key is, and where little Tonga is. When I saw that your launch must catch us, I put the loot away in a safe place. There are no rupees for you this journey." "You are deceiving us, Small," said Athelney Jones, sternly. "If you had wished to throw the treasure into the Thames it would have been easier for you to have thrown box and all." "Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover," he answered, with a shrewd, sidelong look. "The man that was clever enough to hunt me down is clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of a river. Now that they are scattered over five miles or so, it may be a harder job. It went to my heart to do it, though. I was half mad when you came up with us. However, there s no good grieving over it. I ve had ups in my life, and I ve had downs, but I ve learned not to cry over spilled milk." "This is a very serious matter, Small," said the detective. "If you had helped justice, instead of thwarting it in this way, you would have had a better chance at your trial." "Justice!" snarled the ex-convict. "A pretty justice! Whose loot is this, if it is not ours? Where is the justice that I should give it up to those who have never earned it? Look how I have earned it! Twenty long years in that fever-ridden swamp, all day at work under the mangrove-tree, all night chained up in the filthy convict-huts, bitten by mosquitoes, racked with ague, bullied by every cursed black-faced policeman who loved to take it out of a white man. That was how I earned the Agra treasure; and you talk to me of justice because I cannot bear to feel that I have paid this price only that another may enjoy it! I would rather swing a score of times, or have one of Tonga s darts in my hide, than live in a convict s cell and feel that another man is at his ease in a palace with the money that should be mine." Small had dropped his mask of stoicism, and all this came out in a wild whirl of words, while his eyes blazed, and the handcuffs clanked together with the impassioned movement of his hands. I could understand, as I saw the fury and the passion of the man, that it was no groundless or unnatural terror which had possessed Major Sholto when he first learned that the injured convict was upon his track. "You forget that we know nothing of all this," said Holmes quietly. "We have not heard your story, and we cannot tell how far justice may originally have been on your side."<|quote|>"Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see that I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wrists. Still, I bear no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board. If you want to hear my story I have no wish to hold it back. What I say to you is God s truth, every word of it. Thank you; you can put the glass beside me here, and I ll put my lips to it if I am dry."</|quote|>"I am a Worcestershire man myself, born near Pershore. I dare say you would find a heap of Smalls living there now if you were to look. I have often thought of taking a look round there, but the truth is that I was never much of a credit to the family, and I doubt if they would be so very glad to see me. They were all steady, chapel-going folk, small farmers, well-known and respected over the country-side, while I was always a bit of a rover. At last, however, when I was about eighteen, I gave them no more trouble, for I got into a mess over a girl, and could only get out of it again by taking the Queen s shilling and joining the 3rd Buffs, which was just starting for India." "I wasn t destined to do much soldiering, however. I had just got past the goose-step, and learned to handle my musket, when I was fool enough to go swimming in the Ganges. Luckily for me, my company sergeant, John Holder, was in the water at the same time, and he was one of the finest swimmers in the service. A crocodile took me, just as I was half-way across, and nipped off my right leg as clean as a surgeon could have done it, just above the knee. What with the shock and the loss of blood, I fainted, and should have drowned if Holder had not caught hold of me and paddled for the bank. I was five months in hospital over it, and when at last I was able to limp out of it with this timber toe strapped to my stump I found myself invalided out of the army and unfitted for any active occupation." "I was, as you can imagine, pretty down on my luck at this time, for I was a useless cripple though not yet in my twentieth year. However, my misfortune soon proved to be a blessing in disguise. A man named Abel White, who had come out there as an indigo-planter, wanted an overseer to look after his coolies and keep them up to their work. He happened to be a friend of our colonel s, who had taken an interest in me since the accident. To make a long story short, the colonel recommended me strongly for the post and, as the work was mostly to be done on horseback, my leg was no great obstacle, for I had enough knee left to keep good grip on the saddle. What I had to do was to ride over the plantation, to keep an eye on the men as they worked, and to report the idlers. The pay was fair, I had comfortable quarters, and altogether I was content to spend the remainder of my life in indigo-planting. Mr. Abel White was a kind man, and he would often drop into my little shanty and smoke a pipe with me, for white folk out there feel their hearts warm to each other as they never do here at home." "Well, I was never in luck s way long. Suddenly, without a note of warning, the great mutiny broke upon us. One month India lay as still and peaceful, to all appearance, as Surrey or Kent; the next there were two hundred thousand black devils let loose, and the country was a perfect hell. Of course you know all about it, gentlemen, a deal more than I do, very like, since reading is not in my line. I only know what I saw with my own eyes. Our plantation was at a place called Muttra, near the border of the Northwest Provinces. Night after night the whole sky was alight with the burning bungalows, and day after day we had small companies of Europeans passing through our estate with their wives and children, on their way to Agra, where were the nearest troops. Mr. Abel White was an obstinate man. He had it in his head that the affair had been exaggerated, and that it would blow over as suddenly as it had sprung up. There he sat on his veranda, drinking whiskey-pegs and smoking cheroots, while the country was in a blaze about him. Of course we stuck by him, I and Dawson, who, with his wife, used to do the book-work and the managing. Well, one fine day the crash came. I had been away on a distant plantation, and was riding slowly home in the evening, when my eye fell upon something all huddled together at the bottom of a steep nullah. I rode down to see what it was, and the cold struck through my heart when I found it was Dawson s wife, all cut into ribbons, and half eaten by | up to those who have never earned it? Look how I have earned it! Twenty long years in that fever-ridden swamp, all day at work under the mangrove-tree, all night chained up in the filthy convict-huts, bitten by mosquitoes, racked with ague, bullied by every cursed black-faced policeman who loved to take it out of a white man. That was how I earned the Agra treasure; and you talk to me of justice because I cannot bear to feel that I have paid this price only that another may enjoy it! I would rather swing a score of times, or have one of Tonga s darts in my hide, than live in a convict s cell and feel that another man is at his ease in a palace with the money that should be mine." Small had dropped his mask of stoicism, and all this came out in a wild whirl of words, while his eyes blazed, and the handcuffs clanked together with the impassioned movement of his hands. I could understand, as I saw the fury and the passion of the man, that it was no groundless or unnatural terror which had possessed Major Sholto when he first learned that the injured convict was upon his track. "You forget that we know nothing of all this," said Holmes quietly. "We have not heard your story, and we cannot tell how far justice may originally have been on your side."<|quote|>"Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see that I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wrists. Still, I bear no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board. If you want to hear my story I have no wish to hold it back. What I say to you is God s truth, every word of it. Thank you; you can put the glass beside me here, and I ll put my lips to it if I am dry."</|quote|>"I am a Worcestershire man myself, born near Pershore. I dare say you would find a heap of Smalls living there now if you were to look. I have often thought of taking a look round there, but the truth is that I was never much of a credit to the family, and I doubt if they would be so very glad to see me. They were all steady, chapel-going folk, small farmers, well-known and respected over the country-side, while I was always a bit of a rover. At last, however, when I was about eighteen, I gave them no more trouble, for I got into a mess over a girl, and could only get out of it again by taking the Queen s shilling and joining the 3rd Buffs, which was just starting for India." "I wasn t destined to do much soldiering, however. I had just got past the goose-step, and learned to handle my musket, when I was fool enough to go swimming in the Ganges. Luckily for me, my company sergeant, John Holder, was in the water at the same time, and he was one of the finest swimmers in the service. A crocodile took me, just as I was half-way across, and nipped off my right leg as clean as a surgeon could have done it, just above the knee. What with the shock and the loss of blood, I fainted, and should have drowned if Holder had not caught hold of me and paddled for the bank. I was five months in hospital over it, and when at last I was able to limp out of it with this timber toe strapped to my stump I found myself | The Sign Of The Four |
"I expect you do." | Mary Datchet | for certain; but," she added,<|quote|>"I expect you do."</|quote|>At the same time she | know what you re about for certain; but," she added,<|quote|>"I expect you do."</|quote|>At the same time she was profoundly perplexed, not only | happiness and self-assertive existence. Their neighbors were welcome to their possessions. "I don t lay down any rules," said Mary, recovering herself first, as they turned after a long pause of this description. "All I say is that you should know what you re about for certain; but," she added,<|quote|>"I expect you do."</|quote|>At the same time she was profoundly perplexed, not only by what she knew of the arrangements for Katharine s marriage, but by the impression which she had of her, there on her arm, dark and inscrutable. They walked back again and reached the steps which led up to Mary | and stood looking at the omnibuses and passers-by, who seemed, for the moment, to illustrate what Katharine had said of the diversity of human interests. For both of them it had become one of those moments of extreme detachment, when it seems unnecessary ever again to shoulder the burden of happiness and self-assertive existence. Their neighbors were welcome to their possessions. "I don t lay down any rules," said Mary, recovering herself first, as they turned after a long pause of this description. "All I say is that you should know what you re about for certain; but," she added,<|quote|>"I expect you do."</|quote|>At the same time she was profoundly perplexed, not only by what she knew of the arrangements for Katharine s marriage, but by the impression which she had of her, there on her arm, dark and inscrutable. They walked back again and reached the steps which led up to Mary s flat. Here they stopped and paused for a moment, saying nothing. "You must go in," said Katharine, rousing herself. "He s waiting all this time to go on with his reading." She glanced up at the lighted window near the top of the house, and they both looked at | it." She spoke with unnecessary vehemence, but it was not directed against Mary Datchet. Their animosity had completely disappeared, and upon both of them a cloud of difficulty and darkness rested, obscuring the future, in which they had both to find a way. "No, no, it s not worth it," Katharine repeated. "Suppose, as you say, it s out of the question this friendship; he falls in love with me. I don t want that. Still," she added, "I believe you exaggerate; love s not everything; marriage itself is only one of the things" They had reached the main thoroughfare, and stood looking at the omnibuses and passers-by, who seemed, for the moment, to illustrate what Katharine had said of the diversity of human interests. For both of them it had become one of those moments of extreme detachment, when it seems unnecessary ever again to shoulder the burden of happiness and self-assertive existence. Their neighbors were welcome to their possessions. "I don t lay down any rules," said Mary, recovering herself first, as they turned after a long pause of this description. "All I say is that you should know what you re about for certain; but," she added,<|quote|>"I expect you do."</|quote|>At the same time she was profoundly perplexed, not only by what she knew of the arrangements for Katharine s marriage, but by the impression which she had of her, there on her arm, dark and inscrutable. They walked back again and reached the steps which led up to Mary s flat. Here they stopped and paused for a moment, saying nothing. "You must go in," said Katharine, rousing herself. "He s waiting all this time to go on with his reading." She glanced up at the lighted window near the top of the house, and they both looked at it and waited for a moment. A flight of semicircular steps ran up to the hall, and Mary slowly mounted the first two or three, and paused, looking down upon Katharine. "I think you underrate the value of that emotion," she said slowly, and a little awkwardly. She climbed another step and looked down once more upon the figure that was only partly lit up, standing in the street with a colorless face turned upwards. As Mary hesitated, a cab came by and Katharine turned and stopped it, saying as she opened the door: "Remember, I want to belong to | friendship," Mary exclaimed, her anger rising, to her own surprise. "You know it s not. How can it be? I ve no right to interfere" She stopped. "Only I d rather Ralph wasn t hurt," she concluded. "I think he seems able to take care of himself," Katharine observed. Without either of them wishing it, a feeling of hostility had risen between them. "Do you really think it s worth it?" said Mary, after a pause. "How can one tell?" Katharine asked. "Have you ever cared for any one?" Mary demanded rashly and foolishly. "I can t wander about London discussing my feelings Here s a cab no, there s some one in it." "We don t want to quarrel," said Mary. "Ought I to have told him that I wouldn t be his friend?" Katharine asked. "Shall I tell him that? If so, what reason shall I give him?" "Of course you can t tell him that," said Mary, controlling herself. "I believe I shall, though," said Katharine suddenly. "I lost my temper, Katharine; I shouldn t have said what I did." "The whole thing s foolish," said Katharine, peremptorily. "That s what I say. It s not worth it." She spoke with unnecessary vehemence, but it was not directed against Mary Datchet. Their animosity had completely disappeared, and upon both of them a cloud of difficulty and darkness rested, obscuring the future, in which they had both to find a way. "No, no, it s not worth it," Katharine repeated. "Suppose, as you say, it s out of the question this friendship; he falls in love with me. I don t want that. Still," she added, "I believe you exaggerate; love s not everything; marriage itself is only one of the things" They had reached the main thoroughfare, and stood looking at the omnibuses and passers-by, who seemed, for the moment, to illustrate what Katharine had said of the diversity of human interests. For both of them it had become one of those moments of extreme detachment, when it seems unnecessary ever again to shoulder the burden of happiness and self-assertive existence. Their neighbors were welcome to their possessions. "I don t lay down any rules," said Mary, recovering herself first, as they turned after a long pause of this description. "All I say is that you should know what you re about for certain; but," she added,<|quote|>"I expect you do."</|quote|>At the same time she was profoundly perplexed, not only by what she knew of the arrangements for Katharine s marriage, but by the impression which she had of her, there on her arm, dark and inscrutable. They walked back again and reached the steps which led up to Mary s flat. Here they stopped and paused for a moment, saying nothing. "You must go in," said Katharine, rousing herself. "He s waiting all this time to go on with his reading." She glanced up at the lighted window near the top of the house, and they both looked at it and waited for a moment. A flight of semicircular steps ran up to the hall, and Mary slowly mounted the first two or three, and paused, looking down upon Katharine. "I think you underrate the value of that emotion," she said slowly, and a little awkwardly. She climbed another step and looked down once more upon the figure that was only partly lit up, standing in the street with a colorless face turned upwards. As Mary hesitated, a cab came by and Katharine turned and stopped it, saying as she opened the door: "Remember, I want to belong to your society remember," she added, having to raise her voice a little, and shutting the door upon the rest of her words. Mary mounted the stairs step by step, as if she had to lift her body up an extremely steep ascent. She had had to wrench herself forcibly away from Katharine, and every step vanquished her desire. She held on grimly, encouraging herself as though she were actually making some great physical effort in climbing a height. She was conscious that Mr. Basnett, sitting at the top of the stairs with his documents, offered her solid footing if she were capable of reaching it. The knowledge gave her a faint sense of exaltation. Mr. Basnett raised his eyes as she opened the door. "I ll go on where I left off," he said. "Stop me if you want anything explained." He had been re-reading the document, and making pencil notes in the margin while he waited, and he went on again as if there had been no interruption. Mary sat down among the flat cushions, lit another cigarette, and listened with a frown upon her face. Katharine leant back in the corner of the cab that carried her to | features of that original man whom we still recall every now and then, although we know only the clerk, barrister, Governmental official, or workingman variety of him. Not that Mr. Basnett, giving his days to commerce and his spare time to social reform, would long carry about him any trace of his possibilities of completeness; but, for the moment, in his youth and ardor, still speculative, still uncramped, one might imagine him the citizen of a nobler state than ours. Katharine turned over her small stock of information, and wondered what their society might be going to attempt. Then she remembered that she was hindering their business, and rose, still thinking of this society, and thus thinking, she said to Mr. Basnett: "Well, you ll ask me to join when the time comes, I hope." He nodded, and took his pipe from his mouth, but, being unable to think of anything to say, he put it back again, although he would have been glad if she had stayed. Against her wish, Mary insisted upon taking her downstairs, and then, as there was no cab to be seen, they stood in the street together, looking about them. "Go back," Katharine urged her, thinking of Mr. Basnett with his papers in his hand. "You can t wander about the streets alone in those clothes," said Mary, but the desire to find a cab was not her true reason for standing beside Katharine for a minute or two. Unfortunately for her composure, Mr. Basnett and his papers seemed to her an incidental diversion of life s serious purpose compared with some tremendous fact which manifested itself as she stood alone with Katharine. It may have been their common womanhood. "Have you seen Ralph?" she asked suddenly, without preface. "Yes," said Katharine directly, but she did not remember when or where she had seen him. It took her a moment or two to remember why Mary should ask her if she had seen Ralph. "I believe I m jealous," said Mary. "Nonsense, Mary," said Katharine, rather distractedly, taking her arm and beginning to walk up the street in the direction of the main road. "Let me see; we went to Kew, and we agreed to be friends. Yes, that s what happened." Mary was silent, in the hope that Katharine would tell her more. But Katharine said nothing. "It s not a question of friendship," Mary exclaimed, her anger rising, to her own surprise. "You know it s not. How can it be? I ve no right to interfere" She stopped. "Only I d rather Ralph wasn t hurt," she concluded. "I think he seems able to take care of himself," Katharine observed. Without either of them wishing it, a feeling of hostility had risen between them. "Do you really think it s worth it?" said Mary, after a pause. "How can one tell?" Katharine asked. "Have you ever cared for any one?" Mary demanded rashly and foolishly. "I can t wander about London discussing my feelings Here s a cab no, there s some one in it." "We don t want to quarrel," said Mary. "Ought I to have told him that I wouldn t be his friend?" Katharine asked. "Shall I tell him that? If so, what reason shall I give him?" "Of course you can t tell him that," said Mary, controlling herself. "I believe I shall, though," said Katharine suddenly. "I lost my temper, Katharine; I shouldn t have said what I did." "The whole thing s foolish," said Katharine, peremptorily. "That s what I say. It s not worth it." She spoke with unnecessary vehemence, but it was not directed against Mary Datchet. Their animosity had completely disappeared, and upon both of them a cloud of difficulty and darkness rested, obscuring the future, in which they had both to find a way. "No, no, it s not worth it," Katharine repeated. "Suppose, as you say, it s out of the question this friendship; he falls in love with me. I don t want that. Still," she added, "I believe you exaggerate; love s not everything; marriage itself is only one of the things" They had reached the main thoroughfare, and stood looking at the omnibuses and passers-by, who seemed, for the moment, to illustrate what Katharine had said of the diversity of human interests. For both of them it had become one of those moments of extreme detachment, when it seems unnecessary ever again to shoulder the burden of happiness and self-assertive existence. Their neighbors were welcome to their possessions. "I don t lay down any rules," said Mary, recovering herself first, as they turned after a long pause of this description. "All I say is that you should know what you re about for certain; but," she added,<|quote|>"I expect you do."</|quote|>At the same time she was profoundly perplexed, not only by what she knew of the arrangements for Katharine s marriage, but by the impression which she had of her, there on her arm, dark and inscrutable. They walked back again and reached the steps which led up to Mary s flat. Here they stopped and paused for a moment, saying nothing. "You must go in," said Katharine, rousing herself. "He s waiting all this time to go on with his reading." She glanced up at the lighted window near the top of the house, and they both looked at it and waited for a moment. A flight of semicircular steps ran up to the hall, and Mary slowly mounted the first two or three, and paused, looking down upon Katharine. "I think you underrate the value of that emotion," she said slowly, and a little awkwardly. She climbed another step and looked down once more upon the figure that was only partly lit up, standing in the street with a colorless face turned upwards. As Mary hesitated, a cab came by and Katharine turned and stopped it, saying as she opened the door: "Remember, I want to belong to your society remember," she added, having to raise her voice a little, and shutting the door upon the rest of her words. Mary mounted the stairs step by step, as if she had to lift her body up an extremely steep ascent. She had had to wrench herself forcibly away from Katharine, and every step vanquished her desire. She held on grimly, encouraging herself as though she were actually making some great physical effort in climbing a height. She was conscious that Mr. Basnett, sitting at the top of the stairs with his documents, offered her solid footing if she were capable of reaching it. The knowledge gave her a faint sense of exaltation. Mr. Basnett raised his eyes as she opened the door. "I ll go on where I left off," he said. "Stop me if you want anything explained." He had been re-reading the document, and making pencil notes in the margin while he waited, and he went on again as if there had been no interruption. Mary sat down among the flat cushions, lit another cigarette, and listened with a frown upon her face. Katharine leant back in the corner of the cab that carried her to Chelsea, conscious of fatigue, and conscious, too, of the sober and satisfactory nature of such industry as she had just witnessed. The thought of it composed and calmed her. When she reached home she let herself in as quietly as she could, in the hope that the household was already gone to bed. But her excursion had occupied less time than she thought, and she heard sounds of unmistakable liveliness upstairs. A door opened, and she drew herself into a ground-floor room in case the sound meant that Mr. Peyton were taking his leave. From where she stood she could see the stairs, though she was herself invisible. Some one was coming down the stairs, and now she saw that it was William Rodney. He looked a little strange, as if he were walking in his sleep; his lips moved as if he were acting some part to himself. He came down very slowly, step by step, with one hand upon the banisters to guide himself. She thought he looked as if he were in some mood of high exaltation, which it made her uncomfortable to witness any longer unseen. She stepped into the hall. He gave a great start upon seeing her and stopped. "Katharine!" he exclaimed. "You ve been out?" he asked. "Yes.... Are they still up?" He did not answer, and walked into the ground-floor room through the door which stood open. "It s been more wonderful than I can tell you," he said, "I m incredibly happy" He was scarcely addressing her, and she said nothing. For a moment they stood at opposite sides of a table saying nothing. Then he asked her quickly, "But tell me, how did it seem to you? What did you think, Katharine? Is there a chance that she likes me? Tell me, Katharine!" Before she could answer a door opened on the landing above and disturbed them. It disturbed William excessively. He started back, walked rapidly into the hall, and said in a loud and ostentatiously ordinary tone: "Good night, Katharine. Go to bed now. I shall see you soon. I hope I shall be able to come to-morrow." Next moment he was gone. She went upstairs and found Cassandra on the landing. She held two or three books in her hand, and she was stooping to look at others in a little bookcase. She said that she could never | me see; we went to Kew, and we agreed to be friends. Yes, that s what happened." Mary was silent, in the hope that Katharine would tell her more. But Katharine said nothing. "It s not a question of friendship," Mary exclaimed, her anger rising, to her own surprise. "You know it s not. How can it be? I ve no right to interfere" She stopped. "Only I d rather Ralph wasn t hurt," she concluded. "I think he seems able to take care of himself," Katharine observed. Without either of them wishing it, a feeling of hostility had risen between them. "Do you really think it s worth it?" said Mary, after a pause. "How can one tell?" Katharine asked. "Have you ever cared for any one?" Mary demanded rashly and foolishly. "I can t wander about London discussing my feelings Here s a cab no, there s some one in it." "We don t want to quarrel," said Mary. "Ought I to have told him that I wouldn t be his friend?" Katharine asked. "Shall I tell him that? If so, what reason shall I give him?" "Of course you can t tell him that," said Mary, controlling herself. "I believe I shall, though," said Katharine suddenly. "I lost my temper, Katharine; I shouldn t have said what I did." "The whole thing s foolish," said Katharine, peremptorily. "That s what I say. It s not worth it." She spoke with unnecessary vehemence, but it was not directed against Mary Datchet. Their animosity had completely disappeared, and upon both of them a cloud of difficulty and darkness rested, obscuring the future, in which they had both to find a way. "No, no, it s not worth it," Katharine repeated. "Suppose, as you say, it s out of the question this friendship; he falls in love with me. I don t want that. Still," she added, "I believe you exaggerate; love s not everything; marriage itself is only one of the things" They had reached the main thoroughfare, and stood looking at the omnibuses and passers-by, who seemed, for the moment, to illustrate what Katharine had said of the diversity of human interests. For both of them it had become one of those moments of extreme detachment, when it seems unnecessary ever again to shoulder the burden of happiness and self-assertive existence. Their neighbors were welcome to their possessions. "I don t lay down any rules," said Mary, recovering herself first, as they turned after a long pause of this description. "All I say is that you should know what you re about for certain; but," she added,<|quote|>"I expect you do."</|quote|>At the same time she was profoundly perplexed, not only by what she knew of the arrangements for Katharine s marriage, but by the impression which she had of her, there on her arm, dark and inscrutable. They walked back again and reached the steps which led up to Mary s flat. Here they stopped and paused for a moment, saying nothing. "You must go in," said Katharine, rousing herself. "He s waiting all this time to go on with his reading." She glanced up at the lighted window near the top of the house, and they both looked at it and waited for a moment. A flight of semicircular steps ran up to the hall, and Mary slowly mounted the first two or three, and paused, looking down upon Katharine. "I think you underrate the value of that emotion," she said slowly, and a little awkwardly. She climbed another step and looked down once more upon the figure that was only partly lit up, standing in the street with a colorless face turned upwards. As Mary hesitated, a cab came by and Katharine turned and stopped it, saying as she opened the door: "Remember, I want to belong to your society remember," she added, having to raise her voice a little, and shutting the door upon the rest of her words. Mary mounted the stairs step by step, as if she had to lift her body up an extremely steep ascent. She had had to wrench herself forcibly away from Katharine, and every step vanquished her desire. She | Night And Day |
“I thought you inherited your money.” | Nick | the money that bought it.”<|quote|>“I thought you inherited your money.”</|quote|>“I did, old sport,” he | just three years to earn the money that bought it.”<|quote|>“I thought you inherited your money.”</|quote|>“I did, old sport,” he said automatically, “but I lost | lawn. “My house looks well, doesn’t it?” he demanded. “See how the whole front of it catches the light.” I agreed that it was splendid. “Yes.” His eyes went over it, every arched door and square tower. “It took me just three years to earn the money that bought it.”<|quote|>“I thought you inherited your money.”</|quote|>“I did, old sport,” he said automatically, “but I lost most of it in the big panic—the panic of the war.” I think he hardly knew what he was saying, for when I asked him what business he was in he answered: “That’s my affair,” before he realized that it | “I want you and Daisy to come over to my house,” he said, “I’d like to show her around.” “You’re sure you want me to come?” “Absolutely, old sport.” Daisy went upstairs to wash her face—too late I thought with humiliation of my towels—while Gatsby and I waited on the lawn. “My house looks well, doesn’t it?” he demanded. “See how the whole front of it catches the light.” I agreed that it was splendid. “Yes.” His eyes went over it, every arched door and square tower. “It took me just three years to earn the money that bought it.”<|quote|>“I thought you inherited your money.”</|quote|>“I did, old sport,” he said automatically, “but I lost most of it in the big panic—the panic of the war.” I think he hardly knew what he was saying, for when I asked him what business he was in he answered: “That’s my affair,” before he realized that it wasn’t an appropriate reply. “Oh, I’ve been in several things,” he corrected himself. “I was in the drug business and then I was in the oil business. But I’m not in either one now.” He looked at me with more attention. “Do you mean you’ve been thinking over what I | well-being radiated from him and filled the little room. “Oh, hello, old sport,” he said, as if he hadn’t seen me for years. I thought for a moment he was going to shake hands. “It’s stopped raining.” “Has it?” When he realized what I was talking about, that there were twinkle-bells of sunshine in the room, he smiled like a weather man, like an ecstatic patron of recurrent light, and repeated the news to Daisy. “What do you think of that? It’s stopped raining.” “I’m glad, Jay.” Her throat, full of aching, grieving beauty, told only of her unexpected joy. “I want you and Daisy to come over to my house,” he said, “I’d like to show her around.” “You’re sure you want me to come?” “Absolutely, old sport.” Daisy went upstairs to wash her face—too late I thought with humiliation of my towels—while Gatsby and I waited on the lawn. “My house looks well, doesn’t it?” he demanded. “See how the whole front of it catches the light.” I agreed that it was splendid. “Yes.” His eyes went over it, every arched door and square tower. “It took me just three years to earn the money that bought it.”<|quote|>“I thought you inherited your money.”</|quote|>“I did, old sport,” he said automatically, “but I lost most of it in the big panic—the panic of the war.” I think he hardly knew what he was saying, for when I asked him what business he was in he answered: “That’s my affair,” before he realized that it wasn’t an appropriate reply. “Oh, I’ve been in several things,” he corrected himself. “I was in the drug business and then I was in the oil business. But I’m not in either one now.” He looked at me with more attention. “Do you mean you’ve been thinking over what I proposed the other night?” Before I could answer, Daisy came out of the house and two rows of brass buttons on her dress gleamed in the sunlight. “That huge place there?” she cried pointing. “Do you like it?” “I love it, but I don’t see how you live there all alone.” “I keep it always full of interesting people, night and day. People who do interesting things. Celebrated people.” Instead of taking the shortcut along the Sound we went down to the road and entered by the big postern. With enchanting murmurs Daisy admired this aspect or that of the | shone again, and the grocer’s automobile rounded Gatsby’s drive with the raw material for his servants’ dinner—I felt sure he wouldn’t eat a spoonful. A maid began opening the upper windows of his house, appeared momentarily in each, and, leaning from the large central bay, spat meditatively into the garden. It was time I went back. While the rain continued it had seemed like the murmur of their voices, rising and swelling a little now and then with gusts of emotion. But in the new silence I felt that silence had fallen within the house too. I went in—after making every possible noise in the kitchen, short of pushing over the stove—but I don’t believe they heard a sound. They were sitting at either end of the couch, looking at each other as if some question had been asked, or was in the air, and every vestige of embarrassment was gone. Daisy’s face was smeared with tears, and when I came in she jumped up and began wiping at it with her handkerchief before a mirror. But there was a change in Gatsby that was simply confounding. He literally glowed; without a word or a gesture of exultation a new well-being radiated from him and filled the little room. “Oh, hello, old sport,” he said, as if he hadn’t seen me for years. I thought for a moment he was going to shake hands. “It’s stopped raining.” “Has it?” When he realized what I was talking about, that there were twinkle-bells of sunshine in the room, he smiled like a weather man, like an ecstatic patron of recurrent light, and repeated the news to Daisy. “What do you think of that? It’s stopped raining.” “I’m glad, Jay.” Her throat, full of aching, grieving beauty, told only of her unexpected joy. “I want you and Daisy to come over to my house,” he said, “I’d like to show her around.” “You’re sure you want me to come?” “Absolutely, old sport.” Daisy went upstairs to wash her face—too late I thought with humiliation of my towels—while Gatsby and I waited on the lawn. “My house looks well, doesn’t it?” he demanded. “See how the whole front of it catches the light.” I agreed that it was splendid. “Yes.” His eyes went over it, every arched door and square tower. “It took me just three years to earn the money that bought it.”<|quote|>“I thought you inherited your money.”</|quote|>“I did, old sport,” he said automatically, “but I lost most of it in the big panic—the panic of the war.” I think he hardly knew what he was saying, for when I asked him what business he was in he answered: “That’s my affair,” before he realized that it wasn’t an appropriate reply. “Oh, I’ve been in several things,” he corrected himself. “I was in the drug business and then I was in the oil business. But I’m not in either one now.” He looked at me with more attention. “Do you mean you’ve been thinking over what I proposed the other night?” Before I could answer, Daisy came out of the house and two rows of brass buttons on her dress gleamed in the sunlight. “That huge place there?” she cried pointing. “Do you like it?” “I love it, but I don’t see how you live there all alone.” “I keep it always full of interesting people, night and day. People who do interesting things. Celebrated people.” Instead of taking the shortcut along the Sound we went down to the road and entered by the big postern. With enchanting murmurs Daisy admired this aspect or that of the feudal silhouette against the sky, admired the gardens, the sparkling odour of jonquils and the frothy odour of hawthorn and plum blossoms and the pale gold odour of kiss-me-at-the-gate. It was strange to reach the marble steps and find no stir of bright dresses in and out the door, and hear no sound but bird voices in the trees. And inside, as we wandered through Marie Antoinette music-rooms and Restoration Salons, I felt that there were guests concealed behind every couch and table, under orders to be breathlessly silent until we had passed through. As Gatsby closed the door of “the Merton College Library” I could have sworn I heard the owl-eyed man break into ghostly laughter. We went upstairs, through period bedrooms swathed in rose and lavender silk and vivid with new flowers, through dressing-rooms and poolrooms, and bathrooms with sunken baths—intruding into one chamber where a dishevelled man in pyjamas was doing liver exercises on the floor. It was Mr. Klipspringer, the “boarder.” I had seen him wandering hungrily about the beach that morning. Finally we came to Gatsby’s own apartment, a bedroom and a bath, and an Adam’s study, where we sat down and drank a glass | suggestion that they help me make tea in the kitchen when the demoniac Finn brought it in on a tray. Amid the welcome confusion of cups and cakes a certain physical decency established itself. Gatsby got himself into a shadow and, while Daisy and I talked, looked conscientiously from one to the other of us with tense, unhappy eyes. However, as calmness wasn’t an end in itself, I made an excuse at the first possible moment, and got to my feet. “Where are you going?” demanded Gatsby in immediate alarm. “I’ll be back.” “I’ve got to speak to you about something before you go.” He followed me wildly into the kitchen, closed the door, and whispered: “Oh, God!” in a miserable way. “What’s the matter?” “This is a terrible mistake,” he said, shaking his head from side to side, “a terrible, terrible mistake.” “You’re just embarrassed, that’s all,” and luckily I added: “Daisy’s embarrassed too.” “She’s embarrassed?” he repeated incredulously. “Just as much as you are.” “Don’t talk so loud.” “You’re acting like a little boy,” I broke out impatiently. “Not only that, but you’re rude. Daisy’s sitting in there all alone.” He raised his hand to stop my words, looked at me with unforgettable reproach, and, opening the door cautiously, went back into the other room. I walked out the back way—just as Gatsby had when he had made his nervous circuit of the house half an hour before—and ran for a huge black knotted tree, whose massed leaves made a fabric against the rain. Once more it was pouring, and my irregular lawn, well-shaved by Gatsby’s gardener, abounded in small muddy swamps and prehistoric marshes. There was nothing to look at from under the tree except Gatsby’s enormous house, so I stared at it, like Kant at his church steeple, for half an hour. A brewer had built it early in the “period” craze, a decade before, and there was a story that he’d agreed to pay five years’ taxes on all the neighbouring cottages if the owners would have their roofs thatched with straw. Perhaps their refusal took the heart out of his plan to Found a Family—he went into an immediate decline. His children sold his house with the black wreath still on the door. Americans, while willing, even eager, to be serfs, have always been obstinate about being peasantry. After half an hour, the sun shone again, and the grocer’s automobile rounded Gatsby’s drive with the raw material for his servants’ dinner—I felt sure he wouldn’t eat a spoonful. A maid began opening the upper windows of his house, appeared momentarily in each, and, leaning from the large central bay, spat meditatively into the garden. It was time I went back. While the rain continued it had seemed like the murmur of their voices, rising and swelling a little now and then with gusts of emotion. But in the new silence I felt that silence had fallen within the house too. I went in—after making every possible noise in the kitchen, short of pushing over the stove—but I don’t believe they heard a sound. They were sitting at either end of the couch, looking at each other as if some question had been asked, or was in the air, and every vestige of embarrassment was gone. Daisy’s face was smeared with tears, and when I came in she jumped up and began wiping at it with her handkerchief before a mirror. But there was a change in Gatsby that was simply confounding. He literally glowed; without a word or a gesture of exultation a new well-being radiated from him and filled the little room. “Oh, hello, old sport,” he said, as if he hadn’t seen me for years. I thought for a moment he was going to shake hands. “It’s stopped raining.” “Has it?” When he realized what I was talking about, that there were twinkle-bells of sunshine in the room, he smiled like a weather man, like an ecstatic patron of recurrent light, and repeated the news to Daisy. “What do you think of that? It’s stopped raining.” “I’m glad, Jay.” Her throat, full of aching, grieving beauty, told only of her unexpected joy. “I want you and Daisy to come over to my house,” he said, “I’d like to show her around.” “You’re sure you want me to come?” “Absolutely, old sport.” Daisy went upstairs to wash her face—too late I thought with humiliation of my towels—while Gatsby and I waited on the lawn. “My house looks well, doesn’t it?” he demanded. “See how the whole front of it catches the light.” I agreed that it was splendid. “Yes.” His eyes went over it, every arched door and square tower. “It took me just three years to earn the money that bought it.”<|quote|>“I thought you inherited your money.”</|quote|>“I did, old sport,” he said automatically, “but I lost most of it in the big panic—the panic of the war.” I think he hardly knew what he was saying, for when I asked him what business he was in he answered: “That’s my affair,” before he realized that it wasn’t an appropriate reply. “Oh, I’ve been in several things,” he corrected himself. “I was in the drug business and then I was in the oil business. But I’m not in either one now.” He looked at me with more attention. “Do you mean you’ve been thinking over what I proposed the other night?” Before I could answer, Daisy came out of the house and two rows of brass buttons on her dress gleamed in the sunlight. “That huge place there?” she cried pointing. “Do you like it?” “I love it, but I don’t see how you live there all alone.” “I keep it always full of interesting people, night and day. People who do interesting things. Celebrated people.” Instead of taking the shortcut along the Sound we went down to the road and entered by the big postern. With enchanting murmurs Daisy admired this aspect or that of the feudal silhouette against the sky, admired the gardens, the sparkling odour of jonquils and the frothy odour of hawthorn and plum blossoms and the pale gold odour of kiss-me-at-the-gate. It was strange to reach the marble steps and find no stir of bright dresses in and out the door, and hear no sound but bird voices in the trees. And inside, as we wandered through Marie Antoinette music-rooms and Restoration Salons, I felt that there were guests concealed behind every couch and table, under orders to be breathlessly silent until we had passed through. As Gatsby closed the door of “the Merton College Library” I could have sworn I heard the owl-eyed man break into ghostly laughter. We went upstairs, through period bedrooms swathed in rose and lavender silk and vivid with new flowers, through dressing-rooms and poolrooms, and bathrooms with sunken baths—intruding into one chamber where a dishevelled man in pyjamas was doing liver exercises on the floor. It was Mr. Klipspringer, the “boarder.” I had seen him wandering hungrily about the beach that morning. Finally we came to Gatsby’s own apartment, a bedroom and a bath, and an Adam’s study, where we sat down and drank a glass of some Chartreuse he took from a cupboard in the wall. He hadn’t once ceased looking at Daisy, and I think he revalued everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew from her well-loved eyes. Sometimes too, he stared around at his possessions in a dazed way, as though in her actual and astounding presence none of it was any longer real. Once he nearly toppled down a flight of stairs. His bedroom was the simplest room of all—except where the dresser was garnished with a toilet set of pure dull gold. Daisy took the brush with delight, and smoothed her hair, whereupon Gatsby sat down and shaded his eyes and began to laugh. “It’s the funniest thing, old sport,” he said hilariously. “I can’t—When I try to—” He had passed visibly through two states and was entering upon a third. After his embarrassment and his unreasoning joy he was consumed with wonder at her presence. He had been full of the idea so long, dreamed it right through to the end, waited with his teeth set, so to speak, at an inconceivable pitch of intensity. Now, in the reaction, he was running down like an over-wound clock. Recovering himself in a minute he opened for us two hulking patent cabinets which held his massed suits and dressing-gowns and ties, and his shirts, piled like bricks in stacks a dozen high. “I’ve got a man in England who buys me clothes. He sends over a selection of things at the beginning of each season, spring and fall.” He took out a pile of shirts and began throwing them, one by one, before us, shirts of sheer linen and thick silk and fine flannel, which lost their folds as they fell and covered the table in many-coloured disarray. While we admired he brought more and the soft rich heap mounted higher—shirts with stripes and scrolls and plaids in coral and apple-green and lavender and faint orange, with monograms of indian blue. Suddenly, with a strained sound, Daisy bent her head into the shirts and began to cry stormily. “They’re such beautiful shirts,” she sobbed, her voice muffled in the thick folds. “It makes me sad because I’ve never seen such—such beautiful shirts before.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ After the house, we were to see the grounds and the swimming pool, and the hydroplane, and the midsummer flowers—but outside Gatsby’s window | the large central bay, spat meditatively into the garden. It was time I went back. While the rain continued it had seemed like the murmur of their voices, rising and swelling a little now and then with gusts of emotion. But in the new silence I felt that silence had fallen within the house too. I went in—after making every possible noise in the kitchen, short of pushing over the stove—but I don’t believe they heard a sound. They were sitting at either end of the couch, looking at each other as if some question had been asked, or was in the air, and every vestige of embarrassment was gone. Daisy’s face was smeared with tears, and when I came in she jumped up and began wiping at it with her handkerchief before a mirror. But there was a change in Gatsby that was simply confounding. He literally glowed; without a word or a gesture of exultation a new well-being radiated from him and filled the little room. “Oh, hello, old sport,” he said, as if he hadn’t seen me for years. I thought for a moment he was going to shake hands. “It’s stopped raining.” “Has it?” When he realized what I was talking about, that there were twinkle-bells of sunshine in the room, he smiled like a weather man, like an ecstatic patron of recurrent light, and repeated the news to Daisy. “What do you think of that? It’s stopped raining.” “I’m glad, Jay.” Her throat, full of aching, grieving beauty, told only of her unexpected joy. “I want you and Daisy to come over to my house,” he said, “I’d like to show her around.” “You’re sure you want me to come?” “Absolutely, old sport.” Daisy went upstairs to wash her face—too late I thought with humiliation of my towels—while Gatsby and I waited on the lawn. “My house looks well, doesn’t it?” he demanded. “See how the whole front of it catches the light.” I agreed that it was splendid. “Yes.” His eyes went over it, every arched door and square tower. “It took me just three years to earn the money that bought it.”<|quote|>“I thought you inherited your money.”</|quote|>“I did, old sport,” he said automatically, “but I lost most of it in the big panic—the panic of the war.” I think he hardly knew what he was saying, for when I asked him what business he was in he answered: “That’s my affair,” before he realized that it wasn’t an appropriate reply. “Oh, I’ve been in several things,” he corrected himself. “I was in the drug business and then I was in the oil business. But I’m not in either one now.” He looked at me with more attention. “Do you mean you’ve been thinking over what I proposed the other night?” Before I could answer, Daisy came out of the house and two rows of brass buttons on her dress gleamed in the sunlight. “That huge place there?” she cried pointing. “Do you like it?” “I love it, but I don’t see how you live there all alone.” “I keep it always full of interesting people, night and day. People who do interesting things. Celebrated people.” Instead of taking the shortcut along the Sound we went down to the road and entered by the big postern. With enchanting murmurs Daisy admired this aspect or that of the feudal silhouette against the sky, admired the gardens, the sparkling odour of jonquils and the frothy odour of hawthorn and plum blossoms and the pale gold odour of kiss-me-at-the-gate. It was strange to reach the marble steps and find no stir of bright dresses in and out the door, and hear no sound but bird voices in the trees. And inside, as we wandered through Marie Antoinette music-rooms and Restoration Salons, I felt that there were guests concealed behind every couch and table, under orders | The Great Gatsby |
she explained, | No speaker | a fire or a flood,”<|quote|>she explained,</|quote|>“or any act of God.” | the garden. “In case there’s a fire or a flood,”<|quote|>she explained,</|quote|>“or any act of God.” Tom appeared from his oblivion | danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful, conservative foxtrot—I had never seen him dance before. Then they sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour, while at her request I remained watchfully in the garden. “In case there’s a fire or a flood,”<|quote|>she explained,</|quote|>“or any act of God.” Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper together. “Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?” he said. “A fellow’s getting off some funny stuff.” “Go ahead,” answered Daisy genially, “and if you want to take down | that man—what was his name?—with the sort of blue nose.” Gatsby identified him, adding that he was a small producer. “Well, I liked him anyhow.” “I’d a little rather not be the polo player,” said Tom pleasantly, “I’d rather look at all these famous people in—in oblivion.” Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful, conservative foxtrot—I had never seen him dance before. Then they sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour, while at her request I remained watchfully in the garden. “In case there’s a fire or a flood,”<|quote|>she explained,</|quote|>“or any act of God.” Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper together. “Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?” he said. “A fellow’s getting off some funny stuff.” “Go ahead,” answered Daisy genially, “and if you want to take down any addresses here’s my little gold pencil.” … She looked around after a moment and told me the girl was “common but pretty,” and I knew that except for the half-hour she’d been alone with Gatsby she wasn’t having a good time. We were at a particularly tipsy table. That | sat in state under a white-plum tree. Tom and Daisy stared, with that peculiarly unreal feeling that accompanies the recognition of a hitherto ghostly celebrity of the movies. “She’s lovely,” said Daisy. “The man bending over her is her director.” He took them ceremoniously from group to group: “Mrs. Buchanan … and Mr. Buchanan—” After an instant’s hesitation he added: “the polo player.” “Oh no,” objected Tom quickly, “not me.” But evidently the sound of it pleased Gatsby for Tom remained “the polo player” for the rest of the evening. “I’ve never met so many celebrities,” Daisy exclaimed. “I liked that man—what was his name?—with the sort of blue nose.” Gatsby identified him, adding that he was a small producer. “Well, I liked him anyhow.” “I’d a little rather not be the polo player,” said Tom pleasantly, “I’d rather look at all these famous people in—in oblivion.” Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful, conservative foxtrot—I had never seen him dance before. Then they sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour, while at her request I remained watchfully in the garden. “In case there’s a fire or a flood,”<|quote|>she explained,</|quote|>“or any act of God.” Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper together. “Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?” he said. “A fellow’s getting off some funny stuff.” “Go ahead,” answered Daisy genially, “and if you want to take down any addresses here’s my little gold pencil.” … She looked around after a moment and told me the girl was “common but pretty,” and I knew that except for the half-hour she’d been alone with Gatsby she wasn’t having a good time. We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault—Gatsby had been called to the phone, and I’d enjoyed these same people only two weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air now. “How do you feel, Miss Baedeker?” The girl addressed was trying, unsuccessfully, to slump against my shoulder. At this inquiry she sat up and opened her eyes. “Wha’?” A massive and lethargic woman, who had been urging Daisy to play golf with her at the local club tomorrow, spoke in Miss Baedeker’s defence: “Oh, she’s all right now. When she’s had five or six cocktails she always starts screaming | had merely grown used to it, grown to accept West Egg as a world complete in itself, with its own standards and its own great figures, second to nothing because it had no consciousness of being so, and now I was looking at it again, through Daisy’s eyes. It is invariably saddening to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment. They arrived at twilight, and, as we strolled out among the sparkling hundreds, Daisy’s voice was playing murmurous tricks in her throat. “These things excite me so,” she whispered. “If you want to kiss me any time during the evening, Nick, just let me know and I’ll be glad to arrange it for you. Just mention my name. Or present a green card. I’m giving out green—” “Look around,” suggested Gatsby. “I’m looking around. I’m having a marvellous—” “You must see the faces of many people you’ve heard about.” Tom’s arrogant eyes roamed the crowd. “We don’t go around very much,” he said; “in fact, I was just thinking I don’t know a soul here.” “Perhaps you know that lady.” Gatsby indicated a gorgeous, scarcely human orchid of a woman who sat in state under a white-plum tree. Tom and Daisy stared, with that peculiarly unreal feeling that accompanies the recognition of a hitherto ghostly celebrity of the movies. “She’s lovely,” said Daisy. “The man bending over her is her director.” He took them ceremoniously from group to group: “Mrs. Buchanan … and Mr. Buchanan—” After an instant’s hesitation he added: “the polo player.” “Oh no,” objected Tom quickly, “not me.” But evidently the sound of it pleased Gatsby for Tom remained “the polo player” for the rest of the evening. “I’ve never met so many celebrities,” Daisy exclaimed. “I liked that man—what was his name?—with the sort of blue nose.” Gatsby identified him, adding that he was a small producer. “Well, I liked him anyhow.” “I’d a little rather not be the polo player,” said Tom pleasantly, “I’d rather look at all these famous people in—in oblivion.” Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful, conservative foxtrot—I had never seen him dance before. Then they sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour, while at her request I remained watchfully in the garden. “In case there’s a fire or a flood,”<|quote|>she explained,</|quote|>“or any act of God.” Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper together. “Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?” he said. “A fellow’s getting off some funny stuff.” “Go ahead,” answered Daisy genially, “and if you want to take down any addresses here’s my little gold pencil.” … She looked around after a moment and told me the girl was “common but pretty,” and I knew that except for the half-hour she’d been alone with Gatsby she wasn’t having a good time. We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault—Gatsby had been called to the phone, and I’d enjoyed these same people only two weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air now. “How do you feel, Miss Baedeker?” The girl addressed was trying, unsuccessfully, to slump against my shoulder. At this inquiry she sat up and opened her eyes. “Wha’?” A massive and lethargic woman, who had been urging Daisy to play golf with her at the local club tomorrow, spoke in Miss Baedeker’s defence: “Oh, she’s all right now. When she’s had five or six cocktails she always starts screaming like that. I tell her she ought to leave it alone.” “I do leave it alone,” affirmed the accused hollowly. “We heard you yelling, so I said to Doc Civet here: ‘There’s somebody that needs your help, Doc.’ ” “She’s much obliged, I’m sure,” said another friend, without gratitude, “but you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in the pool.” “Anything I hate is to get my head stuck in a pool,” mumbled Miss Baedeker. “They almost drowned me once over in New Jersey.” “Then you ought to leave it alone,” countered Doctor Civet. “Speak for yourself!” cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Your hand shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!” It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with Daisy and watching the moving-picture director and his Star. They were still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree and kiss at her cheek. “I like her,” said Daisy, “I | wouldn’t be surprised if some other people dropped in from New York.” “You come to supper with me,” said the lady enthusiastically. “Both of you.” This included me. Mr. Sloane got to his feet. “Come along,” he said—but to her only. “I mean it,” she insisted. “I’d love to have you. Lots of room.” Gatsby looked at me questioningly. He wanted to go and he didn’t see that Mr. Sloane had determined he shouldn’t. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” I said. “Well, you come,” she urged, concentrating on Gatsby. Mr. Sloane murmured something close to her ear. “We won’t be late if we start now,” she insisted aloud. “I haven’t got a horse,” said Gatsby. “I used to ride in the army, but I’ve never bought a horse. I’ll have to follow you in my car. Excuse me for just a minute.” The rest of us walked out on the porch, where Sloane and the lady began an impassioned conversation aside. “My God, I believe the man’s coming,” said Tom. “Doesn’t he know she doesn’t want him?” “She says she does want him.” “She has a big dinner party and he won’t know a soul there.” He frowned. “I wonder where in the devil he met Daisy. By God, I may be old-fashioned in my ideas, but women run around too much these days to suit me. They meet all kinds of crazy fish.” Suddenly Mr. Sloane and the lady walked down the steps and mounted their horses. “Come on,” said Mr. Sloane to Tom, “we’re late. We’ve got to go.” And then to me: “Tell him we couldn’t wait, will you?” Tom and I shook hands, the rest of us exchanged a cool nod, and they trotted quickly down the drive, disappearing under the August foliage just as Gatsby, with hat and light overcoat in hand, came out the front door. Tom was evidently perturbed at Daisy’s running around alone, for on the following Saturday night he came with her to Gatsby’s party. Perhaps his presence gave the evening its peculiar quality of oppressiveness—it stands out in my memory from Gatsby’s other parties that summer. There were the same people, or at least the same sort of people, the same profusion of champagne, the same many-coloured, many-keyed commotion, but I felt an unpleasantness in the air, a pervading harshness that hadn’t been there before. Or perhaps I had merely grown used to it, grown to accept West Egg as a world complete in itself, with its own standards and its own great figures, second to nothing because it had no consciousness of being so, and now I was looking at it again, through Daisy’s eyes. It is invariably saddening to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment. They arrived at twilight, and, as we strolled out among the sparkling hundreds, Daisy’s voice was playing murmurous tricks in her throat. “These things excite me so,” she whispered. “If you want to kiss me any time during the evening, Nick, just let me know and I’ll be glad to arrange it for you. Just mention my name. Or present a green card. I’m giving out green—” “Look around,” suggested Gatsby. “I’m looking around. I’m having a marvellous—” “You must see the faces of many people you’ve heard about.” Tom’s arrogant eyes roamed the crowd. “We don’t go around very much,” he said; “in fact, I was just thinking I don’t know a soul here.” “Perhaps you know that lady.” Gatsby indicated a gorgeous, scarcely human orchid of a woman who sat in state under a white-plum tree. Tom and Daisy stared, with that peculiarly unreal feeling that accompanies the recognition of a hitherto ghostly celebrity of the movies. “She’s lovely,” said Daisy. “The man bending over her is her director.” He took them ceremoniously from group to group: “Mrs. Buchanan … and Mr. Buchanan—” After an instant’s hesitation he added: “the polo player.” “Oh no,” objected Tom quickly, “not me.” But evidently the sound of it pleased Gatsby for Tom remained “the polo player” for the rest of the evening. “I’ve never met so many celebrities,” Daisy exclaimed. “I liked that man—what was his name?—with the sort of blue nose.” Gatsby identified him, adding that he was a small producer. “Well, I liked him anyhow.” “I’d a little rather not be the polo player,” said Tom pleasantly, “I’d rather look at all these famous people in—in oblivion.” Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful, conservative foxtrot—I had never seen him dance before. Then they sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour, while at her request I remained watchfully in the garden. “In case there’s a fire or a flood,”<|quote|>she explained,</|quote|>“or any act of God.” Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper together. “Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?” he said. “A fellow’s getting off some funny stuff.” “Go ahead,” answered Daisy genially, “and if you want to take down any addresses here’s my little gold pencil.” … She looked around after a moment and told me the girl was “common but pretty,” and I knew that except for the half-hour she’d been alone with Gatsby she wasn’t having a good time. We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault—Gatsby had been called to the phone, and I’d enjoyed these same people only two weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air now. “How do you feel, Miss Baedeker?” The girl addressed was trying, unsuccessfully, to slump against my shoulder. At this inquiry she sat up and opened her eyes. “Wha’?” A massive and lethargic woman, who had been urging Daisy to play golf with her at the local club tomorrow, spoke in Miss Baedeker’s defence: “Oh, she’s all right now. When she’s had five or six cocktails she always starts screaming like that. I tell her she ought to leave it alone.” “I do leave it alone,” affirmed the accused hollowly. “We heard you yelling, so I said to Doc Civet here: ‘There’s somebody that needs your help, Doc.’ ” “She’s much obliged, I’m sure,” said another friend, without gratitude, “but you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in the pool.” “Anything I hate is to get my head stuck in a pool,” mumbled Miss Baedeker. “They almost drowned me once over in New Jersey.” “Then you ought to leave it alone,” countered Doctor Civet. “Speak for yourself!” cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Your hand shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!” It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with Daisy and watching the moving-picture director and his Star. They were still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree and kiss at her cheek. “I like her,” said Daisy, “I think she’s lovely.” But the rest offended her—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented “place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand. I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an invisible glass. “Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?” “Where’d you hear that?” I inquired. “I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.” “Not Gatsby,” I said shortly. He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet. “Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.” A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar. “At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said with an effort. “You didn’t look so interested.” “Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me. “Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?” Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,” she said suddenly. “That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.” “I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.” “I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.” The | arrange it for you. Just mention my name. Or present a green card. I’m giving out green—” “Look around,” suggested Gatsby. “I’m looking around. I’m having a marvellous—” “You must see the faces of many people you’ve heard about.” Tom’s arrogant eyes roamed the crowd. “We don’t go around very much,” he said; “in fact, I was just thinking I don’t know a soul here.” “Perhaps you know that lady.” Gatsby indicated a gorgeous, scarcely human orchid of a woman who sat in state under a white-plum tree. Tom and Daisy stared, with that peculiarly unreal feeling that accompanies the recognition of a hitherto ghostly celebrity of the movies. “She’s lovely,” said Daisy. “The man bending over her is her director.” He took them ceremoniously from group to group: “Mrs. Buchanan … and Mr. Buchanan—” After an instant’s hesitation he added: “the polo player.” “Oh no,” objected Tom quickly, “not me.” But evidently the sound of it pleased Gatsby for Tom remained “the polo player” for the rest of the evening. “I’ve never met so many celebrities,” Daisy exclaimed. “I liked that man—what was his name?—with the sort of blue nose.” Gatsby identified him, adding that he was a small producer. “Well, I liked him anyhow.” “I’d a little rather not be the polo player,” said Tom pleasantly, “I’d rather look at all these famous people in—in oblivion.” Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful, conservative foxtrot—I had never seen him dance before. Then they sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour, while at her request I remained watchfully in the garden. “In case there’s a fire or a flood,”<|quote|>she explained,</|quote|>“or any act of God.” Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper together. “Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?” he said. “A fellow’s getting off some funny stuff.” “Go ahead,” answered Daisy genially, “and if you want to take down any addresses here’s my little gold pencil.” … She looked around after a moment and told me the girl was “common but pretty,” and I knew that except for the half-hour she’d been alone with Gatsby she wasn’t having a good time. We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault—Gatsby had been called to the phone, and I’d enjoyed these same people only two weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air now. “How do you feel, Miss Baedeker?” The girl addressed was trying, unsuccessfully, to slump against my shoulder. At this inquiry she sat up and opened her eyes. “Wha’?” A massive and lethargic woman, who had been urging Daisy to play golf with her at the local club tomorrow, spoke in Miss Baedeker’s defence: “Oh, she’s all right now. When she’s had five or six cocktails she always starts screaming like that. I tell her she ought to leave it alone.” “I do leave it alone,” affirmed the accused hollowly. “We heard you yelling, so I said to Doc Civet here: ‘There’s somebody that needs your help, Doc.’ ” “She’s much obliged, I’m sure,” said another friend, without gratitude, “but you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in the pool.” “Anything I hate is to get my head stuck in a pool,” mumbled Miss Baedeker. “They almost drowned me once over in New Jersey.” “Then you ought to leave it alone,” countered Doctor Civet. “Speak for yourself!” cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Your hand shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!” It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with Daisy and watching the moving-picture director and his Star. They were still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree and kiss at her cheek. “I like her,” said Daisy, “I think she’s lovely.” But the rest offended her—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented “place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand. I sat | The Great Gatsby |
he said with soothing gruffness. Wilson’s eyes fell upon Tom; he started up on his tiptoes and then would have collapsed to his knees had not Tom held him upright. | No speaker | got to pull yourself together,”<|quote|>he said with soothing gruffness. Wilson’s eyes fell upon Tom; he started up on his tiptoes and then would have collapsed to his knees had not Tom held him upright.</|quote|>“Listen,” said Tom, shaking him | by the upper arms. “You’ve got to pull yourself together,”<|quote|>he said with soothing gruffness. Wilson’s eyes fell upon Tom; he started up on his tiptoes and then would have collapsed to his knees had not Tom held him upright.</|quote|>“Listen,” said Tom, shaking him a little. “I just got | was! I know what kind of car it was!” Watching Tom, I saw the wad of muscle back of his shoulder tighten under his coat. He walked quickly over to Wilson and, standing in front of him, seized him firmly by the upper arms. “You’ve got to pull yourself together,”<|quote|>he said with soothing gruffness. Wilson’s eyes fell upon Tom; he started up on his tiptoes and then would have collapsed to his knees had not Tom held him upright.</|quote|>“Listen,” said Tom, shaking him a little. “I just got here a minute ago, from New York. I was bringing you that coupé we’ve been talking about. That yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn’t mine—do you hear? I haven’t seen it all afternoon.” Only the negro and I | and let’s have your name. Look out now. I want to get his name.” Some words of this conversation must have reached Wilson, swaying in the office door, for suddenly a new theme found voice among his grasping cries: “You don’t have to tell me what kind of car it was! I know what kind of car it was!” Watching Tom, I saw the wad of muscle back of his shoulder tighten under his coat. He walked quickly over to Wilson and, standing in front of him, seized him firmly by the upper arms. “You’ve got to pull yourself together,”<|quote|>he said with soothing gruffness. Wilson’s eyes fell upon Tom; he started up on his tiptoes and then would have collapsed to his knees had not Tom held him upright.</|quote|>“Listen,” said Tom, shaking him a little. “I just got here a minute ago, from New York. I was bringing you that coupé we’ve been talking about. That yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn’t mine—do you hear? I haven’t seen it all afternoon.” Only the negro and I were near enough to hear what he said, but the policeman caught something in the tone and looked over with truculent eyes. “What’s all that?” he demanded. “I’m a friend of his.” Tom turned his head but kept his hands firm on Wilson’s body. “He says he knows the car | where?” asked the policeman keenly. “One goin’ each way. Well, she” —his hand rose toward the blankets but stopped halfway and fell to his side— “she ran out there an’ the one comin’ from N’York knock right into her, goin’ thirty or forty miles an hour.” “What’s the name of this place here?” demanded the officer. “Hasn’t got any name.” A pale well-dressed negro stepped near. “It was a yellow car,” he said, “big yellow car. New.” “See the accident?” asked the policeman. “No, but the car passed me down the road, going faster’n forty. Going fifty, sixty.” “Come here and let’s have your name. Look out now. I want to get his name.” Some words of this conversation must have reached Wilson, swaying in the office door, for suddenly a new theme found voice among his grasping cries: “You don’t have to tell me what kind of car it was! I know what kind of car it was!” Watching Tom, I saw the wad of muscle back of his shoulder tighten under his coat. He walked quickly over to Wilson and, standing in front of him, seized him firmly by the upper arms. “You’ve got to pull yourself together,”<|quote|>he said with soothing gruffness. Wilson’s eyes fell upon Tom; he started up on his tiptoes and then would have collapsed to his knees had not Tom held him upright.</|quote|>“Listen,” said Tom, shaking him a little. “I just got here a minute ago, from New York. I was bringing you that coupé we’ve been talking about. That yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn’t mine—do you hear? I haven’t seen it all afternoon.” Only the negro and I were near enough to hear what he said, but the policeman caught something in the tone and looked over with truculent eyes. “What’s all that?” he demanded. “I’m a friend of his.” Tom turned his head but kept his hands firm on Wilson’s body. “He says he knows the car that did it … It was a yellow car.” Some dim impulse moved the policeman to look suspiciously at Tom. “And what colour’s your car?” “It’s a blue car, a coupé.” “We’ve come straight from New York,” I said. Someone who had been driving a little behind us confirmed this, and the policeman turned away. “Now, if you’ll let me have that name again correct—” Picking up Wilson like a doll, Tom carried him into the office, set him down in a chair, and came back. “If somebody’ll come here and sit with him,” he snapped authoritatively. He watched while | saw Wilson standing on the raised threshold of his office, swaying back and forth and holding to the doorposts with both hands. Some man was talking to him in a low voice and attempting, from time to time, to lay a hand on his shoulder, but Wilson neither heard nor saw. His eyes would drop slowly from the swinging light to the laden table by the wall, and then jerk back to the light again, and he gave out incessantly his high, horrible call: “Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od!” Presently Tom lifted his head with a jerk and, after staring around the garage with glazed eyes, addressed a mumbled incoherent remark to the policeman. “M-a-v—” the policeman was saying, “—o—” “No, r—” corrected the man, “M-a-v-r-o—” “Listen to me!” muttered Tom fiercely. “r—” said the policeman, “o—” “g—” “g—” He looked up as Tom’s broad hand fell sharply on his shoulder. “What you want, fella?” “What happened?—that’s what I want to know.” “Auto hit her. Ins’antly killed.” “Instantly killed,” repeated Tom, staring. “She ran out ina road. Son-of-a-bitch didn’t even stopus car.” “There was two cars,” said Michaelis, “one comin’, one goin’, see?” “Going where?” asked the policeman keenly. “One goin’ each way. Well, she” —his hand rose toward the blankets but stopped halfway and fell to his side— “she ran out there an’ the one comin’ from N’York knock right into her, goin’ thirty or forty miles an hour.” “What’s the name of this place here?” demanded the officer. “Hasn’t got any name.” A pale well-dressed negro stepped near. “It was a yellow car,” he said, “big yellow car. New.” “See the accident?” asked the policeman. “No, but the car passed me down the road, going faster’n forty. Going fifty, sixty.” “Come here and let’s have your name. Look out now. I want to get his name.” Some words of this conversation must have reached Wilson, swaying in the office door, for suddenly a new theme found voice among his grasping cries: “You don’t have to tell me what kind of car it was! I know what kind of car it was!” Watching Tom, I saw the wad of muscle back of his shoulder tighten under his coat. He walked quickly over to Wilson and, standing in front of him, seized him firmly by the upper arms. “You’ve got to pull yourself together,”<|quote|>he said with soothing gruffness. Wilson’s eyes fell upon Tom; he started up on his tiptoes and then would have collapsed to his knees had not Tom held him upright.</|quote|>“Listen,” said Tom, shaking him a little. “I just got here a minute ago, from New York. I was bringing you that coupé we’ve been talking about. That yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn’t mine—do you hear? I haven’t seen it all afternoon.” Only the negro and I were near enough to hear what he said, but the policeman caught something in the tone and looked over with truculent eyes. “What’s all that?” he demanded. “I’m a friend of his.” Tom turned his head but kept his hands firm on Wilson’s body. “He says he knows the car that did it … It was a yellow car.” Some dim impulse moved the policeman to look suspiciously at Tom. “And what colour’s your car?” “It’s a blue car, a coupé.” “We’ve come straight from New York,” I said. Someone who had been driving a little behind us confirmed this, and the policeman turned away. “Now, if you’ll let me have that name again correct—” Picking up Wilson like a doll, Tom carried him into the office, set him down in a chair, and came back. “If somebody’ll come here and sit with him,” he snapped authoritatively. He watched while the two men standing closest glanced at each other and went unwillingly into the room. Then Tom shut the door on them and came down the single step, his eyes avoiding the table. As he passed close to me he whispered: “Let’s get out.” Self-consciously, with his authoritative arms breaking the way, we pushed through the still gathering crowd, passing a hurried doctor, case in hand, who had been sent for in wild hope half an hour ago. Tom drove slowly until we were beyond the bend—then his foot came down hard, and the coupé raced along through the night. In a little while I heard a low husky sob, and saw that the tears were overflowing down his face. “The God damned coward!” he whimpered. “He didn’t even stop his car.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Buchanans’ house floated suddenly toward us through the dark rustling trees. Tom stopped beside the porch and looked up at the second floor, where two windows bloomed with light among the vines. “Daisy’s home,” he said. As we got out of the car he glanced at me and frowned slightly. “I ought to have dropped you in West Egg, Nick. There’s nothing we can do tonight.” | to rest a hundred yards beyond, and its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson, her life violently extinguished, knelt in the road and mingled her thick dark blood with the dust. Michaelis and this man reached her first, but when they had torn open her shirtwaist, still damp with perspiration, they saw that her left breast was swinging loose like a flap, and there was no need to listen for the heart beneath. The mouth was wide open and ripped a little at the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the tremendous vitality she had stored so long. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ We saw the three or four automobiles and the crowd when we were still some distance away. “Wreck!” said Tom. “That’s good. Wilson’ll have a little business at last.” He slowed down, but still without any intention of stopping, until, as we came nearer, the hushed, intent faces of the people at the garage door made him automatically put on the brakes. “We’ll take a look,” he said doubtfully, “just a look.” I became aware now of a hollow, wailing sound which issued incessantly from the garage, a sound which as we got out of the coupé and walked toward the door resolved itself into the words “Oh, my God!” uttered over and over in a gasping moan. “There’s some bad trouble here,” said Tom excitedly. He reached up on tiptoes and peered over a circle of heads into the garage, which was lit only by a yellow light in a swinging metal basket overhead. Then he made a harsh sound in his throat, and with a violent thrusting movement of his powerful arms pushed his way through. The circle closed up again with a running murmur of expostulation; it was a minute before I could see anything at all. Then new arrivals deranged the line, and Jordan and I were pushed suddenly inside. Myrtle Wilson’s body, wrapped in a blanket, and then in another blanket, as though she suffered from a chill in the hot night, lay on a worktable by the wall, and Tom, with his back to us, was bending over it, motionless. Next to him stood a motorcycle policeman taking down names with much sweat and correction in a little book. At first I couldn’t find the source of the high, groaning words that echoed clamorously through the bare garage—then I saw Wilson standing on the raised threshold of his office, swaying back and forth and holding to the doorposts with both hands. Some man was talking to him in a low voice and attempting, from time to time, to lay a hand on his shoulder, but Wilson neither heard nor saw. His eyes would drop slowly from the swinging light to the laden table by the wall, and then jerk back to the light again, and he gave out incessantly his high, horrible call: “Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od!” Presently Tom lifted his head with a jerk and, after staring around the garage with glazed eyes, addressed a mumbled incoherent remark to the policeman. “M-a-v—” the policeman was saying, “—o—” “No, r—” corrected the man, “M-a-v-r-o—” “Listen to me!” muttered Tom fiercely. “r—” said the policeman, “o—” “g—” “g—” He looked up as Tom’s broad hand fell sharply on his shoulder. “What you want, fella?” “What happened?—that’s what I want to know.” “Auto hit her. Ins’antly killed.” “Instantly killed,” repeated Tom, staring. “She ran out ina road. Son-of-a-bitch didn’t even stopus car.” “There was two cars,” said Michaelis, “one comin’, one goin’, see?” “Going where?” asked the policeman keenly. “One goin’ each way. Well, she” —his hand rose toward the blankets but stopped halfway and fell to his side— “she ran out there an’ the one comin’ from N’York knock right into her, goin’ thirty or forty miles an hour.” “What’s the name of this place here?” demanded the officer. “Hasn’t got any name.” A pale well-dressed negro stepped near. “It was a yellow car,” he said, “big yellow car. New.” “See the accident?” asked the policeman. “No, but the car passed me down the road, going faster’n forty. Going fifty, sixty.” “Come here and let’s have your name. Look out now. I want to get his name.” Some words of this conversation must have reached Wilson, swaying in the office door, for suddenly a new theme found voice among his grasping cries: “You don’t have to tell me what kind of car it was! I know what kind of car it was!” Watching Tom, I saw the wad of muscle back of his shoulder tighten under his coat. He walked quickly over to Wilson and, standing in front of him, seized him firmly by the upper arms. “You’ve got to pull yourself together,”<|quote|>he said with soothing gruffness. Wilson’s eyes fell upon Tom; he started up on his tiptoes and then would have collapsed to his knees had not Tom held him upright.</|quote|>“Listen,” said Tom, shaking him a little. “I just got here a minute ago, from New York. I was bringing you that coupé we’ve been talking about. That yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn’t mine—do you hear? I haven’t seen it all afternoon.” Only the negro and I were near enough to hear what he said, but the policeman caught something in the tone and looked over with truculent eyes. “What’s all that?” he demanded. “I’m a friend of his.” Tom turned his head but kept his hands firm on Wilson’s body. “He says he knows the car that did it … It was a yellow car.” Some dim impulse moved the policeman to look suspiciously at Tom. “And what colour’s your car?” “It’s a blue car, a coupé.” “We’ve come straight from New York,” I said. Someone who had been driving a little behind us confirmed this, and the policeman turned away. “Now, if you’ll let me have that name again correct—” Picking up Wilson like a doll, Tom carried him into the office, set him down in a chair, and came back. “If somebody’ll come here and sit with him,” he snapped authoritatively. He watched while the two men standing closest glanced at each other and went unwillingly into the room. Then Tom shut the door on them and came down the single step, his eyes avoiding the table. As he passed close to me he whispered: “Let’s get out.” Self-consciously, with his authoritative arms breaking the way, we pushed through the still gathering crowd, passing a hurried doctor, case in hand, who had been sent for in wild hope half an hour ago. Tom drove slowly until we were beyond the bend—then his foot came down hard, and the coupé raced along through the night. In a little while I heard a low husky sob, and saw that the tears were overflowing down his face. “The God damned coward!” he whimpered. “He didn’t even stop his car.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Buchanans’ house floated suddenly toward us through the dark rustling trees. Tom stopped beside the porch and looked up at the second floor, where two windows bloomed with light among the vines. “Daisy’s home,” he said. As we got out of the car he glanced at me and frowned slightly. “I ought to have dropped you in West Egg, Nick. There’s nothing we can do tonight.” A change had come over him, and he spoke gravely, and with decision. As we walked across the moonlight gravel to the porch he disposed of the situation in a few brisk phrases. “I’ll telephone for a taxi to take you home, and while you’re waiting you and Jordan better go in the kitchen and have them get you some supper—if you want any.” He opened the door. “Come in.” “No, thanks. But I’d be glad if you’d order me the taxi. I’ll wait outside.” Jordan put her hand on my arm. “Won’t you come in, Nick?” “No, thanks.” I was feeling a little sick and I wanted to be alone. But Jordan lingered for a moment more. “It’s only half-past nine,” she said. I’d be damned if I’d go in; I’d had enough of all of them for one day, and suddenly that included Jordan too. She must have seen something of this in my expression, for she turned abruptly away and ran up the porch steps into the house. I sat down for a few minutes with my head in my hands, until I heard the phone taken up inside and the butler’s voice calling a taxi. Then I walked slowly down the drive away from the house, intending to wait by the gate. I hadn’t gone twenty yards when I heard my name and Gatsby stepped from between two bushes into the path. I must have felt pretty weird by that time, because I could think of nothing except the luminosity of his pink suit under the moon. “What are you doing?” I inquired. “Just standing here, old sport.” Somehow, that seemed a despicable occupation. For all I knew he was going to rob the house in a moment; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sinister faces, the faces of “Wolfshiem’s people,” behind him in the dark shrubbery. “Did you see any trouble on the road?” he asked after a minute. “Yes.” He hesitated. “Was she killed?” “Yes.” “I thought so; I told Daisy I thought so. It’s better that the shock should all come at once. She stood it pretty well.” He spoke as if Daisy’s reaction was the only thing that mattered. “I got to West Egg by a side road,” he went on, “and left the car in my garage. I don’t think anybody saw us, but of course I can’t be sure.” | overhead. Then he made a harsh sound in his throat, and with a violent thrusting movement of his powerful arms pushed his way through. The circle closed up again with a running murmur of expostulation; it was a minute before I could see anything at all. Then new arrivals deranged the line, and Jordan and I were pushed suddenly inside. Myrtle Wilson’s body, wrapped in a blanket, and then in another blanket, as though she suffered from a chill in the hot night, lay on a worktable by the wall, and Tom, with his back to us, was bending over it, motionless. Next to him stood a motorcycle policeman taking down names with much sweat and correction in a little book. At first I couldn’t find the source of the high, groaning words that echoed clamorously through the bare garage—then I saw Wilson standing on the raised threshold of his office, swaying back and forth and holding to the doorposts with both hands. Some man was talking to him in a low voice and attempting, from time to time, to lay a hand on his shoulder, but Wilson neither heard nor saw. His eyes would drop slowly from the swinging light to the laden table by the wall, and then jerk back to the light again, and he gave out incessantly his high, horrible call: “Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od!” Presently Tom lifted his head with a jerk and, after staring around the garage with glazed eyes, addressed a mumbled incoherent remark to the policeman. “M-a-v—” the policeman was saying, “—o—” “No, r—” corrected the man, “M-a-v-r-o—” “Listen to me!” muttered Tom fiercely. “r—” said the policeman, “o—” “g—” “g—” He looked up as Tom’s broad hand fell sharply on his shoulder. “What you want, fella?” “What happened?—that’s what I want to know.” “Auto hit her. Ins’antly killed.” “Instantly killed,” repeated Tom, staring. “She ran out ina road. Son-of-a-bitch didn’t even stopus car.” “There was two cars,” said Michaelis, “one comin’, one goin’, see?” “Going where?” asked the policeman keenly. “One goin’ each way. Well, she” —his hand rose toward the blankets but stopped halfway and fell to his side— “she ran out there an’ the one comin’ from N’York knock right into her, goin’ thirty or forty miles an hour.” “What’s the name of this place here?” demanded the officer. “Hasn’t got any name.” A pale well-dressed negro stepped near. “It was a yellow car,” he said, “big yellow car. New.” “See the accident?” asked the policeman. “No, but the car passed me down the road, going faster’n forty. Going fifty, sixty.” “Come here and let’s have your name. Look out now. I want to get his name.” Some words of this conversation must have reached Wilson, swaying in the office door, for suddenly a new theme found voice among his grasping cries: “You don’t have to tell me what kind of car it was! I know what kind of car it was!” Watching Tom, I saw the wad of muscle back of his shoulder tighten under his coat. He walked quickly over to Wilson and, standing in front of him, seized him firmly by the upper arms. “You’ve got to pull yourself together,”<|quote|>he said with soothing gruffness. Wilson’s eyes fell upon Tom; he started up on his tiptoes and then would have collapsed to his knees had not Tom held him upright.</|quote|>“Listen,” said Tom, shaking him a little. “I just got here a minute ago, from New York. I was bringing you that coupé we’ve been talking about. That yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn’t mine—do you hear? I haven’t seen it all afternoon.” Only the negro and I were near enough to hear what he said, but the policeman caught something in the tone and looked over with truculent eyes. “What’s all that?” he demanded. “I’m a friend of his.” Tom turned his head but kept his hands firm on Wilson’s body. “He says he knows the car that did it … It was a yellow car.” Some dim impulse moved the policeman to look suspiciously at Tom. “And what colour’s your car?” “It’s a blue car, a coupé.” “We’ve come straight from New York,” I said. Someone who had been driving a little behind us confirmed this, and the policeman turned away. “Now, if you’ll let me have that name again correct—” Picking up Wilson like a doll, Tom carried him into the office, set him down in a chair, and came back. “If somebody’ll come here and sit with him,” he snapped authoritatively. He watched while the two men standing closest glanced at each other and went unwillingly into the room. Then Tom shut the door on them and came down the single step, his eyes avoiding the table. As he passed close to me he whispered: “Let’s get out.” Self-consciously, with his authoritative arms breaking the way, we pushed through the still gathering crowd, passing a hurried doctor, case in hand, who had been sent for in wild hope half an hour ago. Tom drove slowly until we were beyond the bend—then his foot came down hard, and the coupé raced along through the night. In a little while I heard a low husky sob, and saw that the tears were overflowing down his face. “The God damned coward!” he whimpered. “He didn’t even stop his car.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Buchanans’ house floated suddenly toward us through the dark rustling trees. Tom stopped beside the porch and looked up at the second floor, where two windows bloomed with light among the vines. “Daisy’s home,” he said. As we got out of the car he glanced at me and frowned slightly. “I ought to have dropped you in West Egg, Nick. There’s nothing we can do tonight.” A change had come over him, and he spoke gravely, and with decision. As we walked across the moonlight gravel to the porch he disposed of the situation in a few brisk phrases. “I’ll telephone for a taxi to take you home, and while you’re waiting | The Great Gatsby |
How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and stealing out, with noiseless footstep, to the staircase, listen for the slightest sound from the sick chamber! How often did a tremble shake his frame, and cold drops of terror start upon his brow, when a sudden trampling of feet caused him to fear that something too dreadful to think of, had even then occurred! And what had been the fervency of all the prayers he had ever muttered, compared with those he poured forth, now, in the agony and passion of his supplication for the life and health of the gentle creature, who was tottering on the deep grave's verge! Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance! Oh! the racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat violently, and the breath come thick, by the force of the images they conjure up before it; the desperate anxiety _to be doing something_ to relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to alleviate; the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what reflections or endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of the time, allay them! Morning came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke in whispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to time; women and children went away in tears. All the livelong day, and for hours after it had grown dark, Oliver paced softly up and down the garden, raising his eyes every instant to the sick chamber, and shuddering to see the darkened window, looking as if death lay stretched inside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived. | No speaker | a miracle, if she recovered."<|quote|>How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and stealing out, with noiseless footstep, to the staircase, listen for the slightest sound from the sick chamber! How often did a tremble shake his frame, and cold drops of terror start upon his brow, when a sudden trampling of feet caused him to fear that something too dreadful to think of, had even then occurred! And what had been the fervency of all the prayers he had ever muttered, compared with those he poured forth, now, in the agony and passion of his supplication for the life and health of the gentle creature, who was tottering on the deep grave's verge! Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance! Oh! the racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat violently, and the breath come thick, by the force of the images they conjure up before it; the desperate anxiety _to be doing something_ to relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to alleviate; the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what reflections or endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of the time, allay them! Morning came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke in whispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to time; women and children went away in tears. All the livelong day, and for hours after it had grown dark, Oliver paced softly up and down the garden, raising his eyes every instant to the sick chamber, and shuddering to see the darkened window, looking as if death lay stretched inside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived.</|quote|>"It is hard," said the | would be little short of a miracle, if she recovered."<|quote|>How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and stealing out, with noiseless footstep, to the staircase, listen for the slightest sound from the sick chamber! How often did a tremble shake his frame, and cold drops of terror start upon his brow, when a sudden trampling of feet caused him to fear that something too dreadful to think of, had even then occurred! And what had been the fervency of all the prayers he had ever muttered, compared with those he poured forth, now, in the agony and passion of his supplication for the life and health of the gentle creature, who was tottering on the deep grave's verge! Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance! Oh! the racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat violently, and the breath come thick, by the force of the images they conjure up before it; the desperate anxiety _to be doing something_ to relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to alleviate; the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what reflections or endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of the time, allay them! Morning came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke in whispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to time; women and children went away in tears. All the livelong day, and for hours after it had grown dark, Oliver paced softly up and down the garden, raising his eyes every instant to the sick chamber, and shuddering to see the darkened window, looking as if death lay stretched inside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived.</|quote|>"It is hard," said the good doctor, turning away as | who resided on the spot, was in constant attendance upon her; and after first seeing the patient, he had taken Mrs. Maylie aside, and pronounced her disorder to be one of a most alarming nature. "In fact," he said, "it would be little short of a miracle, if she recovered."<|quote|>How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and stealing out, with noiseless footstep, to the staircase, listen for the slightest sound from the sick chamber! How often did a tremble shake his frame, and cold drops of terror start upon his brow, when a sudden trampling of feet caused him to fear that something too dreadful to think of, had even then occurred! And what had been the fervency of all the prayers he had ever muttered, compared with those he poured forth, now, in the agony and passion of his supplication for the life and health of the gentle creature, who was tottering on the deep grave's verge! Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance! Oh! the racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat violently, and the breath come thick, by the force of the images they conjure up before it; the desperate anxiety _to be doing something_ to relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to alleviate; the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what reflections or endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of the time, allay them! Morning came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke in whispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to time; women and children went away in tears. All the livelong day, and for hours after it had grown dark, Oliver paced softly up and down the garden, raising his eyes every instant to the sick chamber, and shuddering to see the darkened window, looking as if death lay stretched inside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived.</|quote|>"It is hard," said the good doctor, turning away as he spoke; "so young; so much beloved; but there is very little hope." Another morning. The sun shone brightly; as brightly as if it looked upon no misery or care; and, with every leaf and flower in full bloom about | just parted. The circumstance did not dwell in his recollection long, however: for when he reached the cottage, there was enough to occupy his mind, and to drive all considerations of self completely from his memory. Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse; before mid-night she was delirious. A medical practitioner, who resided on the spot, was in constant attendance upon her; and after first seeing the patient, he had taken Mrs. Maylie aside, and pronounced her disorder to be one of a most alarming nature. "In fact," he said, "it would be little short of a miracle, if she recovered."<|quote|>How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and stealing out, with noiseless footstep, to the staircase, listen for the slightest sound from the sick chamber! How often did a tremble shake his frame, and cold drops of terror start upon his brow, when a sudden trampling of feet caused him to fear that something too dreadful to think of, had even then occurred! And what had been the fervency of all the prayers he had ever muttered, compared with those he poured forth, now, in the agony and passion of his supplication for the life and health of the gentle creature, who was tottering on the deep grave's verge! Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance! Oh! the racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat violently, and the breath come thick, by the force of the images they conjure up before it; the desperate anxiety _to be doing something_ to relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to alleviate; the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what reflections or endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of the time, allay them! Morning came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke in whispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to time; women and children went away in tears. All the livelong day, and for hours after it had grown dark, Oliver paced softly up and down the garden, raising his eyes every instant to the sick chamber, and shuddering to see the darkened window, looking as if death lay stretched inside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived.</|quote|>"It is hard," said the good doctor, turning away as he spoke; "so young; so much beloved; but there is very little hope." Another morning. The sun shone brightly; as brightly as if it looked upon no misery or care; and, with every leaf and flower in full bloom about her; with life, and health, and sounds and sights of joy, surrounding her on every side: the fair young creature lay, wasting fast. Oliver crept away to the old churchyard, and sitting down on one of the green mounds, wept and prayed for her, in silence. There was such peace | incoherently. He advanced towards Oliver, as if with the intention of aiming a blow at him, but fell violently on the ground: writhing and foaming, in a fit. Oliver gazed, for a moment, at the struggles of the madman (for such he supposed him to be); and then darted into the house for help. Having seen him safely carried into the hotel, he turned his face homewards, running as fast as he could, to make up for lost time: and recalling with a great deal of astonishment and some fear, the extraordinary behaviour of the person from whom he had just parted. The circumstance did not dwell in his recollection long, however: for when he reached the cottage, there was enough to occupy his mind, and to drive all considerations of self completely from his memory. Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse; before mid-night she was delirious. A medical practitioner, who resided on the spot, was in constant attendance upon her; and after first seeing the patient, he had taken Mrs. Maylie aside, and pronounced her disorder to be one of a most alarming nature. "In fact," he said, "it would be little short of a miracle, if she recovered."<|quote|>How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and stealing out, with noiseless footstep, to the staircase, listen for the slightest sound from the sick chamber! How often did a tremble shake his frame, and cold drops of terror start upon his brow, when a sudden trampling of feet caused him to fear that something too dreadful to think of, had even then occurred! And what had been the fervency of all the prayers he had ever muttered, compared with those he poured forth, now, in the agony and passion of his supplication for the life and health of the gentle creature, who was tottering on the deep grave's verge! Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance! Oh! the racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat violently, and the breath come thick, by the force of the images they conjure up before it; the desperate anxiety _to be doing something_ to relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to alleviate; the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what reflections or endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of the time, allay them! Morning came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke in whispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to time; women and children went away in tears. All the livelong day, and for hours after it had grown dark, Oliver paced softly up and down the garden, raising his eyes every instant to the sick chamber, and shuddering to see the darkened window, looking as if death lay stretched inside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived.</|quote|>"It is hard," said the good doctor, turning away as he spoke; "so young; so much beloved; but there is very little hope." Another morning. The sun shone brightly; as brightly as if it looked upon no misery or care; and, with every leaf and flower in full bloom about her; with life, and health, and sounds and sights of joy, surrounding her on every side: the fair young creature lay, wasting fast. Oliver crept away to the old churchyard, and sitting down on one of the green mounds, wept and prayed for her, in silence. There was such peace and beauty in the scene; so much of brightness and mirth in the sunny landscape; such blithesome music in the songs of the summer birds; such freedom in the rapid flight of the rook, careering overhead; so much of life and joyousness in all; that, when the boy raised his aching eyes, and looked about, the thought instinctively occurred to him, that this was not a time for death; that Rose could surely never die when humbler things were all so glad and gay; that graves were for cold and cheerless winter: not for sunlight and fragrance. He almost thought | that no time had been lost, Oliver hurried up the inn-yard, with a somewhat lighter heart. He was turning out of the gateway when he accidently stumbled against a tall man wrapped in a cloak, who was at that moment coming out of the inn door. "Hah!" cried the man, fixing his eyes on Oliver, and suddenly recoiling. "What the devil's this?" "I beg your pardon, sir," said Oliver; "I was in a great hurry to get home, and didn't see you were coming." "Death!" muttered the man to himself, glaring at the boy with his large dark eyes. "Who would have thought it! Grind him to ashes! He'd start up from a stone coffin, to come in my way!" "I am sorry," stammered Oliver, confused by the strange man's wild look. "I hope I have not hurt you!" "Rot you!" murmured the man, in a horrible passion; between his clenched teeth; "if I had only had the courage to say the word, I might have been free of you in a night. Curses on your head, and black death on your heart, you imp! What are you doing here?" The man shook his fist, as he uttered these words incoherently. He advanced towards Oliver, as if with the intention of aiming a blow at him, but fell violently on the ground: writhing and foaming, in a fit. Oliver gazed, for a moment, at the struggles of the madman (for such he supposed him to be); and then darted into the house for help. Having seen him safely carried into the hotel, he turned his face homewards, running as fast as he could, to make up for lost time: and recalling with a great deal of astonishment and some fear, the extraordinary behaviour of the person from whom he had just parted. The circumstance did not dwell in his recollection long, however: for when he reached the cottage, there was enough to occupy his mind, and to drive all considerations of self completely from his memory. Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse; before mid-night she was delirious. A medical practitioner, who resided on the spot, was in constant attendance upon her; and after first seeing the patient, he had taken Mrs. Maylie aside, and pronounced her disorder to be one of a most alarming nature. "In fact," he said, "it would be little short of a miracle, if she recovered."<|quote|>How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and stealing out, with noiseless footstep, to the staircase, listen for the slightest sound from the sick chamber! How often did a tremble shake his frame, and cold drops of terror start upon his brow, when a sudden trampling of feet caused him to fear that something too dreadful to think of, had even then occurred! And what had been the fervency of all the prayers he had ever muttered, compared with those he poured forth, now, in the agony and passion of his supplication for the life and health of the gentle creature, who was tottering on the deep grave's verge! Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance! Oh! the racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat violently, and the breath come thick, by the force of the images they conjure up before it; the desperate anxiety _to be doing something_ to relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to alleviate; the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what reflections or endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of the time, allay them! Morning came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke in whispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to time; women and children went away in tears. All the livelong day, and for hours after it had grown dark, Oliver paced softly up and down the garden, raising his eyes every instant to the sick chamber, and shuddering to see the darkened window, looking as if death lay stretched inside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived.</|quote|>"It is hard," said the good doctor, turning away as he spoke; "so young; so much beloved; but there is very little hope." Another morning. The sun shone brightly; as brightly as if it looked upon no misery or care; and, with every leaf and flower in full bloom about her; with life, and health, and sounds and sights of joy, surrounding her on every side: the fair young creature lay, wasting fast. Oliver crept away to the old churchyard, and sitting down on one of the green mounds, wept and prayed for her, in silence. There was such peace and beauty in the scene; so much of brightness and mirth in the sunny landscape; such blithesome music in the songs of the summer birds; such freedom in the rapid flight of the rook, careering overhead; so much of life and joyousness in all; that, when the boy raised his aching eyes, and looked about, the thought instinctively occurred to him, that this was not a time for death; that Rose could surely never die when humbler things were all so glad and gay; that graves were for cold and cheerless winter: not for sunlight and fragrance. He almost thought that shrouds were for the old and shrunken; and that they never wrapped the young and graceful form in their ghastly folds. A knell from the church bell broke harshly on these youthful thoughts. Another! Again! It was tolling for the funeral service. A group of humble mourners entered the gate: wearing white favours; for the corpse was young. They stood uncovered by a grave; and there was a mother a mother once among the weeping train. But the sun shone brightly, and the birds sang on. Oliver turned homeward, thinking on the many kindnesses he had received from the young lady, and wishing that the time could come again, that he might never cease showing her how grateful and attached he was. He had no cause for self-reproach on the score of neglect, or want of thought, for he had been devoted to her service; and yet a hundred little occasions rose up before him, on which he fancied he might have been more zealous, and more earnest, and wished he had been. We need be careful how we deal with those about us, when every death carries to some small circle of survivors, thoughts of so much omitted, | not make out. "Shall it go, ma'am?" asked Oliver, looking up, impatiently. "I think not," replied Mrs. Maylie, taking it back. "I will wait until to-morrow." With these words, she gave Oliver her purse, and he started off, without more delay, at the greatest speed he could muster. Swiftly he ran across the fields, and down the little lanes which sometimes divided them: now almost hidden by the high corn on either side, and now emerging on an open field, where the mowers and haymakers were busy at their work: nor did he stop once, save now and then, for a few seconds, to recover breath, until he came, in a great heat, and covered with dust, on the little market-place of the market-town. Here he paused, and looked about for the inn. There were a white bank, and a red brewery, and a yellow town-hall; and in one corner there was a large house, with all the wood about it painted green: before which was the sign of "The George." To this he hastened, as soon as it caught his eye. He spoke to a postboy who was dozing under the gateway; and who, after hearing what he wanted, referred him to the ostler; who after hearing all he had to say again, referred him to the landlord; who was a tall gentleman in a blue neckcloth, a white hat, drab breeches, and boots with tops to match, leaning against a pump by the stable-door, picking his teeth with a silver toothpick. This gentleman walked with much deliberation into the bar to make out the bill: which took a long time making out: and after it was ready, and paid, a horse had to be saddled, and a man to be dressed, which took up ten good minutes more. Meanwhile Oliver was in such a desperate state of impatience and anxiety, that he felt as if he could have jumped upon the horse himself, and galloped away, full tear, to the next stage. At length, all was ready; and the little parcel having been handed up, with many injunctions and entreaties for its speedy delivery, the man set spurs to his horse, and rattling over the uneven paving of the market-place, was out of the town, and galloping along the turnpike-road, in a couple of minutes. As it was something to feel certain that assistance was sent for, and that no time had been lost, Oliver hurried up the inn-yard, with a somewhat lighter heart. He was turning out of the gateway when he accidently stumbled against a tall man wrapped in a cloak, who was at that moment coming out of the inn door. "Hah!" cried the man, fixing his eyes on Oliver, and suddenly recoiling. "What the devil's this?" "I beg your pardon, sir," said Oliver; "I was in a great hurry to get home, and didn't see you were coming." "Death!" muttered the man to himself, glaring at the boy with his large dark eyes. "Who would have thought it! Grind him to ashes! He'd start up from a stone coffin, to come in my way!" "I am sorry," stammered Oliver, confused by the strange man's wild look. "I hope I have not hurt you!" "Rot you!" murmured the man, in a horrible passion; between his clenched teeth; "if I had only had the courage to say the word, I might have been free of you in a night. Curses on your head, and black death on your heart, you imp! What are you doing here?" The man shook his fist, as he uttered these words incoherently. He advanced towards Oliver, as if with the intention of aiming a blow at him, but fell violently on the ground: writhing and foaming, in a fit. Oliver gazed, for a moment, at the struggles of the madman (for such he supposed him to be); and then darted into the house for help. Having seen him safely carried into the hotel, he turned his face homewards, running as fast as he could, to make up for lost time: and recalling with a great deal of astonishment and some fear, the extraordinary behaviour of the person from whom he had just parted. The circumstance did not dwell in his recollection long, however: for when he reached the cottage, there was enough to occupy his mind, and to drive all considerations of self completely from his memory. Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse; before mid-night she was delirious. A medical practitioner, who resided on the spot, was in constant attendance upon her; and after first seeing the patient, he had taken Mrs. Maylie aside, and pronounced her disorder to be one of a most alarming nature. "In fact," he said, "it would be little short of a miracle, if she recovered."<|quote|>How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and stealing out, with noiseless footstep, to the staircase, listen for the slightest sound from the sick chamber! How often did a tremble shake his frame, and cold drops of terror start upon his brow, when a sudden trampling of feet caused him to fear that something too dreadful to think of, had even then occurred! And what had been the fervency of all the prayers he had ever muttered, compared with those he poured forth, now, in the agony and passion of his supplication for the life and health of the gentle creature, who was tottering on the deep grave's verge! Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance! Oh! the racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat violently, and the breath come thick, by the force of the images they conjure up before it; the desperate anxiety _to be doing something_ to relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to alleviate; the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what reflections or endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of the time, allay them! Morning came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke in whispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to time; women and children went away in tears. All the livelong day, and for hours after it had grown dark, Oliver paced softly up and down the garden, raising his eyes every instant to the sick chamber, and shuddering to see the darkened window, looking as if death lay stretched inside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived.</|quote|>"It is hard," said the good doctor, turning away as he spoke; "so young; so much beloved; but there is very little hope." Another morning. The sun shone brightly; as brightly as if it looked upon no misery or care; and, with every leaf and flower in full bloom about her; with life, and health, and sounds and sights of joy, surrounding her on every side: the fair young creature lay, wasting fast. Oliver crept away to the old churchyard, and sitting down on one of the green mounds, wept and prayed for her, in silence. There was such peace and beauty in the scene; so much of brightness and mirth in the sunny landscape; such blithesome music in the songs of the summer birds; such freedom in the rapid flight of the rook, careering overhead; so much of life and joyousness in all; that, when the boy raised his aching eyes, and looked about, the thought instinctively occurred to him, that this was not a time for death; that Rose could surely never die when humbler things were all so glad and gay; that graves were for cold and cheerless winter: not for sunlight and fragrance. He almost thought that shrouds were for the old and shrunken; and that they never wrapped the young and graceful form in their ghastly folds. A knell from the church bell broke harshly on these youthful thoughts. Another! Again! It was tolling for the funeral service. A group of humble mourners entered the gate: wearing white favours; for the corpse was young. They stood uncovered by a grave; and there was a mother a mother once among the weeping train. But the sun shone brightly, and the birds sang on. Oliver turned homeward, thinking on the many kindnesses he had received from the young lady, and wishing that the time could come again, that he might never cease showing her how grateful and attached he was. He had no cause for self-reproach on the score of neglect, or want of thought, for he had been devoted to her service; and yet a hundred little occasions rose up before him, on which he fancied he might have been more zealous, and more earnest, and wished he had been. We need be careful how we deal with those about us, when every death carries to some small circle of survivors, thoughts of so much omitted, and so little done of so many things forgotten, and so many more which might have been repaired! There is no remorse so deep as that which is unavailing; if we would be spared its tortures, let us remember this, in time. When he reached home Mrs. Maylie was sitting in the little parlour. Oliver's heart sank at sight of her; for she had never left the bedside of her niece; and he trembled to think what change could have driven her away. He learnt that she had fallen into a deep sleep, from which she would waken, either to recovery and life, or to bid them farewell, and die. They sat, listening, and afraid to speak, for hours. The untasted meal was removed, with looks which showed that their thoughts were elsewhere, they watched the sun as he sank lower and lower, and, at length, cast over sky and earth those brilliant hues which herald his departure. Their quick ears caught the sound of an approaching footstep. They both involuntarily darted to the door, as Mr. Losberne entered. "What of Rose?" cried the old lady. "Tell me at once! I can bear it; anything but suspense! Oh, tell me! in the name of Heaven!" "You must compose yourself," said the doctor supporting her. "Be calm, my dear ma'am, pray." "Let me go, in God's name! My dear child! She is dead! She is dying!" "No!" cried the doctor, passionately. "As He is good and merciful, she will live to bless us all, for years to come." The lady fell upon her knees, and tried to fold her hands together; but the energy which had supported her so long, fled up to Heaven with her first thanksgiving; and she sank into the friendly arms which were extended to receive her. CHAPTER XXXIV. CONTAINS SOME INTRODUCTORY PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO NOW ARRIVES UPON THE SCENE; AND A NEW ADVENTURE WHICH HAPPENED TO OLIVER It was almost too much happiness to bear. Oliver felt stunned and stupefied by the unexpected intelligence; he could not weep, or speak, or rest. He had scarcely the power of understanding anything that had passed, until, after a long ramble in the quiet evening air, a burst of tears came to his relief, and he seemed to awaken, all at once, to a full sense of the joyful change that had occurred, and the | and galloped away, full tear, to the next stage. At length, all was ready; and the little parcel having been handed up, with many injunctions and entreaties for its speedy delivery, the man set spurs to his horse, and rattling over the uneven paving of the market-place, was out of the town, and galloping along the turnpike-road, in a couple of minutes. As it was something to feel certain that assistance was sent for, and that no time had been lost, Oliver hurried up the inn-yard, with a somewhat lighter heart. He was turning out of the gateway when he accidently stumbled against a tall man wrapped in a cloak, who was at that moment coming out of the inn door. "Hah!" cried the man, fixing his eyes on Oliver, and suddenly recoiling. "What the devil's this?" "I beg your pardon, sir," said Oliver; "I was in a great hurry to get home, and didn't see you were coming." "Death!" muttered the man to himself, glaring at the boy with his large dark eyes. "Who would have thought it! Grind him to ashes! He'd start up from a stone coffin, to come in my way!" "I am sorry," stammered Oliver, confused by the strange man's wild look. "I hope I have not hurt you!" "Rot you!" murmured the man, in a horrible passion; between his clenched teeth; "if I had only had the courage to say the word, I might have been free of you in a night. Curses on your head, and black death on your heart, you imp! What are you doing here?" The man shook his fist, as he uttered these words incoherently. He advanced towards Oliver, as if with the intention of aiming a blow at him, but fell violently on the ground: writhing and foaming, in a fit. Oliver gazed, for a moment, at the struggles of the madman (for such he supposed him to be); and then darted into the house for help. Having seen him safely carried into the hotel, he turned his face homewards, running as fast as he could, to make up for lost time: and recalling with a great deal of astonishment and some fear, the extraordinary behaviour of the person from whom he had just parted. The circumstance did not dwell in his recollection long, however: for when he reached the cottage, there was enough to occupy his mind, and to drive all considerations of self completely from his memory. Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse; before mid-night she was delirious. A medical practitioner, who resided on the spot, was in constant attendance upon her; and after first seeing the patient, he had taken Mrs. Maylie aside, and pronounced her disorder to be one of a most alarming nature. "In fact," he said, "it would be little short of a miracle, if she recovered."<|quote|>How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and stealing out, with noiseless footstep, to the staircase, listen for the slightest sound from the sick chamber! How often did a tremble shake his frame, and cold drops of terror start upon his brow, when a sudden trampling of feet caused him to fear that something too dreadful to think of, had even then occurred! And what had been the fervency of all the prayers he had ever muttered, compared with those he poured forth, now, in the agony and passion of his supplication for the life and health of the gentle creature, who was tottering on the deep grave's verge! Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance! Oh! the racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat violently, and the breath come thick, by the force of the images they conjure up before it; the desperate anxiety _to be doing something_ to relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to alleviate; the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what reflections or endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of the time, allay them! Morning came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke in whispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to time; women and children went away in tears. All the livelong day, and for hours after it had grown dark, Oliver paced softly up and down the garden, raising his eyes every instant to the sick chamber, and shuddering to see the darkened window, looking as if death lay stretched inside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived.</|quote|>"It is hard," said the good doctor, turning away as he spoke; "so young; so much beloved; but there is very little hope." Another morning. The sun shone brightly; as brightly as if it looked upon no misery or care; and, with every leaf and flower in full bloom about her; with life, and health, and sounds and sights of joy, surrounding her on every side: the fair young creature lay, wasting fast. Oliver crept away to the old churchyard, and sitting down on one of the green mounds, wept and prayed for her, in silence. There was such peace and beauty in the scene; so much of brightness and mirth in the sunny landscape; such blithesome music in the songs of the summer birds; such freedom in the rapid flight of the rook, careering overhead; so much of life and joyousness in all; that, when the boy raised his aching eyes, and looked about, the thought instinctively occurred to him, that this was not a time for death; that Rose could surely never die when humbler things were all so glad and gay; that graves were for cold and cheerless winter: not for sunlight and fragrance. He almost thought that shrouds were for the old and shrunken; and that they never wrapped the young and graceful form in their ghastly folds. A knell from the church bell broke harshly on these youthful thoughts. Another! Again! It was tolling for the funeral service. A group of humble mourners entered the gate: wearing white favours; for the corpse was young. They stood uncovered by a grave; and there was a mother a mother once among the weeping train. But the sun shone brightly, and the birds sang on. Oliver turned homeward, thinking on the many kindnesses he had received from the young lady, and wishing that the time could come again, that he might never cease showing her how grateful and attached he was. He had no cause for self-reproach on the score of neglect, or want of thought, for he had been devoted to her service; and yet a hundred little occasions rose up before him, on which he fancied he might have been more zealous, and more earnest, and wished he had been. We need be careful how we deal with those about us, when every death carries to some small circle of survivors, thoughts of so much omitted, and so little done of so many things forgotten, and so many more which might have been repaired! There is no remorse so deep as that which is unavailing; if we would be spared its tortures, let us remember this, in time. When he reached home Mrs. Maylie was sitting in the little parlour. Oliver's heart sank at sight of her; for she had never left the bedside of her niece; and he trembled to think what change could have driven her away. He learnt that she had fallen into a deep sleep, from which she would waken, either to recovery and life, or to bid them farewell, and die. They sat, listening, and afraid to speak, for hours. The untasted meal was removed, with looks which showed that their thoughts were elsewhere, they watched the sun as he sank lower and lower, and, at length, cast over sky and earth those brilliant hues which herald his departure. Their quick ears caught the sound of an approaching footstep. They both involuntarily darted | Oliver Twist |
"So did and do I. That s splendid. Go on." | Mr. Herriton | you see." He was delighted.<|quote|>"So did and do I. That s splendid. Go on."</|quote|>"I hated the idleness, the | never mind." "I hated Sawston, you see." He was delighted.<|quote|>"So did and do I. That s splendid. Go on."</|quote|>"I hated the idleness, the stupidity, the respectability, the petty | a description rather than an explanation." He had fairly caught her, and expected that she would gape and collapse. To his surprise she answered with some spirit, "An explanation may bore you, Mr. Herriton: it drags in other topics." "Oh, never mind." "I hated Sawston, you see." He was delighted.<|quote|>"So did and do I. That s splendid. Go on."</|quote|>"I hated the idleness, the stupidity, the respectability, the petty unselfishness." "Petty selfishness," he corrected. Sawston psychology had long been his specialty. "Petty unselfishness," she repeated. "I had got an idea that every one here spent their lives in making little sacrifices for objects they didn t care for, to | said Philip; "but I should have thought that would have increased the difficulty of the situation." The crisp remark was wasted on her. She looked hopelessly at the raw over-built country, and said, "Well, I have explained." "But pardon me, Miss Abbott; of most of your conduct you have given a description rather than an explanation." He had fairly caught her, and expected that she would gape and collapse. To his surprise she answered with some spirit, "An explanation may bore you, Mr. Herriton: it drags in other topics." "Oh, never mind." "I hated Sawston, you see." He was delighted.<|quote|>"So did and do I. That s splendid. Go on."</|quote|>"I hated the idleness, the stupidity, the respectability, the petty unselfishness." "Petty selfishness," he corrected. Sawston psychology had long been his specialty. "Petty unselfishness," she repeated. "I had got an idea that every one here spent their lives in making little sacrifices for objects they didn t care for, to please people they didn t love; that they never learnt to be sincere--and, what s as bad, never learnt how to enjoy themselves. That s what I thought--what I thought at Monteriano." "Why, Miss Abbott," he cried, "you should have told me this before! Think it still! I agree with | We should have told the truth. It lost me my nerve, at all events. I came to the station meaning to tell you everything then. But we had started with a lie, and I got frightened. And at the end, when you left, I got frightened again and came with you." "Did you really mean to stop?" "For a time, at all events." "Would that have suited a newly married pair?" "It would have suited them. Lilia needed me. And as for him--I can t help feeling I might have got influence over him." "I am ignorant of these matters," said Philip; "but I should have thought that would have increased the difficulty of the situation." The crisp remark was wasted on her. She looked hopelessly at the raw over-built country, and said, "Well, I have explained." "But pardon me, Miss Abbott; of most of your conduct you have given a description rather than an explanation." He had fairly caught her, and expected that she would gape and collapse. To his surprise she answered with some spirit, "An explanation may bore you, Mr. Herriton: it drags in other topics." "Oh, never mind." "I hated Sawston, you see." He was delighted.<|quote|>"So did and do I. That s splendid. Go on."</|quote|>"I hated the idleness, the stupidity, the respectability, the petty unselfishness." "Petty selfishness," he corrected. Sawston psychology had long been his specialty. "Petty unselfishness," she repeated. "I had got an idea that every one here spent their lives in making little sacrifices for objects they didn t care for, to please people they didn t love; that they never learnt to be sincere--and, what s as bad, never learnt how to enjoy themselves. That s what I thought--what I thought at Monteriano." "Why, Miss Abbott," he cried, "you should have told me this before! Think it still! I agree with lots of it. Magnificent!" "Now Lilia," she went on, "though there were things about her I didn t like, had somehow kept the power of enjoying herself with sincerity. And Gino, I thought, was splendid, and young, and strong not only in body, and sincere as the day. If they wanted to marry, why shouldn t they do so? Why shouldn t she break with the deadening life where she had got into a groove, and would go on in it, getting more and more--worse than unhappy--apathetic till she died? Of course I was wrong. She only changed one groove | him several times again, and I knew I ought to interfere. I called her to my bedroom one night. She was very frightened, for she knew what it was about and how severe I could be. Do you love this man? I asked. Yes or no? She said Yes. And I said, Why don t you marry him if you think you ll be happy?" "Really--really," exploded Philip, as exasperated as if the thing had happened yesterday. "You knew Lilia all your life. Apart from everything else--as if she could choose what could make her happy!" "Had you ever let her choose?" she flashed out. "I m afraid that s rude," she added, trying to calm herself. "Let us rather say unhappily expressed," said Philip, who always adopted a dry satirical manner when he was puzzled. "I want to finish. Next morning I found Signor Carella and said the same to him. He--well, he was willing. That s all." "And the telegram?" He looked scornfully out of the window. Hitherto her voice had been hard, possibly in self-accusation, possibly in defiance. Now it became unmistakably sad. "Ah, the telegram! That was wrong. Lilia there was more cowardly than I was. We should have told the truth. It lost me my nerve, at all events. I came to the station meaning to tell you everything then. But we had started with a lie, and I got frightened. And at the end, when you left, I got frightened again and came with you." "Did you really mean to stop?" "For a time, at all events." "Would that have suited a newly married pair?" "It would have suited them. Lilia needed me. And as for him--I can t help feeling I might have got influence over him." "I am ignorant of these matters," said Philip; "but I should have thought that would have increased the difficulty of the situation." The crisp remark was wasted on her. She looked hopelessly at the raw over-built country, and said, "Well, I have explained." "But pardon me, Miss Abbott; of most of your conduct you have given a description rather than an explanation." He had fairly caught her, and expected that she would gape and collapse. To his surprise she answered with some spirit, "An explanation may bore you, Mr. Herriton: it drags in other topics." "Oh, never mind." "I hated Sawston, you see." He was delighted.<|quote|>"So did and do I. That s splendid. Go on."</|quote|>"I hated the idleness, the stupidity, the respectability, the petty unselfishness." "Petty selfishness," he corrected. Sawston psychology had long been his specialty. "Petty unselfishness," she repeated. "I had got an idea that every one here spent their lives in making little sacrifices for objects they didn t care for, to please people they didn t love; that they never learnt to be sincere--and, what s as bad, never learnt how to enjoy themselves. That s what I thought--what I thought at Monteriano." "Why, Miss Abbott," he cried, "you should have told me this before! Think it still! I agree with lots of it. Magnificent!" "Now Lilia," she went on, "though there were things about her I didn t like, had somehow kept the power of enjoying herself with sincerity. And Gino, I thought, was splendid, and young, and strong not only in body, and sincere as the day. If they wanted to marry, why shouldn t they do so? Why shouldn t she break with the deadening life where she had got into a groove, and would go on in it, getting more and more--worse than unhappy--apathetic till she died? Of course I was wrong. She only changed one groove for another--a worse groove. And as for him--well, you know more about him than I do. I can never trust myself to judge characters again. But I still feel he cannot have been quite bad when we first met him. Lilia--that I should dare to say it!--must have been cowardly. He was only a boy--just going to turn into something fine, I thought--and she must have mismanaged him. So that is the one time I have gone against what is proper, and there are the results. You have an explanation now." "And much of it has been most interesting, though I don t understand everything. Did you never think of the disparity of their social position?" "We were mad--drunk with rebellion. We had no common-sense. As soon as you came, you saw and foresaw everything." "Oh, I don t think that." He was vaguely displeased at being credited with common-sense. For a moment Miss Abbott had seemed to him more unconventional than himself. "I hope you see," she concluded, "why I have troubled you with this long story. Women--I heard you say the other day--are never at ease till they tell their faults out loud. Lilia is dead and her | not want it known in Sawston that there is a baby. All peace and comfort would be lost if people came inquiring after it." His mother knew how to manage him. He agreed enthusiastically. And a few days later, when he chanced to travel up to London with Miss Abbott, he had all the time the pleasant thrill of one who is better informed. Their last journey together had been from Monteriano back across Europe. It had been a ghastly journey, and Philip, from the force of association, rather expected something ghastly now. He was surprised. Miss Abbott, between Sawston and Charing Cross, revealed qualities which he had never guessed her to possess. Without being exactly original, she did show a commendable intelligence, and though at times she was gauche and even uncourtly, he felt that here was a person whom it might be well to cultivate. At first she annoyed him. They were talking, of course, about Lilia, when she broke the thread of vague commiseration and said abruptly, "It is all so strange as well as so tragic. And what I did was as strange as anything." It was the first reference she had ever made to her contemptible behaviour. "Never mind," he said. "It s all over now. Let the dead bury their dead. It s fallen out of our lives." "But that s why I can talk about it and tell you everything I have always wanted to. You thought me stupid and sentimental and wicked and mad, but you never really knew how much I was to blame." "Indeed I never think about it now," said Philip gently. He knew that her nature was in the main generous and upright: it was unnecessary for her to reveal her thoughts. "The first evening we got to Monteriano," she persisted, "Lilia went out for a walk alone, saw that Italian in a picturesque position on a wall, and fell in love. He was shabbily dressed, and she did not even know he was the son of a dentist. I must tell you I was used to this sort of thing. Once or twice before I had had to send people about their business." "Yes; we counted on you," said Philip, with sudden sharpness. After all, if she would reveal her thoughts, she must take the consequences. "I know you did," she retorted with equal sharpness. "Lilia saw him several times again, and I knew I ought to interfere. I called her to my bedroom one night. She was very frightened, for she knew what it was about and how severe I could be. Do you love this man? I asked. Yes or no? She said Yes. And I said, Why don t you marry him if you think you ll be happy?" "Really--really," exploded Philip, as exasperated as if the thing had happened yesterday. "You knew Lilia all your life. Apart from everything else--as if she could choose what could make her happy!" "Had you ever let her choose?" she flashed out. "I m afraid that s rude," she added, trying to calm herself. "Let us rather say unhappily expressed," said Philip, who always adopted a dry satirical manner when he was puzzled. "I want to finish. Next morning I found Signor Carella and said the same to him. He--well, he was willing. That s all." "And the telegram?" He looked scornfully out of the window. Hitherto her voice had been hard, possibly in self-accusation, possibly in defiance. Now it became unmistakably sad. "Ah, the telegram! That was wrong. Lilia there was more cowardly than I was. We should have told the truth. It lost me my nerve, at all events. I came to the station meaning to tell you everything then. But we had started with a lie, and I got frightened. And at the end, when you left, I got frightened again and came with you." "Did you really mean to stop?" "For a time, at all events." "Would that have suited a newly married pair?" "It would have suited them. Lilia needed me. And as for him--I can t help feeling I might have got influence over him." "I am ignorant of these matters," said Philip; "but I should have thought that would have increased the difficulty of the situation." The crisp remark was wasted on her. She looked hopelessly at the raw over-built country, and said, "Well, I have explained." "But pardon me, Miss Abbott; of most of your conduct you have given a description rather than an explanation." He had fairly caught her, and expected that she would gape and collapse. To his surprise she answered with some spirit, "An explanation may bore you, Mr. Herriton: it drags in other topics." "Oh, never mind." "I hated Sawston, you see." He was delighted.<|quote|>"So did and do I. That s splendid. Go on."</|quote|>"I hated the idleness, the stupidity, the respectability, the petty unselfishness." "Petty selfishness," he corrected. Sawston psychology had long been his specialty. "Petty unselfishness," she repeated. "I had got an idea that every one here spent their lives in making little sacrifices for objects they didn t care for, to please people they didn t love; that they never learnt to be sincere--and, what s as bad, never learnt how to enjoy themselves. That s what I thought--what I thought at Monteriano." "Why, Miss Abbott," he cried, "you should have told me this before! Think it still! I agree with lots of it. Magnificent!" "Now Lilia," she went on, "though there were things about her I didn t like, had somehow kept the power of enjoying herself with sincerity. And Gino, I thought, was splendid, and young, and strong not only in body, and sincere as the day. If they wanted to marry, why shouldn t they do so? Why shouldn t she break with the deadening life where she had got into a groove, and would go on in it, getting more and more--worse than unhappy--apathetic till she died? Of course I was wrong. She only changed one groove for another--a worse groove. And as for him--well, you know more about him than I do. I can never trust myself to judge characters again. But I still feel he cannot have been quite bad when we first met him. Lilia--that I should dare to say it!--must have been cowardly. He was only a boy--just going to turn into something fine, I thought--and she must have mismanaged him. So that is the one time I have gone against what is proper, and there are the results. You have an explanation now." "And much of it has been most interesting, though I don t understand everything. Did you never think of the disparity of their social position?" "We were mad--drunk with rebellion. We had no common-sense. As soon as you came, you saw and foresaw everything." "Oh, I don t think that." He was vaguely displeased at being credited with common-sense. For a moment Miss Abbott had seemed to him more unconventional than himself. "I hope you see," she concluded, "why I have troubled you with this long story. Women--I heard you say the other day--are never at ease till they tell their faults out loud. Lilia is dead and her husband gone to the bad--all through me. You see, Mr. Herriton, it makes me specially unhappy; it s the only time I ve ever gone into what my father calls real life --and look what I ve made of it! All that winter I seemed to be waking up to beauty and splendour and I don t know what; and when the spring came, I wanted to fight against the things I hated--mediocrity and dulness and spitefulness and society. I actually hated society for a day or two at Monteriano. I didn t see that all these things are invincible, and that if we go against them they will break us to pieces. Thank you for listening to so much nonsense." "Oh, I quite sympathize with what you say," said Philip encouragingly; "it isn t nonsense, and a year or two ago I should have been saying it too. But I feel differently now, and I hope that you also will change. Society is invincible--to a certain degree. But your real life is your own, and nothing can touch it. There is no power on earth that can prevent your criticizing and despising mediocrity--nothing that can stop you retreating into splendour and beauty--into the thoughts and beliefs that make the real life--the real you." "I have never had that experience yet. Surely I and my life must be where I live." Evidently she had the usual feminine incapacity for grasping philosophy. But she had developed quite a personality, and he must see more of her. "There is another great consolation against invincible mediocrity," he said--" "the meeting a fellow-victim. I hope that this is only the first of many discussions that we shall have together." She made a suitable reply. The train reached Charing Cross, and they parted,--he to go to a matinee, she to buy petticoats for the corpulent poor. Her thoughts wandered as she bought them: the gulf between herself and Mr. Herriton, which she had always known to be great, now seemed to her immeasurable. These events and conversations took place at Christmas-time. The New Life initiated by them lasted some seven months. Then a little incident--a mere little vexatious incident--brought it to its close. Irma collected picture post-cards, and Mrs. Herriton or Harriet always glanced first at all that came, lest the child should get hold of something vulgar. On this occasion the subject seemed perfectly | the window. Hitherto her voice had been hard, possibly in self-accusation, possibly in defiance. Now it became unmistakably sad. "Ah, the telegram! That was wrong. Lilia there was more cowardly than I was. We should have told the truth. It lost me my nerve, at all events. I came to the station meaning to tell you everything then. But we had started with a lie, and I got frightened. And at the end, when you left, I got frightened again and came with you." "Did you really mean to stop?" "For a time, at all events." "Would that have suited a newly married pair?" "It would have suited them. Lilia needed me. And as for him--I can t help feeling I might have got influence over him." "I am ignorant of these matters," said Philip; "but I should have thought that would have increased the difficulty of the situation." The crisp remark was wasted on her. She looked hopelessly at the raw over-built country, and said, "Well, I have explained." "But pardon me, Miss Abbott; of most of your conduct you have given a description rather than an explanation." He had fairly caught her, and expected that she would gape and collapse. To his surprise she answered with some spirit, "An explanation may bore you, Mr. Herriton: it drags in other topics." "Oh, never mind." "I hated Sawston, you see." He was delighted.<|quote|>"So did and do I. That s splendid. Go on."</|quote|>"I hated the idleness, the stupidity, the respectability, the petty unselfishness." "Petty selfishness," he corrected. Sawston psychology had long been his specialty. "Petty unselfishness," she repeated. "I had got an idea that every one here spent their lives in making little sacrifices for objects they didn t care for, to please people they didn t love; that they never learnt to be sincere--and, what s as bad, never learnt how to enjoy themselves. That s what I thought--what I thought at Monteriano." "Why, Miss Abbott," he cried, "you should have told me this before! Think it still! I agree with lots of it. Magnificent!" "Now Lilia," she went on, "though there were things about her I didn t like, had somehow kept the power of enjoying herself with sincerity. And Gino, I thought, was splendid, and young, and strong not only in body, and sincere as the day. If they wanted to marry, why shouldn t they do so? Why shouldn t she break with the deadening life where she had got into a groove, and would go on in it, getting more and more--worse than unhappy--apathetic till she died? Of course I was wrong. She only changed one groove for another--a worse groove. And as for him--well, you know more about him than I do. I can never trust myself to judge characters again. But I still feel he cannot have been quite bad when we first met him. Lilia--that I should dare to say it!--must have been cowardly. He was only a boy--just going to turn into something fine, I thought--and she must have mismanaged him. So that is the one time I have gone against what is proper, and there are the results. You have an explanation now." "And much of it has been most interesting, though I | Where Angels Fear To Tread |
"and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome to me as either of them." | Charlotte Lucas | me in March," added Charlotte,<|quote|>"and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome to me as either of them."</|quote|>The wedding took place; the | Maria are to come to me in March," added Charlotte,<|quote|>"and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome to me as either of them."</|quote|>The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off | "We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire." "I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to come to Hunsford." Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the visit. "My father and Maria are to come to me in March," added Charlotte,<|quote|>"and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome to me as either of them."</|quote|>The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from the church door, and every body had as much to say or to hear on the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever | ungracious and reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her out of the room. As they went down stairs together, Charlotte said, "I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza." "_That_ you certainly shall." "And I have another favour to ask. Will you come and see me?" "We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire." "I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to come to Hunsford." Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the visit. "My father and Maria are to come to me in March," added Charlotte,<|quote|>"and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome to me as either of them."</|quote|>The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from the church door, and every body had as much to say or to hear on the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that it should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over, and, though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake of what had been, rather than what was. Charlotte's first letters were | being resented. Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was now fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say in an ill-natured tone that she "_wished_ they might be happy." Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her out of the room. As they went down stairs together, Charlotte said, "I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza." "_That_ you certainly shall." "And I have another favour to ask. Will you come and see me?" "We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire." "I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to come to Hunsford." Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the visit. "My father and Maria are to come to me in March," added Charlotte,<|quote|>"and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome to me as either of them."</|quote|>The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from the church door, and every body had as much to say or to hear on the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that it should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over, and, though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake of what had been, rather than what was. Charlotte's first letters were received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte expressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing which she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine's behaviour was most friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins's picture | know that it would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short, I will do my best." "Perhaps it will be as well, if you discourage his coming here so very often. At least, you should not _remind_ your Mother of inviting him." "As I did the other day," said Elizabeth, with a conscious smile; "very true, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do not imagine that he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been so frequently invited this week. You know my mother's ideas as to the necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my honour, I will try to do what I think to be wisest; and now, I hope you are satisfied." Her aunt assured her that she was; and Elizabeth having thanked her for the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice being given on such a point, without being resented. Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was now fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say in an ill-natured tone that she "_wished_ they might be happy." Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her out of the room. As they went down stairs together, Charlotte said, "I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza." "_That_ you certainly shall." "And I have another favour to ask. Will you come and see me?" "We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire." "I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to come to Hunsford." Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the visit. "My father and Maria are to come to me in March," added Charlotte,<|quote|>"and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome to me as either of them."</|quote|>The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from the church door, and every body had as much to say or to hear on the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that it should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over, and, though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake of what had been, rather than what was. Charlotte's first letters were received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte expressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing which she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine's behaviour was most friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins's picture of Hunsford and Rosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait for her own visit there, to know the rest. Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce their safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys. Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience generally is. Jane had been a week in town, without either seeing or hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that her last letter to her friend from Longbourn, had by some accident been lost. "My aunt," she continued, "is going to-morrow into that part of the town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor-street." She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley. "I did not think Caroline in spirits," were her words, "but she was very glad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming to London. I was right, therefore; my last letter had never reached her. I enquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much | that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy. CHAPTER III. Mrs. Gardiner's caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given on the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone; after honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on: "You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because you are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve yourself, or endeavour to involve him in an affection which the want of fortune would make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against _him_; he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he ought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is--you must not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all expect you to use it. Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father." "My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed." "Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise." "Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I can prevent it." "Elizabeth, you are not serious now." "I beg your pardon. I will try again. At present I am not in love with Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison, the most agreeable man I ever saw--and if he becomes really attached to me--I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence of it.--Oh! _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy!--My father's opinion of me does me the greatest honour; and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My father, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I should be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but since we see every day that where there is affection, young people are seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune, from entering into engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many of my fellow creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short, I will do my best." "Perhaps it will be as well, if you discourage his coming here so very often. At least, you should not _remind_ your Mother of inviting him." "As I did the other day," said Elizabeth, with a conscious smile; "very true, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do not imagine that he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been so frequently invited this week. You know my mother's ideas as to the necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my honour, I will try to do what I think to be wisest; and now, I hope you are satisfied." Her aunt assured her that she was; and Elizabeth having thanked her for the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice being given on such a point, without being resented. Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was now fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say in an ill-natured tone that she "_wished_ they might be happy." Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her out of the room. As they went down stairs together, Charlotte said, "I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza." "_That_ you certainly shall." "And I have another favour to ask. Will you come and see me?" "We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire." "I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to come to Hunsford." Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the visit. "My father and Maria are to come to me in March," added Charlotte,<|quote|>"and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome to me as either of them."</|quote|>The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from the church door, and every body had as much to say or to hear on the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that it should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over, and, though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake of what had been, rather than what was. Charlotte's first letters were received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte expressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing which she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine's behaviour was most friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins's picture of Hunsford and Rosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait for her own visit there, to know the rest. Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce their safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys. Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience generally is. Jane had been a week in town, without either seeing or hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that her last letter to her friend from Longbourn, had by some accident been lost. "My aunt," she continued, "is going to-morrow into that part of the town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor-street." She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley. "I did not think Caroline in spirits," were her words, "but she was very glad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming to London. I was right, therefore; my last letter had never reached her. I enquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much engaged with Mr. Darcy, that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that Miss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was not long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall soon see them here." Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her, that accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister's being in town. Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to persuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be blind to Miss Bingley's inattention. After waiting at home every morning for a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more, the alteration of her manner, would allow Jane to deceive herself no longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister, will prove what she felt. "My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in her better judgment, at my expence, when I confess myself to have been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley's regard for me. But, my dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not think me obstinate if I still assert, that, considering what her behaviour was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I do not at all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate with me, but if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the mean time. When she did come, it was very evident that she had no pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal, apology, for not calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and was in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went away, I was perfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity, though I cannot help blaming her. She was very wrong in singling me out as she did; I can safely say, that every advance to intimacy began on her side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been acting wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her | her friends. But really, and upon my honour, I will try to do what I think to be wisest; and now, I hope you are satisfied." Her aunt assured her that she was; and Elizabeth having thanked her for the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice being given on such a point, without being resented. Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was now fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say in an ill-natured tone that she "_wished_ they might be happy." Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her out of the room. As they went down stairs together, Charlotte said, "I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza." "_That_ you certainly shall." "And I have another favour to ask. Will you come and see me?" "We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire." "I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to come to Hunsford." Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the visit. "My father and Maria are to come to me in March," added Charlotte,<|quote|>"and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome to me as either of them."</|quote|>The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from the church door, and every body had as much to say or to hear on the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that it should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over, and, though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake of what had been, rather than what was. Charlotte's first letters were received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte expressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing which she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine's behaviour was most friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins's picture of Hunsford and Rosings rationally | Pride And Prejudice |
"I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad." | Colonel Brandon | have you met him to"<|quote|>"I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad."</|quote|>Elinor sighed over the fancied | at him anxiously, saying, "What? have you met him to"<|quote|>"I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad."</|quote|>Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to | she will soon become easier. Have you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton?" "Yes," he replied gravely, "once I have. One meeting was unavoidable." Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying, "What? have you met him to"<|quote|>"I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad."</|quote|>Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it. "Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly have I discharged my trust!" "Is she | communication of what had passed. "I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton?" "Yes," he replied gravely, "once I have. One meeting was unavoidable." Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying, "What? have you met him to"<|quote|>"I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad."</|quote|>Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it. "Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly have I discharged my trust!" "Is she still in town?" "No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there she remains." Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor from her sister, he put an end to his | attachment. Use your own discretion, however, in communicating to her what I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others." Elinor s thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Marianne, from the communication of what had passed. "I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton?" "Yes," he replied gravely, "once I have. One meeting was unavoidable." Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying, "What? have you met him to"<|quote|>"I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad."</|quote|>Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it. "Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly have I discharged my trust!" "Is she still in town?" "No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there she remains." Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion and esteem for him. CHAPTER XXXII. When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was not entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and seemed to show by her tears that she | when it _was_ known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but now you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so deceived; to see your sister but what could I do? I had no hope of interfering with success; and sometimes I thought your sister s influence might yet reclaim him. But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what were his designs on her. Whatever they may have been, however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless _will_ turn with gratitude towards her own condition, when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza, when she considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and pictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her through life. Surely this comparison must have its use with her. She will feel her own sufferings to be nothing. They proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them. Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment. Use your own discretion, however, in communicating to her what I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others." Elinor s thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Marianne, from the communication of what had passed. "I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton?" "Yes," he replied gravely, "once I have. One meeting was unavoidable." Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying, "What? have you met him to"<|quote|>"I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad."</|quote|>Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it. "Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly have I discharged my trust!" "Is she still in town?" "No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there she remains." Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion and esteem for him. CHAPTER XXXII. When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was not entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and seemed to show by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But though this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt _was_ carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched. Her mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby s character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might _once_ have been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to Elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister than could have been communicated by the most open and most frequent confession of them. To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and answering Elinor s letter | give no clue, though she certainly knew all. He, her father, a well-meaning, but not a quick-sighted man, could really, I believe, give no information; for he had been generally confined to the house, while the girls were ranging over the town and making what acquaintance they chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was convinced himself, of his daughter s being entirely unconcerned in the business. In short, I could learn nothing but that she was gone; all the rest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture. What I thought, what I feared, may be imagined; and what I suffered too." "Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "could it be could Willoughby!" "The first news that reached me of her," he continued, "came in a letter from herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from Delaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party to Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly, which I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body, and which I believe gave offence to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in breaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom he had made poor and miserable; but _had_ he known it, what would it have availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of your sister? No, he had already done that, which no man who _can_ feel for another would do. He had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address! He had left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor relieved her." "This is beyond every thing!" exclaimed Elinor. "His character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse than both. Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess what I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on being assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must have felt for all your sakes. When I came to you last week and found you alone, I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when it _was_ known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but now you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so deceived; to see your sister but what could I do? I had no hope of interfering with success; and sometimes I thought your sister s influence might yet reclaim him. But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what were his designs on her. Whatever they may have been, however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless _will_ turn with gratitude towards her own condition, when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza, when she considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and pictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her through life. Surely this comparison must have its use with her. She will feel her own sufferings to be nothing. They proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them. Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment. Use your own discretion, however, in communicating to her what I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others." Elinor s thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Marianne, from the communication of what had passed. "I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton?" "Yes," he replied gravely, "once I have. One meeting was unavoidable." Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying, "What? have you met him to"<|quote|>"I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad."</|quote|>Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it. "Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly have I discharged my trust!" "Is she still in town?" "No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there she remains." Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion and esteem for him. CHAPTER XXXII. When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was not entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and seemed to show by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But though this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt _was_ carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched. Her mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby s character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might _once_ have been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to Elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister than could have been communicated by the most open and most frequent confession of them. To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and answering Elinor s letter would be only to give a repetition of what her daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly less painful than Marianne s, and an indignation even greater than Elinor s. Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her anxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with fortitude under this misfortune. Bad indeed must the nature of Marianne s affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude! mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which _she_ could wish her not to indulge! Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had determined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where, at that time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would be bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by constantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen him there. She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all means not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of which, though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at least five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of objects, and of company, which could not be procured at Barton, would be inevitable there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into some interest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as the ideas of both might now be spurned by her. From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her friends. Design could never bring them in each other s way: negligence could never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in its favour in the crowd of London than even in the retirement of Barton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at first as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one. She had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his wife were to be in town before the | still more her friend by them. Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment. Use your own discretion, however, in communicating to her what I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others." Elinor s thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Marianne, from the communication of what had passed. "I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton?" "Yes," he replied gravely, "once I have. One meeting was unavoidable." Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying, "What? have you met him to"<|quote|>"I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad."</|quote|>Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it. "Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly have I discharged my trust!" "Is she still in town?" "No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there she remains." Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion and esteem for him. CHAPTER XXXII. When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was not entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and seemed to show by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But though this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt _was_ carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched. Her mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby s character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might _once_ have been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to Elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister than could have been communicated by the most open and most frequent confession of them. To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and answering Elinor s letter would be only to give a repetition of what her | Sense And Sensibility |
replied the Jew; | No speaker | train him to the business,"<|quote|>replied the Jew;</|quote|>"he was not like other | it was not easy to train him to the business,"<|quote|>replied the Jew;</|quote|>"he was not like other boys in the same circumstances." | submissively. "He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?" "What then?" demanded Monks. "I saw it was not easy to train him to the business,"<|quote|>replied the Jew;</|quote|>"he was not like other boys in the same circumstances." "Curse him, no!" muttered the man, "or he would have been a thief, long ago." "I had no hold upon him to make him worse," pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. "His hand was not in. | scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?" "Whose turn would that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine," replied Monks. "But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?" "What then?" demanded Monks. "I saw it was not easy to train him to the business,"<|quote|>replied the Jew;</|quote|>"he was not like other boys in the same circumstances." "Curse him, no!" muttered the man, "or he would have been a thief, long ago." "I had no hold upon him to make him worse," pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. "His hand was not in. I had nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have in the beginning, or we labour in vain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all." "_That_ was not my | might have been talking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or more, when Monks by which name the Jew had designated the strange man several times in the course of their colloquy said, raising his voice a little, "I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?" "Only hear him!" exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "Why, do you mean to say you couldn't have done it, if you had chosen?" demanded Monks, sternly. "Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?" "Whose turn would that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine," replied Monks. "But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?" "What then?" demanded Monks. "I saw it was not easy to train him to the business,"<|quote|>replied the Jew;</|quote|>"he was not like other boys in the same circumstances." "Curse him, no!" muttered the man, "or he would have been a thief, long ago." "I had no hold upon him to make him worse," pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. "His hand was not in. I had nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have in the beginning, or we labour in vain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all." "_That_ was not my doing," observed Monks. "No, no, my dear!" renewed the Jew. "And I don't quarrel with it now; because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you were looking for. Well! I got him back for you by means of the girl; and then _she_ begins to favour him." "Throttle the girl!" said Monks, impatiently. "Why, we can't afford to do that just now, my dear," replied the Jew, smiling; "and, besides, that sort of thing is not in our way; | got to say in here, my dear," said the Jew, throwing open a door on the first floor; "and as there are holes in the shutters, and we never show lights to our neighbours, we'll set the candle on the stairs. There!" With those words, the Jew, stooping down, placed the candle on an upper flight of stairs, exactly opposite to the room door. This done, he led the way into the apartment; which was destitute of all movables save a broken arm-chair, and an old couch or sofa without covering, which stood behind the door. Upon this piece of furniture, the stranger sat himself with the air of a weary man; and the Jew, drawing up the arm-chair opposite, they sat face to face. It was not quite dark; the door was partially open; and the candle outside, threw a feeble reflection on the opposite wall. They conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the conversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that the latter was in a state of considerable irritation. They might have been talking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or more, when Monks by which name the Jew had designated the strange man several times in the course of their colloquy said, raising his voice a little, "I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?" "Only hear him!" exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "Why, do you mean to say you couldn't have done it, if you had chosen?" demanded Monks, sternly. "Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?" "Whose turn would that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine," replied Monks. "But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?" "What then?" demanded Monks. "I saw it was not easy to train him to the business,"<|quote|>replied the Jew;</|quote|>"he was not like other boys in the same circumstances." "Curse him, no!" muttered the man, "or he would have been a thief, long ago." "I had no hold upon him to make him worse," pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. "His hand was not in. I had nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have in the beginning, or we labour in vain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all." "_That_ was not my doing," observed Monks. "No, no, my dear!" renewed the Jew. "And I don't quarrel with it now; because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you were looking for. Well! I got him back for you by means of the girl; and then _she_ begins to favour him." "Throttle the girl!" said Monks, impatiently. "Why, we can't afford to do that just now, my dear," replied the Jew, smiling; "and, besides, that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one of these days, I might be glad to have it done. I know what these girls are, Monks, well. As soon as the boy begins to harden, she'll care no more for him, than for a block of wood. You want him made a thief. If he is alive, I can make him one from this time; and, if if" said the Jew, drawing nearer to the other, "it's not likely, mind, but if the worst comes to the worst, and he is dead" "It's no fault of mine if he is!" interposed the other man, with a look of terror, and clasping the Jew's arm with trembling hands. "Mind that. Fagin! I had no hand in it. Anything but his death, I told you from the first. I won't shed blood; it's always found out, and haunts a man besides. If they shot him dead, I was not the cause; do you hear me? Fire this infernal den! What's that?" "What!" cried the Jew, grasping the coward round the body, with both arms, as he sprung to his feet. "Where?" "Yonder!" replied the man, glaring at the opposite wall. "The shadow! I saw the shadow of a | went: trembling, and shivering, as every fresh gust drove him rudely on his way. He had reached the corner of his own street, and was already fumbling in his pocket for the door-key, when a dark figure emerged from a projecting entrance which lay in deep shadow, and, crossing the road, glided up to him unperceived. "Fagin!" whispered a voice close to his ear. "Ah!" said the Jew, turning quickly round, "is that" "Yes!" interrupted the stranger. "I have been lingering here these two hours. Where the devil have you been?" "On your business, my dear," replied the Jew, glancing uneasily at his companion, and slackening his pace as he spoke. "On your business all night." "Oh, of course!" said the stranger, with a sneer. "Well; and what's come of it?" "Nothing good," said the Jew. "Nothing bad, I hope?" said the stranger, stopping short, and turning a startled look on his companion. The Jew shook his head, and was about to reply, when the stranger, interrupting him, motioned to the house, before which they had by this time arrived: remarking, that he had better say what he had got to say, under cover: for his blood was chilled with standing about so long, and the wind blew through him. Fagin looked as if he could have willingly excused himself from taking home a visitor at that unseasonable hour; and, indeed, muttered something about having no fire; but his companion repeating his request in a peremptory manner, he unlocked the door, and requested him to close it softly, while he got a light. "It's as dark as the grave," said the man, groping forward a few steps. "Make haste!" "Shut the door," whispered Fagin from the end of the passage. As he spoke, it closed with a loud noise. "That wasn't my doing," said the other man, feeling his way. "The wind blew it to, or it shut of its own accord: one or the other. Look sharp with the light, or I shall knock my brains out against something in this confounded hole." Fagin stealthily descended the kitchen stairs. After a short absence, he returned with a lighted candle, and the intelligence that Toby Crackit was asleep in the back room below, and that the boys were in the front one. Beckoning the man to follow him, he led the way upstairs. "We can say the few words we've got to say in here, my dear," said the Jew, throwing open a door on the first floor; "and as there are holes in the shutters, and we never show lights to our neighbours, we'll set the candle on the stairs. There!" With those words, the Jew, stooping down, placed the candle on an upper flight of stairs, exactly opposite to the room door. This done, he led the way into the apartment; which was destitute of all movables save a broken arm-chair, and an old couch or sofa without covering, which stood behind the door. Upon this piece of furniture, the stranger sat himself with the air of a weary man; and the Jew, drawing up the arm-chair opposite, they sat face to face. It was not quite dark; the door was partially open; and the candle outside, threw a feeble reflection on the opposite wall. They conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the conversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that the latter was in a state of considerable irritation. They might have been talking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or more, when Monks by which name the Jew had designated the strange man several times in the course of their colloquy said, raising his voice a little, "I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?" "Only hear him!" exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "Why, do you mean to say you couldn't have done it, if you had chosen?" demanded Monks, sternly. "Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?" "Whose turn would that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine," replied Monks. "But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?" "What then?" demanded Monks. "I saw it was not easy to train him to the business,"<|quote|>replied the Jew;</|quote|>"he was not like other boys in the same circumstances." "Curse him, no!" muttered the man, "or he would have been a thief, long ago." "I had no hold upon him to make him worse," pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. "His hand was not in. I had nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have in the beginning, or we labour in vain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all." "_That_ was not my doing," observed Monks. "No, no, my dear!" renewed the Jew. "And I don't quarrel with it now; because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you were looking for. Well! I got him back for you by means of the girl; and then _she_ begins to favour him." "Throttle the girl!" said Monks, impatiently. "Why, we can't afford to do that just now, my dear," replied the Jew, smiling; "and, besides, that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one of these days, I might be glad to have it done. I know what these girls are, Monks, well. As soon as the boy begins to harden, she'll care no more for him, than for a block of wood. You want him made a thief. If he is alive, I can make him one from this time; and, if if" said the Jew, drawing nearer to the other, "it's not likely, mind, but if the worst comes to the worst, and he is dead" "It's no fault of mine if he is!" interposed the other man, with a look of terror, and clasping the Jew's arm with trembling hands. "Mind that. Fagin! I had no hand in it. Anything but his death, I told you from the first. I won't shed blood; it's always found out, and haunts a man besides. If they shot him dead, I was not the cause; do you hear me? Fire this infernal den! What's that?" "What!" cried the Jew, grasping the coward round the body, with both arms, as he sprung to his feet. "Where?" "Yonder!" replied the man, glaring at the opposite wall. "The shadow! I saw the shadow of a woman, in a cloak and bonnet, pass along the wainscot like a breath!" The Jew released his hold, and they rushed tumultuously from the room. The candle, wasted by the draught, was standing where it had been placed. It showed them only the empty staircase, and their own white faces. They listened intently: a profound silence reigned throughout the house. "It's your fancy," said the Jew, taking up the light and turning to his companion. "I'll swear I saw it!" replied Monks, trembling. "It was bending forward when I saw it first; and when I spoke, it darted away." The Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate, and, telling him he could follow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs. They looked into all the rooms; they were cold, bare, and empty. They descended into the passage, and thence into the cellars below. The green damp hung upon the low walls; the tracks of the snail and slug glistened in the light of the candle; but all was still as death. "What do you think now?" said the Jew, when they had regained the passage. "Besides ourselves, there's not a creature in the house except Toby and the boys; and they're safe enough. See here!" As a proof of the fact, the Jew drew forth two keys from his pocket; and explained, that when he first went downstairs, he had locked them in, to prevent any intrusion on the conference. This accumulated testimony effectually staggered Mr. Monks. His protestations had gradually become less and less vehement as they proceeded in their search without making any discovery; and, now, he gave vent to several very grim laughs, and confessed it could only have been his excited imagination. He declined any renewal of the conversation, however, for that night: suddenly remembering that it was past one o'clock. And so the amiable couple parted. CHAPTER XXVII. ATONES FOR THE UNPOLITENESS OF A FORMER CHAPTER; WHICH DESERTED A LADY, MOST UNCEREMONIOUSLY As it would be, by no means, seemly in a humble author to keep so mighty a personage as a beadle waiting, with his back to the fire, and the skirts of his coat gathered up under his arms, until such time as it might suit his pleasure to relieve him; and as it would still less become his station, or his gallantry to involve in the same neglect a lady | save a broken arm-chair, and an old couch or sofa without covering, which stood behind the door. Upon this piece of furniture, the stranger sat himself with the air of a weary man; and the Jew, drawing up the arm-chair opposite, they sat face to face. It was not quite dark; the door was partially open; and the candle outside, threw a feeble reflection on the opposite wall. They conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the conversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that the latter was in a state of considerable irritation. They might have been talking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or more, when Monks by which name the Jew had designated the strange man several times in the course of their colloquy said, raising his voice a little, "I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?" "Only hear him!" exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "Why, do you mean to say you couldn't have done it, if you had chosen?" demanded Monks, sternly. "Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?" "Whose turn would that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine," replied Monks. "But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?" "What then?" demanded Monks. "I saw it was not easy to train him to the business,"<|quote|>replied the Jew;</|quote|>"he was not like other boys in the same circumstances." "Curse him, no!" muttered the man, "or he would have been a thief, long ago." "I had no hold upon him to make him worse," pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. "His hand was not in. I had nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have in the beginning, or we labour in vain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all." "_That_ was not my doing," observed Monks. "No, no, my dear!" renewed the Jew. "And I don't quarrel with it now; because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you were looking for. Well! I got him back for you by means of the girl; and then _she_ begins to favour him." "Throttle the girl!" said Monks, impatiently. "Why, we can't afford to do that just now, my dear," replied the Jew, smiling; "and, besides, that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one of these days, I might be glad to have it done. I know what these girls are, Monks, well. As soon as the boy begins to harden, she'll care no more for him, than for a block of wood. You want him made a thief. If he is alive, I can make him one from this time; and, if if" said the Jew, drawing nearer to the other, "it's not likely, mind, but if the worst comes to the worst, and he is dead" "It's no fault of mine if he is!" interposed the other man, with a look of terror, and clasping the Jew's arm with trembling hands. "Mind that. Fagin! I had no hand in it. Anything but his death, I told you from the first. I won't shed blood; it's always found out, and haunts a man besides. If they shot him dead, I was not the cause; do you hear me? Fire this infernal den! What's that?" "What!" cried the Jew, grasping the coward round the body, with both arms, as he sprung to his feet. "Where?" "Yonder!" replied the man, glaring at the opposite wall. "The shadow! I saw the shadow of a woman, in a cloak and bonnet, pass along the wainscot like a breath!" The Jew released his hold, and they rushed tumultuously from the room. The candle, wasted by the draught, was standing where it had been placed. It showed them only the empty staircase, and their own white faces. They listened intently: a profound silence reigned throughout the house. "It's your fancy," said the Jew, taking up the light and turning to his companion. "I'll swear I saw it!" replied Monks, trembling. "It was bending forward when I saw | Oliver Twist |
"they--you've seen them, of course?" | The Mock Turtle | whiting," said the Mock Turtle,<|quote|>"they--you've seen them, of course?"</|quote|>"Yes," said Alice, "I've often | whiting!" "Oh, as to the whiting," said the Mock Turtle,<|quote|>"they--you've seen them, of course?"</|quote|>"Yes," said Alice, "I've often seen them at dinn--" she | you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch," said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: "and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!" "Oh, as to the whiting," said the Mock Turtle,<|quote|>"they--you've seen them, of course?"</|quote|>"Yes," said Alice, "I've often seen them at dinn--" she checked herself hastily. "I don't know where Dinn may be," said the Mock Turtle, "but if you've seen them so often, of course you know what they're like." "I believe so," Alice replied thoughtfully. "They have their tails in their | friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch," said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: "and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!" "Oh, as to the whiting," said the Mock Turtle,<|quote|>"they--you've seen them, of course?"</|quote|>"Yes," said Alice, "I've often seen them at dinn--" she checked herself hastily. "I don't know where Dinn may be," said the Mock Turtle, "but if you've seen them so often, of course you know what they're like." "I believe so," Alice replied thoughtfully. "They have their tails in their mouths--and they're all over crumbs." "You're wrong about the crumbs," said the Mock Turtle: "crumbs would all wash off in the sea. But they _have_ their tails in their mouths; and the reason is--" here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes.--" "Tell her about the reason and all | dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" "But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance-- Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance." "What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch," said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: "and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!" "Oh, as to the whiting," said the Mock Turtle,<|quote|>"they--you've seen them, of course?"</|quote|>"Yes," said Alice, "I've often seen them at dinn--" she checked herself hastily. "I don't know where Dinn may be," said the Mock Turtle, "but if you've seen them so often, of course you know what they're like." "I believe so," Alice replied thoughtfully. "They have their tails in their mouths--and they're all over crumbs." "You're wrong about the crumbs," said the Mock Turtle: "crumbs would all wash off in the sea. But they _have_ their tails in their mouths; and the reason is--" here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes.--" "Tell her about the reason and all that," he said to the Gryphon. "The reason is," said the Gryphon, "that they _would_ go with the lobsters to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So they had to fall a long way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they couldn't get them out again. That's all." "Thank you," said Alice, "it's very interesting. I never knew so much about a whiting before." "I can tell you more than that, if you like," said the Gryphon. "Do you know why it's called a whiting?" "I never thought about it," said Alice. "Why?" | again, and that's all the first figure," said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice. "It must be a very pretty dance," said Alice timidly. "Would you like to see a little of it?" said the Mock Turtle. "Very much indeed," said Alice. "Come, let's try the first figure!" said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon. "We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?" "Oh, _you_ sing," said the Gryphon. "I've forgotten the words." So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly and sadly:-- "Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail. "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" "But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance-- Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance." "What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch," said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: "and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!" "Oh, as to the whiting," said the Mock Turtle,<|quote|>"they--you've seen them, of course?"</|quote|>"Yes," said Alice, "I've often seen them at dinn--" she checked herself hastily. "I don't know where Dinn may be," said the Mock Turtle, "but if you've seen them so often, of course you know what they're like." "I believe so," Alice replied thoughtfully. "They have their tails in their mouths--and they're all over crumbs." "You're wrong about the crumbs," said the Mock Turtle: "crumbs would all wash off in the sea. But they _have_ their tails in their mouths; and the reason is--" here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes.--" "Tell her about the reason and all that," he said to the Gryphon. "The reason is," said the Gryphon, "that they _would_ go with the lobsters to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So they had to fall a long way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they couldn't get them out again. That's all." "Thank you," said Alice, "it's very interesting. I never knew so much about a whiting before." "I can tell you more than that, if you like," said the Gryphon. "Do you know why it's called a whiting?" "I never thought about it," said Alice. "Why?" "_It does the boots and shoes_," the Gryphon replied very solemnly. Alice was thoroughly puzzled. "Does the boots and shoes!" she repeated in a wondering tone. "Why, what are _your_ shoes done with?" said the Gryphon. "I mean, what makes them so shiny?" Alice looked down at them, and considered a little before she gave her answer. "They're done with blacking, I believe." "Boots and shoes under the sea," the Gryphon went on in a deep voice, "are done with a whiting. Now you know." "And what are they made of?" Alice asked in a tone of great curiosity. "Soles and eels, of course," the Gryphon replied rather impatiently: "any shrimp could have told you that." "If I'd been the whiting," said Alice, whose thoughts were still running on the song, "I'd have said to the porpoise, 'Keep back, please: we don't want _you_ with us!'" "They were obliged to have him with them," the Mock Turtle said: "no wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise." "Wouldn't it really?" said Alice in a tone of great surprise. "Of course not," said the Mock Turtle: "why, if a fish came to _me_, and told me he was going a journey, | to change the subject. "Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?" "Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle. "And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly. "That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: "tell her something about the games now." CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. "Same as if he had a bone in his throat," said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- "You may not have lived much under the sea--" (" "I haven't," said Alice)--" "and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--" (Alice began to say "I once tasted--" but checked herself hastily, and said "No, never" ") "--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!" "No, indeed," said Alice. "What sort of a dance is it?" "Why," said the Gryphon, "you first form into a line along the sea-shore--" "Two lines!" cried the Mock Turtle. "Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--" "_That_ generally takes some time," interrupted the Gryphon. "--you advance twice--" "Each with a lobster as a partner!" cried the Gryphon. "Of course," the Mock Turtle said: "advance twice, set to partners--" "--change lobsters, and retire in same order," continued the Gryphon. "Then, you know," the Mock Turtle went on, "you throw the--" "The lobsters!" shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air. "--as far out to sea as you can--" "Swim after them!" screamed the Gryphon. "Turn a somersault in the sea!" cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about. "Change lobsters again!" yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice. "Back to land again, and that's all the first figure," said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice. "It must be a very pretty dance," said Alice timidly. "Would you like to see a little of it?" said the Mock Turtle. "Very much indeed," said Alice. "Come, let's try the first figure!" said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon. "We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?" "Oh, _you_ sing," said the Gryphon. "I've forgotten the words." So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly and sadly:-- "Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail. "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" "But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance-- Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance." "What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch," said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: "and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!" "Oh, as to the whiting," said the Mock Turtle,<|quote|>"they--you've seen them, of course?"</|quote|>"Yes," said Alice, "I've often seen them at dinn--" she checked herself hastily. "I don't know where Dinn may be," said the Mock Turtle, "but if you've seen them so often, of course you know what they're like." "I believe so," Alice replied thoughtfully. "They have their tails in their mouths--and they're all over crumbs." "You're wrong about the crumbs," said the Mock Turtle: "crumbs would all wash off in the sea. But they _have_ their tails in their mouths; and the reason is--" here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes.--" "Tell her about the reason and all that," he said to the Gryphon. "The reason is," said the Gryphon, "that they _would_ go with the lobsters to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So they had to fall a long way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they couldn't get them out again. That's all." "Thank you," said Alice, "it's very interesting. I never knew so much about a whiting before." "I can tell you more than that, if you like," said the Gryphon. "Do you know why it's called a whiting?" "I never thought about it," said Alice. "Why?" "_It does the boots and shoes_," the Gryphon replied very solemnly. Alice was thoroughly puzzled. "Does the boots and shoes!" she repeated in a wondering tone. "Why, what are _your_ shoes done with?" said the Gryphon. "I mean, what makes them so shiny?" Alice looked down at them, and considered a little before she gave her answer. "They're done with blacking, I believe." "Boots and shoes under the sea," the Gryphon went on in a deep voice, "are done with a whiting. Now you know." "And what are they made of?" Alice asked in a tone of great curiosity. "Soles and eels, of course," the Gryphon replied rather impatiently: "any shrimp could have told you that." "If I'd been the whiting," said Alice, whose thoughts were still running on the song, "I'd have said to the porpoise, 'Keep back, please: we don't want _you_ with us!'" "They were obliged to have him with them," the Mock Turtle said: "no wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise." "Wouldn't it really?" said Alice in a tone of great surprise. "Of course not," said the Mock Turtle: "why, if a fish came to _me_, and told me he was going a journey, I should say 'With what porpoise?'" "Don't you mean 'purpose'?" said Alice. "I mean what I say," the Mock Turtle replied in an offended tone. And the Gryphon added "Come, let's hear some of _your_ adventures." "I could tell you my adventures--beginning from this morning," said Alice a little timidly: "but it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then." "Explain all that," said the Mock Turtle. "No, no! The adventures first," said the Gryphon in an impatient tone: "explanations take such a dreadful time." So Alice began telling them her adventures from the time when she first saw the White Rabbit. She was a little nervous about it just at first, the two creatures got so close to her, one on each side, and opened their eyes and mouths so _very_ wide, but she gained courage as she went on. Her listeners were perfectly quiet till she got to the part about her repeating "_You are old, Father William_," to the Caterpillar, and the words all coming different, and then the Mock Turtle drew a long breath, and said "That's very curious." "It's all about as curious as it can be," said the Gryphon. "It all came different!" the Mock Turtle repeated thoughtfully. "I should like to hear her try and repeat something now. Tell her to begin." He looked at the Gryphon as if he thought it had some kind of authority over Alice. "Stand up and repeat ''_Tis the voice of the sluggard_,'" said the Gryphon. "How the creatures order one about, and make one repeat lessons!" thought Alice; "I might as well be at school at once." However, she got up, and began to repeat it, but her head was so full of the Lobster Quadrille, that she hardly knew what she was saying, and the words came very queer indeed:-- "'Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare, "You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair." As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes." [later editions continued as follows When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark, And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark, But, when the tide rises and sharks are around, His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.] "That's different from what | way--" "_That_ generally takes some time," interrupted the Gryphon. "--you advance twice--" "Each with a lobster as a partner!" cried the Gryphon. "Of course," the Mock Turtle said: "advance twice, set to partners--" "--change lobsters, and retire in same order," continued the Gryphon. "Then, you know," the Mock Turtle went on, "you throw the--" "The lobsters!" shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air. "--as far out to sea as you can--" "Swim after them!" screamed the Gryphon. "Turn a somersault in the sea!" cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about. "Change lobsters again!" yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice. "Back to land again, and that's all the first figure," said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice. "It must be a very pretty dance," said Alice timidly. "Would you like to see a little of it?" said the Mock Turtle. "Very much indeed," said Alice. "Come, let's try the first figure!" said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon. "We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?" "Oh, _you_ sing," said the Gryphon. "I've forgotten the words." So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly and sadly:-- "Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail. "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" "But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance-- Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance." "What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch," said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: "and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!" "Oh, as to the whiting," said the Mock Turtle,<|quote|>"they--you've seen them, of course?"</|quote|>"Yes," said Alice, "I've often seen them at dinn--" she checked herself hastily. "I don't know where Dinn may be," said the Mock Turtle, "but if you've seen them so often, of course you know what they're like." "I believe so," Alice replied thoughtfully. "They have their tails in their mouths--and they're all over crumbs." "You're wrong about the crumbs," said the Mock Turtle: "crumbs would all wash off in the sea. But they _have_ their tails in their mouths; and the reason is--" here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes.--" "Tell her about the reason and all that," he said to the Gryphon. "The reason is," said the Gryphon, "that they _would_ go with the lobsters to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So they had to fall a long way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they couldn't get them out again. That's all." "Thank you," said Alice, "it's very interesting. I never knew so much about a whiting before." "I can tell you more than that, if you like," said the Gryphon. "Do you know why it's called a whiting?" "I never thought about it," said Alice. "Why?" "_It does the boots and shoes_," the Gryphon replied very solemnly. Alice was thoroughly puzzled. "Does the boots and shoes!" she repeated in a wondering tone. "Why, what are _your_ shoes done with?" said the Gryphon. "I mean, what makes them so shiny?" Alice looked down at them, and considered a little before she gave her answer. "They're done with blacking, I believe." "Boots and shoes under the sea," the Gryphon went on in a deep voice, "are done with a whiting. Now you know." "And what are they made of?" Alice asked in a tone of great curiosity. "Soles and eels, of course," the Gryphon replied rather impatiently: "any shrimp could have told you that." "If I'd been the whiting," said Alice, whose thoughts were still running on the song, "I'd have said to the porpoise, 'Keep back, please: we don't want _you_ with us!'" "They were obliged to have him with them," the Mock Turtle said: "no wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise." "Wouldn't it really?" | Alices Adventures In Wonderland |
"Enough to give a baby cold," | Mrs. Gradgrind | in it," said Mr. Bounderby.<|quote|>"Enough to give a baby cold,"</|quote|>Mrs. Gradgrind considered. "Cold? I | sop. A foot of water in it," said Mr. Bounderby.<|quote|>"Enough to give a baby cold,"</|quote|>Mrs. Gradgrind considered. "Cold? I was born with inflammation of | physic without any effect, and who, whenever she showed a symptom of coming to life, was invariably stunned by some weighty piece of fact tumbling on her; Mrs. Gradgrind hoped it was a dry ditch? "No! As wet as a sop. A foot of water in it," said Mr. Bounderby.<|quote|>"Enough to give a baby cold,"</|quote|>Mrs. Gradgrind considered. "Cold? I was born with inflammation of the lungs, and of everything else, I believe, that was capable of inflammation," returned Mr. Bounderby. "For years, ma'am, I was one of the most miserable little wretches ever seen. I was so sickly, that I was always moaning and | ditch, and the night in a pigsty. That's the way I spent my tenth birthday. Not that a ditch was new to me, for I was born in a ditch." Mrs. Gradgrind, a little, thin, white, pink-eyed bundle of shawls, of surpassing feebleness, mental and bodily; who was always taking physic without any effect, and who, whenever she showed a symptom of coming to life, was invariably stunned by some weighty piece of fact tumbling on her; Mrs. Gradgrind hoped it was a dry ditch? "No! As wet as a sop. A foot of water in it," said Mr. Bounderby.<|quote|>"Enough to give a baby cold,"</|quote|>Mrs. Gradgrind considered. "Cold? I was born with inflammation of the lungs, and of everything else, I believe, that was capable of inflammation," returned Mr. Bounderby. "For years, ma'am, I was one of the most miserable little wretches ever seen. I was so sickly, that I was always moaning and groaning. I was so ragged and dirty, that you wouldn't have touched me with a pair of tongs." Mrs. Gradgrind faintly looked at the tongs, as the most appropriate thing her imbecility could think of doing. "How I fought through it, _I_ don't know," said Bounderby. "I was determined, I | Stone Lodge, standing on the hearthrug, warming himself before the fire, Mr. Bounderby delivered some observations to Mrs. Gradgrind on the circumstance of its being his birthday. He stood before the fire, partly because it was a cool spring afternoon, though the sun shone; partly because the shade of Stone Lodge was always haunted by the ghost of damp mortar; partly because he thus took up a commanding position, from which to subdue Mrs. Gradgrind. "I hadn't a shoe to my foot. As to a stocking, I didn't know such a thing by name. I passed the day in a ditch, and the night in a pigsty. That's the way I spent my tenth birthday. Not that a ditch was new to me, for I was born in a ditch." Mrs. Gradgrind, a little, thin, white, pink-eyed bundle of shawls, of surpassing feebleness, mental and bodily; who was always taking physic without any effect, and who, whenever she showed a symptom of coming to life, was invariably stunned by some weighty piece of fact tumbling on her; Mrs. Gradgrind hoped it was a dry ditch? "No! As wet as a sop. A foot of water in it," said Mr. Bounderby.<|quote|>"Enough to give a baby cold,"</|quote|>Mrs. Gradgrind considered. "Cold? I was born with inflammation of the lungs, and of everything else, I believe, that was capable of inflammation," returned Mr. Bounderby. "For years, ma'am, I was one of the most miserable little wretches ever seen. I was so sickly, that I was always moaning and groaning. I was so ragged and dirty, that you wouldn't have touched me with a pair of tongs." Mrs. Gradgrind faintly looked at the tongs, as the most appropriate thing her imbecility could think of doing. "How I fought through it, _I_ don't know," said Bounderby. "I was determined, I suppose. I have been a determined character in later life, and I suppose I was then. Here I am, Mrs. Gradgrind, anyhow, and nobody to thank for my being here, but myself." Mrs. Gradgrind meekly and weakly hoped that his mother "_My_ mother? Bolted, ma'am!" said Bounderby. Mrs. Gradgrind, stunned as usual, collapsed and gave it up. "My mother left me to my grandmother," said Bounderby; "and, according to the best of my remembrance, my grandmother was the wickedest and the worst old woman that ever lived. If I got a little pair of shoes by any chance, she would | big, loud man, with a stare, and a metallic laugh. A man made out of a coarse material, which seemed to have been stretched to make so much of him. A man with a great puffed head and forehead, swelled veins in his temples, and such a strained skin to his face that it seemed to hold his eyes open, and lift his eyebrows up. A man with a pervading appearance on him of being inflated like a balloon, and ready to start. A man who could never sufficiently vaunt himself a self-made man. A man who was always proclaiming, through that brassy speaking-trumpet of a voice of his, his old ignorance and his old poverty. A man who was the Bully of humility. A year or two younger than his eminently practical friend, Mr. Bounderby looked older; his seven or eight and forty might have had the seven or eight added to it again, without surprising anybody. He had not much hair. One might have fancied he had talked it off; and that what was left, all standing up in disorder, was in that condition from being constantly blown about by his windy boastfulness. In the formal drawing-room of Stone Lodge, standing on the hearthrug, warming himself before the fire, Mr. Bounderby delivered some observations to Mrs. Gradgrind on the circumstance of its being his birthday. He stood before the fire, partly because it was a cool spring afternoon, though the sun shone; partly because the shade of Stone Lodge was always haunted by the ghost of damp mortar; partly because he thus took up a commanding position, from which to subdue Mrs. Gradgrind. "I hadn't a shoe to my foot. As to a stocking, I didn't know such a thing by name. I passed the day in a ditch, and the night in a pigsty. That's the way I spent my tenth birthday. Not that a ditch was new to me, for I was born in a ditch." Mrs. Gradgrind, a little, thin, white, pink-eyed bundle of shawls, of surpassing feebleness, mental and bodily; who was always taking physic without any effect, and who, whenever she showed a symptom of coming to life, was invariably stunned by some weighty piece of fact tumbling on her; Mrs. Gradgrind hoped it was a dry ditch? "No! As wet as a sop. A foot of water in it," said Mr. Bounderby.<|quote|>"Enough to give a baby cold,"</|quote|>Mrs. Gradgrind considered. "Cold? I was born with inflammation of the lungs, and of everything else, I believe, that was capable of inflammation," returned Mr. Bounderby. "For years, ma'am, I was one of the most miserable little wretches ever seen. I was so sickly, that I was always moaning and groaning. I was so ragged and dirty, that you wouldn't have touched me with a pair of tongs." Mrs. Gradgrind faintly looked at the tongs, as the most appropriate thing her imbecility could think of doing. "How I fought through it, _I_ don't know," said Bounderby. "I was determined, I suppose. I have been a determined character in later life, and I suppose I was then. Here I am, Mrs. Gradgrind, anyhow, and nobody to thank for my being here, but myself." Mrs. Gradgrind meekly and weakly hoped that his mother "_My_ mother? Bolted, ma'am!" said Bounderby. Mrs. Gradgrind, stunned as usual, collapsed and gave it up. "My mother left me to my grandmother," said Bounderby; "and, according to the best of my remembrance, my grandmother was the wickedest and the worst old woman that ever lived. If I got a little pair of shoes by any chance, she would take 'em off and sell 'em for drink. Why, I have known that grandmother of mine lie in her bed and drink her four-teen glasses of liquor before breakfast!" Mrs. Gradgrind, weakly smiling, and giving no other sign of vitality, looked (as she always did) like an indifferently executed transparency of a small female figure, without enough light behind it. "She kept a chandler's shop," pursued Bounderby, "and kept me in an egg-box. That was the cot of _my_ infancy; an old egg-box. As soon as I was big enough to run away, of course I ran away. Then I became a young vagabond; and instead of one old woman knocking me about and starving me, everybody of all ages knocked me about and starved me. They were right; they had no business to do anything else. I was a nuisance, an incumbrance, and a pest. I know that very well." His pride in having at any time of his life achieved such a great social distinction as to be a nuisance, an incumbrance, and a pest, was only to be satisfied by three sonorous repetitions of the boast. "I was to pull through it, I suppose, Mrs. Gradgrind. Whether | distant day would seem to become a woman all at once. Her father thought so as he looked at her. She was pretty. Would have been self-willed (he thought in his eminently practical way) but for her bringing-up. "Thomas, though I have the fact before me, I find it difficult to believe that you, with your education and resources, should have brought your sister to a scene like this." "I brought _him_, father," said Louisa, quickly. "I asked him to come." "I am sorry to hear it. I am very sorry indeed to hear it. It makes Thomas no better, and it makes you worse, Louisa." She looked at her father again, but no tear fell down her cheek. "You! Thomas and you, to whom the circle of the sciences is open; Thomas and you, who may be said to be replete with facts; Thomas and you, who have been trained to mathematical exactness; Thomas and you, here!" cried Mr. Gradgrind. "In this degraded position! I am amazed." "I was tired, father. I have been tired a long time," said Louisa. "Tired? Of what?" asked the astonished father. "I don't know of what of everything, I think." "Say not another word," returned Mr. Gradgrind. "You are childish. I will hear no more." He did not speak again until they had walked some half-a-mile in silence, when he gravely broke out with: "What would your best friends say, Louisa? Do you attach no value to their good opinion? What would Mr. Bounderby say?" At the mention of this name, his daughter stole a look at him, remarkable for its intense and searching character. He saw nothing of it, for before he looked at her, she had again cast down her eyes! "What," he repeated presently, "would Mr. Bounderby say?" All the way to Stone Lodge, as with grave indignation he led the two delinquents home, he repeated at intervals "What would Mr. Bounderby say?" as if Mr. Bounderby had been Mrs. Grundy. CHAPTER IV MR. BOUNDERBY NOT being Mrs. Grundy, who _was_ Mr. Bounderby? Why, Mr. Bounderby was as near being Mr. Gradgrind's bosom friend, as a man perfectly devoid of sentiment can approach that spiritual relationship towards another man perfectly devoid of sentiment. So near was Mr. Bounderby or, if the reader should prefer it, so far off. He was a rich man: banker, merchant, manufacturer, and what not. A big, loud man, with a stare, and a metallic laugh. A man made out of a coarse material, which seemed to have been stretched to make so much of him. A man with a great puffed head and forehead, swelled veins in his temples, and such a strained skin to his face that it seemed to hold his eyes open, and lift his eyebrows up. A man with a pervading appearance on him of being inflated like a balloon, and ready to start. A man who could never sufficiently vaunt himself a self-made man. A man who was always proclaiming, through that brassy speaking-trumpet of a voice of his, his old ignorance and his old poverty. A man who was the Bully of humility. A year or two younger than his eminently practical friend, Mr. Bounderby looked older; his seven or eight and forty might have had the seven or eight added to it again, without surprising anybody. He had not much hair. One might have fancied he had talked it off; and that what was left, all standing up in disorder, was in that condition from being constantly blown about by his windy boastfulness. In the formal drawing-room of Stone Lodge, standing on the hearthrug, warming himself before the fire, Mr. Bounderby delivered some observations to Mrs. Gradgrind on the circumstance of its being his birthday. He stood before the fire, partly because it was a cool spring afternoon, though the sun shone; partly because the shade of Stone Lodge was always haunted by the ghost of damp mortar; partly because he thus took up a commanding position, from which to subdue Mrs. Gradgrind. "I hadn't a shoe to my foot. As to a stocking, I didn't know such a thing by name. I passed the day in a ditch, and the night in a pigsty. That's the way I spent my tenth birthday. Not that a ditch was new to me, for I was born in a ditch." Mrs. Gradgrind, a little, thin, white, pink-eyed bundle of shawls, of surpassing feebleness, mental and bodily; who was always taking physic without any effect, and who, whenever she showed a symptom of coming to life, was invariably stunned by some weighty piece of fact tumbling on her; Mrs. Gradgrind hoped it was a dry ditch? "No! As wet as a sop. A foot of water in it," said Mr. Bounderby.<|quote|>"Enough to give a baby cold,"</|quote|>Mrs. Gradgrind considered. "Cold? I was born with inflammation of the lungs, and of everything else, I believe, that was capable of inflammation," returned Mr. Bounderby. "For years, ma'am, I was one of the most miserable little wretches ever seen. I was so sickly, that I was always moaning and groaning. I was so ragged and dirty, that you wouldn't have touched me with a pair of tongs." Mrs. Gradgrind faintly looked at the tongs, as the most appropriate thing her imbecility could think of doing. "How I fought through it, _I_ don't know," said Bounderby. "I was determined, I suppose. I have been a determined character in later life, and I suppose I was then. Here I am, Mrs. Gradgrind, anyhow, and nobody to thank for my being here, but myself." Mrs. Gradgrind meekly and weakly hoped that his mother "_My_ mother? Bolted, ma'am!" said Bounderby. Mrs. Gradgrind, stunned as usual, collapsed and gave it up. "My mother left me to my grandmother," said Bounderby; "and, according to the best of my remembrance, my grandmother was the wickedest and the worst old woman that ever lived. If I got a little pair of shoes by any chance, she would take 'em off and sell 'em for drink. Why, I have known that grandmother of mine lie in her bed and drink her four-teen glasses of liquor before breakfast!" Mrs. Gradgrind, weakly smiling, and giving no other sign of vitality, looked (as she always did) like an indifferently executed transparency of a small female figure, without enough light behind it. "She kept a chandler's shop," pursued Bounderby, "and kept me in an egg-box. That was the cot of _my_ infancy; an old egg-box. As soon as I was big enough to run away, of course I ran away. Then I became a young vagabond; and instead of one old woman knocking me about and starving me, everybody of all ages knocked me about and starved me. They were right; they had no business to do anything else. I was a nuisance, an incumbrance, and a pest. I know that very well." His pride in having at any time of his life achieved such a great social distinction as to be a nuisance, an incumbrance, and a pest, was only to be satisfied by three sonorous repetitions of the boast. "I was to pull through it, I suppose, Mrs. Gradgrind. Whether I was to do it or not, ma'am, I did it. I pulled through it, though nobody threw me out a rope. Vagabond, errand-boy, vagabond, labourer, porter, clerk, chief manager, small partner, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown. Those are the antecedents, and the culmination. Josiah Bounderby of Coketown learnt his letters from the outsides of the shops, Mrs. Gradgrind, and was first able to tell the time upon a dial-plate, from studying the steeple clock of St. Giles's Church, London, under the direction of a drunken cripple, who was a convicted thief, and an incorrigible vagrant. Tell Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, of your district schools and your model schools, and your training schools, and your whole kettle-of-fish of schools; and Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, tells you plainly, all right, all correct he hadn't such advantages but let us have hard-headed, solid-fisted people the education that made him won't do for everybody, he knows well such and such his education was, however, and you may force him to swallow boiling fat, but you shall never force him to suppress the facts of his life." Being heated when he arrived at this climax, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown stopped. He stopped just as his eminently practical friend, still accompanied by the two young culprits, entered the room. His eminently practical friend, on seeing him, stopped also, and gave Louisa a reproachful look that plainly said, "Behold your Bounderby!" "Well!" blustered Mr. Bounderby, "what's the matter? What is young Thomas in the dumps about?" He spoke of young Thomas, but he looked at Louisa. "We were peeping at the circus," muttered Louisa, haughtily, without lifting up her eyes, "and father caught us." "And, Mrs. Gradgrind," said her husband in a lofty manner, "I should as soon have expected to find my children reading poetry." "Dear me," whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind. "How can you, Louisa and Thomas! I wonder at you. I declare you're enough to make one regret ever having had a family at all. I have a great mind to say I wish I hadn't. _Then_ what would you have done, I should like to know?" Mr. Gradgrind did not seem favourably impressed by these cogent remarks. He frowned impatiently. "As if, with my head in its present throbbing state, you couldn't go and look at the shells and minerals and things provided for you, instead of circuses!" said Mrs. Gradgrind. "You know, as well | or eight and forty might have had the seven or eight added to it again, without surprising anybody. He had not much hair. One might have fancied he had talked it off; and that what was left, all standing up in disorder, was in that condition from being constantly blown about by his windy boastfulness. In the formal drawing-room of Stone Lodge, standing on the hearthrug, warming himself before the fire, Mr. Bounderby delivered some observations to Mrs. Gradgrind on the circumstance of its being his birthday. He stood before the fire, partly because it was a cool spring afternoon, though the sun shone; partly because the shade of Stone Lodge was always haunted by the ghost of damp mortar; partly because he thus took up a commanding position, from which to subdue Mrs. Gradgrind. "I hadn't a shoe to my foot. As to a stocking, I didn't know such a thing by name. I passed the day in a ditch, and the night in a pigsty. That's the way I spent my tenth birthday. Not that a ditch was new to me, for I was born in a ditch." Mrs. Gradgrind, a little, thin, white, pink-eyed bundle of shawls, of surpassing feebleness, mental and bodily; who was always taking physic without any effect, and who, whenever she showed a symptom of coming to life, was invariably stunned by some weighty piece of fact tumbling on her; Mrs. Gradgrind hoped it was a dry ditch? "No! As wet as a sop. A foot of water in it," said Mr. Bounderby.<|quote|>"Enough to give a baby cold,"</|quote|>Mrs. Gradgrind considered. "Cold? I was born with inflammation of the lungs, and of everything else, I believe, that was capable of inflammation," returned Mr. Bounderby. "For years, ma'am, I was one of the most miserable little wretches ever seen. I was so sickly, that I was always moaning and groaning. I was so ragged and dirty, that you wouldn't have touched me with a pair of tongs." Mrs. Gradgrind faintly looked at the tongs, as the most appropriate thing her imbecility could think of doing. "How I fought through it, _I_ don't know," said Bounderby. "I was determined, I suppose. I have been a determined character in later life, and I suppose I was then. Here I am, Mrs. Gradgrind, anyhow, and nobody to thank for my being here, but myself." Mrs. Gradgrind meekly and weakly hoped that his mother "_My_ mother? Bolted, ma'am!" said Bounderby. Mrs. Gradgrind, stunned as usual, collapsed and gave it up. "My mother left me to my grandmother," said Bounderby; "and, according to the best of my remembrance, my grandmother was the wickedest and the worst old woman that ever lived. If I got a little pair of shoes by any chance, she would take 'em off and sell 'em for drink. Why, I have known that grandmother of mine lie in her bed and drink her four-teen glasses of liquor before breakfast!" Mrs. Gradgrind, weakly smiling, and giving no other sign of vitality, looked (as she always did) like an indifferently executed transparency of a small female figure, without enough light behind it. "She kept a chandler's shop," pursued Bounderby, "and kept me in an egg-box. That was the cot of _my_ infancy; an old egg-box. As soon as I was big enough to run away, of course I ran away. Then I became a young vagabond; and instead of one old woman knocking me about and starving me, everybody of all ages knocked me about and starved me. They were right; they had no business to do anything else. I was a nuisance, an incumbrance, and a pest. I know that very well." His pride in having at any time of his life achieved such a great social distinction as to be a nuisance, an incumbrance, and a pest, was only to be satisfied by three sonorous repetitions of the boast. "I was to pull through it, I suppose, Mrs. Gradgrind. Whether I was to do it or not, ma'am, I did it. I pulled through it, though nobody threw me out a rope. Vagabond, errand-boy, vagabond, labourer, porter, clerk, chief manager, small partner, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown. Those are the antecedents, and the culmination. Josiah Bounderby of Coketown learnt his letters from the outsides of the shops, Mrs. Gradgrind, and was first able to tell the time upon a dial-plate, from studying the steeple clock of St. Giles's Church, London, under the direction of a drunken cripple, who was a convicted thief, and an incorrigible vagrant. Tell Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, of | Hard Times |
"Not at all," | Bird | be injurious to that friendship?"<|quote|>"Not at all,"</|quote|>replied the Bird; "it will | undisturbed. Will not this step be injurious to that friendship?"<|quote|>"Not at all,"</|quote|>replied the Bird; "it will tend rather to cement it." | answered: "The princes, your brothers, must conform to the emperor's pleasure, and in their turn invite him to come and see your house." "But, Bird," replied the princess, "my brothers and I love one another, and our friendship is yet undisturbed. Will not this step be injurious to that friendship?"<|quote|>"Not at all,"</|quote|>replied the Bird; "it will tend rather to cement it." "Then," answered the princess, "the emperor will see me." The Bird told her it was necessary he should, and that everything would go better afterward. Next morning the princes met the emperor hunting, who asked them if they had remembered | Bird and hear what he says; he is penetrating, and has promised his assistance in all difficulties." The princess sent for the cage, and after she had related the circumstances to the Bird in the presence of her brothers, asked him what they should do in this perplexity. The Bird answered: "The princes, your brothers, must conform to the emperor's pleasure, and in their turn invite him to come and see your house." "But, Bird," replied the princess, "my brothers and I love one another, and our friendship is yet undisturbed. Will not this step be injurious to that friendship?"<|quote|>"Not at all,"</|quote|>replied the Bird; "it will tend rather to cement it." "Then," answered the princess, "the emperor will see me." The Bird told her it was necessary he should, and that everything would go better afterward. Next morning the princes met the emperor hunting, who asked them if they had remembered to speak to their sister. Prince Bahman approached and answered: "Sir, we are ready to obey you, for we have not only obtained our sister's consent with great ease, but she took it amiss that we should pay her that deference in a matter wherein our duty to your majesty | to each other. You judge right, for if you had once gone you would insensibly have been engaged to devote yourselves to him. But do you think it an easy matter absolutely to refuse the emperor what he seems so earnestly to desire? Monarchs will be obeyed in their desires, and it may be dangerous to oppose them; therefore, if to follow my inclination I should dissuade you from obeying him, it may expose you to his resentment, and may render myself and you miserable. These are my sentiments; but before we conclude upon anything let us consult the Talking Bird and hear what he says; he is penetrating, and has promised his assistance in all difficulties." The princess sent for the cage, and after she had related the circumstances to the Bird in the presence of her brothers, asked him what they should do in this perplexity. The Bird answered: "The princes, your brothers, must conform to the emperor's pleasure, and in their turn invite him to come and see your house." "But, Bird," replied the princess, "my brothers and I love one another, and our friendship is yet undisturbed. Will not this step be injurious to that friendship?"<|quote|>"Not at all,"</|quote|>replied the Bird; "it will tend rather to cement it." "Then," answered the princess, "the emperor will see me." The Bird told her it was necessary he should, and that everything would go better afterward. Next morning the princes met the emperor hunting, who asked them if they had remembered to speak to their sister. Prince Bahman approached and answered: "Sir, we are ready to obey you, for we have not only obtained our sister's consent with great ease, but she took it amiss that we should pay her that deference in a matter wherein our duty to your majesty was concerned. If we have offended, we hope you will pardon us." "Do not be uneasy," replied the emperor. "I highly approve of your conduct, and hope you will have the same deference and attachment to my person, if I have ever so little share in your friendship." The princes, confounded at the emperor's goodness, returned no other answer but a low obeisance. The emperor, contrary to his usual custom, did not hunt long that day. Presuming that the princes possessed wit equal to their courage and bravery, he longed with impatience to converse with them more at liberty. He | forgetting a third time what I wish you to do for my sake; since the noise they will make by falling on the floor when you undress will remind you, if you do not recollect it before." The event happened just as the emperor foresaw; and without these balls the princes had not thought of speaking to their sister of this affair, for as Prince Bahman unloosed his girdle to go to bed the balls dropped on the floor, upon which he ran into Prince Perviz's chamber, when both went into the Princess Periezade's apartment, and after they had asked her pardon for coming at so unseasonable a time, they told her all the circumstances of their meeting the emperor. The princess was somewhat surprised at this intelligence. "Your meeting with the emperor," said she, "is happy and honourable and may in the end be highly advantageous to you, but it places me in an awkward position. It was on my account, I know, you refused the emperor, and I am infinitely obliged to you for doing so. I know by this that you would rather be guilty of incivility toward the emperor than violate the union we have sworn to each other. You judge right, for if you had once gone you would insensibly have been engaged to devote yourselves to him. But do you think it an easy matter absolutely to refuse the emperor what he seems so earnestly to desire? Monarchs will be obeyed in their desires, and it may be dangerous to oppose them; therefore, if to follow my inclination I should dissuade you from obeying him, it may expose you to his resentment, and may render myself and you miserable. These are my sentiments; but before we conclude upon anything let us consult the Talking Bird and hear what he says; he is penetrating, and has promised his assistance in all difficulties." The princess sent for the cage, and after she had related the circumstances to the Bird in the presence of her brothers, asked him what they should do in this perplexity. The Bird answered: "The princes, your brothers, must conform to the emperor's pleasure, and in their turn invite him to come and see your house." "But, Bird," replied the princess, "my brothers and I love one another, and our friendship is yet undisturbed. Will not this step be injurious to that friendship?"<|quote|>"Not at all,"</|quote|>replied the Bird; "it will tend rather to cement it." "Then," answered the princess, "the emperor will see me." The Bird told her it was necessary he should, and that everything would go better afterward. Next morning the princes met the emperor hunting, who asked them if they had remembered to speak to their sister. Prince Bahman approached and answered: "Sir, we are ready to obey you, for we have not only obtained our sister's consent with great ease, but she took it amiss that we should pay her that deference in a matter wherein our duty to your majesty was concerned. If we have offended, we hope you will pardon us." "Do not be uneasy," replied the emperor. "I highly approve of your conduct, and hope you will have the same deference and attachment to my person, if I have ever so little share in your friendship." The princes, confounded at the emperor's goodness, returned no other answer but a low obeisance. The emperor, contrary to his usual custom, did not hunt long that day. Presuming that the princes possessed wit equal to their courage and bravery, he longed with impatience to converse with them more at liberty. He made them ride on each side of him, an honour which was envied by the grand vizier, who was much mortified to see them preferred before him. When the emperor entered his capital, the eyes of the people, who stood in crowds in the streets, were fixed upon the two Princes Bahman and Perviz; and they were earnest to know who they might be. All, however, agreed in wishing that the emperor had been blessed with two such handsome princes, and said that his children would have been about the same age, if the queen had not been so unfortunate as to lose them. The first thing the emperor did when he arrived at his palace was to conduct the princes into the principal apartments, who praised without affectation the beauty and symmetry of the rooms, and the richness of the furniture and ornaments. Afterward a magnificent repast was served up, and the emperor made them sit with him, which they at first refused; but finding it was his pleasure, they obeyed. The emperor, who had himself much learning, particularly in history, foresaw that the princes, out of modesty and respect, would not take the liberty of beginning any conversation. | effectually that the emperor saw them fall one after the other. Immediately afterward Prince Bahman pursued another bear, and Prince Perviz another lion, and killed them in a short time, and would have beaten out for fresh game, but the emperor would not let them, and sent to them to come to him. When they approached he said: "If I had given you leave, you would soon have destroyed all my game; but it is not that which I would preserve, but your persons; for I am so well assured your bravery may one time or other be serviceable to me, that from this moment your lives will be always dear to me." The emperor, in short, conceived so great a kindness for the two princes, that he invited them immediately to make him a visit, to which Prince Bahman replied: "Your majesty does us an honour we do not deserve, and we beg you will excuse us." The emperor, who could not comprehend what reason the princes could have to refuse this token of his favour, pressed them to tell him why they excused themselves. "Sir," said Prince Bahman, "we have a sister younger than ourselves, with whom we live in such perfect union, that we undertake nothing before we consult her, nor she anything without asking our advice." "I commend your brotherly affection," answered the emperor. "Consult your sister, meet me to-morrow, and give me an answer." The princes went home, but neglected to speak of their adventure in meeting the emperor and hunting with him, and also of the honour he had done them, yet did not the next morning fail to meet him at the place appointed. "Well," said the emperor, "have you spoken to your sister, and has she consented to the pleasure I expect of seeing you?" The two princes looked at each other and blushed. "Sir," said Prince Bahman, "we beg your majesty to excuse us, for both my brother and I forgot." "Then remember to-day," replied the emperor, "and be sure to bring me an answer to-morrow." The princes were guilty of the same fault a second time, and the emperor was so good-natured as to forgive their negligence; but to prevent their forgetfulness the third time, he pulled three little golden balls out of a purse, and put them into Prince Bahman's bosom. "These balls," said he, smiling, "will prevent your forgetting a third time what I wish you to do for my sake; since the noise they will make by falling on the floor when you undress will remind you, if you do not recollect it before." The event happened just as the emperor foresaw; and without these balls the princes had not thought of speaking to their sister of this affair, for as Prince Bahman unloosed his girdle to go to bed the balls dropped on the floor, upon which he ran into Prince Perviz's chamber, when both went into the Princess Periezade's apartment, and after they had asked her pardon for coming at so unseasonable a time, they told her all the circumstances of their meeting the emperor. The princess was somewhat surprised at this intelligence. "Your meeting with the emperor," said she, "is happy and honourable and may in the end be highly advantageous to you, but it places me in an awkward position. It was on my account, I know, you refused the emperor, and I am infinitely obliged to you for doing so. I know by this that you would rather be guilty of incivility toward the emperor than violate the union we have sworn to each other. You judge right, for if you had once gone you would insensibly have been engaged to devote yourselves to him. But do you think it an easy matter absolutely to refuse the emperor what he seems so earnestly to desire? Monarchs will be obeyed in their desires, and it may be dangerous to oppose them; therefore, if to follow my inclination I should dissuade you from obeying him, it may expose you to his resentment, and may render myself and you miserable. These are my sentiments; but before we conclude upon anything let us consult the Talking Bird and hear what he says; he is penetrating, and has promised his assistance in all difficulties." The princess sent for the cage, and after she had related the circumstances to the Bird in the presence of her brothers, asked him what they should do in this perplexity. The Bird answered: "The princes, your brothers, must conform to the emperor's pleasure, and in their turn invite him to come and see your house." "But, Bird," replied the princess, "my brothers and I love one another, and our friendship is yet undisturbed. Will not this step be injurious to that friendship?"<|quote|>"Not at all,"</|quote|>replied the Bird; "it will tend rather to cement it." "Then," answered the princess, "the emperor will see me." The Bird told her it was necessary he should, and that everything would go better afterward. Next morning the princes met the emperor hunting, who asked them if they had remembered to speak to their sister. Prince Bahman approached and answered: "Sir, we are ready to obey you, for we have not only obtained our sister's consent with great ease, but she took it amiss that we should pay her that deference in a matter wherein our duty to your majesty was concerned. If we have offended, we hope you will pardon us." "Do not be uneasy," replied the emperor. "I highly approve of your conduct, and hope you will have the same deference and attachment to my person, if I have ever so little share in your friendship." The princes, confounded at the emperor's goodness, returned no other answer but a low obeisance. The emperor, contrary to his usual custom, did not hunt long that day. Presuming that the princes possessed wit equal to their courage and bravery, he longed with impatience to converse with them more at liberty. He made them ride on each side of him, an honour which was envied by the grand vizier, who was much mortified to see them preferred before him. When the emperor entered his capital, the eyes of the people, who stood in crowds in the streets, were fixed upon the two Princes Bahman and Perviz; and they were earnest to know who they might be. All, however, agreed in wishing that the emperor had been blessed with two such handsome princes, and said that his children would have been about the same age, if the queen had not been so unfortunate as to lose them. The first thing the emperor did when he arrived at his palace was to conduct the princes into the principal apartments, who praised without affectation the beauty and symmetry of the rooms, and the richness of the furniture and ornaments. Afterward a magnificent repast was served up, and the emperor made them sit with him, which they at first refused; but finding it was his pleasure, they obeyed. The emperor, who had himself much learning, particularly in history, foresaw that the princes, out of modesty and respect, would not take the liberty of beginning any conversation. Therefore, to give them an opportunity, he furnished them with subjects all dinner-time. But whatever subject he introduced, they shewed so much wit, judgment, and discernment, that he was struck with admiration. "Were these my own children," said he to himself, "and I had improved their talents by suitable education, they could not have been more accomplished or better informed." In short, he took such great pleasure in their conversation, that, after having sat longer than usual, he led them into his closet, where he pursued his conversation with them, and at last said: "I never supposed that there were among my subjects in the country youths so well brought up, so lively, so capable; and I never was better pleased with any conversation than yours; but it is time now we should relax our minds with some diversion; and as nothing is more capable of enlivening the mind than music, you shall hear a vocal and instrumental concert which may not be disagreeable to you." The emperor had no sooner spoken than the musicians, who had orders to attend, entered, and answered fully the expectations the princes had been led to entertain of their abilities. After the concerts, an excellent farce was acted, and the entertainment was concluded by dancers of both sexes. The two princes, seeing night approach, prostrated themselves at the emperor's feet; and having first thanked him for the favours and honours he had heaped upon them, asked his permission to retire; which was granted by the emperor, who, in dismissing them, said: "I give you leave to go; but remember, you will be always welcome, and the oftener you come the greater pleasure you will do me." Before they went out of the emperor's presence, Prince Bahman said: "Sir, may we presume to request that your majesty will do us and our sister the honour to pass by our house, and refresh yourself after your fatigue, the first time you take the diversion of hunting in that neighbourhood? It is not worthy of your presence; but monarchs sometimes have vouchsafed to take shelter in a cottage." "My children," replied the emperor, "your house cannot be otherwise than beautiful and worthy of its owners. I will call and see it with pleasure, which will be the greater for having for my hosts you and your sister, who is already dear to me from the account you | upon which he ran into Prince Perviz's chamber, when both went into the Princess Periezade's apartment, and after they had asked her pardon for coming at so unseasonable a time, they told her all the circumstances of their meeting the emperor. The princess was somewhat surprised at this intelligence. "Your meeting with the emperor," said she, "is happy and honourable and may in the end be highly advantageous to you, but it places me in an awkward position. It was on my account, I know, you refused the emperor, and I am infinitely obliged to you for doing so. I know by this that you would rather be guilty of incivility toward the emperor than violate the union we have sworn to each other. You judge right, for if you had once gone you would insensibly have been engaged to devote yourselves to him. But do you think it an easy matter absolutely to refuse the emperor what he seems so earnestly to desire? Monarchs will be obeyed in their desires, and it may be dangerous to oppose them; therefore, if to follow my inclination I should dissuade you from obeying him, it may expose you to his resentment, and may render myself and you miserable. These are my sentiments; but before we conclude upon anything let us consult the Talking Bird and hear what he says; he is penetrating, and has promised his assistance in all difficulties." The princess sent for the cage, and after she had related the circumstances to the Bird in the presence of her brothers, asked him what they should do in this perplexity. The Bird answered: "The princes, your brothers, must conform to the emperor's pleasure, and in their turn invite him to come and see your house." "But, Bird," replied the princess, "my brothers and I love one another, and our friendship is yet undisturbed. Will not this step be injurious to that friendship?"<|quote|>"Not at all,"</|quote|>replied the Bird; "it will tend rather to cement it." "Then," answered the princess, "the emperor will see me." The Bird told her it was necessary he should, and that everything would go better afterward. Next morning the princes met the emperor hunting, who asked them if they had remembered to speak to their sister. Prince Bahman approached and answered: "Sir, we are ready to obey you, for we have not only obtained our sister's consent with great ease, but she took it amiss that we should pay her that deference in a matter wherein our duty to your majesty was concerned. If we have offended, we hope you will pardon us." "Do not be uneasy," replied the emperor. "I highly approve of your conduct, and hope you will have the same deference and attachment to my person, if I have ever so little share in your friendship." The princes, confounded at the emperor's goodness, returned no other answer but a low obeisance. The emperor, contrary to his usual custom, did not hunt long that day. Presuming that the princes possessed wit equal to their courage and bravery, he longed with impatience to converse with them more at liberty. He made them ride on each side of him, an honour which was envied by the grand vizier, who was much mortified to see them preferred before him. When the emperor entered his capital, the eyes of the people, who stood in crowds in the streets, were fixed upon the two Princes Bahman and Perviz; and they were earnest to know who they might be. All, however, agreed in wishing that the emperor had been blessed with two such handsome princes, and said that his children would have been about the same age, if the queen had not been so unfortunate as to lose them. The first thing the emperor did when he arrived at his palace was to conduct the princes into the principal apartments, who praised without affectation the beauty and symmetry of the rooms, and the richness of the furniture and ornaments. Afterward a magnificent repast was served up, and the emperor made them sit with him, which they at first refused; but finding it was his pleasure, they obeyed. The emperor, who had himself much learning, particularly in history, foresaw that the princes, out of modesty and respect, would not take the liberty of beginning any conversation. Therefore, to give them an opportunity, he furnished them with subjects all dinner-time. But whatever subject he introduced, they shewed so much wit, judgment, and discernment, that he was struck with admiration. "Were these my own children," said he to himself, "and I had improved their talents by suitable education, they could not have been more accomplished or better informed." In short, he took | Arabian Nights (1) |
said the lady enthusiastically. | No speaker | come to supper with me,”<|quote|>said the lady enthusiastically.</|quote|>“Both of you.” This included | in from New York.” “You come to supper with me,”<|quote|>said the lady enthusiastically.</|quote|>“Both of you.” This included me. Mr. Sloane got to | be starting home.” “Please don’t hurry,” Gatsby urged them. He had control of himself now, and he wanted to see more of Tom. “Why don’t you—why don’t you stay for supper? I wouldn’t be surprised if some other people dropped in from New York.” “You come to supper with me,”<|quote|>said the lady enthusiastically.</|quote|>“Both of you.” This included me. Mr. Sloane got to his feet. “Come along,” he said—but to her only. “I mean it,” she insisted. “I’d love to have you. Lots of room.” Gatsby looked at me questioningly. He wanted to go and he didn’t see that Mr. Sloane had determined | haughtily in his chair; the woman said nothing either—until unexpectedly, after two highballs, she became cordial. “We’ll all come over to your next party, Mr. Gatsby,” she suggested. “What do you say?” “Certainly; I’d be delighted to have you.” “Be ver’ nice,” said Mr. Sloane, without gratitude. “Well—think ought to be starting home.” “Please don’t hurry,” Gatsby urged them. He had control of himself now, and he wanted to see more of Tom. “Why don’t you—why don’t you stay for supper? I wouldn’t be surprised if some other people dropped in from New York.” “You come to supper with me,”<|quote|>said the lady enthusiastically.</|quote|>“Both of you.” This included me. Mr. Sloane got to his feet. “Come along,” he said—but to her only. “I mean it,” she insisted. “I’d love to have you. Lots of room.” Gatsby looked at me questioningly. He wanted to go and he didn’t see that Mr. Sloane had determined he shouldn’t. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” I said. “Well, you come,” she urged, concentrating on Gatsby. Mr. Sloane murmured something close to her ear. “We won’t be late if we start now,” she insisted aloud. “I haven’t got a horse,” said Gatsby. “I used to ride in | have a nice ride?” “Very good roads around here.” “I suppose the automobiles—” “Yeah.” Moved by an irresistible impulse, Gatsby turned to Tom, who had accepted the introduction as a stranger. “I believe we’ve met somewhere before, Mr. Buchanan.” “Oh, yes,” said Tom, gruffly polite, but obviously not remembering. “So we did. I remember very well.” “About two weeks ago.” “That’s right. You were with Nick here.” “I know your wife,” continued Gatsby, almost aggressively. “That so?” Tom turned to me. “You live near here, Nick?” “Next door.” “That so?” Mr. Sloane didn’t enter into the conversation, but lounged back haughtily in his chair; the woman said nothing either—until unexpectedly, after two highballs, she became cordial. “We’ll all come over to your next party, Mr. Gatsby,” she suggested. “What do you say?” “Certainly; I’d be delighted to have you.” “Be ver’ nice,” said Mr. Sloane, without gratitude. “Well—think ought to be starting home.” “Please don’t hurry,” Gatsby urged them. He had control of himself now, and he wanted to see more of Tom. “Why don’t you—why don’t you stay for supper? I wouldn’t be surprised if some other people dropped in from New York.” “You come to supper with me,”<|quote|>said the lady enthusiastically.</|quote|>“Both of you.” This included me. Mr. Sloane got to his feet. “Come along,” he said—but to her only. “I mean it,” she insisted. “I’d love to have you. Lots of room.” Gatsby looked at me questioningly. He wanted to go and he didn’t see that Mr. Sloane had determined he shouldn’t. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” I said. “Well, you come,” she urged, concentrating on Gatsby. Mr. Sloane murmured something close to her ear. “We won’t be late if we start now,” she insisted aloud. “I haven’t got a horse,” said Gatsby. “I used to ride in the army, but I’ve never bought a horse. I’ll have to follow you in my car. Excuse me for just a minute.” The rest of us walked out on the porch, where Sloane and the lady began an impassioned conversation aside. “My God, I believe the man’s coming,” said Tom. “Doesn’t he know she doesn’t want him?” “She says she does want him.” “She has a big dinner party and he won’t know a soul there.” He frowned. “I wonder where in the devil he met Daisy. By God, I may be old-fashioned in my ideas, but women run around | weeks I didn’t see him or hear his voice on the phone—mostly I was in New York, trotting around with Jordan and trying to ingratiate myself with her senile aunt—but finally I went over to his house one Sunday afternoon. I hadn’t been there two minutes when somebody brought Tom Buchanan in for a drink. I was startled, naturally, but the really surprising thing was that it hadn’t happened before. They were a party of three on horseback—Tom and a man named Sloane and a pretty woman in a brown riding-habit, who had been there previously. “I’m delighted to see you,” said Gatsby, standing on his porch. “I’m delighted that you dropped in.” As though they cared! “Sit right down. Have a cigarette or a cigar.” He walked around the room quickly, ringing bells. “I’ll have something to drink for you in just a minute.” He was profoundly affected by the fact that Tom was there. But he would be uneasy anyhow until he had given them something, realizing in a vague way that that was all they came for. Mr. Sloane wanted nothing. A lemonade? No, thanks. A little champagne? Nothing at all, thanks … I’m sorry— “Did you have a nice ride?” “Very good roads around here.” “I suppose the automobiles—” “Yeah.” Moved by an irresistible impulse, Gatsby turned to Tom, who had accepted the introduction as a stranger. “I believe we’ve met somewhere before, Mr. Buchanan.” “Oh, yes,” said Tom, gruffly polite, but obviously not remembering. “So we did. I remember very well.” “About two weeks ago.” “That’s right. You were with Nick here.” “I know your wife,” continued Gatsby, almost aggressively. “That so?” Tom turned to me. “You live near here, Nick?” “Next door.” “That so?” Mr. Sloane didn’t enter into the conversation, but lounged back haughtily in his chair; the woman said nothing either—until unexpectedly, after two highballs, she became cordial. “We’ll all come over to your next party, Mr. Gatsby,” she suggested. “What do you say?” “Certainly; I’d be delighted to have you.” “Be ver’ nice,” said Mr. Sloane, without gratitude. “Well—think ought to be starting home.” “Please don’t hurry,” Gatsby urged them. He had control of himself now, and he wanted to see more of Tom. “Why don’t you—why don’t you stay for supper? I wouldn’t be surprised if some other people dropped in from New York.” “You come to supper with me,”<|quote|>said the lady enthusiastically.</|quote|>“Both of you.” This included me. Mr. Sloane got to his feet. “Come along,” he said—but to her only. “I mean it,” she insisted. “I’d love to have you. Lots of room.” Gatsby looked at me questioningly. He wanted to go and he didn’t see that Mr. Sloane had determined he shouldn’t. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” I said. “Well, you come,” she urged, concentrating on Gatsby. Mr. Sloane murmured something close to her ear. “We won’t be late if we start now,” she insisted aloud. “I haven’t got a horse,” said Gatsby. “I used to ride in the army, but I’ve never bought a horse. I’ll have to follow you in my car. Excuse me for just a minute.” The rest of us walked out on the porch, where Sloane and the lady began an impassioned conversation aside. “My God, I believe the man’s coming,” said Tom. “Doesn’t he know she doesn’t want him?” “She says she does want him.” “She has a big dinner party and he won’t know a soul there.” He frowned. “I wonder where in the devil he met Daisy. By God, I may be old-fashioned in my ideas, but women run around too much these days to suit me. They meet all kinds of crazy fish.” Suddenly Mr. Sloane and the lady walked down the steps and mounted their horses. “Come on,” said Mr. Sloane to Tom, “we’re late. We’ve got to go.” And then to me: “Tell him we couldn’t wait, will you?” Tom and I shook hands, the rest of us exchanged a cool nod, and they trotted quickly down the drive, disappearing under the August foliage just as Gatsby, with hat and light overcoat in hand, came out the front door. Tom was evidently perturbed at Daisy’s running around alone, for on the following Saturday night he came with her to Gatsby’s party. Perhaps his presence gave the evening its peculiar quality of oppressiveness—it stands out in my memory from Gatsby’s other parties that summer. There were the same people, or at least the same sort of people, the same profusion of champagne, the same many-coloured, many-keyed commotion, but I felt an unpleasantness in the air, a pervading harshness that hadn’t been there before. Or perhaps I had merely grown used to it, grown to accept West Egg as a world complete in itself, with its own standards and | liked him when he smiled. At any rate Cody asked him a few questions (one of them elicited the brand new name) and found that he was quick and extravagantly ambitious. A few days later he took him to Duluth and bought him a blue coat, six pairs of white duck trousers, and a yachting cap. And when the Tuolomee left for the West Indies and the Barbary Coast, Gatsby left too. He was employed in a vague personal capacity—while he remained with Cody he was in turn steward, mate, skipper, secretary, and even jailor, for Dan Cody sober knew what lavish doings Dan Cody drunk might soon be about, and he provided for such contingencies by reposing more and more trust in Gatsby. The arrangement lasted five years, during which the boat went three times around the Continent. It might have lasted indefinitely except for the fact that Ella Kaye came on board one night in Boston and a week later Dan Cody inhospitably died. I remember the portrait of him up in Gatsby’s bedroom, a grey, florid man with a hard, empty face—the pioneer debauchee, who during one phase of American life brought back to the Eastern seaboard the savage violence of the frontier brothel and saloon. It was indirectly due to Cody that Gatsby drank so little. Sometimes in the course of gay parties women used to rub champagne into his hair; for himself he formed the habit of letting liquor alone. And it was from Cody that he inherited money—a legacy of twenty-five thousand dollars. He didn’t get it. He never understood the legal device that was used against him, but what remained of the millions went intact to Ella Kaye. He was left with his singularly appropriate education; the vague contour of Jay Gatsby had filled out to the substantiality of a man. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ He told me all this very much later, but I’ve put it down here with the idea of exploding those first wild rumours about his antecedents, which weren’t even faintly true. Moreover he told it to me at a time of confusion, when I had reached the point of believing everything and nothing about him. So I take advantage of this short halt, while Gatsby, so to speak, caught his breath, to clear this set of misconceptions away. It was a halt, too, in my association with his affairs. For several weeks I didn’t see him or hear his voice on the phone—mostly I was in New York, trotting around with Jordan and trying to ingratiate myself with her senile aunt—but finally I went over to his house one Sunday afternoon. I hadn’t been there two minutes when somebody brought Tom Buchanan in for a drink. I was startled, naturally, but the really surprising thing was that it hadn’t happened before. They were a party of three on horseback—Tom and a man named Sloane and a pretty woman in a brown riding-habit, who had been there previously. “I’m delighted to see you,” said Gatsby, standing on his porch. “I’m delighted that you dropped in.” As though they cared! “Sit right down. Have a cigarette or a cigar.” He walked around the room quickly, ringing bells. “I’ll have something to drink for you in just a minute.” He was profoundly affected by the fact that Tom was there. But he would be uneasy anyhow until he had given them something, realizing in a vague way that that was all they came for. Mr. Sloane wanted nothing. A lemonade? No, thanks. A little champagne? Nothing at all, thanks … I’m sorry— “Did you have a nice ride?” “Very good roads around here.” “I suppose the automobiles—” “Yeah.” Moved by an irresistible impulse, Gatsby turned to Tom, who had accepted the introduction as a stranger. “I believe we’ve met somewhere before, Mr. Buchanan.” “Oh, yes,” said Tom, gruffly polite, but obviously not remembering. “So we did. I remember very well.” “About two weeks ago.” “That’s right. You were with Nick here.” “I know your wife,” continued Gatsby, almost aggressively. “That so?” Tom turned to me. “You live near here, Nick?” “Next door.” “That so?” Mr. Sloane didn’t enter into the conversation, but lounged back haughtily in his chair; the woman said nothing either—until unexpectedly, after two highballs, she became cordial. “We’ll all come over to your next party, Mr. Gatsby,” she suggested. “What do you say?” “Certainly; I’d be delighted to have you.” “Be ver’ nice,” said Mr. Sloane, without gratitude. “Well—think ought to be starting home.” “Please don’t hurry,” Gatsby urged them. He had control of himself now, and he wanted to see more of Tom. “Why don’t you—why don’t you stay for supper? I wouldn’t be surprised if some other people dropped in from New York.” “You come to supper with me,”<|quote|>said the lady enthusiastically.</|quote|>“Both of you.” This included me. Mr. Sloane got to his feet. “Come along,” he said—but to her only. “I mean it,” she insisted. “I’d love to have you. Lots of room.” Gatsby looked at me questioningly. He wanted to go and he didn’t see that Mr. Sloane had determined he shouldn’t. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” I said. “Well, you come,” she urged, concentrating on Gatsby. Mr. Sloane murmured something close to her ear. “We won’t be late if we start now,” she insisted aloud. “I haven’t got a horse,” said Gatsby. “I used to ride in the army, but I’ve never bought a horse. I’ll have to follow you in my car. Excuse me for just a minute.” The rest of us walked out on the porch, where Sloane and the lady began an impassioned conversation aside. “My God, I believe the man’s coming,” said Tom. “Doesn’t he know she doesn’t want him?” “She says she does want him.” “She has a big dinner party and he won’t know a soul there.” He frowned. “I wonder where in the devil he met Daisy. By God, I may be old-fashioned in my ideas, but women run around too much these days to suit me. They meet all kinds of crazy fish.” Suddenly Mr. Sloane and the lady walked down the steps and mounted their horses. “Come on,” said Mr. Sloane to Tom, “we’re late. We’ve got to go.” And then to me: “Tell him we couldn’t wait, will you?” Tom and I shook hands, the rest of us exchanged a cool nod, and they trotted quickly down the drive, disappearing under the August foliage just as Gatsby, with hat and light overcoat in hand, came out the front door. Tom was evidently perturbed at Daisy’s running around alone, for on the following Saturday night he came with her to Gatsby’s party. Perhaps his presence gave the evening its peculiar quality of oppressiveness—it stands out in my memory from Gatsby’s other parties that summer. There were the same people, or at least the same sort of people, the same profusion of champagne, the same many-coloured, many-keyed commotion, but I felt an unpleasantness in the air, a pervading harshness that hadn’t been there before. Or perhaps I had merely grown used to it, grown to accept West Egg as a world complete in itself, with its own standards and its own great figures, second to nothing because it had no consciousness of being so, and now I was looking at it again, through Daisy’s eyes. It is invariably saddening to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment. They arrived at twilight, and, as we strolled out among the sparkling hundreds, Daisy’s voice was playing murmurous tricks in her throat. “These things excite me so,” she whispered. “If you want to kiss me any time during the evening, Nick, just let me know and I’ll be glad to arrange it for you. Just mention my name. Or present a green card. I’m giving out green—” “Look around,” suggested Gatsby. “I’m looking around. I’m having a marvellous—” “You must see the faces of many people you’ve heard about.” Tom’s arrogant eyes roamed the crowd. “We don’t go around very much,” he said; “in fact, I was just thinking I don’t know a soul here.” “Perhaps you know that lady.” Gatsby indicated a gorgeous, scarcely human orchid of a woman who sat in state under a white-plum tree. Tom and Daisy stared, with that peculiarly unreal feeling that accompanies the recognition of a hitherto ghostly celebrity of the movies. “She’s lovely,” said Daisy. “The man bending over her is her director.” He took them ceremoniously from group to group: “Mrs. Buchanan … and Mr. Buchanan—” After an instant’s hesitation he added: “the polo player.” “Oh no,” objected Tom quickly, “not me.” But evidently the sound of it pleased Gatsby for Tom remained “the polo player” for the rest of the evening. “I’ve never met so many celebrities,” Daisy exclaimed. “I liked that man—what was his name?—with the sort of blue nose.” Gatsby identified him, adding that he was a small producer. “Well, I liked him anyhow.” “I’d a little rather not be the polo player,” said Tom pleasantly, “I’d rather look at all these famous people in—in oblivion.” Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful, conservative foxtrot—I had never seen him dance before. Then they sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour, while at her request I remained watchfully in the garden. “In case there’s a fire or a flood,” she explained, “or any act of God.” Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper together. “Do you | in just a minute.” He was profoundly affected by the fact that Tom was there. But he would be uneasy anyhow until he had given them something, realizing in a vague way that that was all they came for. Mr. Sloane wanted nothing. A lemonade? No, thanks. A little champagne? Nothing at all, thanks … I’m sorry— “Did you have a nice ride?” “Very good roads around here.” “I suppose the automobiles—” “Yeah.” Moved by an irresistible impulse, Gatsby turned to Tom, who had accepted the introduction as a stranger. “I believe we’ve met somewhere before, Mr. Buchanan.” “Oh, yes,” said Tom, gruffly polite, but obviously not remembering. “So we did. I remember very well.” “About two weeks ago.” “That’s right. You were with Nick here.” “I know your wife,” continued Gatsby, almost aggressively. “That so?” Tom turned to me. “You live near here, Nick?” “Next door.” “That so?” Mr. Sloane didn’t enter into the conversation, but lounged back haughtily in his chair; the woman said nothing either—until unexpectedly, after two highballs, she became cordial. “We’ll all come over to your next party, Mr. Gatsby,” she suggested. “What do you say?” “Certainly; I’d be delighted to have you.” “Be ver’ nice,” said Mr. Sloane, without gratitude. “Well—think ought to be starting home.” “Please don’t hurry,” Gatsby urged them. He had control of himself now, and he wanted to see more of Tom. “Why don’t you—why don’t you stay for supper? I wouldn’t be surprised if some other people dropped in from New York.” “You come to supper with me,”<|quote|>said the lady enthusiastically.</|quote|>“Both of you.” This included me. Mr. Sloane got to his feet. “Come along,” he said—but to her only. “I mean it,” she insisted. “I’d love to have you. Lots of room.” Gatsby looked at me questioningly. He wanted to go and he didn’t see that Mr. Sloane had determined he shouldn’t. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” I said. “Well, you come,” she urged, concentrating on Gatsby. Mr. Sloane murmured something close to her ear. “We won’t be late if we start now,” she insisted aloud. “I haven’t got a horse,” said Gatsby. “I used to ride in the army, but I’ve never bought a horse. I’ll have to follow you in my car. Excuse me for just a minute.” The rest of us walked out on the porch, where Sloane and the lady began an impassioned conversation aside. “My God, I believe the man’s coming,” said Tom. “Doesn’t he know she doesn’t want him?” “She says she does want him.” “She has a big dinner party and he won’t know a soul there.” He frowned. “I wonder where in the devil he met Daisy. By God, I may be old-fashioned in my ideas, but women run around too much these days to suit me. They meet all kinds of crazy fish.” Suddenly Mr. Sloane and the lady walked down the steps and mounted their horses. “Come on,” said Mr. Sloane to Tom, “we’re late. We’ve got to go.” And then to me: “Tell him we couldn’t wait, will you?” Tom and I shook hands, the rest of us exchanged a cool nod, and they trotted quickly down the drive, disappearing under the August foliage just as Gatsby, with hat and light overcoat in hand, came out the front door. Tom was evidently perturbed at Daisy’s running around alone, for on the following Saturday night he came with her to Gatsby’s party. Perhaps his presence gave the evening its peculiar quality of oppressiveness—it stands out in my memory from Gatsby’s other parties that summer. There were the same people, or at least the same sort of people, the same profusion of champagne, the same many-coloured, many-keyed commotion, but I felt an | The Great Gatsby |
"Good, good," | Ngati | as you've stood by me."<|quote|>"Good, good,"</|quote|>said Ngati, smiling, as if | I'll stand by you, mate, as you've stood by me."<|quote|>"Good, good,"</|quote|>said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking | out his other hand, and said slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you," said Jem, quietly. "We don't understand one another much, but I do think you a good fellow, Ngati; so I shake hands hearty; and I'll stand by you, mate, as you've stood by me."<|quote|>"Good, good,"</|quote|>said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking grave and pained again, he pointed over the mountain. "Maori kill," he said. "Want eat?" "Yes; eat, eat," said Jem, making signs with his mouth. "Pig--meat." "No pig; no meat," said Ngati, grasping the meaning directly; and going to a | slowly, in the hope that the chief might grasp some of his words. But he did not understand a syllable, though he seemed to feel that Don was sympathising with him, and he shook hands again gravely. "My pakeha," he said, pressing Don's hand. Then turning to Jem, he held out his other hand, and said slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you," said Jem, quietly. "We don't understand one another much, but I do think you a good fellow, Ngati; so I shake hands hearty; and I'll stand by you, mate, as you've stood by me."<|quote|>"Good, good,"</|quote|>said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking grave and pained again, he pointed over the mountain. "Maori kill," he said. "Want eat?" "Yes; eat, eat," said Jem, making signs with his mouth. "Pig--meat." "No pig; no meat," said Ngati, grasping the meaning directly; and going to a palm-like tree, he broke out some of its tender growth and handed it to his companions. "Eat," he said; and he began to munch some of it himself. "Look at that now," said Jem. "I should ha' gone by that tree a hundred times without thinking it was good to | "My pakeha, morning. Want eat?" "Yes, yes!" cried Jem, eagerly. "Yes, yes," said Ngati; and then he stood, looking puzzled, as he tried to remember. At last, shaking his head sadly, he said, "No, no," in a helpless, dissatisfied tone. "Want Tomati. Tomati--" He closed his eyes, and laid his head sidewise, to suggest that Tomati was dead, and his countenance, in spite of his grotesque tattooing, wore an aspect of sadness that touched Don. "Tomati dead," he said slowly, and the chiefs eyes brightened. "Dead," he said; "Tomati dead--dead--all--dead." "Yes, poor fellows, all but the prisoners," said Don, speaking slowly, in the hope that the chief might grasp some of his words. But he did not understand a syllable, though he seemed to feel that Don was sympathising with him, and he shook hands again gravely. "My pakeha," he said, pressing Don's hand. Then turning to Jem, he held out his other hand, and said slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you," said Jem, quietly. "We don't understand one another much, but I do think you a good fellow, Ngati; so I shake hands hearty; and I'll stand by you, mate, as you've stood by me."<|quote|>"Good, good,"</|quote|>said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking grave and pained again, he pointed over the mountain. "Maori kill," he said. "Want eat?" "Yes; eat, eat," said Jem, making signs with his mouth. "Pig--meat." "No pig; no meat," said Ngati, grasping the meaning directly; and going to a palm-like tree, he broke out some of its tender growth and handed it to his companions. "Eat," he said; and he began to munch some of it himself. "Look at that now," said Jem. "I should ha' gone by that tree a hundred times without thinking it was good to eat. What's it like, Mas' Don?" "Something like stalky celery, or nut, or pear, all mixed up together." "Yes; 'tarn't bad," said Jem. "What's he doing now?" Ngati was busily hunting about for something, peering amongst the trees, but he did not seem to find that of which he was in search. He uttered a cry of satisfaction the next minute, though, as he stooped down and took a couple of eggs from a nest upon the ground. "Good--good!" he exclaimed, eagerly; and he gave them to Don to carry, while he once more resumed his search, which this time | still led the way. Hour after hour they tramped wearily on through the darkness, Ngati rarely speaking, but pausing now and then to help them over some rugged place. Everything in the darkness was wild and strange, and there was an unreality in the journey that appeared dreamlike, the more so that, utterly worn out, Don from time to time tramped on in a state of drowsiness resembling sleep. But all this passed away as the faint light of day gave place to the brilliant glow of the morning sunshine, and Ngati came to a standstill in a ferny gully, down which a tremendous torrent poured with a heavy thunderous sound. And now, as Don and Jem were about to throw themselves down upon a bed of thick moss, Ngati held out his hand in English fashion to Don. "My pakeha," he said softly, "morning." There was something so quaint in his salutation that, in spite of weariness and trouble, Don laughed till he saw the great chiefs countenance cloud. But it cleared at once as Don caught his hand, pressed it warmly, and looked gratefully in his face. "Hah!" cried Ngati, grasping the hand he held with painful energy. "My pakeha, morning. Want eat?" "Yes, yes!" cried Jem, eagerly. "Yes, yes," said Ngati; and then he stood, looking puzzled, as he tried to remember. At last, shaking his head sadly, he said, "No, no," in a helpless, dissatisfied tone. "Want Tomati. Tomati--" He closed his eyes, and laid his head sidewise, to suggest that Tomati was dead, and his countenance, in spite of his grotesque tattooing, wore an aspect of sadness that touched Don. "Tomati dead," he said slowly, and the chiefs eyes brightened. "Dead," he said; "Tomati dead--dead--all--dead." "Yes, poor fellows, all but the prisoners," said Don, speaking slowly, in the hope that the chief might grasp some of his words. But he did not understand a syllable, though he seemed to feel that Don was sympathising with him, and he shook hands again gravely. "My pakeha," he said, pressing Don's hand. Then turning to Jem, he held out his other hand, and said slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you," said Jem, quietly. "We don't understand one another much, but I do think you a good fellow, Ngati; so I shake hands hearty; and I'll stand by you, mate, as you've stood by me."<|quote|>"Good, good,"</|quote|>said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking grave and pained again, he pointed over the mountain. "Maori kill," he said. "Want eat?" "Yes; eat, eat," said Jem, making signs with his mouth. "Pig--meat." "No pig; no meat," said Ngati, grasping the meaning directly; and going to a palm-like tree, he broke out some of its tender growth and handed it to his companions. "Eat," he said; and he began to munch some of it himself. "Look at that now," said Jem. "I should ha' gone by that tree a hundred times without thinking it was good to eat. What's it like, Mas' Don?" "Something like stalky celery, or nut, or pear, all mixed up together." "Yes; 'tarn't bad," said Jem. "What's he doing now?" Ngati was busily hunting about for something, peering amongst the trees, but he did not seem to find that of which he was in search. He uttered a cry of satisfaction the next minute, though, as he stooped down and took a couple of eggs from a nest upon the ground. "Good--good!" he exclaimed, eagerly; and he gave them to Don to carry, while he once more resumed his search, which this time was successful, for he found a young tree, and stripped from its branches a large number of its olive-like berries. "There now," said Jem. "Why, it's all right, Mas' Don; 'tarn't tea and coffee, and bread and butter, but it's salad and eggs and fruit. Why, fighting cocks'll be nothing to it. We shall live like princes, see if we don't. What's them things like?" "Like very ripe apples, Jem, or medlars," replied Don, who had been tasting the fruit carefully. "That'll do, then. Pity we can't find some more of them eggs, and don't light a fire to cook 'em. I say, Ngati." The Maori looked at him inquiringly. "More, more," said Jem, holding up one of the eggs, and pointing to the ferny thicket. "No, no," said Ngati, shaking his head. "Moa, moa." He stooped down and held his hands apart in different directions, as if he were describing the shape of a moderate-sized oval pumpkin. Then, rising erect, he raised one hand to the full extent of his arm, bending the fingers so as to imitate the shape of a bird's head, pressed his head against his arm, placed the left arm close to his body and | "They'll follow us anywhere, Mas' Don, and catch us if they can. Say, Mas' Don, though, I'm glad we've got old `my pakeha.' He'll show us the way, and help us to get something to eat." "I hope so, Jem." "Say, Mas' Don, think we can trust him?" "Trust him, Jem! Why, of course." "That's all very well, Mas' Don. You're such a trusting chap. See how you used to trust Mike Bannock, and how he turned you over." "Yes; but he was a scoundrel. Ngati is a simple-hearted savage." "Hope he is, Mas' Don; but what I'm feared on is, that he may be a simple-stomached savage." "Why, what do you mean, Jem?" "Only as he may turn hungry some day, as 'tis his nature to." "Of course." "And then, 'spose he has us out in the woods at his mercy like, how then?" "Jem, you're always thinking about cannibals. How can you be so absurd?" "Come, I like that, Mas' Don; arn't I had enough to make me think of 'em?" "Hssh!" The warning came from Ngati; for just then the breeze seemed to sweep the faint roar of the torrent aside, and the shouting of the Maoris came loud and clear. "They're over the river," said Jem excitedly. "Well, I've got a spear in my hand, and I mean to die fighting for the sake of old Bristol and my little wife." CHAPTER FORTY FIVE. IN THE WOODS. "They're not over the river, Jem," said Don, impatiently. "I wish you wouldn't always look on the worst side of everything." "That's what your Uncle Josiah allus does with the sugar, Mas' Don. If the foots was werry treacley when he had a hogshead turned up to look at the bottom first, he allus used to say as all the rest was poor quality." "We're not dealing with sugar now." "No, Mas' Don; this here arn't half so sweet. I wish it was." "Hssh!" came from Ngati again. And for the rest of the night they followed him in silence along ravines, over rugged patches of mountain side, with the great fronds of the tree-ferns brushing their faces, and nocturnal birds rushing away from them as their steps invaded the solitudes where they indulged in their hunt for food. When they encountered a stream, which came foaming and plunging down from the mountain, after carefully trying its depth, Ngati still led the way. Hour after hour they tramped wearily on through the darkness, Ngati rarely speaking, but pausing now and then to help them over some rugged place. Everything in the darkness was wild and strange, and there was an unreality in the journey that appeared dreamlike, the more so that, utterly worn out, Don from time to time tramped on in a state of drowsiness resembling sleep. But all this passed away as the faint light of day gave place to the brilliant glow of the morning sunshine, and Ngati came to a standstill in a ferny gully, down which a tremendous torrent poured with a heavy thunderous sound. And now, as Don and Jem were about to throw themselves down upon a bed of thick moss, Ngati held out his hand in English fashion to Don. "My pakeha," he said softly, "morning." There was something so quaint in his salutation that, in spite of weariness and trouble, Don laughed till he saw the great chiefs countenance cloud. But it cleared at once as Don caught his hand, pressed it warmly, and looked gratefully in his face. "Hah!" cried Ngati, grasping the hand he held with painful energy. "My pakeha, morning. Want eat?" "Yes, yes!" cried Jem, eagerly. "Yes, yes," said Ngati; and then he stood, looking puzzled, as he tried to remember. At last, shaking his head sadly, he said, "No, no," in a helpless, dissatisfied tone. "Want Tomati. Tomati--" He closed his eyes, and laid his head sidewise, to suggest that Tomati was dead, and his countenance, in spite of his grotesque tattooing, wore an aspect of sadness that touched Don. "Tomati dead," he said slowly, and the chiefs eyes brightened. "Dead," he said; "Tomati dead--dead--all--dead." "Yes, poor fellows, all but the prisoners," said Don, speaking slowly, in the hope that the chief might grasp some of his words. But he did not understand a syllable, though he seemed to feel that Don was sympathising with him, and he shook hands again gravely. "My pakeha," he said, pressing Don's hand. Then turning to Jem, he held out his other hand, and said slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you," said Jem, quietly. "We don't understand one another much, but I do think you a good fellow, Ngati; so I shake hands hearty; and I'll stand by you, mate, as you've stood by me."<|quote|>"Good, good,"</|quote|>said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking grave and pained again, he pointed over the mountain. "Maori kill," he said. "Want eat?" "Yes; eat, eat," said Jem, making signs with his mouth. "Pig--meat." "No pig; no meat," said Ngati, grasping the meaning directly; and going to a palm-like tree, he broke out some of its tender growth and handed it to his companions. "Eat," he said; and he began to munch some of it himself. "Look at that now," said Jem. "I should ha' gone by that tree a hundred times without thinking it was good to eat. What's it like, Mas' Don?" "Something like stalky celery, or nut, or pear, all mixed up together." "Yes; 'tarn't bad," said Jem. "What's he doing now?" Ngati was busily hunting about for something, peering amongst the trees, but he did not seem to find that of which he was in search. He uttered a cry of satisfaction the next minute, though, as he stooped down and took a couple of eggs from a nest upon the ground. "Good--good!" he exclaimed, eagerly; and he gave them to Don to carry, while he once more resumed his search, which this time was successful, for he found a young tree, and stripped from its branches a large number of its olive-like berries. "There now," said Jem. "Why, it's all right, Mas' Don; 'tarn't tea and coffee, and bread and butter, but it's salad and eggs and fruit. Why, fighting cocks'll be nothing to it. We shall live like princes, see if we don't. What's them things like?" "Like very ripe apples, Jem, or medlars," replied Don, who had been tasting the fruit carefully. "That'll do, then. Pity we can't find some more of them eggs, and don't light a fire to cook 'em. I say, Ngati." The Maori looked at him inquiringly. "More, more," said Jem, holding up one of the eggs, and pointing to the ferny thicket. "No, no," said Ngati, shaking his head. "Moa, moa." He stooped down and held his hands apart in different directions, as if he were describing the shape of a moderate-sized oval pumpkin. Then, rising erect, he raised one hand to the full extent of his arm, bending the fingers so as to imitate the shape of a bird's head, pressed his head against his arm, placed the left arm close to his body and a little forward, and then began to stalk about slowly. "Moa, moa," he said, dropping his arm again, and pointing to the eggs, "Kiwi, kiwi." "Kiwi, kiwi," said Jem. "Can't make out what he means, Mas' Don; but it don't matter. Shall we suck the eggs raw?" He made a gesture as if to break one, but Ngati snatched it away. "No, no!" he cried sharply, and snatched the other away. "Pig!" ejaculated Jem. "Well, I do call that greedy." But if the chief was greedy over the eggs, which he secured in a roughly-made bag, of palm strips, ingeniously woven, he was generous enough over the fruit and palm, upon which they made a fair breakfast; after which Ngati examined Jem's wounds, and then signed to him to come down to the side of the stream, seizing him by the wrist, and half dragging him in his energetic way. "Is he going to drown me, Mas' Don?" "No, no, Jem. I know: he wants to bathe your wound." So it proved, for Ngati made him lie down by a pool, and tenderly washed the injuries, ending by applying some cool bruised leaves to the places, and binding them up with wild flax. This done, he examined Don's head, smiling with satisfaction because it was no worse. "Say, Mas' Don, it do feel comf'table. Why, he's quite a doctor, eh?" "What?" continued Jem, staring, as Ngati made signs. "He wants you to bathe his wounds. Your arm's painful, Jem; I'll do it." Ngati lay down by the pool, and, pulling up some moss, Don bathed a couple of ugly gashes and a stab, that was roughly plugged with fibre. The wounds were so bad that it was a wonder to both that the great fellow could keep about; but he appeared to bear them patiently enough, smiling with satisfaction as his attendant carefully washed them, and in imitation of what he had seen, applied bruised leaves and moss, and finally bound them up with native flax. Don shuddered more than once as he performed his task, and was glad when it was over, Jem looking on calmly the while. "Why, Mas' Don, a chap at home would want to go into hospital for less than that." "Yes, Jem; but these men seem so healthy and well, they heal up quickly, and bear their hurts as if nothing was wrong." "Sleep," | them over some rugged place. Everything in the darkness was wild and strange, and there was an unreality in the journey that appeared dreamlike, the more so that, utterly worn out, Don from time to time tramped on in a state of drowsiness resembling sleep. But all this passed away as the faint light of day gave place to the brilliant glow of the morning sunshine, and Ngati came to a standstill in a ferny gully, down which a tremendous torrent poured with a heavy thunderous sound. And now, as Don and Jem were about to throw themselves down upon a bed of thick moss, Ngati held out his hand in English fashion to Don. "My pakeha," he said softly, "morning." There was something so quaint in his salutation that, in spite of weariness and trouble, Don laughed till he saw the great chiefs countenance cloud. But it cleared at once as Don caught his hand, pressed it warmly, and looked gratefully in his face. "Hah!" cried Ngati, grasping the hand he held with painful energy. "My pakeha, morning. Want eat?" "Yes, yes!" cried Jem, eagerly. "Yes, yes," said Ngati; and then he stood, looking puzzled, as he tried to remember. At last, shaking his head sadly, he said, "No, no," in a helpless, dissatisfied tone. "Want Tomati. Tomati--" He closed his eyes, and laid his head sidewise, to suggest that Tomati was dead, and his countenance, in spite of his grotesque tattooing, wore an aspect of sadness that touched Don. "Tomati dead," he said slowly, and the chiefs eyes brightened. "Dead," he said; "Tomati dead--dead--all--dead." "Yes, poor fellows, all but the prisoners," said Don, speaking slowly, in the hope that the chief might grasp some of his words. But he did not understand a syllable, though he seemed to feel that Don was sympathising with him, and he shook hands again gravely. "My pakeha," he said, pressing Don's hand. Then turning to Jem, he held out his other hand, and said slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you," said Jem, quietly. "We don't understand one another much, but I do think you a good fellow, Ngati; so I shake hands hearty; and I'll stand by you, mate, as you've stood by me."<|quote|>"Good, good,"</|quote|>said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking grave and pained again, he pointed over the mountain. "Maori kill," he said. "Want eat?" "Yes; eat, eat," said Jem, making signs with his mouth. "Pig--meat." "No pig; no meat," said Ngati, grasping the meaning directly; and going to a palm-like tree, he broke out some of its tender growth and handed it to his companions. "Eat," he said; and he began to munch some of it himself. "Look at that now," said Jem. "I should ha' gone by that tree a hundred times without thinking it was good to eat. What's it like, Mas' Don?" "Something like stalky celery, or nut, or pear, all mixed up together." "Yes; 'tarn't bad," said Jem. "What's he doing now?" Ngati was busily hunting about for something, peering amongst the trees, but he did not seem to find that of which he was in search. He uttered a cry of satisfaction the next minute, though, as he stooped down and took a couple of eggs from a nest upon the ground. "Good--good!" he exclaimed, eagerly; and he gave them to Don to carry, while he once more resumed his search, which this time was successful, for he found a young tree, and stripped from its branches a large number of its olive-like berries. "There now," said Jem. "Why, it's all right, Mas' Don; 'tarn't tea and coffee, and bread and butter, but it's salad and eggs and fruit. Why, fighting cocks'll be nothing to it. We shall live like princes, see if we don't. What's them things like?" "Like very ripe apples, Jem, | Don Lavington |
"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I will leave the room this moment." | Marianne | here burst forth with indignation<|quote|>"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I will leave the room this moment."</|quote|>Elinor could not help laughing. | that I like him." Marianne here burst forth with indignation<|quote|>"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I will leave the room this moment."</|quote|>Elinor could not help laughing. "Excuse me," said she; "and | to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister. "I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of him that I greatly esteem, that I like him." Marianne here burst forth with indignation<|quote|>"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I will leave the room this moment."</|quote|>Elinor could not help laughing. "Excuse me," said she; "and be assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and | high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne s conviction of their attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister. "I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of him that I greatly esteem, that I like him." Marianne here burst forth with indignation<|quote|>"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I will leave the room this moment."</|quote|>Elinor could not help laughing. "Excuse me," said she; "and be assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion the hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But farther than this you must _not_ believe. I am by no means assured of his regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully | which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne?" "I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection in his face, than I now do in his heart." Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne s conviction of their attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister. "I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of him that I greatly esteem, that I like him." Marianne here burst forth with indignation<|quote|>"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I will leave the room this moment."</|quote|>Elinor could not help laughing. "Excuse me," said she; "and be assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion the hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But farther than this you must _not_ believe. I am by no means assured of his regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is. In my heart I feel little scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there are other points to be considered besides his inclination. He is very far from being independent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from Fanny s occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never been disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if Edward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties | pleased. "Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne?" "I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection in his face, than I now do in his heart." Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne s conviction of their attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister. "I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of him that I greatly esteem, that I like him." Marianne here burst forth with indignation<|quote|>"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I will leave the room this moment."</|quote|>Elinor could not help laughing. "Excuse me," said she; "and be assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion the hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But farther than this you must _not_ believe. I am by no means assured of his regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is. In my heart I feel little scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there are other points to be considered besides his inclination. He is very far from being independent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from Fanny s occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never been disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if Edward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great fortune or high rank." Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother and herself had outstripped the truth. "And you really are not engaged to him!" said she. "Yet it certainly soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay. _I_ shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be so indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he should be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how delightful it would be!" Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne had believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about him which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as unpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give him more than inquietude. It would not be likely to produce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him. | less fortunate than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different from hers!" CHAPTER IV. "What a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should have no taste for drawing." "No taste for drawing!" replied Elinor, "why should you think so? He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right." Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it. "I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him." Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied: "Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly." Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased. "Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne?" "I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection in his face, than I now do in his heart." Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne s conviction of their attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister. "I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of him that I greatly esteem, that I like him." Marianne here burst forth with indignation<|quote|>"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I will leave the room this moment."</|quote|>Elinor could not help laughing. "Excuse me," said she; "and be assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion the hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But farther than this you must _not_ believe. I am by no means assured of his regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is. In my heart I feel little scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there are other points to be considered besides his inclination. He is very far from being independent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from Fanny s occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never been disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if Edward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great fortune or high rank." Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother and herself had outstripped the truth. "And you really are not engaged to him!" said she. "Yet it certainly soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay. _I_ shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be so indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he should be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how delightful it would be!" Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne had believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about him which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as unpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give him more than inquietude. It would not be likely to produce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him. A more reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the indulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother neither behaved to him so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him any assurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly attending to her views for his aggrandizement. With such a knowledge as this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject. She was far from depending on that result of his preference of her, which her mother and sister still considered as certain. Nay, the longer they were together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more than friendship. But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which was still more common,) to make her uncivil. She took the first opportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to her so expressively of her brother s great expectations, of Mrs. Ferrars s resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger attending any young woman who attempted to _draw him in;_ that Mrs. Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to be calm. She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and instantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor should not be exposed another week to such insinuations. In this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the post, which contained a proposal particularly well timed. It was the offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of her own, a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire. The letter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit of friendly accommodation. He understood that she was in need of a dwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage, he assured her that everything should be done to it which she might think necessary, if the situation pleased her. He earnestly pressed her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to come with her daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, from | have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne?" "I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection in his face, than I now do in his heart." Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne s conviction of their attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister. "I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of him that I greatly esteem, that I like him." Marianne here burst forth with indignation<|quote|>"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I will leave the room this moment."</|quote|>Elinor could not help laughing. "Excuse me," said she; "and be assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion the hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But farther than this you must _not_ believe. I am by no means assured of his regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is. In my heart I feel little scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there are other points to be considered besides his inclination. He is very far from being independent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from Fanny s occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never been disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if Edward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great fortune or high rank." Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother and herself had outstripped the truth. "And you really are not engaged to him!" said she. "Yet it certainly soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay. _I_ shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be so indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he should be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how delightful it would be!" Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne had believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about him which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as unpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give him more than inquietude. It would not be likely to produce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him. A more reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the indulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother neither behaved to him so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him any assurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly attending to her views for his aggrandizement. With such a knowledge as this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject. She was far from depending on that result of his preference of her, which her mother and sister still considered as certain. Nay, the longer they were together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more than friendship. But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived by his sister, to make her uneasy, and | Sense And Sensibility |
“This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk about that some other time.” | Gatsby | “No?” Mr. Wolfshiem seemed disappointed.<|quote|>“This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk about that some other time.”</|quote|>“I beg your pardon,” said | exclaimed, “this isn’t the man.” “No?” Mr. Wolfshiem seemed disappointed.<|quote|>“This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk about that some other time.”</|quote|>“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “I had a | were electrocuted,” I said, remembering. “Five, with Becker.” His nostrils turned to me in an interested way. “I understand you’re looking for a business gonnegtion.” The juxtaposition of these two remarks was startling. Gatsby answered for me: “Oh, no,” he exclaimed, “this isn’t the man.” “No?” Mr. Wolfshiem seemed disappointed.<|quote|>“This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk about that some other time.”</|quote|>“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “I had a wrong man.” A succulent hash arrived, and Mr. Wolfshiem, forgetting the more sentimental atmosphere of the old Metropole, began to eat with ferocious delicacy. His eyes, meanwhile, roved very slowly all around the room—he completed the arc by turning to | innocently. “Sure he went.” Mr. Wolfshiem’s nose flashed at me indignantly. “He turned around in the door and says: ‘Don’t let that waiter take away my coffee!’ Then he went out on the sidewalk, and they shot him three times in his full belly and drove away.” “Four of them were electrocuted,” I said, remembering. “Five, with Becker.” His nostrils turned to me in an interested way. “I understand you’re looking for a business gonnegtion.” The juxtaposition of these two remarks was startling. Gatsby answered for me: “Oh, no,” he exclaimed, “this isn’t the man.” “No?” Mr. Wolfshiem seemed disappointed.<|quote|>“This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk about that some other time.”</|quote|>“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “I had a wrong man.” A succulent hash arrived, and Mr. Wolfshiem, forgetting the more sentimental atmosphere of the old Metropole, began to eat with ferocious delicacy. His eyes, meanwhile, roved very slowly all around the room—he completed the arc by turning to inspect the people directly behind. I think that, except for my presence, he would have taken one short glance beneath our own table. “Look here, old sport,” said Gatsby, leaning toward me, “I’m afraid I made you a little angry this morning in the car.” There was the smile again, | at the table, and Rosy had eat and drunk a lot all evening. When it was almost morning the waiter came up to him with a funny look and says somebody wants to speak to him outside. ‘All right,’ says Rosy, and begins to get up, and I pulled him down in his chair. “ ‘Let the bastards come in here if they want you, Rosy, but don’t you, so help me, move outside this room.’ “It was four o’clock in the morning then, and if we’d of raised the blinds we’d of seen daylight.” “Did he go?” I asked innocently. “Sure he went.” Mr. Wolfshiem’s nose flashed at me indignantly. “He turned around in the door and says: ‘Don’t let that waiter take away my coffee!’ Then he went out on the sidewalk, and they shot him three times in his full belly and drove away.” “Four of them were electrocuted,” I said, remembering. “Five, with Becker.” His nostrils turned to me in an interested way. “I understand you’re looking for a business gonnegtion.” The juxtaposition of these two remarks was startling. Gatsby answered for me: “Oh, no,” he exclaimed, “this isn’t the man.” “No?” Mr. Wolfshiem seemed disappointed.<|quote|>“This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk about that some other time.”</|quote|>“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “I had a wrong man.” A succulent hash arrived, and Mr. Wolfshiem, forgetting the more sentimental atmosphere of the old Metropole, began to eat with ferocious delicacy. His eyes, meanwhile, roved very slowly all around the room—he completed the arc by turning to inspect the people directly behind. I think that, except for my presence, he would have taken one short glance beneath our own table. “Look here, old sport,” said Gatsby, leaning toward me, “I’m afraid I made you a little angry this morning in the car.” There was the smile again, but this time I held out against it. “I don’t like mysteries,” I answered, “and I don’t understand why you won’t come out frankly and tell me what you want. Why has it all got to come through Miss Baker?” “Oh, it’s nothing underhand,” he assured me. “Miss Baker’s a great sportswoman, you know, and she’d never do anything that wasn’t all right.” Suddenly he looked at his watch, jumped up, and hurried from the room, leaving me with Mr. Wolfshiem at the table. “He has to telephone,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, following him with his eyes. “Fine fellow, isn’t he? | one look at him,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, shaking my hand earnestly, “and what do you think I did?” “What?” I inquired politely. But evidently he was not addressing me, for he dropped my hand and covered Gatsby with his expressive nose. “I handed the money to Katspaugh and I said: ‘All right, Katspaugh, don’t pay him a penny till he shuts his mouth.’ He shut it then and there.” Gatsby took an arm of each of us and moved forward into the restaurant, whereupon Mr. Wolfshiem swallowed a new sentence he was starting and lapsed into a somnambulatory abstraction. “Highballs?” asked the head waiter. “This is a nice restaurant here,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, looking at the presbyterian nymphs on the ceiling. “But I like across the street better!” “Yes, highballs,” agreed Gatsby, and then to Mr. Wolfshiem: “It’s too hot over there.” “Hot and small—yes,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “but full of memories.” “What place is that?” I asked. “The old Metropole.” “The old Metropole,” brooded Mr. Wolfshiem gloomily. “Filled with faces dead and gone. Filled with friends gone now forever. I can’t forget so long as I live the night they shot Rosy Rosenthal there. It was six of us at the table, and Rosy had eat and drunk a lot all evening. When it was almost morning the waiter came up to him with a funny look and says somebody wants to speak to him outside. ‘All right,’ says Rosy, and begins to get up, and I pulled him down in his chair. “ ‘Let the bastards come in here if they want you, Rosy, but don’t you, so help me, move outside this room.’ “It was four o’clock in the morning then, and if we’d of raised the blinds we’d of seen daylight.” “Did he go?” I asked innocently. “Sure he went.” Mr. Wolfshiem’s nose flashed at me indignantly. “He turned around in the door and says: ‘Don’t let that waiter take away my coffee!’ Then he went out on the sidewalk, and they shot him three times in his full belly and drove away.” “Four of them were electrocuted,” I said, remembering. “Five, with Becker.” His nostrils turned to me in an interested way. “I understand you’re looking for a business gonnegtion.” The juxtaposition of these two remarks was startling. Gatsby answered for me: “Oh, no,” he exclaimed, “this isn’t the man.” “No?” Mr. Wolfshiem seemed disappointed.<|quote|>“This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk about that some other time.”</|quote|>“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “I had a wrong man.” A succulent hash arrived, and Mr. Wolfshiem, forgetting the more sentimental atmosphere of the old Metropole, began to eat with ferocious delicacy. His eyes, meanwhile, roved very slowly all around the room—he completed the arc by turning to inspect the people directly behind. I think that, except for my presence, he would have taken one short glance beneath our own table. “Look here, old sport,” said Gatsby, leaning toward me, “I’m afraid I made you a little angry this morning in the car.” There was the smile again, but this time I held out against it. “I don’t like mysteries,” I answered, “and I don’t understand why you won’t come out frankly and tell me what you want. Why has it all got to come through Miss Baker?” “Oh, it’s nothing underhand,” he assured me. “Miss Baker’s a great sportswoman, you know, and she’d never do anything that wasn’t all right.” Suddenly he looked at his watch, jumped up, and hurried from the room, leaving me with Mr. Wolfshiem at the table. “He has to telephone,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, following him with his eyes. “Fine fellow, isn’t he? Handsome to look at and a perfect gentleman.” “Yes.” “He’s an Oggsford man.” “Oh!” “He went to Oggsford College in England. You know Oggsford College?” “I’ve heard of it.” “It’s one of the most famous colleges in the world.” “Have you known Gatsby for a long time?” I inquired. “Several years,” he answered in a gratified way. “I made the pleasure of his acquaintance just after the war. But I knew I had discovered a man of fine breeding after I talked with him an hour. I said to myself: ‘There’s the kind of man you’d like to take home and introduce to your mother and sister.’ ” He paused. “I see you’re looking at my cuff buttons.” I hadn’t been looking at them, but I did now. They were composed of oddly familiar pieces of ivory. “Finest specimens of human molars,” he informed me. “Well!” I inspected them. “That’s a very interesting idea.” “Yeah.” He flipped his sleeves up under his coat. “Yeah, Gatsby’s very careful about women. He would never so much as look at a friend’s wife.” When the subject of this instinctive trust returned to the table and sat down Mr. Wolfshiem drank his coffee with | of us, and I had a glimpse of Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting vitality as we went by. With fenders spread like wings we scattered light through half Astoria—only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the elevated I heard the familiar “jug-jug-spat!” of a motorcycle, and a frantic policeman rode alongside. “All right, old sport,” called Gatsby. We slowed down. Taking a white card from his wallet, he waved it before the man’s eyes. “Right you are,” agreed the policeman, tipping his cap. “Know you next time, Mr. Gatsby. Excuse me!” “What was that?” I inquired. “The picture of Oxford?” “I was able to do the commissioner a favour once, and he sends me a Christmas card every year.” Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of nonolfactory money. The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the mystery and the beauty in the world. A dead man passed us in a hearse heaped with blooms, followed by two carriages with drawn blinds, and by more cheerful carriages for friends. The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyes and short upper lips of southeastern Europe, and I was glad that the sight of Gatsby’s splendid car was included in their sombre holiday. As we crossed Blackwell’s Island a limousine passed us, driven by a white chauffeur, in which sat three modish negroes, two bucks and a girl. I laughed aloud as the yolks of their eyeballs rolled toward us in haughty rivalry. “Anything can happen now that we’ve slid over this bridge,” I thought; “anything at all …” Even Gatsby could happen, without any particular wonder. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Roaring noon. In a well-fanned Forty-second Street cellar I met Gatsby for lunch. Blinking away the brightness of the street outside, my eyes picked him out obscurely in the anteroom, talking to another man. “Mr. Carraway, this is my friend Mr. Wolfshiem.” A small, flat-nosed Jew raised his large head and regarded me with two fine growths of hair which luxuriated in either nostril. After a moment I discovered his tiny eyes in the half-darkness. “—So I took one look at him,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, shaking my hand earnestly, “and what do you think I did?” “What?” I inquired politely. But evidently he was not addressing me, for he dropped my hand and covered Gatsby with his expressive nose. “I handed the money to Katspaugh and I said: ‘All right, Katspaugh, don’t pay him a penny till he shuts his mouth.’ He shut it then and there.” Gatsby took an arm of each of us and moved forward into the restaurant, whereupon Mr. Wolfshiem swallowed a new sentence he was starting and lapsed into a somnambulatory abstraction. “Highballs?” asked the head waiter. “This is a nice restaurant here,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, looking at the presbyterian nymphs on the ceiling. “But I like across the street better!” “Yes, highballs,” agreed Gatsby, and then to Mr. Wolfshiem: “It’s too hot over there.” “Hot and small—yes,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “but full of memories.” “What place is that?” I asked. “The old Metropole.” “The old Metropole,” brooded Mr. Wolfshiem gloomily. “Filled with faces dead and gone. Filled with friends gone now forever. I can’t forget so long as I live the night they shot Rosy Rosenthal there. It was six of us at the table, and Rosy had eat and drunk a lot all evening. When it was almost morning the waiter came up to him with a funny look and says somebody wants to speak to him outside. ‘All right,’ says Rosy, and begins to get up, and I pulled him down in his chair. “ ‘Let the bastards come in here if they want you, Rosy, but don’t you, so help me, move outside this room.’ “It was four o’clock in the morning then, and if we’d of raised the blinds we’d of seen daylight.” “Did he go?” I asked innocently. “Sure he went.” Mr. Wolfshiem’s nose flashed at me indignantly. “He turned around in the door and says: ‘Don’t let that waiter take away my coffee!’ Then he went out on the sidewalk, and they shot him three times in his full belly and drove away.” “Four of them were electrocuted,” I said, remembering. “Five, with Becker.” His nostrils turned to me in an interested way. “I understand you’re looking for a business gonnegtion.” The juxtaposition of these two remarks was startling. Gatsby answered for me: “Oh, no,” he exclaimed, “this isn’t the man.” “No?” Mr. Wolfshiem seemed disappointed.<|quote|>“This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk about that some other time.”</|quote|>“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “I had a wrong man.” A succulent hash arrived, and Mr. Wolfshiem, forgetting the more sentimental atmosphere of the old Metropole, began to eat with ferocious delicacy. His eyes, meanwhile, roved very slowly all around the room—he completed the arc by turning to inspect the people directly behind. I think that, except for my presence, he would have taken one short glance beneath our own table. “Look here, old sport,” said Gatsby, leaning toward me, “I’m afraid I made you a little angry this morning in the car.” There was the smile again, but this time I held out against it. “I don’t like mysteries,” I answered, “and I don’t understand why you won’t come out frankly and tell me what you want. Why has it all got to come through Miss Baker?” “Oh, it’s nothing underhand,” he assured me. “Miss Baker’s a great sportswoman, you know, and she’d never do anything that wasn’t all right.” Suddenly he looked at his watch, jumped up, and hurried from the room, leaving me with Mr. Wolfshiem at the table. “He has to telephone,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, following him with his eyes. “Fine fellow, isn’t he? Handsome to look at and a perfect gentleman.” “Yes.” “He’s an Oggsford man.” “Oh!” “He went to Oggsford College in England. You know Oggsford College?” “I’ve heard of it.” “It’s one of the most famous colleges in the world.” “Have you known Gatsby for a long time?” I inquired. “Several years,” he answered in a gratified way. “I made the pleasure of his acquaintance just after the war. But I knew I had discovered a man of fine breeding after I talked with him an hour. I said to myself: ‘There’s the kind of man you’d like to take home and introduce to your mother and sister.’ ” He paused. “I see you’re looking at my cuff buttons.” I hadn’t been looking at them, but I did now. They were composed of oddly familiar pieces of ivory. “Finest specimens of human molars,” he informed me. “Well!” I inspected them. “That’s a very interesting idea.” “Yeah.” He flipped his sleeves up under his coat. “Yeah, Gatsby’s very careful about women. He would never so much as look at a friend’s wife.” When the subject of this instinctive trust returned to the table and sat down Mr. Wolfshiem drank his coffee with a jerk and got to his feet. “I have enjoyed my lunch,” he said, “and I’m going to run off from you two young men before I outstay my welcome.” “Don’t hurry Meyer,” said Gatsby, without enthusiasm. Mr. Wolfshiem raised his hand in a sort of benediction. “You’re very polite, but I belong to another generation,” he announced solemnly. “You sit here and discuss your sports and your young ladies and your—” He supplied an imaginary noun with another wave of his hand. “As for me, I am fifty years old, and I won’t impose myself on you any longer.” As he shook hands and turned away his tragic nose was trembling. I wondered if I had said anything to offend him. “He becomes very sentimental sometimes,” explained Gatsby. “This is one of his sentimental days. He’s quite a character around New York—a denizen of Broadway.” “Who is he, anyhow, an actor?” “No.” “A dentist?” “Meyer Wolfshiem? No, he’s a gambler.” Gatsby hesitated, then added, coolly: “He’s the man who fixed the World’s Series back in 1919.” “Fixed the World’s Series?” I repeated. The idea staggered me. I remembered, of course, that the World’s Series had been fixed in 1919, but if I had thought of it at all I would have thought of it as a thing that merely happened, the end of some inevitable chain. It never occurred to me that one man could start to play with the faith of fifty million people—with the single-mindedness of a burglar blowing a safe. “How did he happen to do that?” I asked after a minute. “He just saw the opportunity.” “Why isn’t he in jail?” “They can’t get him, old sport. He’s a smart man.” I insisted on paying the check. As the waiter brought my change I caught sight of Tom Buchanan across the crowded room. “Come along with me for a minute,” I said; “I’ve got to say hello to someone.” When he saw us Tom jumped up and took half a dozen steps in our direction. “Where’ve you been?” he demanded eagerly. “Daisy’s furious because you haven’t called up.” “This is Mr. Gatsby, Mr. Buchanan.” They shook hands briefly, and a strained, unfamiliar look of embarrassment came over Gatsby’s face. “How’ve you been, anyhow?” demanded Tom of me. “How’d you happen to come up this far to eat?” “I’ve been having lunch with Mr. Gatsby.” I | Gatsby with his expressive nose. “I handed the money to Katspaugh and I said: ‘All right, Katspaugh, don’t pay him a penny till he shuts his mouth.’ He shut it then and there.” Gatsby took an arm of each of us and moved forward into the restaurant, whereupon Mr. Wolfshiem swallowed a new sentence he was starting and lapsed into a somnambulatory abstraction. “Highballs?” asked the head waiter. “This is a nice restaurant here,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, looking at the presbyterian nymphs on the ceiling. “But I like across the street better!” “Yes, highballs,” agreed Gatsby, and then to Mr. Wolfshiem: “It’s too hot over there.” “Hot and small—yes,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “but full of memories.” “What place is that?” I asked. “The old Metropole.” “The old Metropole,” brooded Mr. Wolfshiem gloomily. “Filled with faces dead and gone. Filled with friends gone now forever. I can’t forget so long as I live the night they shot Rosy Rosenthal there. It was six of us at the table, and Rosy had eat and drunk a lot all evening. When it was almost morning the waiter came up to him with a funny look and says somebody wants to speak to him outside. ‘All right,’ says Rosy, and begins to get up, and I pulled him down in his chair. “ ‘Let the bastards come in here if they want you, Rosy, but don’t you, so help me, move outside this room.’ “It was four o’clock in the morning then, and if we’d of raised the blinds we’d of seen daylight.” “Did he go?” I asked innocently. “Sure he went.” Mr. Wolfshiem’s nose flashed at me indignantly. “He turned around in the door and says: ‘Don’t let that waiter take away my coffee!’ Then he went out on the sidewalk, and they shot him three times in his full belly and drove away.” “Four of them were electrocuted,” I said, remembering. “Five, with Becker.” His nostrils turned to me in an interested way. “I understand you’re looking for a business gonnegtion.” The juxtaposition of these two remarks was startling. Gatsby answered for me: “Oh, no,” he exclaimed, “this isn’t the man.” “No?” Mr. Wolfshiem seemed disappointed.<|quote|>“This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk about that some other time.”</|quote|>“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “I had a wrong man.” A succulent hash arrived, and Mr. Wolfshiem, forgetting the more sentimental atmosphere of the old Metropole, began to eat with ferocious delicacy. His eyes, meanwhile, roved very slowly all around the room—he completed the arc by turning to inspect the people directly behind. I think that, except for my presence, he would have taken one short glance beneath our own table. “Look here, old sport,” said Gatsby, leaning toward me, “I’m afraid I made you a little angry this morning in the car.” There was the smile again, but this time I held out against it. “I don’t like mysteries,” I answered, “and I don’t understand why you won’t come out frankly and tell me what you want. Why has it all got to come through Miss Baker?” “Oh, it’s nothing underhand,” he assured me. “Miss Baker’s a great sportswoman, you know, and she’d never do anything that wasn’t all right.” Suddenly he looked at his watch, jumped up, and hurried from the room, leaving me with Mr. Wolfshiem at the table. “He has to telephone,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, following him with his eyes. “Fine fellow, isn’t he? Handsome to look at and a perfect gentleman.” “Yes.” “He’s an Oggsford man.” “Oh!” “He went to Oggsford College in England. You know Oggsford College?” “I’ve heard of it.” “It’s one of the most famous colleges in the world.” “Have you known Gatsby for a long time?” I inquired. “Several years,” he answered in a gratified way. “I made the pleasure of his acquaintance just after the war. But I knew I had discovered a man of fine breeding after I talked with him an hour. I said to myself: ‘There’s the kind of man you’d | The Great Gatsby |
said Winterbourne. | No speaker | so--if you care to know,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"Of course I care to | her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But | his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will | in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said | anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." | She was "carried away" by Mr. Giovanelli. A few days after his brief interview with her mother, he encountered her in that beautiful abode of flowering desolation known as the Palace of the Caesars. The early Roman spring had filled the air with bloom and perfume, and the rugged surface of the Palatine was muffled with tender verdure. Daisy was strolling along the top of one of those great mounds of ruin that are embanked with mossy marble and paved with monumental inscriptions. It seemed to him that Rome had never been so lovely as just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, and feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place reaffirm themselves in mysterious interfusion. It seemed to him also that Daisy had never looked so pretty, but this had been an observation of his whenever he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. "You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh. "And does Randolph believe it?" he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!" The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the | couldn t live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed; "she goes on as if she was. But I ve made Mr. Giovanelli promise to tell me, if SHE doesn t. I should want to write to Mr. Miller about it--shouldn t you?" Winterbourne replied that he certainly should; and the state of mind of Daisy s mamma struck him as so unprecedented in the annals of parental vigilance that he gave up as utterly irrelevant the attempt to place her upon her guard. After this Daisy was never at home, and Winterbourne ceased to meet her at the houses of their common acquaintances, because, as he perceived, these shrewd people had quite made up their minds that she was going too far. They ceased to invite her; and they intimated that they desired to express to observant Europeans the great truth that, though Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady, her behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward her, and sometimes it annoyed him to suspect that she did not feel at all. He said to himself that she was too light and childish, too uncultivated and unreasoning, too provincial, to have reflected upon her ostracism, or even to have perceived it. Then at other moments he believed that she carried about in her elegant and irresponsible little organism a defiant, passionate, perfectly observant consciousness of the impression she produced. He asked himself whether Daisy s defiance came from the consciousness of innocence, or from her being, essentially, a young person of the reckless class. It must be admitted that holding one s self to a belief in Daisy s "innocence" came to seem to Winterbourne more and more a matter of fine-spun gallantry. As I have already had occasion to relate, he was angry at finding himself reduced to chopping logic about this young lady; he was vexed at his want of instinctive certitude as to how far her eccentricities were generic, national, and how far they were personal. From either view of them he had somehow missed her, and now it was too late. She was "carried away" by Mr. Giovanelli. A few days after his brief interview with her mother, he encountered her in that beautiful abode of flowering desolation known as the Palace of the Caesars. The early Roman spring had filled the air with bloom and perfume, and the rugged surface of the Palatine was muffled with tender verdure. Daisy was strolling along the top of one of those great mounds of ruin that are embanked with mossy marble and paved with monumental inscriptions. It seemed to him that Rome had never been so lovely as just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, and feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place reaffirm themselves in mysterious interfusion. It seemed to him also that Daisy had never looked so pretty, but this had been an observation of his whenever he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. "You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh. "And does Randolph believe it?" he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!" The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage--one of the little Roman streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron s famous lines, out of "Manfred," but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he drew near it that he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that two persons were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base. One of these was a woman, seated; her companion was standing in front of her. Presently the sound of the woman s voice came to him distinctly in the warm night air. "Well, he looks at us as one of the old lions or tigers may have looked at the Christian martyrs!" These were the words he heard, in the familiar accent of Miss Daisy Miller. "Let us hope he is not very hungry," responded the ingenious Giovanelli. "He will have to take me first; you will serve for dessert!" Winterbourne stopped, with a sort of horror, and, it must be added, with a sort of relief. It was as if a sudden illumination had been flashed upon the ambiguity of Daisy s behavior, and the riddle had | and perfume, and the rugged surface of the Palatine was muffled with tender verdure. Daisy was strolling along the top of one of those great mounds of ruin that are embanked with mossy marble and paved with monumental inscriptions. It seemed to him that Rome had never been so lovely as just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, and feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place reaffirm themselves in mysterious interfusion. It seemed to him also that Daisy had never looked so pretty, but this had been an observation of his whenever he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. "You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh. "And does Randolph believe it?" he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed | Daisy Miller |
"Yes, mother." | Don Lavington | Do you not hear me?"<|quote|>"Yes, mother."</|quote|>"Then appeal to him to | sake speak to your uncle. Do you not hear me?"<|quote|>"Yes, mother."</|quote|>"Then appeal to him to help you. Ask him to | part of his nature to prevail. "Do you not hear me, Don?" cried his mother. "Why do you not speak?" Don remained silent, and Kitty, as she looked at him, angrily uttered an impatient ejaculation. "Don, my son, for my sake speak to your uncle. Do you not hear me?"<|quote|>"Yes, mother."</|quote|>"Then appeal to him to help you. Ask him to forgive you if you have done wrong." "And she believes me guilty, too," thought Don, as he scowled at his feet. "But you have not done wrong, my boy. I, your mother, will not believe it of you." Don's better | his teeth, as something seemed to whisper to him, "No; you told the truth, and he would not believe you. Let him prove you guilty if he can!" It was not the first time in history that a boy had stubbornly fought against his better self, and allowed the worst part of his nature to prevail. "Do you not hear me, Don?" cried his mother. "Why do you not speak?" Don remained silent, and Kitty, as she looked at him, angrily uttered an impatient ejaculation. "Don, my son, for my sake speak to your uncle. Do you not hear me?"<|quote|>"Yes, mother."</|quote|>"Then appeal to him to help you. Ask him to forgive you if you have done wrong." "And she believes me guilty, too," thought Don, as he scowled at his feet. "But you have not done wrong, my boy. I, your mother, will not believe it of you." Don's better self began to force down that side of his mental scale. "You may have been weak and foolish, Don, but nothing worse." The evil scale went down now in turn, and with it the foolish, ignorant boy's heart sank low. "Come, Don." "I've nothing more to say, mother." "Nothing more | back against his desk. "Do you hear me, Don? Tell your uncle it is not true, and beg him to help you clear yourself from this disgrace." The lad made no reply, merely crossing his legs, and made his shoe-buckles rasp together as he slowly moved his feet. "Don!" He looked up strangely, met his mother's earnest appealing gaze, and for the moment his better nature prevailed; but as he looked from her to his uncle, and saw the old man's grey eyes fixed upon him searchingly, a feeling of obstinate anger swept over him again, and made him set his teeth, as something seemed to whisper to him, "No; you told the truth, and he would not believe you. Let him prove you guilty if he can!" It was not the first time in history that a boy had stubbornly fought against his better self, and allowed the worst part of his nature to prevail. "Do you not hear me, Don?" cried his mother. "Why do you not speak?" Don remained silent, and Kitty, as she looked at him, angrily uttered an impatient ejaculation. "Don, my son, for my sake speak to your uncle. Do you not hear me?"<|quote|>"Yes, mother."</|quote|>"Then appeal to him to help you. Ask him to forgive you if you have done wrong." "And she believes me guilty, too," thought Don, as he scowled at his feet. "But you have not done wrong, my boy. I, your mother, will not believe it of you." Don's better self began to force down that side of his mental scale. "You may have been weak and foolish, Don, but nothing worse." The evil scale went down now in turn, and with it the foolish, ignorant boy's heart sank low. "Come, Don." "I've nothing more to say, mother." "Nothing more to say!" cried Mrs Lavington, wildly. "Oh, yes, yes, you have much to say, my boy. Come, throw away this wilful pride and obstinacy." "I wish I could," thought Don one moment. "It is as cruel as it is unjust," he thought the next; and he felt more obstinately full of pride than ever. "Don, I command you to speak," said Mrs Lavington, whose manner now began to change; but unfortunately the stern tone she adopted had the wrong effect, and the wrinkles in the boy's face grew deeper, and the position more strained. If Uncle Josiah, who had never | I have constantly had to reprove him for making a companion of a man whom I weakly, and against my better judgment, allowed in the yard; and the result is I have been robbed, and this man accuses Lindon of committing the robbery, and bribing him to silence." "But it is not true, Josiah. My son could not be guilty of such a crime." "He will have every opportunity of disproving it before the magistrates," said Uncle Josiah, coldly. "Magistrates!--my boy?" exclaimed Mrs Lavington, wildly. "Oh, no, no, no, brother; you will not proceed to such extremities as these. My boy before the magistrates. Impossible!" "The matter is out of my hands, now," said the old merchant, gravely. "I was bound to charge that scoundrel labourer with the theft. I could not tell that he would accuse your son of being the principal in the crime." "But you will stop it now for my sake, dear. Don, my boy, why do you not speak, and beg your uncle's forgiveness?" Don remained silent, with his brow wrinkled, his chin upon his breast, and a stubborn look of anger in his eyes, as he stood with his hands in his pockets, leaning back against his desk. "Do you hear me, Don? Tell your uncle it is not true, and beg him to help you clear yourself from this disgrace." The lad made no reply, merely crossing his legs, and made his shoe-buckles rasp together as he slowly moved his feet. "Don!" He looked up strangely, met his mother's earnest appealing gaze, and for the moment his better nature prevailed; but as he looked from her to his uncle, and saw the old man's grey eyes fixed upon him searchingly, a feeling of obstinate anger swept over him again, and made him set his teeth, as something seemed to whisper to him, "No; you told the truth, and he would not believe you. Let him prove you guilty if he can!" It was not the first time in history that a boy had stubbornly fought against his better self, and allowed the worst part of his nature to prevail. "Do you not hear me, Don?" cried his mother. "Why do you not speak?" Don remained silent, and Kitty, as she looked at him, angrily uttered an impatient ejaculation. "Don, my son, for my sake speak to your uncle. Do you not hear me?"<|quote|>"Yes, mother."</|quote|>"Then appeal to him to help you. Ask him to forgive you if you have done wrong." "And she believes me guilty, too," thought Don, as he scowled at his feet. "But you have not done wrong, my boy. I, your mother, will not believe it of you." Don's better self began to force down that side of his mental scale. "You may have been weak and foolish, Don, but nothing worse." The evil scale went down now in turn, and with it the foolish, ignorant boy's heart sank low. "Come, Don." "I've nothing more to say, mother." "Nothing more to say!" cried Mrs Lavington, wildly. "Oh, yes, yes, you have much to say, my boy. Come, throw away this wilful pride and obstinacy." "I wish I could," thought Don one moment. "It is as cruel as it is unjust," he thought the next; and he felt more obstinately full of pride than ever. "Don, I command you to speak," said Mrs Lavington, whose manner now began to change; but unfortunately the stern tone she adopted had the wrong effect, and the wrinkles in the boy's face grew deeper, and the position more strained. If Uncle Josiah, who had never had boys of his own, had come down from the lofty perch he had assumed, taken the boy's hand, and said in kindly and frank tones, "Come, Don, my boy, there are troubles enough in life, clouds sufficient to obscure too much sunshine; speak out, let's have all this over, and clear the storm away,"--if he had said something like that, Don would have melted, and all would have been well; but accustomed to manage men with an iron rule, Uncle Josiah had somehow, in spite of his straightforward, manly, and just character, seemed to repel the boy whose charge he had taken, and instead now of making the slightest advance, he said to himself, "It is not my duty to eat humble pie before the obstinate young cub. It will be a severe lesson for him, and will do him good." So the breach widened. Don seemed to grow sulky and sullen, when he was longing to cast himself upon his mother's neck. The poor woman felt indignant at her son's conduct, and the last straw which broke the camel's back was laid on the top of the load by Kitty, who, moved by a desire to do good, | turned down a side street." "But they were your men in the midst, and directly after I saw little Sally Wimble following." "Oh, she was, was she?" cried the old man, glad of some one on whom to vent his spleen. "That woman goes. How dare she leave the gates when her husband is out? I shall be having the place robbed again." "Yes, that is what she said, Josiah--that you had been robbed, and that Don--my boy--oh, no, no, no; say it is not true." Mrs Lavington looked wildly from one to the other, but there was a dead silence, and in a few minutes the poor woman's manner had entirely changed. When she first spoke it was as the timid, shrinking, affectionate woman; now it was as the mother speaking in defence of her child. "I say it is not true," she cried. "You undertook to be a father to my poor boy, and now you charge him with having robbed you." "Laura, be calm," said the old merchant, quietly; "and you had better take Kitty back home and wait." "You have always been too stern and harsh with the poor boy," continued Mrs Lavington, without heeding him. "I was foolish ever to come and trust to you. How dare you charge him with such a crime?" "I did not charge him with any crime, my dear Laura," said the old merchant, gravely. "Then it is not true?" "It is true that I have been robbed, and that the man whom Lindon has persisted in making his companion, in spite of all I have said to the contrary, has charged him with the base, contemptible crime of robbing the master who trusted him." "But it is not true, Josiah; and that is what you always do, treat my poor boy as if he were your servant instead of your nephew--your sister's boy." "I treat Lindon as if he were my son when we are at home," said the old man, quietly. "When we are here at the office I treat him as my clerk, and I trust him to look after my interests, and to defend me from dishonest people." Don looked up, and it was on his lips to say, "Indeed, uncle, I always have done so," when the old man's next words seemed to chill and harden him. "But instead of doing his duty by me, I have constantly had to reprove him for making a companion of a man whom I weakly, and against my better judgment, allowed in the yard; and the result is I have been robbed, and this man accuses Lindon of committing the robbery, and bribing him to silence." "But it is not true, Josiah. My son could not be guilty of such a crime." "He will have every opportunity of disproving it before the magistrates," said Uncle Josiah, coldly. "Magistrates!--my boy?" exclaimed Mrs Lavington, wildly. "Oh, no, no, no, brother; you will not proceed to such extremities as these. My boy before the magistrates. Impossible!" "The matter is out of my hands, now," said the old merchant, gravely. "I was bound to charge that scoundrel labourer with the theft. I could not tell that he would accuse your son of being the principal in the crime." "But you will stop it now for my sake, dear. Don, my boy, why do you not speak, and beg your uncle's forgiveness?" Don remained silent, with his brow wrinkled, his chin upon his breast, and a stubborn look of anger in his eyes, as he stood with his hands in his pockets, leaning back against his desk. "Do you hear me, Don? Tell your uncle it is not true, and beg him to help you clear yourself from this disgrace." The lad made no reply, merely crossing his legs, and made his shoe-buckles rasp together as he slowly moved his feet. "Don!" He looked up strangely, met his mother's earnest appealing gaze, and for the moment his better nature prevailed; but as he looked from her to his uncle, and saw the old man's grey eyes fixed upon him searchingly, a feeling of obstinate anger swept over him again, and made him set his teeth, as something seemed to whisper to him, "No; you told the truth, and he would not believe you. Let him prove you guilty if he can!" It was not the first time in history that a boy had stubbornly fought against his better self, and allowed the worst part of his nature to prevail. "Do you not hear me, Don?" cried his mother. "Why do you not speak?" Don remained silent, and Kitty, as she looked at him, angrily uttered an impatient ejaculation. "Don, my son, for my sake speak to your uncle. Do you not hear me?"<|quote|>"Yes, mother."</|quote|>"Then appeal to him to help you. Ask him to forgive you if you have done wrong." "And she believes me guilty, too," thought Don, as he scowled at his feet. "But you have not done wrong, my boy. I, your mother, will not believe it of you." Don's better self began to force down that side of his mental scale. "You may have been weak and foolish, Don, but nothing worse." The evil scale went down now in turn, and with it the foolish, ignorant boy's heart sank low. "Come, Don." "I've nothing more to say, mother." "Nothing more to say!" cried Mrs Lavington, wildly. "Oh, yes, yes, you have much to say, my boy. Come, throw away this wilful pride and obstinacy." "I wish I could," thought Don one moment. "It is as cruel as it is unjust," he thought the next; and he felt more obstinately full of pride than ever. "Don, I command you to speak," said Mrs Lavington, whose manner now began to change; but unfortunately the stern tone she adopted had the wrong effect, and the wrinkles in the boy's face grew deeper, and the position more strained. If Uncle Josiah, who had never had boys of his own, had come down from the lofty perch he had assumed, taken the boy's hand, and said in kindly and frank tones, "Come, Don, my boy, there are troubles enough in life, clouds sufficient to obscure too much sunshine; speak out, let's have all this over, and clear the storm away,"--if he had said something like that, Don would have melted, and all would have been well; but accustomed to manage men with an iron rule, Uncle Josiah had somehow, in spite of his straightforward, manly, and just character, seemed to repel the boy whose charge he had taken, and instead now of making the slightest advance, he said to himself, "It is not my duty to eat humble pie before the obstinate young cub. It will be a severe lesson for him, and will do him good." So the breach widened. Don seemed to grow sulky and sullen, when he was longing to cast himself upon his mother's neck. The poor woman felt indignant at her son's conduct, and the last straw which broke the camel's back was laid on the top of the load by Kitty, who, moved by a desire to do good, made matters far worse by running across to Don, and in an impetuous way catching his hands and kissing him. "Don, dear!" she cried. The boy's face lit up. Here was some one who would believe him after all, and he responded to her advances by grasping her hands tightly in his. "Do, do speak, Don dear, and beg father to forgive you," she cried. "Tell him it was a mistake, and that you will never do so again." Don let fall her hands, the deep scowl came over his brow again, and he half turned away. "No, no, Don, dear," she whispered; "pray don't be obstinate. Confess that you did it, and promise father to do better in the future. He will forgive you; I know he will." Don turned his back with an impatient gesture, and Kitty burst into tears, and went slowly to her aunt, to whose hands she clung. "Laura, dear," said Uncle Josiah, gravely, "I think we had better bring this painful interview to an end. You may rest assured that I shall do what is just and right by Don. He shall have every opportunity for clearing himself." "I am not guilty," cried Don, fiercely throwing back his head. "I thought so this morning, my boy," said the old merchant, gravely. "Your conduct now is making me think very differently. Laura, I will walk home with you, if you please." "Josiah! Don, my boy, pray, pray speak," cried Mrs Lavington, piteously. Don heard her appeal, and it thrilled him, but his uncle's words had raised up an obstinacy that was stronger than ever, and while longing to throw himself in his mother's arms--passionately longing so to do--his indignant pride held him back, and he stood with his head bent, as in obedience to her brother Mrs Lavington took his arm, and allowed him to lead her out of the office, weeping bitterly the while. Don did not look up to meet his mother's yearning gaze, but for months and years after he seemed to see that look when far away in the midst of peril, and too late he bitterly upbraided himself for his want of frankness and power to subdue his obstinate pride. "He thinks me guilty!" he said to himself, as he stood with his head bent, listening, and unaware of the fact that some one was still in the room, till | whom Lindon has persisted in making his companion, in spite of all I have said to the contrary, has charged him with the base, contemptible crime of robbing the master who trusted him." "But it is not true, Josiah; and that is what you always do, treat my poor boy as if he were your servant instead of your nephew--your sister's boy." "I treat Lindon as if he were my son when we are at home," said the old man, quietly. "When we are here at the office I treat him as my clerk, and I trust him to look after my interests, and to defend me from dishonest people." Don looked up, and it was on his lips to say, "Indeed, uncle, I always have done so," when the old man's next words seemed to chill and harden him. "But instead of doing his duty by me, I have constantly had to reprove him for making a companion of a man whom I weakly, and against my better judgment, allowed in the yard; and the result is I have been robbed, and this man accuses Lindon of committing the robbery, and bribing him to silence." "But it is not true, Josiah. My son could not be guilty of such a crime." "He will have every opportunity of disproving it before the magistrates," said Uncle Josiah, coldly. "Magistrates!--my boy?" exclaimed Mrs Lavington, wildly. "Oh, no, no, no, brother; you will not proceed to such extremities as these. My boy before the magistrates. Impossible!" "The matter is out of my hands, now," said the old merchant, gravely. "I was bound to charge that scoundrel labourer with the theft. I could not tell that he would accuse your son of being the principal in the crime." "But you will stop it now for my sake, dear. Don, my boy, why do you not speak, and beg your uncle's forgiveness?" Don remained silent, with his brow wrinkled, his chin upon his breast, and a stubborn look of anger in his eyes, as he stood with his hands in his pockets, leaning back against his desk. "Do you hear me, Don? Tell your uncle it is not true, and beg him to help you clear yourself from this disgrace." The lad made no reply, merely crossing his legs, and made his shoe-buckles rasp together as he slowly moved his feet. "Don!" He looked up strangely, met his mother's earnest appealing gaze, and for the moment his better nature prevailed; but as he looked from her to his uncle, and saw the old man's grey eyes fixed upon him searchingly, a feeling of obstinate anger swept over him again, and made him set his teeth, as something seemed to whisper to him, "No; you told the truth, and he would not believe you. Let him prove you guilty if he can!" It was not the first time in history that a boy had stubbornly fought against his better self, and allowed the worst part of his nature to prevail. "Do you not hear me, Don?" cried his mother. "Why do you not speak?" Don remained silent, and Kitty, as she looked at him, angrily uttered an impatient ejaculation. "Don, my son, for my sake speak to your uncle. Do you not hear me?"<|quote|>"Yes, mother."</|quote|>"Then appeal to him to help you. Ask him to forgive you if you have done wrong." "And she believes me guilty, too," thought Don, as he scowled at his feet. "But you have not done wrong, my boy. I, your mother, will not believe it of you." Don's better self began to force down that side of his mental scale. "You may have been weak and foolish, Don, but nothing worse." The evil scale went down now in turn, and with it the foolish, ignorant boy's heart sank low. "Come, Don." "I've nothing more to say, mother." "Nothing more to say!" cried Mrs Lavington, wildly. "Oh, yes, yes, you have much to say, my boy. Come, throw away this wilful pride and obstinacy." "I wish I could," thought Don one moment. "It is as cruel as it is unjust," he thought the next; and he felt more obstinately full of pride than ever. "Don, I command you to speak," said Mrs Lavington, whose manner now began to change; but unfortunately the stern tone she adopted had the wrong effect, and the wrinkles in the boy's face grew deeper, and the position more strained. If Uncle Josiah, who had never had boys of his own, had come down from the | Don Lavington |
With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said | No speaker | good brush to your hair."<|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said</|quote|>"So what is to be | and I will give a good brush to your hair."<|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said</|quote|>"So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for | the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."<|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said</|quote|>"So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can | sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."<|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said</|quote|>"So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy | happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."<|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said</|quote|>"So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him | No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."<|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said</|quote|>"So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, | of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down." "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the driver-" "HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good. The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing." "Do not cry, dearest. Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be killed, would he?" The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone. "I trust not. One would always pray against that." "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book." "In a book?" "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls." "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened then." Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful." "Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room." So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."<|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said</|quote|>"So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?" "I can't think," said Lucy gravely. Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?" "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have replied?" "I hadn't time to think. You came." "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?" "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done. "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. Miss Bartlett became plaintive. "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman." As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try." "What train?" "The train to Rome." She looked at her | far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all. "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know what." Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."<|quote|>With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said</|quote|>"So what is to be done?" She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. "What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle." The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last. Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?" "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson." Lucy began to pace up and down the room. "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking about it?" "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do." "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves." "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?" "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. "Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?" An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it. But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his." "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?" "Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit." "But we fear him for you, dear. | A Room With A View |
Stamp! Stamp! | No speaker | you for it, never, never!"<|quote|>Stamp! Stamp!</|quote|>"Did anybody ever see such | husband. And I'll _never_ forgive you for it, never, never!"<|quote|>Stamp! Stamp!</|quote|>"Did anybody ever see such a temper!" exclaimed the horrified | hadn't a spark of imagination in you? I don't care if I do hurt your feelings by saying so! I hope I hurt them. You have hurt mine worse than they were ever hurt before even by Mrs. Thomas' intoxicated husband. And I'll _never_ forgive you for it, never, never!"<|quote|>Stamp! Stamp!</|quote|>"Did anybody ever see such a temper!" exclaimed the horrified Mrs. Rachel. "Anne go to your room and stay there until I come up," said Marilla, recovering her powers of speech with difficulty. Anne, bursting into tears, rushed to the hall door, slammed it until the tins on the porch | up, eyes blazing, hands clenched, passionate indignation exhaling from her like an atmosphere. "How dare you say such things about me?" she repeated vehemently. "How would you like to have such things said about you? How would you like to be told that you are fat and clumsy and probably hadn't a spark of imagination in you? I don't care if I do hurt your feelings by saying so! I hope I hurt them. You have hurt mine worse than they were ever hurt before even by Mrs. Thomas' intoxicated husband. And I'll _never_ forgive you for it, never, never!"<|quote|>Stamp! Stamp!</|quote|>"Did anybody ever see such a temper!" exclaimed the horrified Mrs. Rachel. "Anne go to your room and stay there until I come up," said Marilla, recovering her powers of speech with difficulty. Anne, bursting into tears, rushed to the hall door, slammed it until the tins on the porch wall outside rattled in sympathy, and fled through the hall and up the stairs like a whirlwind. A subdued slam above told that the door of the east gable had been shut with equal vehemence. "Well, I don't envy you your job bringing _that_ up, Marilla," said Mrs. Rachel with | Rachel expected. With one bound she crossed the kitchen floor and stood before Mrs. Rachel, her face scarlet with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole slender form trembling from head to foot. "I hate you," she cried in a choked voice, stamping her foot on the floor. "I hate you--I hate you--I hate you--" a louder stamp with each assertion of hatred. "How dare you call me skinny and ugly? How dare you say I'm freckled and redheaded? You are a rude, impolite, unfeeling woman!" "Anne!" exclaimed Marilla in consternation. But Anne continued to face Mrs. Rachel undauntedly, head up, eyes blazing, hands clenched, passionate indignation exhaling from her like an atmosphere. "How dare you say such things about me?" she repeated vehemently. "How would you like to have such things said about you? How would you like to be told that you are fat and clumsy and probably hadn't a spark of imagination in you? I don't care if I do hurt your feelings by saying so! I hope I hurt them. You have hurt mine worse than they were ever hurt before even by Mrs. Thomas' intoxicated husband. And I'll _never_ forgive you for it, never, never!"<|quote|>Stamp! Stamp!</|quote|>"Did anybody ever see such a temper!" exclaimed the horrified Mrs. Rachel. "Anne go to your room and stay there until I come up," said Marilla, recovering her powers of speech with difficulty. Anne, bursting into tears, rushed to the hall door, slammed it until the tins on the porch wall outside rattled in sympathy, and fled through the hall and up the stairs like a whirlwind. A subdued slam above told that the door of the east gable had been shut with equal vehemence. "Well, I don't envy you your job bringing _that_ up, Marilla," said Mrs. Rachel with unspeakable solemnity. Marilla opened her lips to say she knew not what of apology or deprecation. What she did say was a surprise to herself then and ever afterwards. "You shouldn't have twitted her about her looks, Rachel." "Marilla Cuthbert, you don't mean to say that you are upholding her in such a terrible display of temper as we've just seen?" demanded Mrs. Rachel indignantly. "No," said Marilla slowly, "I'm not trying to excuse her. She's been very naughty and I'll have to give her a talking to about it. But we must make allowances for her. She's never been | response, "when I make up my mind to do a thing it stays made up. I suppose you'd like to see Anne. I'll call her in." Anne came running in presently, her face sparkling with the delight of her orchard rovings; but, abashed at finding the delight herself in the unexpected presence of a stranger, she halted confusedly inside the door. She certainly was an odd-looking little creature in the short tight wincey dress she had worn from the asylum, below which her thin legs seemed ungracefully long. Her freckles were more numerous and obtrusive than ever; the wind had ruffled her hatless hair into over-brilliant disorder; it had never looked redder than at that moment. "Well, they didn't pick you for your looks, that's sure and certain," was Mrs. Rachel Lynde's emphatic comment. Mrs. Rachel was one of those delightful and popular people who pride themselves on speaking their mind without fear or favor. "She's terrible skinny and homely, Marilla. Come here, child, and let me have a look at you. Lawful heart, did any one ever see such freckles? And hair as red as carrots! Come here, child, I say." Anne "came there," but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel expected. With one bound she crossed the kitchen floor and stood before Mrs. Rachel, her face scarlet with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole slender form trembling from head to foot. "I hate you," she cried in a choked voice, stamping her foot on the floor. "I hate you--I hate you--I hate you--" a louder stamp with each assertion of hatred. "How dare you call me skinny and ugly? How dare you say I'm freckled and redheaded? You are a rude, impolite, unfeeling woman!" "Anne!" exclaimed Marilla in consternation. But Anne continued to face Mrs. Rachel undauntedly, head up, eyes blazing, hands clenched, passionate indignation exhaling from her like an atmosphere. "How dare you say such things about me?" she repeated vehemently. "How would you like to have such things said about you? How would you like to be told that you are fat and clumsy and probably hadn't a spark of imagination in you? I don't care if I do hurt your feelings by saying so! I hope I hurt them. You have hurt mine worse than they were ever hurt before even by Mrs. Thomas' intoxicated husband. And I'll _never_ forgive you for it, never, never!"<|quote|>Stamp! Stamp!</|quote|>"Did anybody ever see such a temper!" exclaimed the horrified Mrs. Rachel. "Anne go to your room and stay there until I come up," said Marilla, recovering her powers of speech with difficulty. Anne, bursting into tears, rushed to the hall door, slammed it until the tins on the porch wall outside rattled in sympathy, and fled through the hall and up the stairs like a whirlwind. A subdued slam above told that the door of the east gable had been shut with equal vehemence. "Well, I don't envy you your job bringing _that_ up, Marilla," said Mrs. Rachel with unspeakable solemnity. Marilla opened her lips to say she knew not what of apology or deprecation. What she did say was a surprise to herself then and ever afterwards. "You shouldn't have twitted her about her looks, Rachel." "Marilla Cuthbert, you don't mean to say that you are upholding her in such a terrible display of temper as we've just seen?" demanded Mrs. Rachel indignantly. "No," said Marilla slowly, "I'm not trying to excuse her. She's been very naughty and I'll have to give her a talking to about it. But we must make allowances for her. She's never been taught what is right. And you _were_ too hard on her, Rachel." Marilla could not help tacking on that last sentence, although she was again surprised at herself for doing it. Mrs. Rachel got up with an air of offended dignity. "Well, I see that I'll have to be very careful what I say after this, Marilla, since the fine feelings of orphans, brought from goodness knows where, have to be considered before anything else. Oh, no, I'm not vexed--don't worry yourself. I'm too sorry for you to leave any room for anger in my mind. You'll have your own troubles with that child. But if you'll take my advice--which I suppose you won't do, although I've brought up ten children and buried two--you'll do that ?talking to' you mention with a fair-sized birch switch. I should think _that_ would be the most effective language for that kind of a child. Her temper matches her hair I guess. Well, good evening, Marilla. I hope you'll come down to see me often as usual. But you can't expect me to visit here again in a hurry, if I'm liable to be flown at and insulted in such a fashion. It's something | log bridge over the brook. That bridge led Anne's dancing feet up over a wooded hill beyond, where perpetual twilight reigned under the straight, thick-growing firs and spruces; the only flowers there were myriads of delicate "June bells," those shyest and sweetest of woodland blooms, and a few pale, aerial starflowers, like the spirits of last year's blossoms. Gossamers glimmered like threads of silver among the trees and the fir boughs and tassels seemed to utter friendly speech. All these raptured voyages of exploration were made in the odd half hours which she was allowed for play, and Anne talked Matthew and Marilla half-deaf over her discoveries. Not that Matthew complained, to be sure; he listened to it all with a wordless smile of enjoyment on his face; Marilla permitted the "chatter" until she found herself becoming too interested in it, whereupon she always promptly quenched Anne by a curt command to hold her tongue. Anne was out in the orchard when Mrs. Rachel came, wandering at her own sweet will through the lush, tremulous grasses splashed with ruddy evening sunshine; so that good lady had an excellent chance to talk her illness fully over, describing every ache and pulse beat with such evident enjoyment that Marilla thought even grippe must bring its compensations. When details were exhausted Mrs. Rachel introduced the real reason of her call. "I've been hearing some surprising things about you and Matthew." "I don't suppose you are any more surprised than I am myself," said Marilla. "I'm getting over my surprise now." "It was too bad there was such a mistake," said Mrs. Rachel sympathetically. "Couldn't you have sent her back?" "I suppose we could, but we decided not to. Matthew took a fancy to her. And I must say I like her myself--although I admit she has her faults. The house seems a different place already. She's a real bright little thing." Marilla said more than she had intended to say when she began, for she read disapproval in Mrs. Rachel's expression. "It's a great responsibility you've taken on yourself," said that lady gloomily, "especially when you've never had any experience with children. You don't know much about her or her real disposition, I suppose, and there's no guessing how a child like that will turn out. But I don't want to discourage you I'm sure, Marilla." "I'm not feeling discouraged," was Marilla's dry response, "when I make up my mind to do a thing it stays made up. I suppose you'd like to see Anne. I'll call her in." Anne came running in presently, her face sparkling with the delight of her orchard rovings; but, abashed at finding the delight herself in the unexpected presence of a stranger, she halted confusedly inside the door. She certainly was an odd-looking little creature in the short tight wincey dress she had worn from the asylum, below which her thin legs seemed ungracefully long. Her freckles were more numerous and obtrusive than ever; the wind had ruffled her hatless hair into over-brilliant disorder; it had never looked redder than at that moment. "Well, they didn't pick you for your looks, that's sure and certain," was Mrs. Rachel Lynde's emphatic comment. Mrs. Rachel was one of those delightful and popular people who pride themselves on speaking their mind without fear or favor. "She's terrible skinny and homely, Marilla. Come here, child, and let me have a look at you. Lawful heart, did any one ever see such freckles? And hair as red as carrots! Come here, child, I say." Anne "came there," but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel expected. With one bound she crossed the kitchen floor and stood before Mrs. Rachel, her face scarlet with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole slender form trembling from head to foot. "I hate you," she cried in a choked voice, stamping her foot on the floor. "I hate you--I hate you--I hate you--" a louder stamp with each assertion of hatred. "How dare you call me skinny and ugly? How dare you say I'm freckled and redheaded? You are a rude, impolite, unfeeling woman!" "Anne!" exclaimed Marilla in consternation. But Anne continued to face Mrs. Rachel undauntedly, head up, eyes blazing, hands clenched, passionate indignation exhaling from her like an atmosphere. "How dare you say such things about me?" she repeated vehemently. "How would you like to have such things said about you? How would you like to be told that you are fat and clumsy and probably hadn't a spark of imagination in you? I don't care if I do hurt your feelings by saying so! I hope I hurt them. You have hurt mine worse than they were ever hurt before even by Mrs. Thomas' intoxicated husband. And I'll _never_ forgive you for it, never, never!"<|quote|>Stamp! Stamp!</|quote|>"Did anybody ever see such a temper!" exclaimed the horrified Mrs. Rachel. "Anne go to your room and stay there until I come up," said Marilla, recovering her powers of speech with difficulty. Anne, bursting into tears, rushed to the hall door, slammed it until the tins on the porch wall outside rattled in sympathy, and fled through the hall and up the stairs like a whirlwind. A subdued slam above told that the door of the east gable had been shut with equal vehemence. "Well, I don't envy you your job bringing _that_ up, Marilla," said Mrs. Rachel with unspeakable solemnity. Marilla opened her lips to say she knew not what of apology or deprecation. What she did say was a surprise to herself then and ever afterwards. "You shouldn't have twitted her about her looks, Rachel." "Marilla Cuthbert, you don't mean to say that you are upholding her in such a terrible display of temper as we've just seen?" demanded Mrs. Rachel indignantly. "No," said Marilla slowly, "I'm not trying to excuse her. She's been very naughty and I'll have to give her a talking to about it. But we must make allowances for her. She's never been taught what is right. And you _were_ too hard on her, Rachel." Marilla could not help tacking on that last sentence, although she was again surprised at herself for doing it. Mrs. Rachel got up with an air of offended dignity. "Well, I see that I'll have to be very careful what I say after this, Marilla, since the fine feelings of orphans, brought from goodness knows where, have to be considered before anything else. Oh, no, I'm not vexed--don't worry yourself. I'm too sorry for you to leave any room for anger in my mind. You'll have your own troubles with that child. But if you'll take my advice--which I suppose you won't do, although I've brought up ten children and buried two--you'll do that ?talking to' you mention with a fair-sized birch switch. I should think _that_ would be the most effective language for that kind of a child. Her temper matches her hair I guess. Well, good evening, Marilla. I hope you'll come down to see me often as usual. But you can't expect me to visit here again in a hurry, if I'm liable to be flown at and insulted in such a fashion. It's something new in _my_ experience." Whereat Mrs. Rachel swept out and away--if a fat woman who always waddled _could_ be said to sweep away--and Marilla with a very solemn face betook herself to the east gable. On the way upstairs she pondered uneasily as to what she ought to do. She felt no little dismay over the scene that had just been enacted. How unfortunate that Anne should have displayed such temper before Mrs. Rachel Lynde, of all people! Then Marilla suddenly became aware of an uncomfortable and rebuking consciousness that she felt more humiliation over this than sorrow over the discovery of such a serious defect in Anne's disposition. And how was she to punish her? The amiable suggestion of the birch switch--to the efficiency of which all of Mrs. Rachel's own children could have borne smarting testimony--did not appeal to Marilla. She did not believe she could whip a child. No, some other method of punishment must be found to bring Anne to a proper realization of the enormity of her offense. Marilla found Anne face downward on her bed, crying bitterly, quite oblivious of muddy boots on a clean counterpane. "Anne," she said not ungently. No answer. "Anne," with greater severity, "get off that bed this minute and listen to what I have to say to you." Anne squirmed off the bed and sat rigidly on a chair beside it, her face swollen and tear-stained and her eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor. "This is a nice way for you to behave. Anne! Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" "She hadn't any right to call me ugly and redheaded," retorted Anne, evasive and defiant. "You hadn't any right to fly into such a fury and talk the way you did to her, Anne. I was ashamed of you--thoroughly ashamed of you. I wanted you to behave nicely to Mrs. Lynde, and instead of that you have disgraced me. I'm sure I don't know why you should lose your temper like that just because Mrs. Lynde said you were red-haired and homely. You say it yourself often enough." "Oh, but there's such a difference between saying a thing yourself and hearing other people say it," wailed Anne. "You may know a thing is so, but you can't help hoping other people don't quite think it is. I suppose you think I have an awful temper, but I couldn't help it. | ever; the wind had ruffled her hatless hair into over-brilliant disorder; it had never looked redder than at that moment. "Well, they didn't pick you for your looks, that's sure and certain," was Mrs. Rachel Lynde's emphatic comment. Mrs. Rachel was one of those delightful and popular people who pride themselves on speaking their mind without fear or favor. "She's terrible skinny and homely, Marilla. Come here, child, and let me have a look at you. Lawful heart, did any one ever see such freckles? And hair as red as carrots! Come here, child, I say." Anne "came there," but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel expected. With one bound she crossed the kitchen floor and stood before Mrs. Rachel, her face scarlet with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole slender form trembling from head to foot. "I hate you," she cried in a choked voice, stamping her foot on the floor. "I hate you--I hate you--I hate you--" a louder stamp with each assertion of hatred. "How dare you call me skinny and ugly? How dare you say I'm freckled and redheaded? You are a rude, impolite, unfeeling woman!" "Anne!" exclaimed Marilla in consternation. But Anne continued to face Mrs. Rachel undauntedly, head up, eyes blazing, hands clenched, passionate indignation exhaling from her like an atmosphere. "How dare you say such things about me?" she repeated vehemently. "How would you like to have such things said about you? How would you like to be told that you are fat and clumsy and probably hadn't a spark of imagination in you? I don't care if I do hurt your feelings by saying so! I hope I hurt them. You have hurt mine worse than they were ever hurt before even by Mrs. Thomas' intoxicated husband. And I'll _never_ forgive you for it, never, never!"<|quote|>Stamp! Stamp!</|quote|>"Did anybody ever see such a temper!" exclaimed the horrified Mrs. Rachel. "Anne go to your room and stay there until I come up," said Marilla, recovering her powers of speech with difficulty. Anne, bursting into tears, rushed to the hall door, slammed it until the tins on the porch wall outside rattled in sympathy, and fled through the hall and up the stairs like a whirlwind. A subdued slam above told that the door of the east gable had been shut with equal vehemence. "Well, I don't envy you your job bringing _that_ up, Marilla," said Mrs. Rachel with unspeakable solemnity. Marilla opened her lips to say she knew not what of apology or deprecation. What she did say was a surprise to herself then and ever afterwards. "You shouldn't have twitted her about her looks, Rachel." "Marilla Cuthbert, you don't mean to say that you are upholding her in such a terrible display of temper as we've just seen?" demanded Mrs. Rachel indignantly. "No," said Marilla slowly, "I'm not trying to excuse her. She's been very naughty and I'll have to give her a talking to about it. But we must make allowances for her. She's never been taught what is right. And you _were_ too hard on her, Rachel." Marilla could not help tacking on that last sentence, although she was again surprised at herself for doing it. Mrs. Rachel got up with an air of offended dignity. "Well, I see that I'll have to be very careful what I say after this, Marilla, since the fine feelings of orphans, brought from goodness knows where, have to be considered before anything else. Oh, no, I'm not vexed--don't worry yourself. I'm too sorry for you to leave any room for anger in my mind. You'll have your own troubles with that child. But if you'll take my advice--which I suppose you won't do, although I've brought up ten children and buried two--you'll do that ?talking to' you mention with a fair-sized birch switch. I should think _that_ would be the most effective language for that kind of a child. Her temper matches her hair I guess. Well, good evening, Marilla. I hope you'll come down to see me often as usual. But you can't expect me to visit here again in a hurry, if I'm liable to be flown at and insulted in such a fashion. It's something new in _my_ experience." Whereat Mrs. Rachel swept out and away--if a | Anne Of Green Gables |
muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again. | No speaker | fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!"<|quote|>muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again.</|quote|>"Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told | bad news might spoil his fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!"<|quote|>muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again.</|quote|>"Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?" | far more occupied with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the "victory" dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late. They agreed not to tell Aziz about Mrs. Moore till the morrow, because he was fond of her, and the bad news might spoil his fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!"<|quote|>muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again.</|quote|>"Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?" He bowed. "Ah me!" She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into a monument. "Heaslop is waiting for you, I think." "I do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. | in a moment, and in fear of losing the little she does understand, she retreats to the permanent lines which habit or chance have dictated, and suffers there. Fielding had met the dead woman only two or three times, Hamidullah had seen her in the distance once, and they were far more occupied with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the "victory" dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late. They agreed not to tell Aziz about Mrs. Moore till the morrow, because he was fond of her, and the bad news might spoil his fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!"<|quote|>muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again.</|quote|>"Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?" He bowed. "Ah me!" She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into a monument. "Heaslop is waiting for you, I think." "I do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. I can't bear to be with Ronny . . . I can't explain . . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular. "I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?" "I didn't ask him, | both regretted the death, but they were middle-aged men, who had invested their emotions elsewhere, and outbursts of grief could not be expected from them over a slight acquaintance. It's only one's own dead who matter. If for a moment the sense of communion in sorrow came to them, it passed. How indeed is it possible for one human being to be sorry for all the sadness that meets him on the face of the earth, for the pain that is endured not only by men, but by animals and plants, and perhaps by the stones? The soul is tired in a moment, and in fear of losing the little she does understand, she retreats to the permanent lines which habit or chance have dictated, and suffers there. Fielding had met the dead woman only two or three times, Hamidullah had seen her in the distance once, and they were far more occupied with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the "victory" dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late. They agreed not to tell Aziz about Mrs. Moore till the morrow, because he was fond of her, and the bad news might spoil his fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!"<|quote|>muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again.</|quote|>"Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?" He bowed. "Ah me!" She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into a monument. "Heaslop is waiting for you, I think." "I do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. I can't bear to be with Ronny . . . I can't explain . . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular. "I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?" "I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's so complex, not like what unhappiness is supposed to be. Each of us ought to be alone, and think. Do come and see Ronny again." "I think he should come in this time," said Fielding, feeling that this much was due to his own dignity. "Do ask him to come." She returned with him. He was half miserable, half arrogant indeed, a strange mix-up and broke at once into uneven speech. "I came to bring Miss Quested away, but her visit to the Turtons has ended, and there is no other arrangement so far, | soul." "Oh, really. Mrs. Moore. I'm sorry," said Hamidullah rather indifferently. "She died at sea." "The heat, I suppose." "Presumably." "May is no month to allow an old lady to travel in." "Quite so. Heaslop ought never to have let her go, and he knows it. Shall we be off?" "Let us wait until the happy couple leave the compound clear . . . they really are intolerable dawdling there. Ah well, Fielding, you don't believe in Providence, I remember. I do. This is Heaslop's punishment for abducting our witness in order to stop us establishing our alibi." "You go rather too far there. The poor old lady's evidence could have had no value, shout and shriek Mahmoud Ali as he will. She couldn't see through the Kawa Dol even if she had wanted to. Only Miss Quested could have saved him." "She loved Aziz, he says, also India, and he loved her." "Love is of no value in a witness, as a barrister ought to know. But I see there is about to be an Esmiss Esmoor legend at Chandrapore, my dear Hamidullah, and I will not impede its growth." The other smiled, and looked at his watch. They both regretted the death, but they were middle-aged men, who had invested their emotions elsewhere, and outbursts of grief could not be expected from them over a slight acquaintance. It's only one's own dead who matter. If for a moment the sense of communion in sorrow came to them, it passed. How indeed is it possible for one human being to be sorry for all the sadness that meets him on the face of the earth, for the pain that is endured not only by men, but by animals and plants, and perhaps by the stones? The soul is tired in a moment, and in fear of losing the little she does understand, she retreats to the permanent lines which habit or chance have dictated, and suffers there. Fielding had met the dead woman only two or three times, Hamidullah had seen her in the distance once, and they were far more occupied with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the "victory" dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late. They agreed not to tell Aziz about Mrs. Moore till the morrow, because he was fond of her, and the bad news might spoil his fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!"<|quote|>muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again.</|quote|>"Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?" He bowed. "Ah me!" She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into a monument. "Heaslop is waiting for you, I think." "I do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. I can't bear to be with Ronny . . . I can't explain . . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular. "I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?" "I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's so complex, not like what unhappiness is supposed to be. Each of us ought to be alone, and think. Do come and see Ronny again." "I think he should come in this time," said Fielding, feeling that this much was due to his own dignity. "Do ask him to come." She returned with him. He was half miserable, half arrogant indeed, a strange mix-up and broke at once into uneven speech. "I came to bring Miss Quested away, but her visit to the Turtons has ended, and there is no other arrangement so far, mine are bachelor quarters now" Fielding stopped him courteously. "Say no more, Miss Quested stops here. I only wanted to be assured of your approval. Miss Quested, you had better send for your own servant if he can be found, but I will leave orders with mine to do all they can for you, also I'll let the Scouts know. They have guarded the College ever since it was closed, and may as well go on. I really think you'll be as safe here as anywhere. I shall be back Thursday." Meanwhile Hamidullah, determined to spare the enemy no incidental pain, had said to Ronny: "We hear, sir, that your mother has died. May we ask where the cable came from?" "Aden." "Ah, you were boasting she had reached Aden, in court." "But she died on leaving Bombay," broke in Adela. "She was dead when they called her name this morning. She must have been buried at sea." Somehow this stopped Hamidullah, and he desisted from his brutality, which had shocked Fielding more than anyone else. He remained silent while the details of Miss Quested's occupation of the College were arranged, merely remarking to Ronny, "It is clearly to be | head. That is my contribution. Well, Miss Quested?" "You are very kind. I should have said yes, I think, but I agree with Mr. Hamidullah. I must give no more trouble to you. I believe my best plan is to return to the Turtons, and see if they will allow me to sleep, and if they turn me away I must go to the Dak. The Collector would take me in, I know, but Mrs. Turton said this morning that she would never see me again." She spoke without bitterness, or, as Hamidullah thought, without proper pride. Her aim was to cause the minimum of annoyance. "Far better stop here than expose yourself to insults from that preposterous woman." "Do you find her preposterous? I used to. I don't now." "Well, here's our solution," said the barrister, who had terminated his slightly minatory caress and strolled to the window. "Here comes the City Magistrate. He comes in a third-class band-ghari for purposes of disguise, he comes unattended, but here comes the City Magistrate." "At last," said Adela sharply, which caused Fielding to glance at her. "He comes, he comes, he comes. I cringe. I tremble." "Will you ask him what he wants, Mr. Fielding?" "He wants you, of course." "He may not even know I'm here." "I'll see him first, if you prefer." When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly: "Really, really. Need you have exposed Mr. Fielding to this further discomfort? He is far too considerate." She made no reply, and there was complete silence between them until their host returned. "He has some news for you," he said. "You'll find him on the verandah. He prefers not to come in." "Does he tell me to come out to him?" "Whether he tells you or not, you will go, I think," said Hamidullah. She paused, then said, "Perfectly right," and then said a few words of thanks to the Principal for his kindness to her during the day. "Thank goodness, that's over," he remarked, not escorting her to the verandah, for he held it unnecessary to see Ronny again. "It was insulting of him not to come in." "He couldn't very well after my behaviour to him at the Club. Heaslop doesn't come out badly. Besides, Fate has treated him pretty roughly to-day. He has had a cable to the effect that his mother's dead, poor old soul." "Oh, really. Mrs. Moore. I'm sorry," said Hamidullah rather indifferently. "She died at sea." "The heat, I suppose." "Presumably." "May is no month to allow an old lady to travel in." "Quite so. Heaslop ought never to have let her go, and he knows it. Shall we be off?" "Let us wait until the happy couple leave the compound clear . . . they really are intolerable dawdling there. Ah well, Fielding, you don't believe in Providence, I remember. I do. This is Heaslop's punishment for abducting our witness in order to stop us establishing our alibi." "You go rather too far there. The poor old lady's evidence could have had no value, shout and shriek Mahmoud Ali as he will. She couldn't see through the Kawa Dol even if she had wanted to. Only Miss Quested could have saved him." "She loved Aziz, he says, also India, and he loved her." "Love is of no value in a witness, as a barrister ought to know. But I see there is about to be an Esmiss Esmoor legend at Chandrapore, my dear Hamidullah, and I will not impede its growth." The other smiled, and looked at his watch. They both regretted the death, but they were middle-aged men, who had invested their emotions elsewhere, and outbursts of grief could not be expected from them over a slight acquaintance. It's only one's own dead who matter. If for a moment the sense of communion in sorrow came to them, it passed. How indeed is it possible for one human being to be sorry for all the sadness that meets him on the face of the earth, for the pain that is endured not only by men, but by animals and plants, and perhaps by the stones? The soul is tired in a moment, and in fear of losing the little she does understand, she retreats to the permanent lines which habit or chance have dictated, and suffers there. Fielding had met the dead woman only two or three times, Hamidullah had seen her in the distance once, and they were far more occupied with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the "victory" dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late. They agreed not to tell Aziz about Mrs. Moore till the morrow, because he was fond of her, and the bad news might spoil his fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!"<|quote|>muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again.</|quote|>"Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?" He bowed. "Ah me!" She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into a monument. "Heaslop is waiting for you, I think." "I do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. I can't bear to be with Ronny . . . I can't explain . . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular. "I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?" "I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's so complex, not like what unhappiness is supposed to be. Each of us ought to be alone, and think. Do come and see Ronny again." "I think he should come in this time," said Fielding, feeling that this much was due to his own dignity. "Do ask him to come." She returned with him. He was half miserable, half arrogant indeed, a strange mix-up and broke at once into uneven speech. "I came to bring Miss Quested away, but her visit to the Turtons has ended, and there is no other arrangement so far, mine are bachelor quarters now" Fielding stopped him courteously. "Say no more, Miss Quested stops here. I only wanted to be assured of your approval. Miss Quested, you had better send for your own servant if he can be found, but I will leave orders with mine to do all they can for you, also I'll let the Scouts know. They have guarded the College ever since it was closed, and may as well go on. I really think you'll be as safe here as anywhere. I shall be back Thursday." Meanwhile Hamidullah, determined to spare the enemy no incidental pain, had said to Ronny: "We hear, sir, that your mother has died. May we ask where the cable came from?" "Aden." "Ah, you were boasting she had reached Aden, in court." "But she died on leaving Bombay," broke in Adela. "She was dead when they called her name this morning. She must have been buried at sea." Somehow this stopped Hamidullah, and he desisted from his brutality, which had shocked Fielding more than anyone else. He remained silent while the details of Miss Quested's occupation of the College were arranged, merely remarking to Ronny, "It is clearly to be understood, sir, that neither Mr. Fielding nor any of us are responsible for this lady's safety at Government College," to which Ronny agreed. After that, he watched the semi-chivalrous behavings of the three English with quiet amusement; he thought Fielding had been incredibly silly and weak, and he was amazed by the younger people's want of proper pride. When they were driving out to Dilkusha, hours late, he said to Amritrao, who accompanied them: "Mr. Amritrao, have you considered what sum Miss Quested ought to pay as compensation?" "Twenty thousand rupees." No more was then said, but the remark horrified Fielding. He couldn't bear to think of the queer honest girl losing her money and possibly her young man too. She advanced into his consciousness suddenly. And, fatigued by the merciless and enormous day, he lost his usual sane view of human intercourse, and felt that we exist not in ourselves, but in terms of each others' minds a notion for which logic offers no support and which had attacked him only once before, the evening after the catastrophe, when from the verandah of the club he saw the fists and fingers of the Marabar swell until they included the whole night sky. CHAPTER XXVII "Aziz, are you awake?" "No, so let us have a talk; let us dream plans for the future." "I am useless at dreaming." "Good night then, dear fellow." The Victory Banquet was over, and the revellers lay on the roof of plain Mr. Zulfiqar's mansion, asleep, or gazing through mosquito nets at the stars. Exactly above their heads hung the constellation of the Lion, the disc of Regulus so large and bright that it resembled a tunnel, and when this fancy was accepted all the other stars seemed tunnels too. "Are you content with our day's work, Cyril?" the voice on his left continued. "Are you?" "Except that I ate too much." How is stomach, how head?' "I say, Panna Lal and Callendar 'll get the sack." "There'll be a general move at Chandrapore." "And you'll get promotion." "They can't well move me down, whatever their feelings." "In any case we spend our holidays together, and visit Kashmir, possibly Persia, for I shall have plenty of money. Paid to me on account of the injury sustained by my character," he explained with cynical calm. "While with me you shall never spend a single pie. This | "The heat, I suppose." "Presumably." "May is no month to allow an old lady to travel in." "Quite so. Heaslop ought never to have let her go, and he knows it. Shall we be off?" "Let us wait until the happy couple leave the compound clear . . . they really are intolerable dawdling there. Ah well, Fielding, you don't believe in Providence, I remember. I do. This is Heaslop's punishment for abducting our witness in order to stop us establishing our alibi." "You go rather too far there. The poor old lady's evidence could have had no value, shout and shriek Mahmoud Ali as he will. She couldn't see through the Kawa Dol even if she had wanted to. Only Miss Quested could have saved him." "She loved Aziz, he says, also India, and he loved her." "Love is of no value in a witness, as a barrister ought to know. But I see there is about to be an Esmiss Esmoor legend at Chandrapore, my dear Hamidullah, and I will not impede its growth." The other smiled, and looked at his watch. They both regretted the death, but they were middle-aged men, who had invested their emotions elsewhere, and outbursts of grief could not be expected from them over a slight acquaintance. It's only one's own dead who matter. If for a moment the sense of communion in sorrow came to them, it passed. How indeed is it possible for one human being to be sorry for all the sadness that meets him on the face of the earth, for the pain that is endured not only by men, but by animals and plants, and perhaps by the stones? The soul is tired in a moment, and in fear of losing the little she does understand, she retreats to the permanent lines which habit or chance have dictated, and suffers there. Fielding had met the dead woman only two or three times, Hamidullah had seen her in the distance once, and they were far more occupied with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the "victory" dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late. They agreed not to tell Aziz about Mrs. Moore till the morrow, because he was fond of her, and the bad news might spoil his fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!"<|quote|>muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again.</|quote|>"Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?" He bowed. "Ah me!" She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into a monument. "Heaslop is waiting for you, I think." "I do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. I can't bear to be with Ronny . . . I can't explain . . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular. "I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?" "I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's so complex, not like what unhappiness is supposed to be. Each of us ought to be alone, and think. Do come and see Ronny again." "I think he should come in this time," said Fielding, feeling that this much was due to his own dignity. "Do ask him to come." She returned with him. He was half miserable, half arrogant indeed, a strange mix-up and broke at once into uneven speech. "I came to bring Miss Quested away, but her visit to the Turtons has ended, and there is no other arrangement so far, mine are bachelor quarters now" Fielding stopped him courteously. "Say no more, Miss Quested stops here. I only wanted to be assured of your approval. Miss Quested, you had better send for your own servant if he can | A Passage To India |
"it is the very man we passed." | Captain Wentworth | half a glance at Anne,<|quote|>"it is the very man we passed."</|quote|>The Miss Musgroves agreed to | Captain Wentworth, instantly, and with half a glance at Anne,<|quote|>"it is the very man we passed."</|quote|>The Miss Musgroves agreed to it; and having all kindly | the whole six were collected to look, by the time the owner of the curricle was to be seen issuing from the door amidst the bows and civilities of the household, and taking his seat, to drive off. "Ah!" cried Captain Wentworth, instantly, and with half a glance at Anne,<|quote|>"it is the very man we passed."</|quote|>The Miss Musgroves agreed to it; and having all kindly watched him as far up the hill as they could, they returned to the breakfast table. The waiter came into the room soon afterwards. "Pray," said Captain Wentworth, immediately, "can you tell us the name of the gentleman who is | a curricle, but only coming round from the stable-yard to the front door; somebody must be going away. It was driven by a servant in mourning. The word curricle made Charles Musgrove jump up that he might compare it with his own; the servant in mourning roused Anne's curiosity, and the whole six were collected to look, by the time the owner of the curricle was to be seen issuing from the door amidst the bows and civilities of the household, and taking his seat, to drive off. "Ah!" cried Captain Wentworth, instantly, and with half a glance at Anne,<|quote|>"it is the very man we passed."</|quote|>The Miss Musgroves agreed to it; and having all kindly watched him as far up the hill as they could, they returned to the breakfast table. The waiter came into the room soon afterwards. "Pray," said Captain Wentworth, immediately, "can you tell us the name of the gentleman who is just gone away?" "Yes, Sir, a Mr Elliot, a gentleman of large fortune, came in last night from Sidmouth. Dare say you heard the carriage, sir, while you were at dinner; and going on now for Crewkherne, in his way to Bath and London." "Elliot!" Many had looked on each | to the same inn as themselves; and this second meeting, short as it was, also proved again by the gentleman's looks, that he thought hers very lovely, and by the readiness and propriety of his apologies, that he was a man of exceedingly good manners. He seemed about thirty, and though not handsome, had an agreeable person. Anne felt that she should like to know who he was. They had nearly done breakfast, when the sound of a carriage, (almost the first they had heard since entering Lyme) drew half the party to the window. It was a gentleman's carriage, a curricle, but only coming round from the stable-yard to the front door; somebody must be going away. It was driven by a servant in mourning. The word curricle made Charles Musgrove jump up that he might compare it with his own; the servant in mourning roused Anne's curiosity, and the whole six were collected to look, by the time the owner of the curricle was to be seen issuing from the door amidst the bows and civilities of the household, and taking his seat, to drive off. "Ah!" cried Captain Wentworth, instantly, and with half a glance at Anne,<|quote|>"it is the very man we passed."</|quote|>The Miss Musgroves agreed to it; and having all kindly watched him as far up the hill as they could, they returned to the breakfast table. The waiter came into the room soon afterwards. "Pray," said Captain Wentworth, immediately, "can you tell us the name of the gentleman who is just gone away?" "Yes, Sir, a Mr Elliot, a gentleman of large fortune, came in last night from Sidmouth. Dare say you heard the carriage, sir, while you were at dinner; and going on now for Crewkherne, in his way to Bath and London." "Elliot!" Many had looked on each other, and many had repeated the name, before all this had been got through, even by the smart rapidity of a waiter. "Bless me!" cried Mary; "it must be our cousin; it must be our Mr Elliot, it must, indeed! Charles, Anne, must not it? In mourning, you see, just as our Mr Elliot must be. How very extraordinary! In the very same inn with us! Anne, must not it be our Mr Elliot? my father's next heir? Pray sir," turning to the waiter, "did not you hear, did not his servant say whether he belonged to the Kellynch family?" | of. She was looking remarkably well; her very regular, very pretty features, having the bloom and freshness of youth restored by the fine wind which had been blowing on her complexion, and by the animation of eye which it had also produced. It was evident that the gentleman, (completely a gentleman in manner) admired her exceedingly. Captain Wentworth looked round at her instantly in a way which shewed his noticing of it. He gave her a momentary glance, a glance of brightness, which seemed to say, "That man is struck with you, and even I, at this moment, see something like Anne Elliot again." After attending Louisa through her business, and loitering about a little longer, they returned to the inn; and Anne, in passing afterwards quickly from her own chamber to their dining-room, had nearly run against the very same gentleman, as he came out of an adjoining apartment. She had before conjectured him to be a stranger like themselves, and determined that a well-looking groom, who was strolling about near the two inns as they came back, should be his servant. Both master and man being in mourning assisted the idea. It was now proved that he belonged to the same inn as themselves; and this second meeting, short as it was, also proved again by the gentleman's looks, that he thought hers very lovely, and by the readiness and propriety of his apologies, that he was a man of exceedingly good manners. He seemed about thirty, and though not handsome, had an agreeable person. Anne felt that she should like to know who he was. They had nearly done breakfast, when the sound of a carriage, (almost the first they had heard since entering Lyme) drew half the party to the window. It was a gentleman's carriage, a curricle, but only coming round from the stable-yard to the front door; somebody must be going away. It was driven by a servant in mourning. The word curricle made Charles Musgrove jump up that he might compare it with his own; the servant in mourning roused Anne's curiosity, and the whole six were collected to look, by the time the owner of the curricle was to be seen issuing from the door amidst the bows and civilities of the household, and taking his seat, to drive off. "Ah!" cried Captain Wentworth, instantly, and with half a glance at Anne,<|quote|>"it is the very man we passed."</|quote|>The Miss Musgroves agreed to it; and having all kindly watched him as far up the hill as they could, they returned to the breakfast table. The waiter came into the room soon afterwards. "Pray," said Captain Wentworth, immediately, "can you tell us the name of the gentleman who is just gone away?" "Yes, Sir, a Mr Elliot, a gentleman of large fortune, came in last night from Sidmouth. Dare say you heard the carriage, sir, while you were at dinner; and going on now for Crewkherne, in his way to Bath and London." "Elliot!" Many had looked on each other, and many had repeated the name, before all this had been got through, even by the smart rapidity of a waiter. "Bless me!" cried Mary; "it must be our cousin; it must be our Mr Elliot, it must, indeed! Charles, Anne, must not it? In mourning, you see, just as our Mr Elliot must be. How very extraordinary! In the very same inn with us! Anne, must not it be our Mr Elliot? my father's next heir? Pray sir," turning to the waiter, "did not you hear, did not his servant say whether he belonged to the Kellynch family?" "No, ma'am, he did not mention no particular family; but he said his master was a very rich gentleman, and would be a baronight some day." "There! you see!" cried Mary in an ecstasy, "just as I said! Heir to Sir Walter Elliot! I was sure that would come out, if it was so. Depend upon it, that is a circumstance which his servants take care to publish, wherever he goes. But, Anne, only conceive how extraordinary! I wish I had looked at him more. I wish we had been aware in time, who it was, that he might have been introduced to us. What a pity that we should not have been introduced to each other! Do you think he had the Elliot countenance? I hardly looked at him, I was looking at the horses; but I think he had something of the Elliot countenance, I wonder the arms did not strike me! Oh! the great-coat was hanging over the panel, and hid the arms, so it did; otherwise, I am sure, I should have observed them, and the livery too; if the servant had not been in mourning, one should have known him by the livery." "Putting all | performed by another person? And at Lyme too, only seventeen miles off, he would be near enough to hear, if people thought there was anything to complain of." Anne smiled more than once to herself during this speech, and entered into the subject, as ready to do good by entering into the feelings of a young lady as of a young man, though here it was good of a lower standard, for what could be offered but general acquiescence? She said all that was reasonable and proper on the business; felt the claims of Dr Shirley to repose as she ought; saw how very desirable it was that he should have some active, respectable young man, as a resident curate, and was even courteous enough to hint at the advantage of such resident curate's being married. "I wish," said Henrietta, very well pleased with her companion, "I wish Lady Russell lived at Uppercross, and were intimate with Dr Shirley. I have always heard of Lady Russell as a woman of the greatest influence with everybody! I always look upon her as able to persuade a person to anything! I am afraid of her, as I have told you before, quite afraid of her, because she is so very clever; but I respect her amazingly, and wish we had such a neighbour at Uppercross." Anne was amused by Henrietta's manner of being grateful, and amused also that the course of events and the new interests of Henrietta's views should have placed her friend at all in favour with any of the Musgrove family; she had only time, however, for a general answer, and a wish that such another woman were at Uppercross, before all subjects suddenly ceased, on seeing Louisa and Captain Wentworth coming towards them. They came also for a stroll till breakfast was likely to be ready; but Louisa recollecting, immediately afterwards that she had something to procure at a shop, invited them all to go back with her into the town. They were all at her disposal. When they came to the steps, leading upwards from the beach, a gentleman, at the same moment preparing to come down, politely drew back, and stopped to give them way. They ascended and passed him; and as they passed, Anne's face caught his eye, and he looked at her with a degree of earnest admiration, which she could not be insensible of. She was looking remarkably well; her very regular, very pretty features, having the bloom and freshness of youth restored by the fine wind which had been blowing on her complexion, and by the animation of eye which it had also produced. It was evident that the gentleman, (completely a gentleman in manner) admired her exceedingly. Captain Wentworth looked round at her instantly in a way which shewed his noticing of it. He gave her a momentary glance, a glance of brightness, which seemed to say, "That man is struck with you, and even I, at this moment, see something like Anne Elliot again." After attending Louisa through her business, and loitering about a little longer, they returned to the inn; and Anne, in passing afterwards quickly from her own chamber to their dining-room, had nearly run against the very same gentleman, as he came out of an adjoining apartment. She had before conjectured him to be a stranger like themselves, and determined that a well-looking groom, who was strolling about near the two inns as they came back, should be his servant. Both master and man being in mourning assisted the idea. It was now proved that he belonged to the same inn as themselves; and this second meeting, short as it was, also proved again by the gentleman's looks, that he thought hers very lovely, and by the readiness and propriety of his apologies, that he was a man of exceedingly good manners. He seemed about thirty, and though not handsome, had an agreeable person. Anne felt that she should like to know who he was. They had nearly done breakfast, when the sound of a carriage, (almost the first they had heard since entering Lyme) drew half the party to the window. It was a gentleman's carriage, a curricle, but only coming round from the stable-yard to the front door; somebody must be going away. It was driven by a servant in mourning. The word curricle made Charles Musgrove jump up that he might compare it with his own; the servant in mourning roused Anne's curiosity, and the whole six were collected to look, by the time the owner of the curricle was to be seen issuing from the door amidst the bows and civilities of the household, and taking his seat, to drive off. "Ah!" cried Captain Wentworth, instantly, and with half a glance at Anne,<|quote|>"it is the very man we passed."</|quote|>The Miss Musgroves agreed to it; and having all kindly watched him as far up the hill as they could, they returned to the breakfast table. The waiter came into the room soon afterwards. "Pray," said Captain Wentworth, immediately, "can you tell us the name of the gentleman who is just gone away?" "Yes, Sir, a Mr Elliot, a gentleman of large fortune, came in last night from Sidmouth. Dare say you heard the carriage, sir, while you were at dinner; and going on now for Crewkherne, in his way to Bath and London." "Elliot!" Many had looked on each other, and many had repeated the name, before all this had been got through, even by the smart rapidity of a waiter. "Bless me!" cried Mary; "it must be our cousin; it must be our Mr Elliot, it must, indeed! Charles, Anne, must not it? In mourning, you see, just as our Mr Elliot must be. How very extraordinary! In the very same inn with us! Anne, must not it be our Mr Elliot? my father's next heir? Pray sir," turning to the waiter, "did not you hear, did not his servant say whether he belonged to the Kellynch family?" "No, ma'am, he did not mention no particular family; but he said his master was a very rich gentleman, and would be a baronight some day." "There! you see!" cried Mary in an ecstasy, "just as I said! Heir to Sir Walter Elliot! I was sure that would come out, if it was so. Depend upon it, that is a circumstance which his servants take care to publish, wherever he goes. But, Anne, only conceive how extraordinary! I wish I had looked at him more. I wish we had been aware in time, who it was, that he might have been introduced to us. What a pity that we should not have been introduced to each other! Do you think he had the Elliot countenance? I hardly looked at him, I was looking at the horses; but I think he had something of the Elliot countenance, I wonder the arms did not strike me! Oh! the great-coat was hanging over the panel, and hid the arms, so it did; otherwise, I am sure, I should have observed them, and the livery too; if the servant had not been in mourning, one should have known him by the livery." "Putting all these very extraordinary circumstances together," said Captain Wentworth, "we must consider it to be the arrangement of Providence, that you should not be introduced to your cousin." When she could command Mary's attention, Anne quietly tried to convince her that their father and Mr Elliot had not, for many years, been on such terms as to make the power of attempting an introduction at all desirable. At the same time, however, it was a secret gratification to herself to have seen her cousin, and to know that the future owner of Kellynch was undoubtedly a gentleman, and had an air of good sense. She would not, upon any account, mention her having met with him the second time; luckily Mary did not much attend to their having passed close by him in their earlier walk, but she would have felt quite ill-used by Anne's having actually run against him in the passage, and received his very polite excuses, while she had never been near him at all; no, that cousinly little interview must remain a perfect secret. "Of course," said Mary, "you will mention our seeing Mr Elliot, the next time you write to Bath. I think my father certainly ought to hear of it; do mention all about him." Anne avoided a direct reply, but it was just the circumstance which she considered as not merely unnecessary to be communicated, but as what ought to be suppressed. The offence which had been given her father, many years back, she knew; Elizabeth's particular share in it she suspected; and that Mr Elliot's idea always produced irritation in both was beyond a doubt. Mary never wrote to Bath herself; all the toil of keeping up a slow and unsatisfactory correspondence with Elizabeth fell on Anne. Breakfast had not been long over, when they were joined by Captain and Mrs Harville and Captain Benwick; with whom they had appointed to take their last walk about Lyme. They ought to be setting off for Uppercross by one, and in the meanwhile were to be all together, and out of doors as long as they could. Anne found Captain Benwick getting near her, as soon as they were all fairly in the street. Their conversation the preceding evening did not disincline him to seek her again; and they walked together some time, talking as before of Mr Scott and Lord Byron, and still as | restored by the fine wind which had been blowing on her complexion, and by the animation of eye which it had also produced. It was evident that the gentleman, (completely a gentleman in manner) admired her exceedingly. Captain Wentworth looked round at her instantly in a way which shewed his noticing of it. He gave her a momentary glance, a glance of brightness, which seemed to say, "That man is struck with you, and even I, at this moment, see something like Anne Elliot again." After attending Louisa through her business, and loitering about a little longer, they returned to the inn; and Anne, in passing afterwards quickly from her own chamber to their dining-room, had nearly run against the very same gentleman, as he came out of an adjoining apartment. She had before conjectured him to be a stranger like themselves, and determined that a well-looking groom, who was strolling about near the two inns as they came back, should be his servant. Both master and man being in mourning assisted the idea. It was now proved that he belonged to the same inn as themselves; and this second meeting, short as it was, also proved again by the gentleman's looks, that he thought hers very lovely, and by the readiness and propriety of his apologies, that he was a man of exceedingly good manners. He seemed about thirty, and though not handsome, had an agreeable person. Anne felt that she should like to know who he was. They had nearly done breakfast, when the sound of a carriage, (almost the first they had heard since entering Lyme) drew half the party to the window. It was a gentleman's carriage, a curricle, but only coming round from the stable-yard to the front door; somebody must be going away. It was driven by a servant in mourning. The word curricle made Charles Musgrove jump up that he might compare it with his own; the servant in mourning roused Anne's curiosity, and the whole six were collected to look, by the time the owner of the curricle was to be seen issuing from the door amidst the bows and civilities of the household, and taking his seat, to drive off. "Ah!" cried Captain Wentworth, instantly, and with half a glance at Anne,<|quote|>"it is the very man we passed."</|quote|>The Miss Musgroves agreed to it; and having all kindly watched him as far up the hill as they could, they returned to the breakfast table. The waiter came into the room soon afterwards. "Pray," said Captain Wentworth, immediately, "can you tell us the name of the gentleman who is just gone away?" "Yes, Sir, a Mr Elliot, a gentleman of large fortune, came in last night from Sidmouth. Dare say you heard the carriage, sir, while you were at dinner; and going on now for Crewkherne, in his way to Bath and London." "Elliot!" Many had looked on each other, and many had repeated the name, before all this had been got through, even by the smart rapidity of a waiter. "Bless me!" cried Mary; "it must be our cousin; it must be our Mr Elliot, it must, indeed! Charles, Anne, must not it? In mourning, you see, just as our Mr Elliot must be. How very extraordinary! In the very same inn with us! Anne, must not it be our Mr Elliot? my father's next heir? Pray sir," turning to the waiter, "did not you hear, did not his servant say whether he belonged to the Kellynch family?" "No, ma'am, he did not mention no particular family; but he said his master was a very rich gentleman, and would be a baronight some day." "There! you see!" cried Mary in an ecstasy, "just as I said! Heir to Sir Walter Elliot! I was sure that would come out, if it was so. Depend upon it, that is a circumstance which his servants take care to publish, wherever he goes. But, Anne, only conceive how extraordinary! I wish I had looked at him more. I wish | Persuasion |
For at that minute, after turning its head on one side for a good look, and then on the other, so as to inspect, them again, the bird seemed to have an idea that it might gain a little more knowledge from a fresh point of view, and to effect this turned itself completely upside down, hanging by its soft yoke toes, and playing what Jem called a game of _peep-to_! | No speaker | rum one in your life?"<|quote|>For at that minute, after turning its head on one side for a good look, and then on the other, so as to inspect, them again, the bird seemed to have an idea that it might gain a little more knowledge from a fresh point of view, and to effect this turned itself completely upside down, hanging by its soft yoke toes, and playing what Jem called a game of _peep-to_!</|quote|>This lasted for some minutes, | you ever see such a rum one in your life?"<|quote|>For at that minute, after turning its head on one side for a good look, and then on the other, so as to inspect, them again, the bird seemed to have an idea that it might gain a little more knowledge from a fresh point of view, and to effect this turned itself completely upside down, hanging by its soft yoke toes, and playing what Jem called a game of _peep-to_!</|quote|>This lasted for some minutes, and then the bird squatted | covered the beak and then left it bare. "Look at his hair, too. Hasn't he brushed it up in a point? There, he heared what I said, and has laid it down again. Look at him! Look at him! Did you ever see such a rum one in your life?"<|quote|>For at that minute, after turning its head on one side for a good look, and then on the other, so as to inspect, them again, the bird seemed to have an idea that it might gain a little more knowledge from a fresh point of view, and to effect this turned itself completely upside down, hanging by its soft yoke toes, and playing what Jem called a game of _peep-to_!</|quote|>This lasted for some minutes, and then the bird squatted upon the bough in a normal position, set up its feathers all over, and began to chatter. "Hark at him, Mas' Don. He's calling names. There, hit me if he didn't. Did you hear him?" "I heard him chatter." "Yes; | feathers each side, and forward curved crest, gave him a droll aspect which delighted Jem, as the bird came and sat upon a twig, shrieking and chattering at them in a state of the greatest excitement. "Look at his starshers, Mas' Don," said Jem, as the bird's side tufts half covered the beak and then left it bare. "Look at his hair, too. Hasn't he brushed it up in a point? There, he heared what I said, and has laid it down again. Look at him! Look at him! Did you ever see such a rum one in your life?"<|quote|>For at that minute, after turning its head on one side for a good look, and then on the other, so as to inspect, them again, the bird seemed to have an idea that it might gain a little more knowledge from a fresh point of view, and to effect this turned itself completely upside down, hanging by its soft yoke toes, and playing what Jem called a game of _peep-to_!</|quote|>This lasted for some minutes, and then the bird squatted upon the bough in a normal position, set up its feathers all over, and began to chatter. "Hark at him, Mas' Don. He's calling names. There, hit me if he didn't. Did you hear him?" "I heard him chatter." "Yes; but I mean calling us that `My pakeha--my pakeha!' that he did." "Nonsense!" "Ah, you may say nonsense, but parrots and cockatoos is werry strange birds. Wonderful what they knows and what they says." "I don't believe they know what they say, Jem." "Ah! That's because you're so young, Mas' | or the antics of a cockatoo which kept sailing round a large tree, whose hold on the steep rocky side of the ravine was precarious in the extreme. The presence of white people seemed to cause the bird the greatest of wonder, and to pique his curiosity, and after a flit here and a flit there, he invariably came near and sat upon a bare branch, from which he could study the aspect of the two intruders. He was a lovely-looking bird as far as the tints of the plumage went; but his short hooked beak, with a tuft of feathers each side, and forward curved crest, gave him a droll aspect which delighted Jem, as the bird came and sat upon a twig, shrieking and chattering at them in a state of the greatest excitement. "Look at his starshers, Mas' Don," said Jem, as the bird's side tufts half covered the beak and then left it bare. "Look at his hair, too. Hasn't he brushed it up in a point? There, he heared what I said, and has laid it down again. Look at him! Look at him! Did you ever see such a rum one in your life?"<|quote|>For at that minute, after turning its head on one side for a good look, and then on the other, so as to inspect, them again, the bird seemed to have an idea that it might gain a little more knowledge from a fresh point of view, and to effect this turned itself completely upside down, hanging by its soft yoke toes, and playing what Jem called a game of _peep-to_!</|quote|>This lasted for some minutes, and then the bird squatted upon the bough in a normal position, set up its feathers all over, and began to chatter. "Hark at him, Mas' Don. He's calling names. There, hit me if he didn't. Did you hear him?" "I heard him chatter." "Yes; but I mean calling us that `My pakeha--my pakeha!' that he did." "Nonsense!" "Ah, you may say nonsense, but parrots and cockatoos is werry strange birds. Wonderful what they knows and what they says." "I don't believe they know what they say, Jem." "Ah! That's because you're so young, Mas' Don. You'll know better some day. Parrots is as cunning as cunning. Well, now, did you ever see the likes of that? He's laughing and jeering at us." For at that moment the bird began to bob its head up and down rapidly, gradually growing more excited, and chattering all the while, as it ended by dancing first on one leg and then on the other, in the most eccentric fashion. "I should like to have that bird, Jem," said Don at last. "Should you? Then you wouldn't have me along with you." "I don't like him. I like a | floor. This they did, glad of the restful change; but hours passed and no sounds met their ears, save the hissing and gurgling from the interior of the cave, and the harsh screech of some parrot or cockatoo. Every time a louder hiss than usual came from the interior, Jem became convulsed, and threatened another explosion of laughter, in spite of Don's severely reproachful looks; but in every case Jem's mirthful looks and his comic ways of trying to suppress his hilarity proved to be too much for Don, who was fain to join in, and they both laughed heartily and well. It is a curious fact, one perhaps which doctors can explain, and it seems paradoxical. For it might be supposed that when any one was hungry he would feel low-spirited, but all the same there is a stage in hunger when everything around the sufferer seems to wear a comic aspect, and the least thing sets him off laughing. This was the stage now with Jem and Don, for, the danger being past, they lay there at the mouth of the hole, now laughing at the recollection of the sailor's fright, now at the cries of some parrot or the antics of a cockatoo which kept sailing round a large tree, whose hold on the steep rocky side of the ravine was precarious in the extreme. The presence of white people seemed to cause the bird the greatest of wonder, and to pique his curiosity, and after a flit here and a flit there, he invariably came near and sat upon a bare branch, from which he could study the aspect of the two intruders. He was a lovely-looking bird as far as the tints of the plumage went; but his short hooked beak, with a tuft of feathers each side, and forward curved crest, gave him a droll aspect which delighted Jem, as the bird came and sat upon a twig, shrieking and chattering at them in a state of the greatest excitement. "Look at his starshers, Mas' Don," said Jem, as the bird's side tufts half covered the beak and then left it bare. "Look at his hair, too. Hasn't he brushed it up in a point? There, he heared what I said, and has laid it down again. Look at him! Look at him! Did you ever see such a rum one in your life?"<|quote|>For at that minute, after turning its head on one side for a good look, and then on the other, so as to inspect, them again, the bird seemed to have an idea that it might gain a little more knowledge from a fresh point of view, and to effect this turned itself completely upside down, hanging by its soft yoke toes, and playing what Jem called a game of _peep-to_!</|quote|>This lasted for some minutes, and then the bird squatted upon the bough in a normal position, set up its feathers all over, and began to chatter. "Hark at him, Mas' Don. He's calling names. There, hit me if he didn't. Did you hear him?" "I heard him chatter." "Yes; but I mean calling us that `My pakeha--my pakeha!' that he did." "Nonsense!" "Ah, you may say nonsense, but parrots and cockatoos is werry strange birds. Wonderful what they knows and what they says." "I don't believe they know what they say, Jem." "Ah! That's because you're so young, Mas' Don. You'll know better some day. Parrots is as cunning as cunning. Well, now, did you ever see the likes of that? He's laughing and jeering at us." For at that moment the bird began to bob its head up and down rapidly, gradually growing more excited, and chattering all the while, as it ended by dancing first on one leg and then on the other, in the most eccentric fashion. "I should like to have that bird, Jem," said Don at last. "Should you? Then you wouldn't have me along with you." "I don't like him. I like a bird as can behave itself and whistle and sing and perch; but I don't like one as goes through all them monkey tricks. Wish I'd got a stone, I'd try and knock him off his perch." _Chur-r-r-r_! Shrieked the bird, and it let itself fall over backwards, dropping down head over heels like a tumbler pigeon, or an unfortunate which had been shot, and disappearing among the leaves far below. "There!" cried Jem, triumphantly; "now, what do you say to that? Heard what I said, he did, and thought I was going to throw." "Nonsense, Jem!" "Ah! You may call it nonsense, Mas' Don, because you don't know better, but you didn't see him fall." "Yes, I saw him fall, and--hist! Creep back; there's some one coming!" The secret of the bird's sudden disappearance was explained for there was a rustling among the ferns far behind, as if some large body was forcing its way along the ravine; and as Jem backed slowly into the cavern, Don cautiously peered from behind a mass of stone into the hollow, to see that some one or something was approaching rapidly, as if with the intention of scaling the rock, and climbing to | little fellow stopped short and stood wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. "I couldn't help it, Mas' Don," he said. "I don't think I ever laughed so much before. There, I'm better now. Shan't have any more laugh in me for a twelvemonth. Hiss! Whoss-s-s!" He made the two sounds again, and burst into another uncontrollable fit of laughter at the success of his ruse; but this time Don caught him by the throat, and he stopped at once. "Hah!" he ejaculated, and wiped his eyes again. "Thankye, Mas' Don; that's just what you ought to ha' done before. There, it's all over now. What are you going to do?" "Watch them," said Don, laconically; and he crept to the mouth of the cave, and peered cautiously over the edge of the shelf, but all was quiet; and beyond a distant hail or two, heard after listening for some minutes, there was nothing to indicate that the search party had been there. "We must be well on the look-out, Jem. Your stupid trick may bring them back." "Stoopid? Well, I do like that, Mas' Don, after saving us both as I did." "I'd say let's go on at once, only we might meet some of them." "And old `My pakeha' wouldn't know where to find us. I say, Mas' Don, what are we going to do? Stop here with these people, and old Tomati, or go on at once and shift for ourselves?" "We cannot shift for ourselves in a country like this without some way of getting food." "Hush!" exclaimed Jem sharply. "What's the matter?" cried Don, making for the inner part of their hiding-place. "No, no; don't do that. It's all right, Mas' Don, only don't say anything more about food. I feel just now as if I could eat you. It's horrid how hungry I am." "You see then," said Don, "how helpless we are." "Yes; if it was only a biscuit I wouldn't mind just now, for there don't seem to be nothing to eat here, nor nothing to drink." They stood leaning against the rocky wall, not caring to risk sitting down on account of the foul air, and not daring to go to the mouth of the cave for fear of being seen, till Don suggested that they should steal there cautiously, and lie down with their faces beyond the cavern floor. This they did, glad of the restful change; but hours passed and no sounds met their ears, save the hissing and gurgling from the interior of the cave, and the harsh screech of some parrot or cockatoo. Every time a louder hiss than usual came from the interior, Jem became convulsed, and threatened another explosion of laughter, in spite of Don's severely reproachful looks; but in every case Jem's mirthful looks and his comic ways of trying to suppress his hilarity proved to be too much for Don, who was fain to join in, and they both laughed heartily and well. It is a curious fact, one perhaps which doctors can explain, and it seems paradoxical. For it might be supposed that when any one was hungry he would feel low-spirited, but all the same there is a stage in hunger when everything around the sufferer seems to wear a comic aspect, and the least thing sets him off laughing. This was the stage now with Jem and Don, for, the danger being past, they lay there at the mouth of the hole, now laughing at the recollection of the sailor's fright, now at the cries of some parrot or the antics of a cockatoo which kept sailing round a large tree, whose hold on the steep rocky side of the ravine was precarious in the extreme. The presence of white people seemed to cause the bird the greatest of wonder, and to pique his curiosity, and after a flit here and a flit there, he invariably came near and sat upon a bare branch, from which he could study the aspect of the two intruders. He was a lovely-looking bird as far as the tints of the plumage went; but his short hooked beak, with a tuft of feathers each side, and forward curved crest, gave him a droll aspect which delighted Jem, as the bird came and sat upon a twig, shrieking and chattering at them in a state of the greatest excitement. "Look at his starshers, Mas' Don," said Jem, as the bird's side tufts half covered the beak and then left it bare. "Look at his hair, too. Hasn't he brushed it up in a point? There, he heared what I said, and has laid it down again. Look at him! Look at him! Did you ever see such a rum one in your life?"<|quote|>For at that minute, after turning its head on one side for a good look, and then on the other, so as to inspect, them again, the bird seemed to have an idea that it might gain a little more knowledge from a fresh point of view, and to effect this turned itself completely upside down, hanging by its soft yoke toes, and playing what Jem called a game of _peep-to_!</|quote|>This lasted for some minutes, and then the bird squatted upon the bough in a normal position, set up its feathers all over, and began to chatter. "Hark at him, Mas' Don. He's calling names. There, hit me if he didn't. Did you hear him?" "I heard him chatter." "Yes; but I mean calling us that `My pakeha--my pakeha!' that he did." "Nonsense!" "Ah, you may say nonsense, but parrots and cockatoos is werry strange birds. Wonderful what they knows and what they says." "I don't believe they know what they say, Jem." "Ah! That's because you're so young, Mas' Don. You'll know better some day. Parrots is as cunning as cunning. Well, now, did you ever see the likes of that? He's laughing and jeering at us." For at that moment the bird began to bob its head up and down rapidly, gradually growing more excited, and chattering all the while, as it ended by dancing first on one leg and then on the other, in the most eccentric fashion. "I should like to have that bird, Jem," said Don at last. "Should you? Then you wouldn't have me along with you." "I don't like him. I like a bird as can behave itself and whistle and sing and perch; but I don't like one as goes through all them monkey tricks. Wish I'd got a stone, I'd try and knock him off his perch." _Chur-r-r-r_! Shrieked the bird, and it let itself fall over backwards, dropping down head over heels like a tumbler pigeon, or an unfortunate which had been shot, and disappearing among the leaves far below. "There!" cried Jem, triumphantly; "now, what do you say to that? Heard what I said, he did, and thought I was going to throw." "Nonsense, Jem!" "Ah! You may call it nonsense, Mas' Don, because you don't know better, but you didn't see him fall." "Yes, I saw him fall, and--hist! Creep back; there's some one coming!" The secret of the bird's sudden disappearance was explained for there was a rustling among the ferns far behind, as if some large body was forcing its way along the ravine; and as Jem backed slowly into the cavern, Don cautiously peered from behind a mass of stone into the hollow, to see that some one or something was approaching rapidly, as if with the intention of scaling the rock, and climbing to where they lay. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. AMONG FRIENDS AGAIN. "It's all over with us, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as soon as they were some little distance in the retreat. "That blackguard Ramsden's sure, after all, that we're in here, and that Tom Hoppers has come to his senses, and felt it was me as hissed at him, and they're coming to hunt us out." "Let's hope not, Jem." "Yah! What's the good o' hoping." _Churr-urrt_ shrieked the cockatoo from far below. "There now," said Jem. "Hark at that! He's telling 'em we're in here, and coming on before to show 'em the way." "What nonsense, Jem!" _Churr-ur_! Shrieked the cockatoo, ever so much nearer. "Well, do you call that nonsense?" whispered Jem. "The bird's being cheered on; some one coming." _Churr_--_churr_--_churr-ur-ur_! Shrieked the cockatoo nearer, nearer, and then right in front of the cave, as it flew by. "All right, Mas' Don; I arn't going to hargue. You think your way, and I'll think mine; but if that wasn't saying in New Zealandee as those two misfortunate chaps is hiding in this here hole, I never lived in Bristol city, and I don't know sugar from tobacker." "Hist!" whispered Don. _Hiss-s-s-s_ came from far in the depths of the cave. _Gurgle-urgle-gugg-pap_! Went something of a liquid kind. "Here, I can't stand this here, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "let's make a rush of it; and get right away in the woods." "Hush! There's some one coming," whispered Don, drawing his companion farther back into the darkness. "All right, Mas' Don! Take me in again where the bad air is; poison us both. Good-bye, Sally, my gal. It's all over now; but I forgives you. Shake hands, Mas' Don. I don't bear you no ill-will, nor nobody else. Here they come." There was a rustling and panting noise, and they were on the tip-toe of expectation, when there was a heavy concussion, a deep-toned roar, and then an echoing rumble as the sound reverberated among the mountains. Then utter silence. Jem gripped Don's arm with force, and stared at him wildly. "Well!" whispered Don. "It was only a gun from the ship to recall the boats." Jem stooped down and gave his leg a slap. "You are a clever one, Mas' Don, and no mistake. Why, o' course it is. I never thought it was that." "What did you think it was, | to suppress his hilarity proved to be too much for Don, who was fain to join in, and they both laughed heartily and well. It is a curious fact, one perhaps which doctors can explain, and it seems paradoxical. For it might be supposed that when any one was hungry he would feel low-spirited, but all the same there is a stage in hunger when everything around the sufferer seems to wear a comic aspect, and the least thing sets him off laughing. This was the stage now with Jem and Don, for, the danger being past, they lay there at the mouth of the hole, now laughing at the recollection of the sailor's fright, now at the cries of some parrot or the antics of a cockatoo which kept sailing round a large tree, whose hold on the steep rocky side of the ravine was precarious in the extreme. The presence of white people seemed to cause the bird the greatest of wonder, and to pique his curiosity, and after a flit here and a flit there, he invariably came near and sat upon a bare branch, from which he could study the aspect of the two intruders. He was a lovely-looking bird as far as the tints of the plumage went; but his short hooked beak, with a tuft of feathers each side, and forward curved crest, gave him a droll aspect which delighted Jem, as the bird came and sat upon a twig, shrieking and chattering at them in a state of the greatest excitement. "Look at his starshers, Mas' Don," said Jem, as the bird's side tufts half covered the beak and then left it bare. "Look at his hair, too. Hasn't he brushed it up in a point? There, he heared what I said, and has laid it down again. Look at him! Look at him! Did you ever see such a rum one in your life?"<|quote|>For at that minute, after turning its head on one side for a good look, and then on the other, so as to inspect, them again, the bird seemed to have an idea that it might gain a little more knowledge from a fresh point of view, and to effect this turned itself completely upside down, hanging by its soft yoke toes, and playing what Jem called a game of _peep-to_!</|quote|>This lasted for some minutes, and then the bird squatted upon the bough in a normal position, set up its feathers all over, and began to chatter. "Hark at him, Mas' Don. He's calling names. There, hit me if he didn't. Did you hear him?" "I heard him chatter." "Yes; but I mean calling us that `My pakeha--my pakeha!' that he did." "Nonsense!" "Ah, you may say nonsense, but parrots and cockatoos is werry strange birds. Wonderful what they knows and what they says." "I don't believe they know what they say, Jem." "Ah! That's because you're so young, Mas' Don. You'll know better some day. Parrots is as cunning as cunning. Well, now, did you ever see the likes of that? He's laughing and jeering at us." For at that moment the bird began to bob its head up and down rapidly, gradually growing more excited, and chattering all the while, as it ended by dancing first on one leg and then on the other, in the most eccentric fashion. "I should like to have that bird, Jem," said Don at last. "Should you? Then you wouldn't have me along with you." "I don't like him. I like a bird as can behave itself and whistle and sing and perch; but I don't like one as goes through all them monkey tricks. Wish I'd got a stone, I'd try and knock him off his perch." _Chur-r-r-r_! Shrieked the bird, and it let itself fall over backwards, dropping down head over heels like a tumbler pigeon, or an unfortunate which had been shot, and disappearing among the leaves far below. "There!" cried Jem, triumphantly; "now, what do you say to that? Heard what I said, he did, and thought I was going to throw." "Nonsense, Jem!" "Ah! You may call it nonsense, Mas' Don, because you don't know better, but you didn't see him fall." "Yes, I saw him fall, and--hist! Creep back; there's some one coming!" The secret of the bird's sudden disappearance was explained for there was a rustling among the ferns far behind, as if some large body was forcing its way along the ravine; and as Jem backed slowly into the cavern, Don cautiously peered from behind a mass of stone into the hollow, to see that some one or something was approaching rapidly, as if with the intention of scaling the rock, and climbing to where they lay. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. AMONG FRIENDS AGAIN. "It's all over with us, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as soon as they were some little distance in the retreat. "That blackguard Ramsden's sure, after all, that we're in here, and that Tom Hoppers has come to his senses, and felt it was me as hissed at him, and they're coming to hunt us out." "Let's hope not, Jem." "Yah! | Don Lavington |
"And healthy," said the old woman, "as the fresh wind?" | No speaker | attentively, "he were all that."<|quote|>"And healthy," said the old woman, "as the fresh wind?"</|quote|>"Yes," returned Stephen. "He were | he returned, observing her more attentively, "he were all that."<|quote|>"And healthy," said the old woman, "as the fresh wind?"</|quote|>"Yes," returned Stephen. "He were ett'n and drinking as large | and hearty?" As she straightened her own figure, and held up her head in adapting her action to her words, the idea crossed Stephen that he had seen this old woman before, and had not quite liked her. "O yes," he returned, observing her more attentively, "he were all that."<|quote|>"And healthy," said the old woman, "as the fresh wind?"</|quote|>"Yes," returned Stephen. "He were ett'n and drinking as large and as loud as a Hummobee." "Thank you!" said the old woman, with infinite content. "Thank you!" He certainly never had seen this old woman before. Yet there was a vague remembrance in his mind, as if he had more | believe it was you, unless I have had the bad luck to mistake the person in following?" "Yes, missus," returned Stephen, "it were me." "Have you you'll excuse an old woman's curiosity have you seen the gentleman?" "Yes, missus." "And how did he look, sir? Was he portly, bold, outspoken, and hearty?" As she straightened her own figure, and held up her head in adapting her action to her words, the idea crossed Stephen that he had seen this old woman before, and had not quite liked her. "O yes," he returned, observing her more attentively, "he were all that."<|quote|>"And healthy," said the old woman, "as the fresh wind?"</|quote|>"Yes," returned Stephen. "He were ett'n and drinking as large and as loud as a Hummobee." "Thank you!" said the old woman, with infinite content. "Thank you!" He certainly never had seen this old woman before. Yet there was a vague remembrance in his mind, as if he had more than once dreamed of some old woman like her. She walked along at his side, and, gently accommodating himself to her humour, he said Coketown was a busy place, was it not? To which she answered "Eigh sure! Dreadful busy!" Then he said, she came from the country, he saw? | come into Coketown on an expedition of rare occurrence. Remarking this at a glance, with the quick observation of his class, Stephen Blackpool bent his attentive face his face, which, like the faces of many of his order, by dint of long working with eyes and hands in the midst of a prodigious noise, had acquired the concentrated look with which we are familiar in the countenances of the deaf the better to hear what she asked him. "Pray, sir," said the old woman, "didn't I see you come out of that gentleman's house?" pointing back to Mr. Bounderby's. "I believe it was you, unless I have had the bad luck to mistake the person in following?" "Yes, missus," returned Stephen, "it were me." "Have you you'll excuse an old woman's curiosity have you seen the gentleman?" "Yes, missus." "And how did he look, sir? Was he portly, bold, outspoken, and hearty?" As she straightened her own figure, and held up her head in adapting her action to her words, the idea crossed Stephen that he had seen this old woman before, and had not quite liked her. "O yes," he returned, observing her more attentively, "he were all that."<|quote|>"And healthy," said the old woman, "as the fresh wind?"</|quote|>"Yes," returned Stephen. "He were ett'n and drinking as large and as loud as a Hummobee." "Thank you!" said the old woman, with infinite content. "Thank you!" He certainly never had seen this old woman before. Yet there was a vague remembrance in his mind, as if he had more than once dreamed of some old woman like her. She walked along at his side, and, gently accommodating himself to her humour, he said Coketown was a busy place, was it not? To which she answered "Eigh sure! Dreadful busy!" Then he said, she came from the country, he saw? To which she answered in the affirmative. "By Parliamentary, this morning. I came forty mile by Parliamentary this morning, and I'm going back the same forty mile this afternoon. I walked nine mile to the station this morning, and if I find nobody on the road to give me a lift, I shall walk the nine mile back to-night. That's pretty well, sir, at my age!" said the chatty old woman, her eye brightening with exultation. "'Deed 'tis. Don't do't too often, missus." "No, no. Once a year," she answered, shaking her head. "I spend my savings so, once every | steps, shutting the black door with the brazen door-plate, by the aid of the brazen full-stop, to which he gave a parting polish with the sleeve of his coat, observing that his hot hand clouded it. He crossed the street with his eyes bent upon the ground, and thus was walking sorrowfully away, when he felt a touch upon his arm. It was not the touch he needed most at such a moment the touch that could calm the wild waters of his soul, as the uplifted hand of the sublimest love and patience could abate the raging of the sea yet it was a woman's hand too. It was an old woman, tall and shapely still, though withered by time, on whom his eyes fell when he stopped and turned. She was very cleanly and plainly dressed, had country mud upon her shoes, and was newly come from a journey. The flutter of her manner, in the unwonted noise of the streets; the spare shawl, carried unfolded on her arm; the heavy umbrella, and little basket; the loose long-fingered gloves, to which her hands were unused; all bespoke an old woman from the country, in her plain holiday clothes, come into Coketown on an expedition of rare occurrence. Remarking this at a glance, with the quick observation of his class, Stephen Blackpool bent his attentive face his face, which, like the faces of many of his order, by dint of long working with eyes and hands in the midst of a prodigious noise, had acquired the concentrated look with which we are familiar in the countenances of the deaf the better to hear what she asked him. "Pray, sir," said the old woman, "didn't I see you come out of that gentleman's house?" pointing back to Mr. Bounderby's. "I believe it was you, unless I have had the bad luck to mistake the person in following?" "Yes, missus," returned Stephen, "it were me." "Have you you'll excuse an old woman's curiosity have you seen the gentleman?" "Yes, missus." "And how did he look, sir? Was he portly, bold, outspoken, and hearty?" As she straightened her own figure, and held up her head in adapting her action to her words, the idea crossed Stephen that he had seen this old woman before, and had not quite liked her. "O yes," he returned, observing her more attentively, "he were all that."<|quote|>"And healthy," said the old woman, "as the fresh wind?"</|quote|>"Yes," returned Stephen. "He were ett'n and drinking as large and as loud as a Hummobee." "Thank you!" said the old woman, with infinite content. "Thank you!" He certainly never had seen this old woman before. Yet there was a vague remembrance in his mind, as if he had more than once dreamed of some old woman like her. She walked along at his side, and, gently accommodating himself to her humour, he said Coketown was a busy place, was it not? To which she answered "Eigh sure! Dreadful busy!" Then he said, she came from the country, he saw? To which she answered in the affirmative. "By Parliamentary, this morning. I came forty mile by Parliamentary this morning, and I'm going back the same forty mile this afternoon. I walked nine mile to the station this morning, and if I find nobody on the road to give me a lift, I shall walk the nine mile back to-night. That's pretty well, sir, at my age!" said the chatty old woman, her eye brightening with exultation. "'Deed 'tis. Don't do't too often, missus." "No, no. Once a year," she answered, shaking her head. "I spend my savings so, once every year. I come regular, to tramp about the streets, and see the gentlemen." "Only to see 'em?" "'Deed 'tis. Don't do't too often, missus." "No, no. Once a year," she answered, shaking her head. "I spend my savings so, once every year. I come regular, to tramp about the streets, and see the gentlemen." "Only to see 'em?" returned Stephen. "That's enough for me," she replied, with great earnestness and interest of manner. "I ask no more! I have been standing about, on this side of the way, to see that gentleman," turning her head back towards Mr. Bounderby's again, "come out. But, he's late this year, and I have not seen him. You came out instead. Now, if I am obliged to go back without a glimpse of him I only want a glimpse well! I have seen you, and you have seen him, and I must make that do." Saying this, she looked at Stephen as if to fix his features in her mind, and her eye was not so bright as it had been. With a large allowance for difference of tastes, and with all submission to the patricians of Coketown, this seemed so extraordinary a source | as he moved to the door. "'Tis a' a muddle!" "Pooh, pooh! Don't you talk nonsense, my good fellow," said Mr. Bounderby, "about things you don't understand; and don't you call the Institutions of your country a muddle, or you'll get yourself into a real muddle one of these fine mornings. The institutions of your country are not your piece-work, and the only thing you have got to do, is, to mind your piece-work. You didn't take your wife for fast and for loose; but for better for worse. If she has turned out worse why, all we have got to say is, she might have turned out better." "' "Tis a muddle," said Stephen, shaking his head as he moved to the door. "'Tis a' a muddle!" "Now, I'll tell you what!" Mr. Bounderby resumed, as a valedictory address. "With what I shall call your unhallowed opinions, you have been quite shocking this lady: who, as I have already told you, is a born lady, and who, as I have not already told you, has had her own marriage misfortunes to the tune of tens of thousands of pounds tens of Thousands of Pounds!" (he repeated it with great relish). "Now, you have always been a steady Hand hitherto; but my opinion is, and so I tell you plainly, that you are turning into the wrong road. You have been listening to some mischievous stranger or other they're always about and the best thing you can do is, to come out of that. Now you know;" here his countenance expressed marvellous acuteness; "I can see as far into a grindstone as another man; farther than a good many, perhaps, because I had my nose well kept to it when I was young. I see traces of the turtle soup, and venison, and gold spoon in this. Yes, I do!" cried Mr. Bounderby, shaking his head with obstinate cunning. "By the Lord Harry, I do!" With a very different shake of the head and deep sigh, Stephen said, "Thank you, sir, I wish you good day." So he left Mr. Bounderby swelling at his own portrait on the wall, as if he were going to explode himself into it; and Mrs. Sparsit still ambling on with her foot in her stirrup, looking quite cast down by the popular vices. CHAPTER XII THE OLD WOMAN OLD STEPHEN descended the two white steps, shutting the black door with the brazen door-plate, by the aid of the brazen full-stop, to which he gave a parting polish with the sleeve of his coat, observing that his hot hand clouded it. He crossed the street with his eyes bent upon the ground, and thus was walking sorrowfully away, when he felt a touch upon his arm. It was not the touch he needed most at such a moment the touch that could calm the wild waters of his soul, as the uplifted hand of the sublimest love and patience could abate the raging of the sea yet it was a woman's hand too. It was an old woman, tall and shapely still, though withered by time, on whom his eyes fell when he stopped and turned. She was very cleanly and plainly dressed, had country mud upon her shoes, and was newly come from a journey. The flutter of her manner, in the unwonted noise of the streets; the spare shawl, carried unfolded on her arm; the heavy umbrella, and little basket; the loose long-fingered gloves, to which her hands were unused; all bespoke an old woman from the country, in her plain holiday clothes, come into Coketown on an expedition of rare occurrence. Remarking this at a glance, with the quick observation of his class, Stephen Blackpool bent his attentive face his face, which, like the faces of many of his order, by dint of long working with eyes and hands in the midst of a prodigious noise, had acquired the concentrated look with which we are familiar in the countenances of the deaf the better to hear what she asked him. "Pray, sir," said the old woman, "didn't I see you come out of that gentleman's house?" pointing back to Mr. Bounderby's. "I believe it was you, unless I have had the bad luck to mistake the person in following?" "Yes, missus," returned Stephen, "it were me." "Have you you'll excuse an old woman's curiosity have you seen the gentleman?" "Yes, missus." "And how did he look, sir? Was he portly, bold, outspoken, and hearty?" As she straightened her own figure, and held up her head in adapting her action to her words, the idea crossed Stephen that he had seen this old woman before, and had not quite liked her. "O yes," he returned, observing her more attentively, "he were all that."<|quote|>"And healthy," said the old woman, "as the fresh wind?"</|quote|>"Yes," returned Stephen. "He were ett'n and drinking as large and as loud as a Hummobee." "Thank you!" said the old woman, with infinite content. "Thank you!" He certainly never had seen this old woman before. Yet there was a vague remembrance in his mind, as if he had more than once dreamed of some old woman like her. She walked along at his side, and, gently accommodating himself to her humour, he said Coketown was a busy place, was it not? To which she answered "Eigh sure! Dreadful busy!" Then he said, she came from the country, he saw? To which she answered in the affirmative. "By Parliamentary, this morning. I came forty mile by Parliamentary this morning, and I'm going back the same forty mile this afternoon. I walked nine mile to the station this morning, and if I find nobody on the road to give me a lift, I shall walk the nine mile back to-night. That's pretty well, sir, at my age!" said the chatty old woman, her eye brightening with exultation. "'Deed 'tis. Don't do't too often, missus." "No, no. Once a year," she answered, shaking her head. "I spend my savings so, once every year. I come regular, to tramp about the streets, and see the gentlemen." "Only to see 'em?" "'Deed 'tis. Don't do't too often, missus." "No, no. Once a year," she answered, shaking her head. "I spend my savings so, once every year. I come regular, to tramp about the streets, and see the gentlemen." "Only to see 'em?" returned Stephen. "That's enough for me," she replied, with great earnestness and interest of manner. "I ask no more! I have been standing about, on this side of the way, to see that gentleman," turning her head back towards Mr. Bounderby's again, "come out. But, he's late this year, and I have not seen him. You came out instead. Now, if I am obliged to go back without a glimpse of him I only want a glimpse well! I have seen you, and you have seen him, and I must make that do." Saying this, she looked at Stephen as if to fix his features in her mind, and her eye was not so bright as it had been. With a large allowance for difference of tastes, and with all submission to the patricians of Coketown, this seemed so extraordinary a source of interest to take so much trouble about, that it perplexed him. But they were passing the church now, and as his eye caught the clock, he quickened his pace. He was going to his work? the old woman said, quickening hers, too, quite easily. Yes, time was nearly out. On his telling her where he worked, the old woman became a more singular old woman than before. "An't you happy?" she asked him. "Why there's awmost nobbody but has their troubles, missus." He answered evasively, because the old woman appeared to take it for granted that he would be very happy indeed, and he had not the heart to disappoint her. He knew that there was trouble enough in the world; and if the old woman had lived so long, and could count upon his having so little, why so much the better for her, and none the worse for him. "Ay, ay! You have your troubles at home, you mean?" she said. "Times. Just now and then," he answered, slightly. "But, working under such a gentleman, they don't follow you to the Factory?" No, no; they didn't follow him there, said Stephen. All correct there. Everything accordant there. (He did not go so far as to say, for her pleasure, that there was a sort of Divine Right there; but, I have heard claims almost as magnificent of late years.) They were now in the black by-road near the place, and the Hands were crowding in. The bell was ringing, and the Serpent was a Serpent of many coils, and the Elephant was getting ready. The strange old woman was delighted with the very bell. It was the beautifullest bell she had ever heard, she said, and sounded grand! She asked him, when he stopped good-naturedly to shake hands with her before going in, how long he had worked there? "A dozen year," he told her. "I must kiss the hand," said she, "that has worked in this fine factory for a dozen year!" And she lifted it, though he would have prevented her, and put it to her lips. What harmony, besides her age and her simplicity, surrounded her, he did not know, but even in this fantastic action there was a something neither out of time nor place: a something which it seemed as if nobody else could have made as serious, or done with such | the heavy umbrella, and little basket; the loose long-fingered gloves, to which her hands were unused; all bespoke an old woman from the country, in her plain holiday clothes, come into Coketown on an expedition of rare occurrence. Remarking this at a glance, with the quick observation of his class, Stephen Blackpool bent his attentive face his face, which, like the faces of many of his order, by dint of long working with eyes and hands in the midst of a prodigious noise, had acquired the concentrated look with which we are familiar in the countenances of the deaf the better to hear what she asked him. "Pray, sir," said the old woman, "didn't I see you come out of that gentleman's house?" pointing back to Mr. Bounderby's. "I believe it was you, unless I have had the bad luck to mistake the person in following?" "Yes, missus," returned Stephen, "it were me." "Have you you'll excuse an old woman's curiosity have you seen the gentleman?" "Yes, missus." "And how did he look, sir? Was he portly, bold, outspoken, and hearty?" As she straightened her own figure, and held up her head in adapting her action to her words, the idea crossed Stephen that he had seen this old woman before, and had not quite liked her. "O yes," he returned, observing her more attentively, "he were all that."<|quote|>"And healthy," said the old woman, "as the fresh wind?"</|quote|>"Yes," returned Stephen. "He were ett'n and drinking as large and as loud as a Hummobee." "Thank you!" said the old woman, with infinite content. "Thank you!" He certainly never had seen this old woman before. Yet there was a vague remembrance in his mind, as if he had more than once dreamed of some old woman like her. She walked along at his side, and, gently accommodating himself to her humour, he said Coketown was a busy place, was it not? To which she answered "Eigh sure! Dreadful busy!" Then he said, she came from the country, he saw? To which she answered in the affirmative. "By Parliamentary, this morning. I came forty mile by Parliamentary this morning, and I'm going back the same forty mile this afternoon. I walked nine mile to the station this morning, and if I find nobody on the road to give me a lift, I shall walk the nine mile back to-night. That's pretty well, sir, at my age!" said the chatty old woman, her eye brightening with exultation. "'Deed 'tis. Don't do't too often, missus." "No, no. Once a year," she answered, shaking her head. "I spend my savings so, once every year. I come regular, to tramp about the streets, and see the gentlemen." "Only to see 'em?" "'Deed 'tis. Don't do't too often, missus." "No, no. Once a year," she answered, shaking her head. "I spend my savings so, once every year. I come regular, to tramp about the streets, and see the gentlemen." "Only to see 'em?" returned Stephen. "That's enough for me," she replied, with great earnestness and interest of manner. "I ask no more! I have been standing about, on this side of the way, to see that gentleman," turning her head back towards Mr. Bounderby's again, "come out. But, he's late this year, and I have not seen him. You came out instead. Now, if I am obliged to go back without a glimpse of him I only want a glimpse well! I have seen you, and you have seen him, and I must make that do." Saying this, she looked at Stephen as if to fix his features in her mind, and her eye was not so bright as it had been. With a large allowance for difference of tastes, and with all submission to the patricians of Coketown, this seemed so extraordinary a source of interest to take so much trouble about, that it perplexed him. But they were passing the church now, and as | Hard Times |
"Take a seat, will you?" | Mr. Brownlow | just now," said Mr. Brownlow.<|quote|>"Take a seat, will you?"</|quote|>Mr. Bumble sat himself down; | my head." "Pray don't interrupt just now," said Mr. Brownlow.<|quote|>"Take a seat, will you?"</|quote|>Mr. Bumble sat himself down; quite confounded by the oddity | He was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr. Brownlow and his friend Mr. Grimwig, with decanters and glasses before them. The latter gentleman at once burst into the exclamation: "A beadle. A parish beadle, or I'll eat my head." "Pray don't interrupt just now," said Mr. Brownlow.<|quote|>"Take a seat, will you?"</|quote|>Mr. Bumble sat himself down; quite confounded by the oddity of Mr. Grimwig's manner. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp, so as to obtain an uninterrupted view of the beadle's countenance; and said, with a little impatience, "Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the advertisement?" "Yes, sir," said | Having heard this, the worthy old lady hurried back into the parlour again; and seating herself on a sofa, burst into tears. The girl, who was not quite so susceptible, had run upstairs meanwhile; and now returned with a request that Mr. Bumble would follow her immediately: which he did. He was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr. Brownlow and his friend Mr. Grimwig, with decanters and glasses before them. The latter gentleman at once burst into the exclamation: "A beadle. A parish beadle, or I'll eat my head." "Pray don't interrupt just now," said Mr. Brownlow.<|quote|>"Take a seat, will you?"</|quote|>Mr. Bumble sat himself down; quite confounded by the oddity of Mr. Grimwig's manner. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp, so as to obtain an uninterrupted view of the beadle's countenance; and said, with a little impatience, "Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the advertisement?" "Yes, sir," said Mr. Bumble. "And you ARE a beadle, are you not?" inquired Mr. Grimwig. "I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen," rejoined Mr. Bumble proudly. "Of course," observed Mr. Grimwig aside to his friend, "I knew he was. A beadle all over!" Mr. Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence on | Brownlow at home?" inquired Mr. Bumble of the girl who opened the door. To this inquiry the girl returned the not uncommon, but rather evasive reply of "I don't know; where do you come from?" Mr. Bumble no sooner uttered Oliver's name, in explanation of his errand, than Mrs. Bedwin, who had been listening at the parlour door, hastened into the passage in a breathless state. "Come in, come in," said the old lady: "I knew we should hear of him. Poor dear! I knew we should! I was certain of it. Bless his heart! I said so all along." Having heard this, the worthy old lady hurried back into the parlour again; and seating herself on a sofa, burst into tears. The girl, who was not quite so susceptible, had run upstairs meanwhile; and now returned with a request that Mr. Bumble would follow her immediately: which he did. He was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr. Brownlow and his friend Mr. Grimwig, with decanters and glasses before them. The latter gentleman at once burst into the exclamation: "A beadle. A parish beadle, or I'll eat my head." "Pray don't interrupt just now," said Mr. Brownlow.<|quote|>"Take a seat, will you?"</|quote|>Mr. Bumble sat himself down; quite confounded by the oddity of Mr. Grimwig's manner. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp, so as to obtain an uninterrupted view of the beadle's countenance; and said, with a little impatience, "Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the advertisement?" "Yes, sir," said Mr. Bumble. "And you ARE a beadle, are you not?" inquired Mr. Grimwig. "I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen," rejoined Mr. Bumble proudly. "Of course," observed Mr. Grimwig aside to his friend, "I knew he was. A beadle all over!" Mr. Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence on his friend, and resumed: "Do you know where this poor boy is now?" "No more than nobody," replied Mr. Bumble. "Well, what _do_ you know of him?" inquired the old gentleman. "Speak out, my friend, if you have anything to say. What _do_ you know of him?" "You don't happen to know any good of him, do you?" said Mr. Grimwig, caustically; after an attentive perusal of Mr. Bumble's features. Mr. Bumble, catching at the inquiry very quickly, shook his head with portentous solemnity. "You see?" said Mr. Grimwig, looking triumphantly at Mr. Brownlow. Mr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr. | and took a temperate dinner of steaks, oyster sauce, and porter. Putting a glass of hot gin-and-water on the chimney-piece, he drew his chair to the fire; and, with sundry moral reflections on the too-prevalent sin of discontent and complaining, composed himself to read the paper. The very first paragraph upon which Mr. Bumble's eye rested, was the following advertisement. "FIVE GUINEAS REWARD" "Whereas a young boy, named Oliver Twist, absconded, or was enticed, on Thursday evening last, from his home, at Pentonville; and has not since been heard of. The above reward will be paid to any person who will give such information as will lead to the discovery of the said Oliver Twist, or tend to throw any light upon his previous history, in which the advertiser is, for many reasons, warmly interested." And then followed a full description of Oliver's dress, person, appearance, and disappearance: with the name and address of Mr. Brownlow at full length. Mr. Bumble opened his eyes; read the advertisement, slowly and carefully, three several times; and in something more than five minutes was on his way to Pentonville: having actually, in his excitement, left the glass of hot gin-and-water, untasted. "Is Mr. Brownlow at home?" inquired Mr. Bumble of the girl who opened the door. To this inquiry the girl returned the not uncommon, but rather evasive reply of "I don't know; where do you come from?" Mr. Bumble no sooner uttered Oliver's name, in explanation of his errand, than Mrs. Bedwin, who had been listening at the parlour door, hastened into the passage in a breathless state. "Come in, come in," said the old lady: "I knew we should hear of him. Poor dear! I knew we should! I was certain of it. Bless his heart! I said so all along." Having heard this, the worthy old lady hurried back into the parlour again; and seating herself on a sofa, burst into tears. The girl, who was not quite so susceptible, had run upstairs meanwhile; and now returned with a request that Mr. Bumble would follow her immediately: which he did. He was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr. Brownlow and his friend Mr. Grimwig, with decanters and glasses before them. The latter gentleman at once burst into the exclamation: "A beadle. A parish beadle, or I'll eat my head." "Pray don't interrupt just now," said Mr. Brownlow.<|quote|>"Take a seat, will you?"</|quote|>Mr. Bumble sat himself down; quite confounded by the oddity of Mr. Grimwig's manner. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp, so as to obtain an uninterrupted view of the beadle's countenance; and said, with a little impatience, "Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the advertisement?" "Yes, sir," said Mr. Bumble. "And you ARE a beadle, are you not?" inquired Mr. Grimwig. "I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen," rejoined Mr. Bumble proudly. "Of course," observed Mr. Grimwig aside to his friend, "I knew he was. A beadle all over!" Mr. Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence on his friend, and resumed: "Do you know where this poor boy is now?" "No more than nobody," replied Mr. Bumble. "Well, what _do_ you know of him?" inquired the old gentleman. "Speak out, my friend, if you have anything to say. What _do_ you know of him?" "You don't happen to know any good of him, do you?" said Mr. Grimwig, caustically; after an attentive perusal of Mr. Bumble's features. Mr. Bumble, catching at the inquiry very quickly, shook his head with portentous solemnity. "You see?" said Mr. Grimwig, looking triumphantly at Mr. Brownlow. Mr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr. Bumble's pursed-up countenance; and requested him to communicate what he knew regarding Oliver, in as few words as possible. Mr. Bumble put down his hat; unbuttoned his coat; folded his arms; inclined his head in a retrospective manner; and, after a few moments' reflection, commenced his story. It would be tedious if given in the beadle's words: occupying, as it did, some twenty minutes in the telling; but the sum and substance of it was, that Oliver was a foundling, born of low and vicious parents. That he had, from his birth, displayed no better qualities than treachery, ingratitude, and malice. That he had terminated his brief career in the place of his birth, by making a sanguinary and cowardly attack on an unoffending lad, and running away in the night-time from his master's house. In proof of his really being the person he represented himself, Mr. Bumble laid upon the table the papers he had brought to town. Folding his arms again, he then awaited Mr. Brownlow's observations. "I fear it is all too true," said the old gentleman sorrowfully, after looking over the papers. "This is not much for your intelligence; but I would gladly have given you | mean, sir?" "I should like," said the child, "to leave my dear love to poor Oliver Twist; and to let him know how often I have sat by myself and cried to think of his wandering about in the dark nights with nobody to help him. And I should like to tell him," said the child pressing his small hands together, and speaking with great fervour, "that I was glad to die when I was very young; for, perhaps, if I had lived to be a man, and had grown old, my little sister who is in Heaven, might forget me, or be unlike me; and it would be so much happier if we were both children there together." Mr. Bumble surveyed the little speaker, from head to foot, with indescribable astonishment; and, turning to his companion, said, "They're all in one story, Mrs. Mann. That out-dacious Oliver had demogalized them all!" "I couldn't have believed it, sir" said Mrs Mann, holding up her hands, and looking malignantly at Dick. "I never see such a hardened little wretch!" "Take him away, ma'am!" said Mr. Bumble imperiously. "This must be stated to the board, Mrs. Mann." "I hope the gentleman will understand that it isn't my fault, sir?" said Mrs. Mann, whimpering pathetically. "They shall understand that, ma'am; they shall be acquainted with the true state of the case," said Mr. Bumble. "There; take him away, I can't bear the sight on him." Dick was immediately taken away, and locked up in the coal-cellar. Mr. Bumble shortly afterwards took himself off, to prepare for his journey. At six o'clock next morning, Mr. Bumble: having exchanged his cocked hat for a round one, and encased his person in a blue great-coat with a cape to it: took his place on the outside of the coach, accompanied by the criminals whose settlement was disputed; with whom, in due course of time, he arrived in London. He experienced no other crosses on the way, than those which originated in the perverse behaviour of the two paupers, who persisted in shivering, and complaining of the cold, in a manner which, Mr. Bumble declared, caused his teeth to chatter in his head, and made him feel quite uncomfortable; although he had a great-coat on. Having disposed of these evil-minded persons for the night, Mr. Bumble sat himself down in the house at which the coach stopped; and took a temperate dinner of steaks, oyster sauce, and porter. Putting a glass of hot gin-and-water on the chimney-piece, he drew his chair to the fire; and, with sundry moral reflections on the too-prevalent sin of discontent and complaining, composed himself to read the paper. The very first paragraph upon which Mr. Bumble's eye rested, was the following advertisement. "FIVE GUINEAS REWARD" "Whereas a young boy, named Oliver Twist, absconded, or was enticed, on Thursday evening last, from his home, at Pentonville; and has not since been heard of. The above reward will be paid to any person who will give such information as will lead to the discovery of the said Oliver Twist, or tend to throw any light upon his previous history, in which the advertiser is, for many reasons, warmly interested." And then followed a full description of Oliver's dress, person, appearance, and disappearance: with the name and address of Mr. Brownlow at full length. Mr. Bumble opened his eyes; read the advertisement, slowly and carefully, three several times; and in something more than five minutes was on his way to Pentonville: having actually, in his excitement, left the glass of hot gin-and-water, untasted. "Is Mr. Brownlow at home?" inquired Mr. Bumble of the girl who opened the door. To this inquiry the girl returned the not uncommon, but rather evasive reply of "I don't know; where do you come from?" Mr. Bumble no sooner uttered Oliver's name, in explanation of his errand, than Mrs. Bedwin, who had been listening at the parlour door, hastened into the passage in a breathless state. "Come in, come in," said the old lady: "I knew we should hear of him. Poor dear! I knew we should! I was certain of it. Bless his heart! I said so all along." Having heard this, the worthy old lady hurried back into the parlour again; and seating herself on a sofa, burst into tears. The girl, who was not quite so susceptible, had run upstairs meanwhile; and now returned with a request that Mr. Bumble would follow her immediately: which he did. He was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr. Brownlow and his friend Mr. Grimwig, with decanters and glasses before them. The latter gentleman at once burst into the exclamation: "A beadle. A parish beadle, or I'll eat my head." "Pray don't interrupt just now," said Mr. Brownlow.<|quote|>"Take a seat, will you?"</|quote|>Mr. Bumble sat himself down; quite confounded by the oddity of Mr. Grimwig's manner. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp, so as to obtain an uninterrupted view of the beadle's countenance; and said, with a little impatience, "Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the advertisement?" "Yes, sir," said Mr. Bumble. "And you ARE a beadle, are you not?" inquired Mr. Grimwig. "I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen," rejoined Mr. Bumble proudly. "Of course," observed Mr. Grimwig aside to his friend, "I knew he was. A beadle all over!" Mr. Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence on his friend, and resumed: "Do you know where this poor boy is now?" "No more than nobody," replied Mr. Bumble. "Well, what _do_ you know of him?" inquired the old gentleman. "Speak out, my friend, if you have anything to say. What _do_ you know of him?" "You don't happen to know any good of him, do you?" said Mr. Grimwig, caustically; after an attentive perusal of Mr. Bumble's features. Mr. Bumble, catching at the inquiry very quickly, shook his head with portentous solemnity. "You see?" said Mr. Grimwig, looking triumphantly at Mr. Brownlow. Mr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr. Bumble's pursed-up countenance; and requested him to communicate what he knew regarding Oliver, in as few words as possible. Mr. Bumble put down his hat; unbuttoned his coat; folded his arms; inclined his head in a retrospective manner; and, after a few moments' reflection, commenced his story. It would be tedious if given in the beadle's words: occupying, as it did, some twenty minutes in the telling; but the sum and substance of it was, that Oliver was a foundling, born of low and vicious parents. That he had, from his birth, displayed no better qualities than treachery, ingratitude, and malice. That he had terminated his brief career in the place of his birth, by making a sanguinary and cowardly attack on an unoffending lad, and running away in the night-time from his master's house. In proof of his really being the person he represented himself, Mr. Bumble laid upon the table the papers he had brought to town. Folding his arms again, he then awaited Mr. Brownlow's observations. "I fear it is all too true," said the old gentleman sorrowfully, after looking over the papers. "This is not much for your intelligence; but I would gladly have given you treble the money, if it had been favourable to the boy." It is not improbable that if Mr. Bumble had been possessed of this information at an earlier period of the interview, he might have imparted a very different colouring to his little history. It was too late to do it now, however; so he shook his head gravely, and, pocketing the five guineas, withdrew. Mr. Brownlow paced the room to and fro for some minutes; evidently so much disturbed by the beadle's tale, that even Mr. Grimwig forbore to vex him further. At length he stopped, and rang the bell violently. "Mrs. Bedwin," said Mr. Brownlow, when the housekeeper appeared; "that boy, Oliver, is an imposter." "It can't be, sir. It cannot be," said the old lady energetically. "I tell you he is," retorted the old gentleman. "What do you mean by can't be? We have just heard a full account of him from his birth; and he has been a thorough-paced little villain, all his life." "I never will believe it, sir," replied the old lady, firmly. "Never!" "You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying story-books," growled Mr. Grimwig. "I knew it all along. Why didn't you take my advise in the beginning; you would if he hadn't had a fever, I suppose, eh? He was interesting, wasn't he? Interesting! Bah!" And Mr. Grimwig poked the fire with a flourish. "He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir," retorted Mrs. Bedwin, indignantly. "I know what children are, sir; and have done these forty years; and people who can't say the same, shouldn't say anything about them. That's my opinion!" This was a hard hit at Mr. Grimwig, who was a bachelor. As it extorted nothing from that gentleman but a smile, the old lady tossed her head, and smoothed down her apron preparatory to another speech, when she was stopped by Mr. Brownlow. "Silence!" said the old gentleman, feigning an anger he was far from feeling. "Never let me hear the boy's name again. I rang to tell you that. Never. Never, on any pretence, mind! You may leave the room, Mrs. Bedwin. Remember! I am in earnest." There were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow's that night. Oliver's heart sank within him, when he thought of his good friends; it was well for him that he could not know what they had heard, or it | more than five minutes was on his way to Pentonville: having actually, in his excitement, left the glass of hot gin-and-water, untasted. "Is Mr. Brownlow at home?" inquired Mr. Bumble of the girl who opened the door. To this inquiry the girl returned the not uncommon, but rather evasive reply of "I don't know; where do you come from?" Mr. Bumble no sooner uttered Oliver's name, in explanation of his errand, than Mrs. Bedwin, who had been listening at the parlour door, hastened into the passage in a breathless state. "Come in, come in," said the old lady: "I knew we should hear of him. Poor dear! I knew we should! I was certain of it. Bless his heart! I said so all along." Having heard this, the worthy old lady hurried back into the parlour again; and seating herself on a sofa, burst into tears. The girl, who was not quite so susceptible, had run upstairs meanwhile; and now returned with a request that Mr. Bumble would follow her immediately: which he did. He was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr. Brownlow and his friend Mr. Grimwig, with decanters and glasses before them. The latter gentleman at once burst into the exclamation: "A beadle. A parish beadle, or I'll eat my head." "Pray don't interrupt just now," said Mr. Brownlow.<|quote|>"Take a seat, will you?"</|quote|>Mr. Bumble sat himself down; quite confounded by the oddity of Mr. Grimwig's manner. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp, so as to obtain an uninterrupted view of the beadle's countenance; and said, with a little impatience, "Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the advertisement?" "Yes, sir," said Mr. Bumble. "And you ARE a beadle, are you not?" inquired Mr. Grimwig. "I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen," rejoined Mr. Bumble proudly. "Of course," observed Mr. Grimwig aside to his friend, "I knew he was. A beadle all over!" Mr. Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence on his friend, and resumed: "Do you know where this poor boy is now?" "No more than nobody," replied Mr. Bumble. "Well, what _do_ you know of him?" inquired the old gentleman. "Speak out, my friend, if you have anything to say. What _do_ you know of him?" "You don't happen to know any good of him, do you?" said Mr. Grimwig, caustically; after an attentive perusal of Mr. Bumble's features. Mr. Bumble, catching at the inquiry very quickly, shook his head with portentous solemnity. "You see?" said Mr. Grimwig, looking triumphantly at Mr. Brownlow. Mr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr. Bumble's pursed-up countenance; and requested him to communicate what he knew regarding Oliver, in as few words as possible. Mr. Bumble put down his hat; unbuttoned his coat; folded his arms; inclined his head in a retrospective manner; and, after a few moments' reflection, commenced his story. It would be tedious if given in the beadle's words: occupying, as it did, some twenty minutes in the telling; but the sum and substance of it was, that Oliver was a foundling, born of low and vicious parents. That he had, | Oliver Twist |
"Too much Beethoven." | Mr. Beebe | to himself the remark of<|quote|>"Too much Beethoven."</|quote|>But he only supposed that | at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of<|quote|>"Too much Beethoven."</|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an | for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of<|quote|>"Too much Beethoven."</|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. | George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of<|quote|>"Too much Beethoven."</|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had | Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of<|quote|>"Too much Beethoven."</|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! | any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of<|quote|>"Too much Beethoven."</|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, | to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of<|quote|>"Too much Beethoven."</|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry." She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot. "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. "I do hope she's nice." That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful | to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of<|quote|>"Too much Beethoven."</|quote|>But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations. But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!" "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol. "But perhaps you would rather not?" "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not." The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply. "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't | A Room With A View |
"I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." | Don Lavington | done it now," whispered Jem.<|quote|>"I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship."</|quote|>"Yes, and so did I!" | said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem.<|quote|>"I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship."</|quote|>"Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then | hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem.<|quote|>"I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship."</|quote|>"Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on | "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem.<|quote|>"I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship."</|quote|>"Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not | two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem.<|quote|>"I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship."</|quote|>"Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid | "Look sharp, we want to get rid of these cords; where's your knife?" "Wait a little while, my friends," said the officer sarcastically; "as soon as we get to the ship, you shall have them changed for irons." "Whorrt!" cried Mike. "We were out in search of three convicts who murdered a couple of the guard, and escaped from Norfolk Island in a boat. I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe." "Norfolk Island! Where's Norfolk Island, mate?" said Mike coolly. "Never heard o' no such place," said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?" "Yes, that's it," said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem.<|quote|>"I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship."</|quote|>"Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not | do so. Mr Dillon, bring up the prisoners." This was to a master's mate, who led off a guard, and returned with the captives bound hands behind, and the Maoris looking sullen and haughty, while the three whites appeared at their very worst--a trio of the most vile, unkempt scoundrels possible to see. They were led to the front, scowling at every one in turn, and halted in front of the officer, who, after whispering to the master's mate, gave orders to one of the seamen. This man pulled out his great jack knife, opened it, and being a bit of a joker, advanced toward the Maoris, grinding his teeth and rolling his eyes. The savages saw his every act, and there was a slight tremor that seemed to run through them all; but the next instant they had drawn themselves up stern and defiant, ready to meet their fate at the seaman's knife. "No, no. No, pakeha. No kill," said a deep angry voice; and as every one turned, Ngati stalked forward as if to defend his enemies. But at the same moment the man had cut the first Maori's bands, and then went on behind the rank, cutting the line that bound seven, who stood staring wildly. The next minute a seaman came along bearing a sheaf of spears, which he handed, one by one, to the astonished savages, while their wonder reached its height, as the master's mate presented to each a knife, such as were brought for presents to the natives. "Now," said the officer, addressing them, "I don't understand you, and I don't suppose you understand my words; but you do my deeds. Then, in the king's name, you are free; and if you ever take any English prisoners, I hope you will behave as well to them as we have behaved to you. There, go." He finished by pointing away to the north; but instead of going they stood staring till Ngati came forward, and said a few words in their own tongue. The effect was electric; they all shouted, brandished their spears, danced wildly, and ended by throwing down their weapons before the officer, seizing him by the arms, and rubbing noses with him. He submitted laughingly till the Maoris picked up their spears, and stood looking on, apparently quite satisfied that they were safe. "Here, hi, Jack!" cried a hoarse brutal voice. "Look sharp, we want to get rid of these cords; where's your knife?" "Wait a little while, my friends," said the officer sarcastically; "as soon as we get to the ship, you shall have them changed for irons." "Whorrt!" cried Mike. "We were out in search of three convicts who murdered a couple of the guard, and escaped from Norfolk Island in a boat. I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe." "Norfolk Island! Where's Norfolk Island, mate?" said Mike coolly. "Never heard o' no such place," said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?" "Yes, that's it," said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem.<|quote|>"I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship."</|quote|>"Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his | said the officer sarcastically; "as soon as we get to the ship, you shall have them changed for irons." "Whorrt!" cried Mike. "We were out in search of three convicts who murdered a couple of the guard, and escaped from Norfolk Island in a boat. I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe." "Norfolk Island! Where's Norfolk Island, mate?" said Mike coolly. "Never heard o' no such place," said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?" "Yes, that's it," said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem.<|quote|>"I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship."</|quote|>"Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, | Don Lavington |
his young critic answered; | No speaker | the name dear, my lord,”<|quote|>his young critic answered;</|quote|>“but my whole point is | dear.” “You may have held the name dear, my lord,”<|quote|>his young critic answered;</|quote|>“but my whole point is that, if I’m right, you’ve | nor snubbed. “I’ve too much still to learn, but I’m learning every day, and I shall have learnt immensely this afternoon.” “Pretty well at my expense, however,” Lord Theign laughed, “if you demolish a name we’ve held for generations so dear.” “You may have held the name dear, my lord,”<|quote|>his young critic answered;</|quote|>“but my whole point is that, if I’m right, you’ve held the picture itself cheap.” “Because a Mantovano,” said Lord John, “is so much greater a value?” Hugh met his eyes a moment “Are you talking of values pecuniary?” “What values are _not_ pecuniary?” Hugh might, during his hesitation, have | the great men?” his host asked with tempered irony. “Well, I guess he’s going to be, anyhow,” Mr. Bender cordially struck in; “and this remarkable exhibition of intelligence may just let him loose on the world, mayn’t it?” “Thank you, Mr. Bender!” --and Hugh obviously tried to look neither elated nor snubbed. “I’ve too much still to learn, but I’m learning every day, and I shall have learnt immensely this afternoon.” “Pretty well at my expense, however,” Lord Theign laughed, “if you demolish a name we’ve held for generations so dear.” “You may have held the name dear, my lord,”<|quote|>his young critic answered;</|quote|>“but my whole point is that, if I’m right, you’ve held the picture itself cheap.” “Because a Mantovano,” said Lord John, “is so much greater a value?” Hugh met his eyes a moment “Are you talking of values pecuniary?” “What values are _not_ pecuniary?” Hugh might, during his hesitation, have been imagined to stand off a little from the question. “Well, some things have in a higher degree that one, and some have the associational or the factitious, and some the clear artistic.” “And some,” Mr. Bender opined, “have them _all_--in the highest degree. But what you mean,” he went | looked for a moment as if these were rather large presumptions; then he put them in their place a little curtly. “It’s one thing to keep our possessions for ourselves--it’s another to keep them for other people.” “Well,” Hugh good-humouredly returned, “I’m perhaps not so absolutely sure of myself, if you press me, as that I sha’n’t be glad of a higher and wiser opinion--I mean than my own. It would be awfully interesting, if you’ll allow me to say so, to have the judgment of one or two of the great men.” “You’re not yourself, Mr. Crimble, one of the great men?” his host asked with tempered irony. “Well, I guess he’s going to be, anyhow,” Mr. Bender cordially struck in; “and this remarkable exhibition of intelligence may just let him loose on the world, mayn’t it?” “Thank you, Mr. Bender!” --and Hugh obviously tried to look neither elated nor snubbed. “I’ve too much still to learn, but I’m learning every day, and I shall have learnt immensely this afternoon.” “Pretty well at my expense, however,” Lord Theign laughed, “if you demolish a name we’ve held for generations so dear.” “You may have held the name dear, my lord,”<|quote|>his young critic answered;</|quote|>“but my whole point is that, if I’m right, you’ve held the picture itself cheap.” “Because a Mantovano,” said Lord John, “is so much greater a value?” Hugh met his eyes a moment “Are you talking of values pecuniary?” “What values are _not_ pecuniary?” Hugh might, during his hesitation, have been imagined to stand off a little from the question. “Well, some things have in a higher degree that one, and some have the associational or the factitious, and some the clear artistic.” “And some,” Mr. Bender opined, “have them _all_--in the highest degree. But what you mean,” he went on, “is that a Mantovano would come higher under the hammer than a Moretto?” “Why, sir,” the young man returned, “there aren’t any, as I’ve just stated, _to_ ‘come.’ I account--or I easily can--for every one of the very small number.” “Then do you consider that you account for this one?” “I believe I shall if you’ll give me time.” “Oh, time!” Mr. Bender impatiently sighed. “But we’ll give you all we’ve got--only I guess it isn’t much.” And he appeared freely to invite their companions to join in this estimate. They listened to him, however, they watched him, for | stint his attention. “Reflected, you mean, from _other_ Mantovanos--that I don’t know?” “I mean from those I know myself,” said Hugh; “and I mean from fine analogies with one in particular.” “Analogies that in all these years, these centuries, have so remarkably not been noticed?” “Well,” Hugh competently explained, “they’re a sort of thing the very sense of, the value and meaning of, are a highly modern--in fact a quite recent growth.” Lord John at this professed with cordiality that he at least quite understood. “Oh, we know a lot more about our pictures and things than ever our ancestors did!” “Well, I guess it’s enough for _me_,” Mr. Bender contributed, “that your ancestors knew enough to get ‘em!” “Ah, that doesn’t go so far,” cried Hugh, “unless we ourselves know enough to keep ‘em!” The words appeared to quicken in a manner Lord Theign’s view of the speaker. “Were _your_ ancestors, Mr. Crimble, great collectors?” Arrested, it might be, in his general assurance, Hugh wondered and smiled. “Mine--collectors? Oh, I’m afraid I haven’t any--to speak of. Only it has seemed to me for a long time,” he added, “that on that head we should all feel together.” Lord Theign looked for a moment as if these were rather large presumptions; then he put them in their place a little curtly. “It’s one thing to keep our possessions for ourselves--it’s another to keep them for other people.” “Well,” Hugh good-humouredly returned, “I’m perhaps not so absolutely sure of myself, if you press me, as that I sha’n’t be glad of a higher and wiser opinion--I mean than my own. It would be awfully interesting, if you’ll allow me to say so, to have the judgment of one or two of the great men.” “You’re not yourself, Mr. Crimble, one of the great men?” his host asked with tempered irony. “Well, I guess he’s going to be, anyhow,” Mr. Bender cordially struck in; “and this remarkable exhibition of intelligence may just let him loose on the world, mayn’t it?” “Thank you, Mr. Bender!” --and Hugh obviously tried to look neither elated nor snubbed. “I’ve too much still to learn, but I’m learning every day, and I shall have learnt immensely this afternoon.” “Pretty well at my expense, however,” Lord Theign laughed, “if you demolish a name we’ve held for generations so dear.” “You may have held the name dear, my lord,”<|quote|>his young critic answered;</|quote|>“but my whole point is that, if I’m right, you’ve held the picture itself cheap.” “Because a Mantovano,” said Lord John, “is so much greater a value?” Hugh met his eyes a moment “Are you talking of values pecuniary?” “What values are _not_ pecuniary?” Hugh might, during his hesitation, have been imagined to stand off a little from the question. “Well, some things have in a higher degree that one, and some have the associational or the factitious, and some the clear artistic.” “And some,” Mr. Bender opined, “have them _all_--in the highest degree. But what you mean,” he went on, “is that a Mantovano would come higher under the hammer than a Moretto?” “Why, sir,” the young man returned, “there aren’t any, as I’ve just stated, _to_ ‘come.’ I account--or I easily can--for every one of the very small number.” “Then do you consider that you account for this one?” “I believe I shall if you’ll give me time.” “Oh, time!” Mr. Bender impatiently sighed. “But we’ll give you all we’ve got--only I guess it isn’t much.” And he appeared freely to invite their companions to join in this estimate. They listened to him, however, they watched him, for the moment, but in silence, and with the next he had gone on: “How much higher--if your idea is correct about it--would Lord Theign’s picture come?” Hugh turned to that nobleman. “Does Mr. Bender mean come to _him_, my lord?” Lord Theign looked again hard at Hugh, and then harder than he had done yet at his other invader. “I don’t know _what_ Mr. Bender means!” With which he turned off. “Well, I guess I mean that it would come higher to me than to any one! But how _much_ higher?” the American continued to Hugh. “How much higher to _you?_” “Oh, I can size _that_. How much higher as a Mantovano?” Unmistakably--for us at least--our young man was gaining time; he had the instinct of circumspection and delay. “To any one?” “To any one.” “Than as a Moretto?” Hugh continued. It even acted on Lord John’s nerves. “That’s what we’re talking about--really!” But Hugh still took his ease; as if, with his eyes first on Bender and then on Lord Theign, whose back was practically presented, he were covertly studying signs. “Well,” he presently said, “in view of the very great interest combined with the very great rarity, more | went on, “for your kind leave to go over your treasures.” The personage he so addressed was, as we know, nothing if not generally affable; yet if that was just then apparent it was through a shade of coolness for the slightly heated familiarity of so plain, or at least so free, a young man in eye-glasses, now for the first time definitely apprehended. “Oh, I’ve scarcely ‘treasures’--but I’ve some things of interest.” Hugh, however, entering the opulent circle, as it were, clearly took account of no breath of a chill. “I think possible, my lord, that you’ve a great treasure--if you’ve really so high a rarity as a splendid Manto-vano.” “A ‘Mantovano’?” You wouldn’t have been sure that his lordship didn’t pronounce the word for the first time in his life. “There have been supposed to be only _seven_ real examples about the world; so that if by an extraordinary chance you find yourself the possessor of a magnificent eighth----” But Lord John had already broken in. “Why, there you _are_, Mr. Bender!” “Oh, Mr. Bender, with whom I’ve made acquaintance,” Hugh returned, “was there as it began to work in me--” “That your Moretto, Lord Theign” --Mr. Bender took their informant up-- “isn’t, after all, a Moretto at all.” And he continued amusedly to Hugh: “It began to work in you, sir, like very strong drink!” “Do I understand you to suggest,” Lord Theign asked of the startling young man, “that my precious picture isn’t genuine?” Well, Hugh knew exactly what he suggested. “As a picture, Lord Theign, as a great portrait, one of the most genuine things in Europe. But it strikes me as probable that from far back--for reasons!--there has been a wrong attribution; that the work has been, in other words, traditionally, obstinately miscalled. It has passed for a Moretto, and at first I quite took it for one; but I suddenly, as I looked and looked and saw and saw, began to doubt, and now I know _why_ I doubted.” Lord Theign had during this speech kept his eyes on the ground; but he raised them to Mr. Crimble’s almost palpitating presence for the remark: “I’m bound to say that I hope you’ve some very good grounds!” “I’ve three or four, Lord Theign; they seem to me of the best--as yet. They made me wonder and wonder--and then light splendidly broke.” His lordship didn’t stint his attention. “Reflected, you mean, from _other_ Mantovanos--that I don’t know?” “I mean from those I know myself,” said Hugh; “and I mean from fine analogies with one in particular.” “Analogies that in all these years, these centuries, have so remarkably not been noticed?” “Well,” Hugh competently explained, “they’re a sort of thing the very sense of, the value and meaning of, are a highly modern--in fact a quite recent growth.” Lord John at this professed with cordiality that he at least quite understood. “Oh, we know a lot more about our pictures and things than ever our ancestors did!” “Well, I guess it’s enough for _me_,” Mr. Bender contributed, “that your ancestors knew enough to get ‘em!” “Ah, that doesn’t go so far,” cried Hugh, “unless we ourselves know enough to keep ‘em!” The words appeared to quicken in a manner Lord Theign’s view of the speaker. “Were _your_ ancestors, Mr. Crimble, great collectors?” Arrested, it might be, in his general assurance, Hugh wondered and smiled. “Mine--collectors? Oh, I’m afraid I haven’t any--to speak of. Only it has seemed to me for a long time,” he added, “that on that head we should all feel together.” Lord Theign looked for a moment as if these were rather large presumptions; then he put them in their place a little curtly. “It’s one thing to keep our possessions for ourselves--it’s another to keep them for other people.” “Well,” Hugh good-humouredly returned, “I’m perhaps not so absolutely sure of myself, if you press me, as that I sha’n’t be glad of a higher and wiser opinion--I mean than my own. It would be awfully interesting, if you’ll allow me to say so, to have the judgment of one or two of the great men.” “You’re not yourself, Mr. Crimble, one of the great men?” his host asked with tempered irony. “Well, I guess he’s going to be, anyhow,” Mr. Bender cordially struck in; “and this remarkable exhibition of intelligence may just let him loose on the world, mayn’t it?” “Thank you, Mr. Bender!” --and Hugh obviously tried to look neither elated nor snubbed. “I’ve too much still to learn, but I’m learning every day, and I shall have learnt immensely this afternoon.” “Pretty well at my expense, however,” Lord Theign laughed, “if you demolish a name we’ve held for generations so dear.” “You may have held the name dear, my lord,”<|quote|>his young critic answered;</|quote|>“but my whole point is that, if I’m right, you’ve held the picture itself cheap.” “Because a Mantovano,” said Lord John, “is so much greater a value?” Hugh met his eyes a moment “Are you talking of values pecuniary?” “What values are _not_ pecuniary?” Hugh might, during his hesitation, have been imagined to stand off a little from the question. “Well, some things have in a higher degree that one, and some have the associational or the factitious, and some the clear artistic.” “And some,” Mr. Bender opined, “have them _all_--in the highest degree. But what you mean,” he went on, “is that a Mantovano would come higher under the hammer than a Moretto?” “Why, sir,” the young man returned, “there aren’t any, as I’ve just stated, _to_ ‘come.’ I account--or I easily can--for every one of the very small number.” “Then do you consider that you account for this one?” “I believe I shall if you’ll give me time.” “Oh, time!” Mr. Bender impatiently sighed. “But we’ll give you all we’ve got--only I guess it isn’t much.” And he appeared freely to invite their companions to join in this estimate. They listened to him, however, they watched him, for the moment, but in silence, and with the next he had gone on: “How much higher--if your idea is correct about it--would Lord Theign’s picture come?” Hugh turned to that nobleman. “Does Mr. Bender mean come to _him_, my lord?” Lord Theign looked again hard at Hugh, and then harder than he had done yet at his other invader. “I don’t know _what_ Mr. Bender means!” With which he turned off. “Well, I guess I mean that it would come higher to me than to any one! But how _much_ higher?” the American continued to Hugh. “How much higher to _you?_” “Oh, I can size _that_. How much higher as a Mantovano?” Unmistakably--for us at least--our young man was gaining time; he had the instinct of circumspection and delay. “To any one?” “To any one.” “Than as a Moretto?” Hugh continued. It even acted on Lord John’s nerves. “That’s what we’re talking about--really!” But Hugh still took his ease; as if, with his eyes first on Bender and then on Lord Theign, whose back was practically presented, he were covertly studying signs. “Well,” he presently said, “in view of the very great interest combined with the very great rarity, more than--ah more than can be estimated off-hand.” It made Lord Theign turn round. “But a fine Moretto has a very great rarity and a very great interest.” “Yes--but not on the whole the same amount of either.” “No, not on the whole the same amount of either!” --Mr. Bender judiciously echoed it. “But how,” he freely pursued, “are you going to find out?” “Have I your permission, Lord Theign,” Hugh brightly asked, “to attempt to find out?” The question produced on his lordship’s part a visible, a natural anxiety. “What would it be your idea then to _do_ with my property?” “Nothing at all here--it could all be done, I think, at Verona. What besets, what quite haunts me,” Hugh explained, “is the vivid image of a Mantovano--one of the glories of the short list--in a private collection in that place. The conviction grows in me that the two portraits must be of the same original. In fact I’ll bet my head,” the young man quite ardently wound up, “that the wonderful subject of the Verona picture, a very great person clearly, is none other than the very great person of yours.” Lord Theign had listened with interest. “Mayn’t he be that and yet from another hand?” “It isn’t another hand” --oh Hugh was quite positive. “It’s the hand of the very same painter.” “How can you prove it’s the same?” “Only by the most intimate internal evidence, I admit--and evidence that of course has to be estimated.” “Then who,” Lord Theign asked, “is to estimate it?” “Well,” --Hugh was all ready-- “will you let Pap-pendick, one of the first authorities in Europe, a good friend of mine, in fact more or less my master, and who is generally to be found at Brussels? I happen to know he knows your picture--he once spoke to me of it; and he’ll go and look again at the Verona one, he’ll go and judge our issue, if I apply to him, in the light of certain new tips that I shall be able to give him.” Lord Theign appeared to wonder. “If you ‘apply’ to him?” “Like a shot, I believe, if I ask it of him--as a service.” “A service to _you?_ He’ll be very obliging,” his lordship smiled. “Well, I’ve obliged _him!_” Hugh readily retorted. “The obligation will be to we” --Lord Theign spoke more formally. “Well, the satisfaction,” said | traditionally, obstinately miscalled. It has passed for a Moretto, and at first I quite took it for one; but I suddenly, as I looked and looked and saw and saw, began to doubt, and now I know _why_ I doubted.” Lord Theign had during this speech kept his eyes on the ground; but he raised them to Mr. Crimble’s almost palpitating presence for the remark: “I’m bound to say that I hope you’ve some very good grounds!” “I’ve three or four, Lord Theign; they seem to me of the best--as yet. They made me wonder and wonder--and then light splendidly broke.” His lordship didn’t stint his attention. “Reflected, you mean, from _other_ Mantovanos--that I don’t know?” “I mean from those I know myself,” said Hugh; “and I mean from fine analogies with one in particular.” “Analogies that in all these years, these centuries, have so remarkably not been noticed?” “Well,” Hugh competently explained, “they’re a sort of thing the very sense of, the value and meaning of, are a highly modern--in fact a quite recent growth.” Lord John at this professed with cordiality that he at least quite understood. “Oh, we know a lot more about our pictures and things than ever our ancestors did!” “Well, I guess it’s enough for _me_,” Mr. Bender contributed, “that your ancestors knew enough to get ‘em!” “Ah, that doesn’t go so far,” cried Hugh, “unless we ourselves know enough to keep ‘em!” The words appeared to quicken in a manner Lord Theign’s view of the speaker. “Were _your_ ancestors, Mr. Crimble, great collectors?” Arrested, it might be, in his general assurance, Hugh wondered and smiled. “Mine--collectors? Oh, I’m afraid I haven’t any--to speak of. Only it has seemed to me for a long time,” he added, “that on that head we should all feel together.” Lord Theign looked for a moment as if these were rather large presumptions; then he put them in their place a little curtly. “It’s one thing to keep our possessions for ourselves--it’s another to keep them for other people.” “Well,” Hugh good-humouredly returned, “I’m perhaps not so absolutely sure of myself, if you press me, as that I sha’n’t be glad of a higher and wiser opinion--I mean than my own. It would be awfully interesting, if you’ll allow me to say so, to have the judgment of one or two of the great men.” “You’re not yourself, Mr. Crimble, one of the great men?” his host asked with tempered irony. “Well, I guess he’s going to be, anyhow,” Mr. Bender cordially struck in; “and this remarkable exhibition of intelligence may just let him loose on the world, mayn’t it?” “Thank you, Mr. Bender!” --and Hugh obviously tried to look neither elated nor snubbed. “I’ve too much still to learn, but I’m learning every day, and I shall have learnt immensely this afternoon.” “Pretty well at my expense, however,” Lord Theign laughed, “if you demolish a name we’ve held for generations so dear.” “You may have held the name dear, my lord,”<|quote|>his young critic answered;</|quote|>“but my whole point is that, if I’m right, you’ve held the picture itself cheap.” “Because a Mantovano,” said Lord John, “is so much greater a value?” Hugh met his eyes a moment “Are you talking of values pecuniary?” “What values are _not_ pecuniary?” Hugh might, during his hesitation, have been imagined to stand off a little from the question. “Well, some things have in a higher degree that one, and some have the associational or the factitious, and some the clear artistic.” “And some,” Mr. Bender opined, “have them _all_--in the highest degree. But what you mean,” he went on, “is that a Mantovano would come higher under the hammer than a Moretto?” “Why, sir,” the young man returned, “there aren’t any, as I’ve just stated, _to_ ‘come.’ I account--or I easily can--for every one of the very small number.” “Then do you consider that you account for this one?” “I believe I shall if you’ll give me time.” “Oh, time!” Mr. Bender impatiently sighed. “But we’ll give you all we’ve got--only I guess it isn’t much.” And he appeared freely to invite their companions to join in this estimate. They listened to him, however, they watched him, for the moment, but in silence, and with the next he had gone on: “How much higher--if your idea is correct about it--would Lord Theign’s picture come?” Hugh turned to that nobleman. “Does Mr. Bender mean come to _him_, my lord?” Lord Theign looked again hard at Hugh, and then harder than he had done yet at his other invader. “I don’t know _what_ Mr. Bender means!” With which he turned off. “Well, I guess I mean that it would come higher to me than to any one! But how _much_ higher?” the American continued to Hugh. “How much higher to _you?_” “Oh, I can size _that_. How much higher as | The Outcry |
and he pulled the great cloak about his shoulders and picked up the flask from the table. | No speaker | us but honour and death,"<|quote|>and he pulled the great cloak about his shoulders and picked up the flask from the table.</|quote|>"The boat is quite ready," | There is nothing possible between us but honour and death,"<|quote|>and he pulled the great cloak about his shoulders and picked up the flask from the table.</|quote|>"The boat is quite ready," said Mr. Buttons, bustling up. | to that? You made me swear before I made you. Perhaps we are both doing what we think right. But what we think right is so damned different that there can be nothing between us in the way of concession. There is nothing possible between us but honour and death,"<|quote|>and he pulled the great cloak about his shoulders and picked up the flask from the table.</|quote|>"The boat is quite ready," said Mr. Buttons, bustling up. "Be good enough to step this way." With a gesture that revealed the shop-walker, he led Syme down a short, iron-bound passage, the still agonised Gregory following feverishly at their heels. At the end of the passage was a door, | are a devil!" said Gregory at last. "And you are a gentleman," said Syme with gravity. "It was you that entrapped me," began Gregory, shaking from head to foot, "entrapped me into" "Talk sense," said Syme shortly. "Into what sort of devils' parliament have you entrapped me, if it comes to that? You made me swear before I made you. Perhaps we are both doing what we think right. But what we think right is so damned different that there can be nothing between us in the way of concession. There is nothing possible between us but honour and death,"<|quote|>and he pulled the great cloak about his shoulders and picked up the flask from the table.</|quote|>"The boat is quite ready," said Mr. Buttons, bustling up. "Be good enough to step this way." With a gesture that revealed the shop-walker, he led Syme down a short, iron-bound passage, the still agonised Gregory following feverishly at their heels. At the end of the passage was a door, which Buttons opened sharply, showing a sudden blue and silver picture of the moonlit river, that looked like a scene in a theatre. Close to the opening lay a dark, dwarfish steam-launch, like a baby dragon with one red eye. Almost in the act of stepping on board, Gabriel Syme | Service, was elected to the post of Thursday on the General Council of the Anarchists of Europe. Everyone in the room seemed to feel the tug waiting on the river, the sword-stick and the revolver, waiting on the table. The instant the election was ended and irrevocable, and Syme had received the paper proving his election, they all sprang to their feet, and the fiery groups moved and mixed in the room. Syme found himself, somehow or other, face to face with Gregory, who still regarded him with a stare of stunned hatred. They were silent for many minutes. "You are a devil!" said Gregory at last. "And you are a gentleman," said Syme with gravity. "It was you that entrapped me," began Gregory, shaking from head to foot, "entrapped me into" "Talk sense," said Syme shortly. "Into what sort of devils' parliament have you entrapped me, if it comes to that? You made me swear before I made you. Perhaps we are both doing what we think right. But what we think right is so damned different that there can be nothing between us in the way of concession. There is nothing possible between us but honour and death,"<|quote|>and he pulled the great cloak about his shoulders and picked up the flask from the table.</|quote|>"The boat is quite ready," said Mr. Buttons, bustling up. "Be good enough to step this way." With a gesture that revealed the shop-walker, he led Syme down a short, iron-bound passage, the still agonised Gregory following feverishly at their heels. At the end of the passage was a door, which Buttons opened sharply, showing a sudden blue and silver picture of the moonlit river, that looked like a scene in a theatre. Close to the opening lay a dark, dwarfish steam-launch, like a baby dragon with one red eye. Almost in the act of stepping on board, Gabriel Syme turned to the gaping Gregory. "You have kept your word," he said gently, with his face in shadow. "You are a man of honour, and I thank you. You have kept it even down to a small particular. There was one special thing you promised me at the beginning of the affair, and which you have certainly given me by the end of it." "What do you mean?" cried the chaotic Gregory. "What did I promise you?" "A very entertaining evening," said Syme, and he made a military salute with the sword-stick as the steamboat slid away. CHAPTER IV. THE | merely began "Comrade Gregory commands" Then the spell was snapped, and one anarchist called out to Gregory "Who are you? You are not Sunday;" and another anarchist added in a heavier voice, "And you are not Thursday." "Comrades," cried Gregory, in a voice like that of a martyr who in an ecstacy of pain has passed beyond pain, "it is nothing to me whether you detest me as a tyrant or detest me as a slave. If you will not take my command, accept my degradation. I kneel to you. I throw myself at your feet. I implore you. Do not elect this man." "Comrade Gregory," said the chairman after a painful pause, "this is really not quite dignified." For the first time in the proceedings there was for a few seconds a real silence. Then Gregory fell back in his seat, a pale wreck of a man, and the chairman repeated, like a piece of clock-work suddenly started again "The question is that Comrade Syme be elected to the post of Thursday on the General Council." The roar rose like the sea, the hands rose like a forest, and three minutes afterwards Mr. Gabriel Syme, of the Secret Police Service, was elected to the post of Thursday on the General Council of the Anarchists of Europe. Everyone in the room seemed to feel the tug waiting on the river, the sword-stick and the revolver, waiting on the table. The instant the election was ended and irrevocable, and Syme had received the paper proving his election, they all sprang to their feet, and the fiery groups moved and mixed in the room. Syme found himself, somehow or other, face to face with Gregory, who still regarded him with a stare of stunned hatred. They were silent for many minutes. "You are a devil!" said Gregory at last. "And you are a gentleman," said Syme with gravity. "It was you that entrapped me," began Gregory, shaking from head to foot, "entrapped me into" "Talk sense," said Syme shortly. "Into what sort of devils' parliament have you entrapped me, if it comes to that? You made me swear before I made you. Perhaps we are both doing what we think right. But what we think right is so damned different that there can be nothing between us in the way of concession. There is nothing possible between us but honour and death,"<|quote|>and he pulled the great cloak about his shoulders and picked up the flask from the table.</|quote|>"The boat is quite ready," said Mr. Buttons, bustling up. "Be good enough to step this way." With a gesture that revealed the shop-walker, he led Syme down a short, iron-bound passage, the still agonised Gregory following feverishly at their heels. At the end of the passage was a door, which Buttons opened sharply, showing a sudden blue and silver picture of the moonlit river, that looked like a scene in a theatre. Close to the opening lay a dark, dwarfish steam-launch, like a baby dragon with one red eye. Almost in the act of stepping on board, Gabriel Syme turned to the gaping Gregory. "You have kept your word," he said gently, with his face in shadow. "You are a man of honour, and I thank you. You have kept it even down to a small particular. There was one special thing you promised me at the beginning of the affair, and which you have certainly given me by the end of it." "What do you mean?" cried the chaotic Gregory. "What did I promise you?" "A very entertaining evening," said Syme, and he made a military salute with the sword-stick as the steamboat slid away. CHAPTER IV. THE TALE OF A DETECTIVE Gabriel Syme was not merely a detective who pretended to be a poet; he was really a poet who had become a detective. Nor was his hatred of anarchy hypocritical. He was one of those who are driven early in life into too conservative an attitude by the bewildering folly of most revolutionists. He had not attained it by any tame tradition. His respectability was spontaneous and sudden, a rebellion against rebellion. He came of a family of cranks, in which all the oldest people had all the newest notions. One of his uncles always walked about without a hat, and another had made an unsuccessful attempt to walk about with a hat and nothing else. His father cultivated art and self-realisation; his mother went in for simplicity and hygiene. Hence the child, during his tenderer years, was wholly unacquainted with any drink between the extremes of absinth and cocoa, of both of which he had a healthy dislike. The more his mother preached a more than Puritan abstinence the more did his father expand into a more than pagan latitude; and by the time the former had come to enforcing vegetarianism, the latter had pretty | will reply, You are false kings, but you are true prophets. I am come to destroy you, and to fulfil your prophecies." '" The heavy clamour gradually died away, but before it had ceased Witherspoon had jumped to his feet, his hair and beard all on end, and had said "I move, as an amendment, that Comrade Syme be appointed to the post." "Stop all this, I tell you!" cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands. "Stop it, it is all" The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent. "Does anyone second this amendment?" he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. "I end all this!" he said, in a voice as heavy as stone. "This man cannot be elected. He is a" "Yes," said Syme, quite motionless, "what is he?" Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. "He is a man quite inexperienced in our work," he said, and sat down abruptly. Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was again upon his feet, and was repeating in a high American monotone "I beg to second the election of Comrade Syme." "The amendment will, as usual, be put first," said Mr. Buttons, the chairman, with mechanical rapidity. "The question is that Comrade Syme" Gregory had again sprung to his feet, panting and passionate. "Comrades," he cried out, "I am not a madman." "Oh, oh!" said Mr. Witherspoon. "I am not a madman," reiterated Gregory, with a frightful sincerity which for a moment staggered the room, "but I give you a counsel which you can call mad if you like. No, I will not call it a counsel, for I can give you no reason for it. I will call it a command. Call it a mad command, but act upon it. Strike, but hear me! Kill me, but obey me! Do not elect this man." Truth is so terrible, even in fetters, that for a moment Syme's slender and insane victory swayed like a reed. But you could not have guessed it from Syme's bleak blue eyes. He merely began "Comrade Gregory commands" Then the spell was snapped, and one anarchist called out to Gregory "Who are you? You are not Sunday;" and another anarchist added in a heavier voice, "And you are not Thursday." "Comrades," cried Gregory, in a voice like that of a martyr who in an ecstacy of pain has passed beyond pain, "it is nothing to me whether you detest me as a tyrant or detest me as a slave. If you will not take my command, accept my degradation. I kneel to you. I throw myself at your feet. I implore you. Do not elect this man." "Comrade Gregory," said the chairman after a painful pause, "this is really not quite dignified." For the first time in the proceedings there was for a few seconds a real silence. Then Gregory fell back in his seat, a pale wreck of a man, and the chairman repeated, like a piece of clock-work suddenly started again "The question is that Comrade Syme be elected to the post of Thursday on the General Council." The roar rose like the sea, the hands rose like a forest, and three minutes afterwards Mr. Gabriel Syme, of the Secret Police Service, was elected to the post of Thursday on the General Council of the Anarchists of Europe. Everyone in the room seemed to feel the tug waiting on the river, the sword-stick and the revolver, waiting on the table. The instant the election was ended and irrevocable, and Syme had received the paper proving his election, they all sprang to their feet, and the fiery groups moved and mixed in the room. Syme found himself, somehow or other, face to face with Gregory, who still regarded him with a stare of stunned hatred. They were silent for many minutes. "You are a devil!" said Gregory at last. "And you are a gentleman," said Syme with gravity. "It was you that entrapped me," began Gregory, shaking from head to foot, "entrapped me into" "Talk sense," said Syme shortly. "Into what sort of devils' parliament have you entrapped me, if it comes to that? You made me swear before I made you. Perhaps we are both doing what we think right. But what we think right is so damned different that there can be nothing between us in the way of concession. There is nothing possible between us but honour and death,"<|quote|>and he pulled the great cloak about his shoulders and picked up the flask from the table.</|quote|>"The boat is quite ready," said Mr. Buttons, bustling up. "Be good enough to step this way." With a gesture that revealed the shop-walker, he led Syme down a short, iron-bound passage, the still agonised Gregory following feverishly at their heels. At the end of the passage was a door, which Buttons opened sharply, showing a sudden blue and silver picture of the moonlit river, that looked like a scene in a theatre. Close to the opening lay a dark, dwarfish steam-launch, like a baby dragon with one red eye. Almost in the act of stepping on board, Gabriel Syme turned to the gaping Gregory. "You have kept your word," he said gently, with his face in shadow. "You are a man of honour, and I thank you. You have kept it even down to a small particular. There was one special thing you promised me at the beginning of the affair, and which you have certainly given me by the end of it." "What do you mean?" cried the chaotic Gregory. "What did I promise you?" "A very entertaining evening," said Syme, and he made a military salute with the sword-stick as the steamboat slid away. CHAPTER IV. THE TALE OF A DETECTIVE Gabriel Syme was not merely a detective who pretended to be a poet; he was really a poet who had become a detective. Nor was his hatred of anarchy hypocritical. He was one of those who are driven early in life into too conservative an attitude by the bewildering folly of most revolutionists. He had not attained it by any tame tradition. His respectability was spontaneous and sudden, a rebellion against rebellion. He came of a family of cranks, in which all the oldest people had all the newest notions. One of his uncles always walked about without a hat, and another had made an unsuccessful attempt to walk about with a hat and nothing else. His father cultivated art and self-realisation; his mother went in for simplicity and hygiene. Hence the child, during his tenderer years, was wholly unacquainted with any drink between the extremes of absinth and cocoa, of both of which he had a healthy dislike. The more his mother preached a more than Puritan abstinence the more did his father expand into a more than pagan latitude; and by the time the former had come to enforcing vegetarianism, the latter had pretty well reached the point of defending cannibalism. Being surrounded with every conceivable kind of revolt from infancy, Gabriel had to revolt into something, so he revolted into the only thing left sanity. But there was just enough in him of the blood of these fanatics to make even his protest for common sense a little too fierce to be sensible. His hatred of modern lawlessness had been crowned also by an accident. It happened that he was walking in a side street at the instant of a dynamite outrage. He had been blind and deaf for a moment, and then seen, the smoke clearing, the broken windows and the bleeding faces. After that he went about as usual quiet, courteous, rather gentle; but there was a spot on his mind that was not sane. He did not regard anarchists, as most of us do, as a handful of morbid men, combining ignorance with intellectualism. He regarded them as a huge and pitiless peril, like a Chinese invasion. He poured perpetually into newspapers and their waste-paper baskets a torrent of tales, verses and violent articles, warning men of this deluge of barbaric denial. But he seemed to be getting no nearer his enemy, and, what was worse, no nearer a living. As he paced the Thames embankment, bitterly biting a cheap cigar and brooding on the advance of Anarchy, there was no anarchist with a bomb in his pocket so savage or so solitary as he. Indeed, he always felt that Government stood alone and desperate, with its back to the wall. He was too quixotic to have cared for it otherwise. He walked on the Embankment once under a dark red sunset. The red river reflected the red sky, and they both reflected his anger. The sky, indeed, was so swarthy, and the light on the river relatively so lurid, that the water almost seemed of fiercer flame than the sunset it mirrored. It looked like a stream of literal fire winding under the vast caverns of a subterranean country. Syme was shabby in those days. He wore an old-fashioned black chimney-pot hat; he was wrapped in a yet more old-fashioned cloak, black and ragged; and the combination gave him the look of the early villains in Dickens and Bulwer Lytton. Also his yellow beard and hair were more unkempt and leonine than when they appeared long afterwards, cut and | madman." "Oh, oh!" said Mr. Witherspoon. "I am not a madman," reiterated Gregory, with a frightful sincerity which for a moment staggered the room, "but I give you a counsel which you can call mad if you like. No, I will not call it a counsel, for I can give you no reason for it. I will call it a command. Call it a mad command, but act upon it. Strike, but hear me! Kill me, but obey me! Do not elect this man." Truth is so terrible, even in fetters, that for a moment Syme's slender and insane victory swayed like a reed. But you could not have guessed it from Syme's bleak blue eyes. He merely began "Comrade Gregory commands" Then the spell was snapped, and one anarchist called out to Gregory "Who are you? You are not Sunday;" and another anarchist added in a heavier voice, "And you are not Thursday." "Comrades," cried Gregory, in a voice like that of a martyr who in an ecstacy of pain has passed beyond pain, "it is nothing to me whether you detest me as a tyrant or detest me as a slave. If you will not take my command, accept my degradation. I kneel to you. I throw myself at your feet. I implore you. Do not elect this man." "Comrade Gregory," said the chairman after a painful pause, "this is really not quite dignified." For the first time in the proceedings there was for a few seconds a real silence. Then Gregory fell back in his seat, a pale wreck of a man, and the chairman repeated, like a piece of clock-work suddenly started again "The question is that Comrade Syme be elected to the post of Thursday on the General Council." The roar rose like the sea, the hands rose like a forest, and three minutes afterwards Mr. Gabriel Syme, of the Secret Police Service, was elected to the post of Thursday on the General Council of the Anarchists of Europe. Everyone in the room seemed to feel the tug waiting on the river, the sword-stick and the revolver, waiting on the table. The instant the election was ended and irrevocable, and Syme had received the paper proving his election, they all sprang to their feet, and the fiery groups moved and mixed in the room. Syme found himself, somehow or other, face to face with Gregory, who still regarded him with a stare of stunned hatred. They were silent for many minutes. "You are a devil!" said Gregory at last. "And you are a gentleman," said Syme with gravity. "It was you that entrapped me," began Gregory, shaking from head to foot, "entrapped me into" "Talk sense," said Syme shortly. "Into what sort of devils' parliament have you entrapped me, if it comes to that? You made me swear before I made you. Perhaps we are both doing what we think right. But what we think right is so damned different that there can be nothing between us in the way of concession. There is nothing possible between us but honour and death,"<|quote|>and he pulled the great cloak about his shoulders and picked up the flask from the table.</|quote|>"The boat is quite ready," said Mr. Buttons, bustling up. "Be good enough to step this way." With a gesture that revealed the shop-walker, he led Syme down a short, iron-bound passage, the still agonised Gregory following feverishly at their heels. At the end of the passage was a door, which Buttons opened sharply, showing a sudden blue and silver picture of the moonlit river, that looked like a scene in a theatre. Close to the opening lay a dark, dwarfish steam-launch, like a baby dragon with one red eye. Almost in the act of stepping on board, Gabriel Syme turned to the gaping Gregory. "You have kept your word," he said gently, with his face in shadow. "You are a man of honour, and I thank you. You have kept it even down to a small particular. There was one special thing you promised me at the beginning of the affair, and which you have certainly given me by the end of it." "What do you mean?" cried the chaotic Gregory. "What did I promise you?" "A very entertaining evening," said Syme, and he made a military salute with the sword-stick as the steamboat slid away. CHAPTER IV. THE TALE OF A DETECTIVE Gabriel Syme was not merely a detective who pretended to be a poet; he was really a poet who had become a detective. Nor was his hatred of anarchy hypocritical. He was one of those who are driven early in life into too conservative an attitude by the bewildering folly of most revolutionists. He had not attained it by any tame tradition. His respectability was spontaneous and sudden, a rebellion against rebellion. He came of a family of cranks, in which all the oldest people had all the newest notions. One of his uncles always walked about without a hat, and another had made an unsuccessful attempt to walk about with a hat and nothing else. His father cultivated art and self-realisation; his mother went in for simplicity and hygiene. Hence the child, during his tenderer years, was wholly unacquainted with any drink between the extremes of absinth and cocoa, of both of which he had a healthy dislike. The more his mother preached a more than Puritan abstinence the more did his father expand into a more than pagan latitude; and by the time the former had come to enforcing vegetarianism, the latter had pretty well reached the point of defending cannibalism. Being surrounded with every conceivable kind of revolt from infancy, Gabriel had to revolt into something, so he revolted into the only thing left sanity. But there was just enough in him of the blood of these fanatics to make even his protest for common sense a little too fierce to be sensible. His hatred of modern lawlessness had been crowned also by an accident. It happened that he was walking in a side street at the instant of a dynamite outrage. He had been blind and deaf for a moment, and then seen, the smoke clearing, the broken windows and the bleeding faces. After that he went about | The Man Who Was Thursday |
"I am going into the village to see my horses," | Edward Ferrars | see Edward himself come out.<|quote|>"I am going into the village to see my horses,"</|quote|>said he, "as you are | turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself come out.<|quote|>"I am going into the village to see my horses,"</|quote|>said he, "as you are not yet ready for breakfast; | morning before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves. But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself come out.<|quote|>"I am going into the village to see my horses,"</|quote|>said he, "as you are not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently." Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding country; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much | which once she had felt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one. He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves. But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself come out.<|quote|>"I am going into the village to see my horses,"</|quote|>said he, "as you are not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently." Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding country; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had exceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured Marianne s attention, and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had particularly | not you know she calls every one reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?" Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest extent and he sat for some time silent and dull. CHAPTER XVIII. Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished her by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one. He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves. But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself come out.<|quote|>"I am going into the village to see my horses,"</|quote|>said he, "as you are not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently." Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding country; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had exceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured Marianne s attention, and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by saying, "You must not enquire too far, Marianne remember I have no knowledge in the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste if we come to particulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I call it a very fine country | but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister s. I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!" "Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said Elinor. "She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward. "Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should not be shy." "But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is worse." Edward started "Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?" "Yes, very." "I do not understand you," replied he, colouring. "Reserved! how, in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?" Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to understand what she means? Do not you know she calls every one reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?" Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest extent and he sat for some time silent and dull. CHAPTER XVIII. Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished her by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one. He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves. But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself come out.<|quote|>"I am going into the village to see my horses,"</|quote|>said he, "as you are not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently." Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding country; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had exceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured Marianne s attention, and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by saying, "You must not enquire too far, Marianne remember I have no knowledge in the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste if we come to particulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I call it a very fine country the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug with rich meadows and several neat farm houses scattered here and there. It exactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with utility and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you admire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me. I know nothing of the picturesque." "I am afraid it is but too true," said Marianne; "but why should you boast of it?" "I suspect," said Elinor, "that to avoid one kind of affectation, Edward here falls into another. Because he believes many people pretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really feel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater indifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he possesses. He is fastidious and will have an affectation of his own." "It is very true," said Marianne, "that admiration of landscape scenery is become a mere jargon. Every body pretends to feel and tries to describe with the taste and | their life your opinion on that point is unchanged, I presume?" "Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them." "Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, "she is not at all altered." "She is only grown a little more grave than she was." "Nay, Edward," said Marianne, "_you_ need not reproach me. You are not very gay yourself." "Why should you think so!" replied he, with a sigh. "But gaiety never was a part of _my_ character." "Nor do I think it a part of Marianne s," said Elinor; "I should hardly call her a lively girl she is very earnest, very eager in all she does sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation but she is not often really merry." "I believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set her down as a lively girl." "I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the deception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge." "But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has always been your doctrine, I am sure." "No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?" "You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility," said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?" "Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne. "My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister s. I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!" "Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said Elinor. "She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward. "Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should not be shy." "But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is worse." Edward started "Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?" "Yes, very." "I do not understand you," replied he, colouring. "Reserved! how, in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?" Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to understand what she means? Do not you know she calls every one reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?" Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest extent and he sat for some time silent and dull. CHAPTER XVIII. Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished her by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one. He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves. But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself come out.<|quote|>"I am going into the village to see my horses,"</|quote|>said he, "as you are not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently." Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding country; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had exceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured Marianne s attention, and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by saying, "You must not enquire too far, Marianne remember I have no knowledge in the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste if we come to particulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I call it a very fine country the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug with rich meadows and several neat farm houses scattered here and there. It exactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with utility and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you admire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me. I know nothing of the picturesque." "I am afraid it is but too true," said Marianne; "but why should you boast of it?" "I suspect," said Elinor, "that to avoid one kind of affectation, Edward here falls into another. Because he believes many people pretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really feel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater indifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he possesses. He is fastidious and will have an affectation of his own." "It is very true," said Marianne, "that admiration of landscape scenery is become a mere jargon. Every body pretends to feel and tries to describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what picturesque beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and meaning." "I am convinced," said Edward, "that you really feel all the delight in a fine prospect which you profess to feel. But, in return, your sister must allow me to feel no more than I profess. I like a fine prospect, but not on picturesque principles. I do not like crooked, twisted, blasted trees. I admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and flourishing. I do not like ruined, tattered cottages. I am not fond of nettles or thistles, or heath blossoms. I have more pleasure in a snug farm-house than a watch-tower and a troop of tidy, happy villagers please me better than the finest banditti in the world." Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her sister. Elinor only laughed. The subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained thoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention. She was sitting by Edward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood, his hand passed so directly before her, as to make a ring, with a plait of hair in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers. "I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward," she cried. "Is that Fanny s hair? I remember her promising to give you some. But I should have thought her hair had been darker." Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt but when she saw how much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of thought could not be surpassed by his. He coloured very deeply, and giving a momentary glance at Elinor, replied, "Yes; it is my sister s hair. The setting always casts a different shade on it, you know." Elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise. That the hair was her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne; the only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne considered as a free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must have been procured by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself. She was not in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and affecting to take | what she means? Do not you know she calls every one reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?" Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest extent and he sat for some time silent and dull. CHAPTER XVIII. Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished her by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one. He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves. But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself come out.<|quote|>"I am going into the village to see my horses,"</|quote|>said he, "as you are not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently." Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding country; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had exceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured Marianne s attention, and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by saying, "You must not enquire too far, Marianne remember I have no knowledge in the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste if we come to particulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I call it a very fine country the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug with rich meadows and several neat farm houses scattered here and there. It exactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with utility and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you admire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me. I know nothing of the picturesque." "I am afraid it is but too true," said Marianne; "but why should you boast of it?" "I suspect," said Elinor, "that to avoid one kind of affectation, Edward here falls into another. Because he believes many people pretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really feel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater indifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he possesses. He is fastidious and will have an affectation of his own." "It is very true," said Marianne, "that admiration of landscape scenery is become a mere jargon. Every body pretends to feel and tries to describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what picturesque beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find | Sense And Sensibility |
"That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me," | Dorian Gray | enough noise for two people."<|quote|>"That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me,"</|quote|>answered Dorian, laughing. Lord Henry | the piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people."<|quote|>"That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me,"</|quote|>answered Dorian, laughing. Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he | will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. And I don t think it really matters about your not being there. The audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people."<|quote|>"That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me,"</|quote|>answered Dorian, laughing. Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candour of youth was there, as well | promised to go to a club in Whitechapel with her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to have played a duet together three duets, I believe. I don t know what she will say to me. I am far too frightened to call." "Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. And I don t think it really matters about your not being there. The audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people."<|quote|>"That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me,"</|quote|>answered Dorian, laughing. Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth s passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him. "You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray far too charming." And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened his cigarette-case. | know you had any one with you." "This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoiled everything." "You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, stepping forward and extending his hand. "My aunt has often spoken to me about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I am afraid, one of her victims also." "I am in Lady Agatha s black books at present," answered Dorian with a funny look of penitence. "I promised to go to a club in Whitechapel with her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to have played a duet together three duets, I believe. I don t know what she will say to me. I am far too frightened to call." "Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. And I don t think it really matters about your not being there. The audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people."<|quote|>"That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me,"</|quote|>answered Dorian, laughing. Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth s passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him. "You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray far too charming." And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened his cigarette-case. The painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry s last remark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?" Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. "Am I to go, Mr. Gray?" he asked. "Oh, please don t, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods, and I can t bear him when | Your influence would be bad. The world is wide, and has many marvellous people in it. Don t take away from me the one person who gives to my art whatever charm it possesses: my life as an artist depends on him. Mind, Harry, I trust you." He spoke very slowly, and the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will. "What nonsense you talk!" said Lord Henry, smiling, and taking Hallward by the arm, he almost led him into the house. CHAPTER II. As they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with his back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann s "Forest Scenes." "You must lend me these, Basil," he cried. "I want to learn them. They are perfectly charming." "That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian." "Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don t want a life-sized portrait of myself," answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool in a wilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint blush coloured his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. "I beg your pardon, Basil, but I didn t know you had any one with you." "This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoiled everything." "You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, stepping forward and extending his hand. "My aunt has often spoken to me about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I am afraid, one of her victims also." "I am in Lady Agatha s black books at present," answered Dorian with a funny look of penitence. "I promised to go to a club in Whitechapel with her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to have played a duet together three duets, I believe. I don t know what she will say to me. I am far too frightened to call." "Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. And I don t think it really matters about your not being there. The audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people."<|quote|>"That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me,"</|quote|>answered Dorian, laughing. Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth s passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him. "You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray far too charming." And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened his cigarette-case. The painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry s last remark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?" Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. "Am I to go, Mr. Gray?" he asked. "Oh, please don t, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods, and I can t bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell me why I should not go in for philanthropy." "I don t know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a subject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don t really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your sitters to have some one to chat to." Hallward bit his lip. "If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorian s whims are laws to everybody, except himself." Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. "You are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearly always at home at five o clock. Write to me when you are coming. I should be sorry to miss you." "Basil," cried Dorian Gray, "if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing | passions of one s friends those were the fascinating things in life. He pictured to himself with silent amusement the tedious luncheon that he had missed by staying so long with Basil Hallward. Had he gone to his aunt s, he would have been sure to have met Lord Goodbody there, and the whole conversation would have been about the feeding of the poor and the necessity for model lodging-houses. Each class would have preached the importance of those virtues, for whose exercise there was no necessity in their own lives. The rich would have spoken on the value of thrift, and the idle grown eloquent over the dignity of labour. It was charming to have escaped all that! As he thought of his aunt, an idea seemed to strike him. He turned to Hallward and said, "My dear fellow, I have just remembered." "Remembered what, Harry?" "Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray." "Where was it?" asked Hallward, with a slight frown. "Don t look so angry, Basil. It was at my aunt, Lady Agatha s. She told me she had discovered a wonderful young man who was going to help her in the East End, and that his name was Dorian Gray. I am bound to state that she never told me he was good-looking. Women have no appreciation of good looks; at least, good women have not. She said that he was very earnest and had a beautiful nature. I at once pictured to myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair, horribly freckled, and tramping about on huge feet. I wish I had known it was your friend." "I am very glad you didn t, Harry." "Why?" "I don t want you to meet him." "You don t want me to meet him?" "No." "Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir," said the butler, coming into the garden. "You must introduce me now," cried Lord Henry, laughing. The painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight. "Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker: I shall be in in a few moments." The man bowed and went up the walk. Then he looked at Lord Henry. "Dorian Gray is my dearest friend," he said. "He has a simple and a beautiful nature. Your aunt was quite right in what she said of him. Don t spoil him. Don t try to influence him. Your influence would be bad. The world is wide, and has many marvellous people in it. Don t take away from me the one person who gives to my art whatever charm it possesses: my life as an artist depends on him. Mind, Harry, I trust you." He spoke very slowly, and the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will. "What nonsense you talk!" said Lord Henry, smiling, and taking Hallward by the arm, he almost led him into the house. CHAPTER II. As they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with his back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann s "Forest Scenes." "You must lend me these, Basil," he cried. "I want to learn them. They are perfectly charming." "That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian." "Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don t want a life-sized portrait of myself," answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool in a wilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint blush coloured his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. "I beg your pardon, Basil, but I didn t know you had any one with you." "This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoiled everything." "You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, stepping forward and extending his hand. "My aunt has often spoken to me about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I am afraid, one of her victims also." "I am in Lady Agatha s black books at present," answered Dorian with a funny look of penitence. "I promised to go to a club in Whitechapel with her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to have played a duet together three duets, I believe. I don t know what she will say to me. I am far too frightened to call." "Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. And I don t think it really matters about your not being there. The audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people."<|quote|>"That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me,"</|quote|>answered Dorian, laughing. Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth s passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him. "You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray far too charming." And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened his cigarette-case. The painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry s last remark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?" Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. "Am I to go, Mr. Gray?" he asked. "Oh, please don t, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods, and I can t bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell me why I should not go in for philanthropy." "I don t know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a subject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don t really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your sitters to have some one to chat to." Hallward bit his lip. "If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorian s whims are laws to everybody, except himself." Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. "You are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearly always at home at five o clock. Write to me when you are coming. I should be sorry to miss you." "Basil," cried Dorian Gray, "if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist upon it." "Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me," said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. "It is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay." "But what about my man at the Orleans?" The painter laughed. "I don t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself." Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, "Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?" "There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral immoral from the scientific point of view." "Why?" "Because to influence a person is to give him one s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one s nature perfectly that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one s self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion these are the two things that govern us. And yet" "Just turn your | good looks; at least, good women have not. She said that he was very earnest and had a beautiful nature. I at once pictured to myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair, horribly freckled, and tramping about on huge feet. I wish I had known it was your friend." "I am very glad you didn t, Harry." "Why?" "I don t want you to meet him." "You don t want me to meet him?" "No." "Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir," said the butler, coming into the garden. "You must introduce me now," cried Lord Henry, laughing. The painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight. "Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker: I shall be in in a few moments." The man bowed and went up the walk. Then he looked at Lord Henry. "Dorian Gray is my dearest friend," he said. "He has a simple and a beautiful nature. Your aunt was quite right in what she said of him. Don t spoil him. Don t try to influence him. Your influence would be bad. The world is wide, and has many marvellous people in it. Don t take away from me the one person who gives to my art whatever charm it possesses: my life as an artist depends on him. Mind, Harry, I trust you." He spoke very slowly, and the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will. "What nonsense you talk!" said Lord Henry, smiling, and taking Hallward by the arm, he almost led him into the house. CHAPTER II. As they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with his back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann s "Forest Scenes." "You must lend me these, Basil," he cried. "I want to learn them. They are perfectly charming." "That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian." "Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don t want a life-sized portrait of myself," answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool in a wilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint blush coloured his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. "I beg your pardon, Basil, but I didn t know you had any one with you." "This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoiled everything." "You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, stepping forward and extending his hand. "My aunt has often spoken to me about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I am afraid, one of her victims also." "I am in Lady Agatha s black books at present," answered Dorian with a funny look of penitence. "I promised to go to a club in Whitechapel with her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to have played a duet together three duets, I believe. I don t know what she will say to me. I am far too frightened to call." "Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. And I don t think it really matters about your not being there. The audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people."<|quote|>"That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me,"</|quote|>answered Dorian, laughing. Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth s passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him. "You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray far too charming." And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened his cigarette-case. The painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry s last remark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?" Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. "Am I to go, Mr. Gray?" he asked. "Oh, please don t, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods, and I can t bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell me why I should not go in for philanthropy." "I don t know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a subject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don t really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your sitters to have some one to chat to." Hallward bit his lip. "If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorian s whims are laws to everybody, except himself." Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. "You are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet | The Picture Of Dorian Gray |
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. | No speaker | sea. “Lady Sandgate?” “Her great-grandmother.”<|quote|>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.</|quote|>“Lord John!” Hugh caught this | a moment, was miles at sea. “Lady Sandgate?” “Her great-grandmother.”<|quote|>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.</|quote|>“Lord John!” Hugh caught this from the inner threshold, and | 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.”<|quote|>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.</|quote|>“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 | 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.”<|quote|>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.</|quote|>“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?” | 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.”<|quote|>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.</|quote|>“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 | 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.”<|quote|>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.</|quote|>“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?” She breathed both her hospitality and her vagueness. “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 | for three or four weeks.” “You ask me,” Mr. Bender returned, “for a _general_ assurance to that effect?” “Well, a particular one--so it be particular enough,” Hugh said-- “will do just for now. Let me put in my plea for the issue--well, of the value that’s actually in the scales.” “The Mantovano-Moretto?” “The Moretto-Mantovano!” Mr. Bender carnivorously smiled. “Hadn’t we better know which it is first?” Hugh had a motion of practical indifference for this. “The public interest--playing so straight on the question--may help to settle it. By which I mean that it will profit enormously--the question of probability, of identity itself will--by the discussion it will create. The discussion will promote certainty----” “And certainty,” Mr. Bender massively mused, “will kick up a row.” “_Of course_ it will kick up a row!” --Hugh thoroughly guaranteed that. “You’ll be, for the month, the best-abused man in England--if you venture to remain here at all; except, naturally, poor Lord Theign.” “Whom it won’t be my interest, at the same time, to worry into backing down.” “But whom it will be exceedingly _mine_ to practise on” --and Hugh laughed as at the fun before them-- “if I may entertain the sweet hope of success. The only thing is--from my point of view,” he went on-- “that backing down before what he will call vulgar clamour isn’t in the least in his traditions, nothing less so; and that if there should be really too much of it for his taste or his nerves he’ll set his handsome face as a stone and never budge an inch. But at least again what I appeal to you for will have taken place--the picture will have been seen by a lot of people who’ll care.” “It will have been seen,” Mr. Bender amended-- “on the mere contingency of my acquisition of it--only if its present owner consents.” “‘Consents’?” Hugh almost derisively echoed; “why, he’ll propose it himself, he’ll insist on it, he’ll put it through, once he’s angry enough--as angry, I mean, as almost any public criticism of a personal act of his will be sure to make him; and I’m afraid the 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.”<|quote|>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.</|quote|>“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?” She breathed both her hospitality and her vagueness. “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 | 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.”<|quote|>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.</|quote|>“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?” She breathed both her hospitality and her vagueness. “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!” | The Outcry |
Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information. | No speaker | the protection of the bench."<|quote|>Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information.</|quote|>"Officer!" said Mr. Fang, throwing | to a respectable person, under the protection of the bench."<|quote|>Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information.</|quote|>"Officer!" said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, | away with the newspaper. "Who is this fellow?" "My name, sir," said the old gentleman, speaking _like_ a gentleman, "my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable person, under the protection of the bench."<|quote|>Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information.</|quote|>"Officer!" said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, "what's this fellow charged with?" "He's not charged at all, your worship," replied the officer. "He appears against this boy, your worship." His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe one. "Appears against | special and particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was out of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl. "Who are you?" said Mr. Fang. The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card. "Officer!" said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper. "Who is this fellow?" "My name, sir," said the old gentleman, speaking _like_ a gentleman, "my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable person, under the protection of the bench."<|quote|>Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information.</|quote|>"Officer!" said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, "what's this fellow charged with?" "He's not charged at all, your worship," replied the officer. "He appears against this boy, your worship." His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe one. "Appears against the boy, does he?" said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. "Swear him!" "Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word," said Mr. Brownlow; "and that is, that I really never, without actual experience, could have believed" "Hold your tongue, sir!" said Mr. | might have brought action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy damages. The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the magistrate's desk, said, suiting the action to the word, "That is my name and address, sir." He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned. Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was out of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl. "Who are you?" said Mr. Fang. The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card. "Officer!" said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper. "Who is this fellow?" "My name, sir," said the old gentleman, speaking _like_ a gentleman, "my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable person, under the protection of the bench."<|quote|>Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information.</|quote|>"Officer!" said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, "what's this fellow charged with?" "He's not charged at all, your worship," replied the officer. "He appears against this boy, your worship." His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe one. "Appears against the boy, does he?" said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. "Swear him!" "Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word," said Mr. Brownlow; "and that is, that I really never, without actual experience, could have believed" "Hold your tongue, sir!" said Mr. Fang, peremptorily. "I will not, sir!" replied the old gentleman. "Hold your tongue this instant, or I'll have you turned out of the office!" said Mr. Fang. "You're an insolent impertinent fellow. How dare you bully a magistrate!" "What!" exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening. "Swear this person!" said Fang to the clerk. "I'll not hear another word. Swear him." Mr. Brownlow's indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting perhaps, that he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed his feelings and submitted to be sworn at once. "Now," said Fang, "what's the charge against this boy? | soft and gentle glow upon the path to Heaven. But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver's features bore a trace. So, he heaved a sigh over the recollections he awakened; and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman, buried them again in the pages of the musty book. He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the man with the keys to follow him into the office. He closed his book hastily; and was at once ushered into the imposing presence of the renowned Mr. Fang. The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr. Fang sat behind a bar, at the upper end; and on one side the door was a sort of wooden pen in which poor little Oliver was already deposited; trembling very much at the awfulness of the scene. Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with no great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and sides of his head. His face was stern, and much flushed. If he were really not in the habit of drinking rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy damages. The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the magistrate's desk, said, suiting the action to the word, "That is my name and address, sir." He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned. Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was out of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl. "Who are you?" said Mr. Fang. The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card. "Officer!" said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper. "Who is this fellow?" "My name, sir," said the old gentleman, speaking _like_ a gentleman, "my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable person, under the protection of the bench."<|quote|>Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information.</|quote|>"Officer!" said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, "what's this fellow charged with?" "He's not charged at all, your worship," replied the officer. "He appears against this boy, your worship." His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe one. "Appears against the boy, does he?" said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. "Swear him!" "Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word," said Mr. Brownlow; "and that is, that I really never, without actual experience, could have believed" "Hold your tongue, sir!" said Mr. Fang, peremptorily. "I will not, sir!" replied the old gentleman. "Hold your tongue this instant, or I'll have you turned out of the office!" said Mr. Fang. "You're an insolent impertinent fellow. How dare you bully a magistrate!" "What!" exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening. "Swear this person!" said Fang to the clerk. "I'll not hear another word. Swear him." Mr. Brownlow's indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting perhaps, that he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed his feelings and submitted to be sworn at once. "Now," said Fang, "what's the charge against this boy? What have you got to say, sir?" "I was standing at a bookstall" Mr. Brownlow began. "Hold your tongue, sir," said Mr. Fang. "Policeman! Where's the policeman? Here, swear this policeman. Now, policeman, what is this?" The policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had taken the charge; how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his person; and how that was all he knew about it. "Are there any witnesses?" inquired Mr. Fang. "None, your worship," replied the policeman. Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the prosecutor, said in a towering passion. "Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, man, or do you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing to give evidence, I'll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will, by" By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailor coughed very loud, just at the right moment; and the former dropped a heavy book upon the floor, thus preventing the word from being heard accidently, of course. With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived to state his case; observing that, in the surprise of | and size something like an area cellar, only not so light. It was most intolerably dirty; for it was Monday morning; and it had been tenanted by six drunken people, who had been locked up, elsewhere, since Saturday night. But this is little. In our station-houses, men and women are every night confined on the most trivial charges the word is worth noting in dungeons, compared with which, those in Newgate, occupied by the most atrocious felons, tried, found guilty, and under sentence of death, are palaces. Let any one who doubts this, compare the two. The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key grated in the lock. He turned with a sigh to the book, which had been the innocent cause of all this disturbance. "There is something in that boy's face," said the old gentleman to himself as he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the cover of the book, in a thoughtful manner; "something that touches and interests me. _Can_ he be innocent? He looked like Bye the bye," exclaimed the old gentleman, halting very abruptly, and staring up into the sky, "Bless my soul! where have I seen something like that look before?" After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked, with the same meditative face, into a back anteroom opening from the yard; and there, retiring into a corner, called up before his mind's eye a vast amphitheatre of faces over which a dusky curtain had hung for many years. "No," said the old gentleman, shaking his head; "it must be imagination." He wandered over them again. He had called them into view, and it was not easy to replace the shroud that had so long concealed them. There were the faces of friends, and foes, and of many that had been almost strangers peering intrusively from the crowd; there were the faces of young and blooming girls that were now old women; there were faces that the grave had changed and closed upon, but which the mind, superior to its power, still dressed in their old freshness and beauty, calling back the lustre of the eyes, the brightness of the smile, the beaming of the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering of beauty beyond the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from earth only to be set up as a light, to shed a soft and gentle glow upon the path to Heaven. But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver's features bore a trace. So, he heaved a sigh over the recollections he awakened; and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman, buried them again in the pages of the musty book. He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the man with the keys to follow him into the office. He closed his book hastily; and was at once ushered into the imposing presence of the renowned Mr. Fang. The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr. Fang sat behind a bar, at the upper end; and on one side the door was a sort of wooden pen in which poor little Oliver was already deposited; trembling very much at the awfulness of the scene. Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with no great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and sides of his head. His face was stern, and much flushed. If he were really not in the habit of drinking rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy damages. The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the magistrate's desk, said, suiting the action to the word, "That is my name and address, sir." He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned. Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was out of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl. "Who are you?" said Mr. Fang. The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card. "Officer!" said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper. "Who is this fellow?" "My name, sir," said the old gentleman, speaking _like_ a gentleman, "my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable person, under the protection of the bench."<|quote|>Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information.</|quote|>"Officer!" said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, "what's this fellow charged with?" "He's not charged at all, your worship," replied the officer. "He appears against this boy, your worship." His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe one. "Appears against the boy, does he?" said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. "Swear him!" "Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word," said Mr. Brownlow; "and that is, that I really never, without actual experience, could have believed" "Hold your tongue, sir!" said Mr. Fang, peremptorily. "I will not, sir!" replied the old gentleman. "Hold your tongue this instant, or I'll have you turned out of the office!" said Mr. Fang. "You're an insolent impertinent fellow. How dare you bully a magistrate!" "What!" exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening. "Swear this person!" said Fang to the clerk. "I'll not hear another word. Swear him." Mr. Brownlow's indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting perhaps, that he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed his feelings and submitted to be sworn at once. "Now," said Fang, "what's the charge against this boy? What have you got to say, sir?" "I was standing at a bookstall" Mr. Brownlow began. "Hold your tongue, sir," said Mr. Fang. "Policeman! Where's the policeman? Here, swear this policeman. Now, policeman, what is this?" The policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had taken the charge; how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his person; and how that was all he knew about it. "Are there any witnesses?" inquired Mr. Fang. "None, your worship," replied the policeman. Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the prosecutor, said in a towering passion. "Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, man, or do you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing to give evidence, I'll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will, by" By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailor coughed very loud, just at the right moment; and the former dropped a heavy book upon the floor, thus preventing the word from being heard accidently, of course. With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived to state his case; observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he had run after the boy because he had saw him running away; and expressing his hope that, if the magistrate should believe him, although not actually the thief, to be connected with the thieves, he would deal as leniently with him as justice would allow. "He has been hurt already," said the old gentleman in conclusion. "And I fear," he added, with great energy, looking towards the bar, "I really fear that he is ill." "Oh! yes, I dare say!" said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. "Come, none of your tricks here, you young vagabond; they won't do. What's your name?" Oliver tried to reply but his tongue failed him. He was deadly pale; and the whole place seemed turning round and round. "What's your name, you hardened scoundrel?" demanded Mr. Fang. "Officer, what's his name?" This was addressed to a bluff old fellow, in a striped waistcoat, who was standing by the bar. He bent over Oliver, and repeated the inquiry; but finding him really incapable of understanding the question; and knowing that his not replying would only infuriate the magistrate the more, and add to the severity of his sentence; he hazarded a guess. "He says his name's Tom White, your worship," said the kind-hearted thief-taker. "Oh, he won't speak out, won't he?" said Fang. "Very well, very well. Where does he live?" "Where he can, your worship," replied the officer; again pretending to receive Oliver's answer. "Has he any parents?" inquired Mr. Fang. "He says they died in his infancy, your worship," replied the officer: hazarding the usual reply. At this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head; and, looking round with imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of water. "Stuff and nonsense!" said Mr. Fang: "don't try to make a fool of me." "I think he really is ill, your worship," remonstrated the officer. "I know better," said Mr. Fang. "Take care of him, officer," said the old gentleman, raising his hands instinctively; "he'll fall down." "Stand away, officer," cried Fang; "let him, if he likes." Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell to the floor in a fainting fit. The men in the office looked at each other, but no one dared to stir. "I knew he was shamming," said Fang, as if this were incontestable proof of the fact. "Let him lie there; he'll soon | lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with no great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and sides of his head. His face was stern, and much flushed. If he were really not in the habit of drinking rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy damages. The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the magistrate's desk, said, suiting the action to the word, "That is my name and address, sir." He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned. Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was out of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl. "Who are you?" said Mr. Fang. The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card. "Officer!" said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper. "Who is this fellow?" "My name, sir," said the old gentleman, speaking _like_ a gentleman, "my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable person, under the protection of the bench."<|quote|>Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information.</|quote|>"Officer!" said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, "what's this fellow charged with?" "He's not charged at all, your worship," replied the officer. "He appears against this boy, your worship." His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe one. "Appears against the boy, does he?" said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. "Swear him!" "Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word," said Mr. Brownlow; "and that is, that I really never, without actual experience, could have believed" "Hold your tongue, sir!" said Mr. Fang, peremptorily. "I will not, sir!" replied the old gentleman. "Hold your tongue this instant, or I'll have you turned out of the office!" said Mr. Fang. "You're an insolent impertinent fellow. How dare you bully a magistrate!" "What!" exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening. "Swear this person!" said Fang to the clerk. "I'll not hear another word. Swear him." Mr. Brownlow's indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting perhaps, that he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed his feelings and submitted to be sworn at once. "Now," said Fang, "what's the charge against this boy? What have you got to say, sir?" "I was standing at a bookstall" Mr. Brownlow began. "Hold your tongue, sir," said Mr. Fang. "Policeman! Where's the policeman? Here, swear this policeman. Now, policeman, what is this?" The policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had taken the charge; how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his person; and how that was all he knew about it. "Are there any witnesses?" inquired Mr. Fang. "None, your worship," replied the policeman. Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the prosecutor, said in a towering passion. "Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, man, or do you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing to give evidence, I'll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will, by" By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailor coughed very loud, just at the right moment; and the former dropped a heavy book | Oliver Twist |
"That was what you sealed up in the envelope." | Mr. Hastings | but recognizable." "Ah!" I cried.<|quote|>"That was what you sealed up in the envelope."</|quote|>"Yes. It may turn out | only a thread or two, but recognizable." "Ah!" I cried.<|quote|>"That was what you sealed up in the envelope."</|quote|>"Yes. It may turn out to be a piece of | a key in the lock; three, a stain on the floor." "That may have been done some time ago," I interrupted. "No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells of coffee. Four, a fragment of some dark green fabric only a thread or two, but recognizable." "Ah!" I cried.<|quote|>"That was what you sealed up in the envelope."</|quote|>"Yes. It may 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, | proceeding was to take out a little notebook. "We have found in this room," he said, writing busily, "six points of interest. Shall I enumerate them, or will you?" "Oh, you," I replied hastily. "Very well, then. One, a coffee-cup that has been ground into powder; two, a despatch-case with a key in the lock; three, a stain on the floor." "That may have been done some time ago," I interrupted. "No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells of coffee. Four, a fragment of some dark green fabric only a thread or two, but recognizable." "Ah!" I cried.<|quote|>"That was what you sealed up in the envelope."</|quote|>"Yes. It may 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 | the key that had originally stood in the lock, into his own pocket. "I have no authority to go through these papers. But it should be done at once!" He then made a very careful examination of the drawers of the wash-stand. Crossing the room to the left-hand window, a round stain, hardly visible on the dark brown carpet, seemed to interest him particularly. He went down on his knees, examining it minutely even going so far as to smell it. Finally, he poured a few drops of the cocoa into a test tube, sealing it up carefully. His next proceeding was to take out a little notebook. "We have found in this room," he said, writing busily, "six points of interest. Shall I enumerate them, or will you?" "Oh, you," I replied hastily. "Very well, then. One, a coffee-cup that has been ground into powder; two, a despatch-case with a key in the lock; three, a stain on the floor." "That may have been done some time ago," I interrupted. "No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells of coffee. Four, a fragment of some dark green fabric only a thread or two, but recognizable." "Ah!" I cried.<|quote|>"That was what you sealed up in the envelope."</|quote|>"Yes. It may 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, | they lie there as they fell. But see, the coffee-cup is absolutely smashed to powder." "Well," I said wearily, "I suppose someone must have stepped on it." "Exactly," said Poirot, in an odd voice. "Someone stepped on it." He rose from his knees, and walked slowly across to the mantelpiece, where he stood abstractedly fingering the ornaments, and straightening them a trick of his when he was agitated. "_Mon ami_," he said, turning to me, "somebody stepped on that cup, grinding it to powder, and the reason they did so was either because it contained strychnine or which is far more serious because it did not contain strychnine!" I made no reply. I was bewildered, but I knew that it was no good asking him to explain. In a moment or two he roused himself, and went on with his investigations. He picked up the bunch of keys from the floor, and twirling them round in his fingers finally selected one, very bright and shining, which he tried in the lock of the purple despatch-case. It fitted, and he opened the box, but after a moment's hesitation, closed and relocked it, and slipped the bunch of keys, as well as the key that had originally stood in the lock, into his own pocket. "I have no authority to go through these papers. But it should be done at once!" He then made a very careful examination of the drawers of the wash-stand. Crossing the room to the left-hand window, a round stain, hardly visible on the dark brown carpet, seemed to interest him particularly. He went down on his knees, examining it minutely even going so far as to smell it. Finally, he poured a few drops of the cocoa into a test tube, sealing it up carefully. His next proceeding was to take out a little notebook. "We have found in this room," he said, writing busily, "six points of interest. Shall I enumerate them, or will you?" "Oh, you," I replied hastily. "Very well, then. One, a coffee-cup that has been ground into powder; two, a despatch-case with a key in the lock; three, a stain on the floor." "That may have been done some time ago," I interrupted. "No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells of coffee. Four, a fragment of some dark green fabric only a thread or two, but recognizable." "Ah!" I cried.<|quote|>"That was what you sealed up in the envelope."</|quote|>"Yes. It may 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. | aid me in my search. I will put down my little case until I need it." He did so, on the round table by the window, but it was an ill-advised proceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tilted up, and precipitated the despatch-case on the floor. "_Eh voil une table!_" cried Poirot. "Ah, my friend, one may live in a big house and yet have no comfort." After which piece of moralizing, he resumed his search. A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the lock, on the writing-table, engaged his attention for some time. He took out the key from the lock, and passed it to me to inspect. I saw nothing peculiar, however. It was an ordinary key of the Yale type, with a bit of twisted wire through the handle. Next, he examined the framework of the door we had broken in, assuring himself that the bolt had really been shot. Then he went to the door opposite leading into Cynthia's room. That door was also bolted, as I had stated. However, he went to the length of unbolting it, and opening and shutting it several times; this he did with the utmost precaution against making any noise. Suddenly something in the bolt itself seemed to rivet his attention. He examined it carefully, and then, nimbly whipping out a pair of small forceps from his case, he drew out some minute particle which he carefully sealed up in a tiny envelope. On the chest of drawers there was a tray with a spirit lamp and a small saucepan on it. A small quantity of a dark fluid remained in the saucepan, and an empty cup and saucer that had been drunk out of stood near it. I wondered how I could have been so unobservant as to overlook this. Here was a clue worth having. Poirot delicately dipped his finger into liquid, and tasted it gingerly. He made a grimace. "Cocoa with I think rum in it." He passed on to the debris on the floor, where the table by the bed had been overturned. A reading-lamp, some books, matches, a bunch of keys, and the crushed fragments of a coffee-cup lay scattered about. "Ah, this is curious," said Poirot. "I must confess that I see nothing particularly curious about it." "You do not? Observe the lamp the chimney is broken in two places; they lie there as they fell. But see, the coffee-cup is absolutely smashed to powder." "Well," I said wearily, "I suppose someone must have stepped on it." "Exactly," said Poirot, in an odd voice. "Someone stepped on it." He rose from his knees, and walked slowly across to the mantelpiece, where he stood abstractedly fingering the ornaments, and straightening them a trick of his when he was agitated. "_Mon ami_," he said, turning to me, "somebody stepped on that cup, grinding it to powder, and the reason they did so was either because it contained strychnine or which is far more serious because it did not contain strychnine!" I made no reply. I was bewildered, but I knew that it was no good asking him to explain. In a moment or two he roused himself, and went on with his investigations. He picked up the bunch of keys from the floor, and twirling them round in his fingers finally selected one, very bright and shining, which he tried in the lock of the purple despatch-case. It fitted, and he opened the box, but after a moment's hesitation, closed and relocked it, and slipped the bunch of keys, as well as the key that had originally stood in the lock, into his own pocket. "I have no authority to go through these papers. But it should be done at once!" He then made a very careful examination of the drawers of the wash-stand. Crossing the room to the left-hand window, a round stain, hardly visible on the dark brown carpet, seemed to interest him particularly. He went down on his knees, examining it minutely even going so far as to smell it. Finally, he poured a few drops of the cocoa into a test tube, sealing it up carefully. His next proceeding was to take out a little notebook. "We have found in this room," he said, writing busily, "six points of interest. Shall I enumerate them, or will you?" "Oh, you," I replied hastily. "Very well, then. One, a coffee-cup that has been ground into powder; two, a despatch-case with a key in the lock; three, a stain on the floor." "That may have been done some time ago," I interrupted. "No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells of coffee. Four, a fragment of some dark green fabric only a thread or two, but recognizable." "Ah!" I cried.<|quote|>"That was what you sealed up in the envelope."</|quote|>"Yes. It may 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 | it. A small quantity of a dark fluid remained in the saucepan, and an empty cup and saucer that had been drunk out of stood near it. I wondered how I could have been so unobservant as to overlook this. Here was a clue worth having. Poirot delicately dipped his finger into liquid, and tasted it gingerly. He made a grimace. "Cocoa with I think rum in it." He passed on to the debris on the floor, where the table by the bed had been overturned. A reading-lamp, some books, matches, a bunch of keys, and the crushed fragments of a coffee-cup lay scattered about. "Ah, this is curious," said Poirot. "I must confess that I see nothing particularly curious about it." "You do not? Observe the lamp the chimney is broken in two places; they lie there as they fell. But see, the coffee-cup is absolutely smashed to powder." "Well," I said wearily, "I suppose someone must have stepped on it." "Exactly," said Poirot, in an odd voice. "Someone stepped on it." He rose from his knees, and walked slowly across to the mantelpiece, where he stood abstractedly fingering the ornaments, and straightening them a trick of his when he was agitated. "_Mon ami_," he said, turning to me, "somebody stepped on that cup, grinding it to powder, and the reason they did so was either because it contained strychnine or which is far more serious because it did not contain strychnine!" I made no reply. I was bewildered, but I knew that it was no good asking him to explain. In a moment or two he roused himself, and went on with his investigations. He picked up the bunch of keys from the floor, and twirling them round in his fingers finally selected one, very bright and shining, which he tried in the lock of the purple despatch-case. It fitted, and he opened the box, but after a moment's hesitation, closed and relocked it, and slipped the bunch of keys, as well as the key that had originally stood in the lock, into his own pocket. "I have no authority to go through these papers. But it should be done at once!" He then made a very careful examination of the drawers of the wash-stand. Crossing the room to the left-hand window, a round stain, hardly visible on the dark brown carpet, seemed to interest him particularly. He went down on his knees, examining it minutely even going so far as to smell it. Finally, he poured a few drops of the cocoa into a test tube, sealing it up carefully. His next proceeding was to take out a little notebook. "We have found in this room," he said, writing busily, "six points of interest. Shall I enumerate them, or will you?" "Oh, you," I replied hastily. "Very well, then. One, a coffee-cup that has been ground into powder; two, a despatch-case with a key in the lock; three, a stain on the floor." "That may have been done some time ago," I interrupted. "No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells of coffee. Four, a fragment of some dark green fabric only a thread or two, but recognizable." "Ah!" I cried.<|quote|>"That was what you sealed up in the envelope."</|quote|>"Yes. It may 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 | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
“Oh, ain’t that too bad! Maybe you could take one of my bad ones, now? That Leo; he’s the worst of all.” | Antonia | no children she seemed embarrassed.<|quote|>“Oh, ain’t that too bad! Maybe you could take one of my bad ones, now? That Leo; he’s the worst of all.”</|quote|>She leaned toward me with | I told her I had no children she seemed embarrassed.<|quote|>“Oh, ain’t that too bad! Maybe you could take one of my bad ones, now? That Leo; he’s the worst of all.”</|quote|>She leaned toward me with a smile. “And I love | just as young as I used to, and I can do as much work. Oh, we don’t have to work so hard now! We’ve got plenty to help us, papa and me. And how many have you got, Jim?” When I told her I had no children she seemed embarrassed.<|quote|>“Oh, ain’t that too bad! Maybe you could take one of my bad ones, now? That Leo; he’s the worst of all.”</|quote|>She leaned toward me with a smile. “And I love him the best,” she whispered. “Mother!” the two girls murmured reproachfully from the dishes. Ántonia threw up her head and laughed. “I can’t help it. You know I do. Maybe it’s because he came on Easter day, I don’t know. | You would n’t have known me, would you, Jim? You’ve kept so young, yourself. But it’s easier for a man. I can’t see how my Anton looks any older than the day I married him. His teeth have kept so nice. I have n’t got many left. But I feel just as young as I used to, and I can do as much work. Oh, we don’t have to work so hard now! We’ve got plenty to help us, papa and me. And how many have you got, Jim?” When I told her I had no children she seemed embarrassed.<|quote|>“Oh, ain’t that too bad! Maybe you could take one of my bad ones, now? That Leo; he’s the worst of all.”</|quote|>She leaned toward me with a smile. “And I love him the best,” she whispered. “Mother!” the two girls murmured reproachfully from the dishes. Ántonia threw up her head and laughed. “I can’t help it. You know I do. Maybe it’s because he came on Easter day, I don’t know. And he’s never out of mischief one minute!” I was thinking, as I watched her, how little it mattered—about her teeth, for instance. I know so many women who have kept all the things that she had lost, but whose inner glow has faded. Whatever else was gone, Ántonia had | as much as I love my own. These children know all about you and Charley and Sally, like as if they’d grown up with you. I can’t think of what I want to say, you’ve got me so stirred up. And then, I’ve forgot my English so. I don’t often talk it any more. I tell the children I used to speak real well.” She said they always spoke Bohemian at home. The little ones could not speak English at all—did n’t learn it until they went to school. “I can’t believe it’s you, sitting here, in my own kitchen. You would n’t have known me, would you, Jim? You’ve kept so young, yourself. But it’s easier for a man. I can’t see how my Anton looks any older than the day I married him. His teeth have kept so nice. I have n’t got many left. But I feel just as young as I used to, and I can do as much work. Oh, we don’t have to work so hard now! We’ve got plenty to help us, papa and me. And how many have you got, Jim?” When I told her I had no children she seemed embarrassed.<|quote|>“Oh, ain’t that too bad! Maybe you could take one of my bad ones, now? That Leo; he’s the worst of all.”</|quote|>She leaned toward me with a smile. “And I love him the best,” she whispered. “Mother!” the two girls murmured reproachfully from the dishes. Ántonia threw up her head and laughed. “I can’t help it. You know I do. Maybe it’s because he came on Easter day, I don’t know. And he’s never out of mischief one minute!” I was thinking, as I watched her, how little it mattered—about her teeth, for instance. I know so many women who have kept all the things that she had lost, but whose inner glow has faded. Whatever else was gone, Ántonia had not lost the fire of life. Her skin, so brown and hardened, had not that look of flabbiness, as if the sap beneath it had been secretly drawn away. While we were talking, the little boy whom they called Jan came in and sat down on the step beside Nina, under the hood of the stairway. He wore a funny long gingham apron, like a smock, over his trousers, and his hair was clipped so short that his head looked white and naked. He watched us out of his big, sorrowful gray eyes. “He wants to tell you about the | me, as if they expected me to exhibit astonishment or delight at this information. Clearly, they were proud of each other, and of being so many. When they had all been introduced, Anna, the eldest daughter, who had met me at the door, scattered them gently, and came bringing a white apron which she tied round her mother’s waist. “Now, mother, sit down and talk to Mr. Burden. We’ll finish the dishes quietly and not disturb you.” Ántonia looked about, quite distracted. “Yes, child, but why don’t we take him into the parlor, now that we’ve got a nice parlor for company?” The daughter laughed indulgently, and took my hat from me. “Well, you’re here, now, mother, and if you talk here, Yulka and I can listen, too. You can show him the parlor after while.” She smiled at me, and went back to the dishes, with her sister. The little girl with the rag doll found a place on the bottom step of an enclosed back stairway, and sat with her toes curled up, looking out at us expectantly. “She’s Nina, after Nina Harling,” Ántonia explained. “Ain’t her eyes like Nina’s? I declare, Jim, I loved you children almost as much as I love my own. These children know all about you and Charley and Sally, like as if they’d grown up with you. I can’t think of what I want to say, you’ve got me so stirred up. And then, I’ve forgot my English so. I don’t often talk it any more. I tell the children I used to speak real well.” She said they always spoke Bohemian at home. The little ones could not speak English at all—did n’t learn it until they went to school. “I can’t believe it’s you, sitting here, in my own kitchen. You would n’t have known me, would you, Jim? You’ve kept so young, yourself. But it’s easier for a man. I can’t see how my Anton looks any older than the day I married him. His teeth have kept so nice. I have n’t got many left. But I feel just as young as I used to, and I can do as much work. Oh, we don’t have to work so hard now! We’ve got plenty to help us, papa and me. And how many have you got, Jim?” When I told her I had no children she seemed embarrassed.<|quote|>“Oh, ain’t that too bad! Maybe you could take one of my bad ones, now? That Leo; he’s the worst of all.”</|quote|>She leaned toward me with a smile. “And I love him the best,” she whispered. “Mother!” the two girls murmured reproachfully from the dishes. Ántonia threw up her head and laughed. “I can’t help it. You know I do. Maybe it’s because he came on Easter day, I don’t know. And he’s never out of mischief one minute!” I was thinking, as I watched her, how little it mattered—about her teeth, for instance. I know so many women who have kept all the things that she had lost, but whose inner glow has faded. Whatever else was gone, Ántonia had not lost the fire of life. Her skin, so brown and hardened, had not that look of flabbiness, as if the sap beneath it had been secretly drawn away. While we were talking, the little boy whom they called Jan came in and sat down on the step beside Nina, under the hood of the stairway. He wore a funny long gingham apron, like a smock, over his trousers, and his hair was clipped so short that his head looked white and naked. He watched us out of his big, sorrowful gray eyes. “He wants to tell you about the dog, mother. They found it dead,” Anna said, as she passed us on her way to the cupboard. Ántonia beckoned the boy to her. He stood by her chair, leaning his elbows on her knees and twisting her apron strings in his slender fingers, while he told her his story softly in Bohemian, and the tears brimmed over and hung on his long lashes. His mother listened, spoke soothingly to him, and in a whisper promised him something that made him give her a quick, teary smile. He slipped away and whispered his secret to Nina, sitting close to her and talking behind his hand. When Anna finished her work and had washed her hands, she came and stood behind her mother’s chair. “Why don’t we show Mr. Burden our new fruit cave?” she asked. We started off across the yard with the children at our heels. The boys were standing by the windmill, talking about the dog; some of them ran ahead to open the cellar door. When we descended, they all came down after us, and seemed quite as proud of the cave as the girls were. Ambrosch, the thoughtful-looking one who had directed me down by the | breathy voice I remembered so well. “My husband’s not at home, sir. Can I do anything?” “Don’t you remember me, Ántonia? Have I changed so much?” She frowned into the slanting sunlight that made her brown hair look redder than it was. Suddenly her eyes widened, her whole face seemed to grow broader. She caught her breath and put out two hard-worked hands. “Why, it’s Jim! Anna, Yulka, it’s Jim Burden!” She had no sooner caught my hands than she looked alarmed. “What’s happened? Is anybody dead?” I patted her arm. “No. I did n’t come to a funeral this time. I got off the train at Hastings and drove down to see you and your family.” She dropped my hand and began rushing about. “Anton, Yulka, Nina, where are you all? Run, Anna, and hunt for the boys. They’re off looking for that dog, somewhere. And call Leo. Where is that Leo!” She pulled them out of corners and came bringing them like a mother cat bringing in her kittens. “You don’t have to go right off, Jim? My oldest boy’s not here. He’s gone with papa to the street fair at Wilber. I won’t let you go! You’ve got to stay and see Rudolph and our papa.” She looked at me imploringly, panting with excitement. While I reassured her and told her there would be plenty of time, the barefooted boys from outside were slipping into the kitchen and gathering about her. “Now, tell me their names, and how old they are.” As she told them off in turn, she made several mistakes about ages, and they roared with laughter. When she came to my light-footed friend of the windmill, she said, “This is Leo, and he’s old enough to be better than he is.” He ran up to her and butted her playfully with his curly head, like a little ram, but his voice was quite desperate. “You’ve forgot! You always forget mine. It’s mean! Please tell him, mother!” He clenched his fists in vexation and looked up at her impetuously. She wound her forefinger in his yellow fleece and pulled it, watching him. “Well, how old are you?” “I’m twelve,” he panted, looking not at me but at her; “I’m twelve years old, and I was born on Easter day!” She nodded to me. “It’s true. He was an Easter baby.” The children all looked at me, as if they expected me to exhibit astonishment or delight at this information. Clearly, they were proud of each other, and of being so many. When they had all been introduced, Anna, the eldest daughter, who had met me at the door, scattered them gently, and came bringing a white apron which she tied round her mother’s waist. “Now, mother, sit down and talk to Mr. Burden. We’ll finish the dishes quietly and not disturb you.” Ántonia looked about, quite distracted. “Yes, child, but why don’t we take him into the parlor, now that we’ve got a nice parlor for company?” The daughter laughed indulgently, and took my hat from me. “Well, you’re here, now, mother, and if you talk here, Yulka and I can listen, too. You can show him the parlor after while.” She smiled at me, and went back to the dishes, with her sister. The little girl with the rag doll found a place on the bottom step of an enclosed back stairway, and sat with her toes curled up, looking out at us expectantly. “She’s Nina, after Nina Harling,” Ántonia explained. “Ain’t her eyes like Nina’s? I declare, Jim, I loved you children almost as much as I love my own. These children know all about you and Charley and Sally, like as if they’d grown up with you. I can’t think of what I want to say, you’ve got me so stirred up. And then, I’ve forgot my English so. I don’t often talk it any more. I tell the children I used to speak real well.” She said they always spoke Bohemian at home. The little ones could not speak English at all—did n’t learn it until they went to school. “I can’t believe it’s you, sitting here, in my own kitchen. You would n’t have known me, would you, Jim? You’ve kept so young, yourself. But it’s easier for a man. I can’t see how my Anton looks any older than the day I married him. His teeth have kept so nice. I have n’t got many left. But I feel just as young as I used to, and I can do as much work. Oh, we don’t have to work so hard now! We’ve got plenty to help us, papa and me. And how many have you got, Jim?” When I told her I had no children she seemed embarrassed.<|quote|>“Oh, ain’t that too bad! Maybe you could take one of my bad ones, now? That Leo; he’s the worst of all.”</|quote|>She leaned toward me with a smile. “And I love him the best,” she whispered. “Mother!” the two girls murmured reproachfully from the dishes. Ántonia threw up her head and laughed. “I can’t help it. You know I do. Maybe it’s because he came on Easter day, I don’t know. And he’s never out of mischief one minute!” I was thinking, as I watched her, how little it mattered—about her teeth, for instance. I know so many women who have kept all the things that she had lost, but whose inner glow has faded. Whatever else was gone, Ántonia had not lost the fire of life. Her skin, so brown and hardened, had not that look of flabbiness, as if the sap beneath it had been secretly drawn away. While we were talking, the little boy whom they called Jan came in and sat down on the step beside Nina, under the hood of the stairway. He wore a funny long gingham apron, like a smock, over his trousers, and his hair was clipped so short that his head looked white and naked. He watched us out of his big, sorrowful gray eyes. “He wants to tell you about the dog, mother. They found it dead,” Anna said, as she passed us on her way to the cupboard. Ántonia beckoned the boy to her. He stood by her chair, leaning his elbows on her knees and twisting her apron strings in his slender fingers, while he told her his story softly in Bohemian, and the tears brimmed over and hung on his long lashes. His mother listened, spoke soothingly to him, and in a whisper promised him something that made him give her a quick, teary smile. He slipped away and whispered his secret to Nina, sitting close to her and talking behind his hand. When Anna finished her work and had washed her hands, she came and stood behind her mother’s chair. “Why don’t we show Mr. Burden our new fruit cave?” she asked. We started off across the yard with the children at our heels. The boys were standing by the windmill, talking about the dog; some of them ran ahead to open the cellar door. When we descended, they all came down after us, and seemed quite as proud of the cave as the girls were. Ambrosch, the thoughtful-looking one who had directed me down by the plum bushes, called my attention to the stout brick walls and the cement floor. “Yes, it is a good way from the house,” he admitted. “But, you see, in winter there are nearly always some of us around to come out and get things.” Anna and Yulka showed me three small barrels; one full of dill pickles, one full of chopped pickles, and one full of pickled watermelon rinds. “You would n’t believe, Jim, what it takes to feed them all!” their mother exclaimed. “You ought to see the bread we bake on Wednesdays and Saturdays! It’s no wonder their poor papa can’t get rich, he has to buy so much sugar for us to preserve with. We have our own wheat ground for flour,—but then there’s that much less to sell.” Nina and Jan, and a little girl named Lucie, kept shyly pointing out to me the shelves of glass jars. They said nothing, but glancing at me, traced on the glass with their finger-tips the outline of the cherries and strawberries and crab-apples within, trying by a blissful expression of countenance to give me some idea of their deliciousness. “Show him the spiced plums, mother. Americans don’t have those,” said one of the older boys. “Mother uses them to make kolaches,” he added. Leo, in a low voice, tossed off some scornful remark in Bohemian. I turned to him. “You think I don’t know what kolaches are, eh? You’re mistaken, young man. I’ve eaten your mother’s kolaches long before that Easter day when you were born.” “Always too fresh, Leo,” Ambrosch remarked with a shrug. Leo dived behind his mother and grinned out at me. We turned to leave the cave; Ántonia and I went up the stairs first, and the children waited. We were standing outside talking, when they all came running up the steps together, big and little, tow heads and gold heads and brown, and flashing little naked legs; a veritable explosion of life out of the dark cave into the sunlight. It made me dizzy for a moment. The boys escorted us to the front of the house, which I had n’t yet seen; in farmhouses, somehow, life comes and goes by the back door. The roof was so steep that the eaves were not much above the forest of tall hollyhocks, now brown and in seed. Through July, Ántonia said, the house was | the parlor after while.” She smiled at me, and went back to the dishes, with her sister. The little girl with the rag doll found a place on the bottom step of an enclosed back stairway, and sat with her toes curled up, looking out at us expectantly. “She’s Nina, after Nina Harling,” Ántonia explained. “Ain’t her eyes like Nina’s? I declare, Jim, I loved you children almost as much as I love my own. These children know all about you and Charley and Sally, like as if they’d grown up with you. I can’t think of what I want to say, you’ve got me so stirred up. And then, I’ve forgot my English so. I don’t often talk it any more. I tell the children I used to speak real well.” She said they always spoke Bohemian at home. The little ones could not speak English at all—did n’t learn it until they went to school. “I can’t believe it’s you, sitting here, in my own kitchen. You would n’t have known me, would you, Jim? You’ve kept so young, yourself. But it’s easier for a man. I can’t see how my Anton looks any older than the day I married him. His teeth have kept so nice. I have n’t got many left. But I feel just as young as I used to, and I can do as much work. Oh, we don’t have to work so hard now! We’ve got plenty to help us, papa and me. And how many have you got, Jim?” When I told her I had no children she seemed embarrassed.<|quote|>“Oh, ain’t that too bad! Maybe you could take one of my bad ones, now? That Leo; he’s the worst of all.”</|quote|>She leaned toward me with a smile. “And I love him the best,” she whispered. “Mother!” the two girls murmured reproachfully from the dishes. Ántonia threw up her head and laughed. “I can’t help it. You know I do. Maybe it’s because he came on Easter day, I don’t know. And he’s never out of mischief one minute!” I was thinking, as I watched her, how little it mattered—about her teeth, for instance. I know so many women who have kept all the things that she had lost, but whose inner glow has faded. Whatever else was gone, Ántonia had not lost the fire of life. Her skin, so brown and hardened, had not that look of flabbiness, as if the sap beneath it had been secretly drawn away. While we were talking, the little boy whom they called Jan came in and sat down on the step beside Nina, under the hood of the stairway. He wore a funny long gingham apron, like a smock, over his trousers, and his hair was clipped so short that his head looked white and naked. He watched us out of his big, sorrowful gray eyes. “He wants to tell you about the dog, mother. They found it dead,” Anna said, as she passed us on her way to the cupboard. Ántonia beckoned the boy to her. He stood by her chair, leaning his elbows on her knees and twisting her apron strings in his slender fingers, while he told her his story softly in Bohemian, and the tears brimmed over and hung on his long lashes. His mother listened, spoke soothingly to him, | My Antonia |
"I love Willoughby, sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning; he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general character; but I will not raise objections against any one s conduct on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent." | Elinor | I believe not," cried Elinor.<|quote|>"I love Willoughby, sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning; he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general character; but I will not raise objections against any one s conduct on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent."</|quote|>"You speak very properly. Willoughby | be deceitful?" "I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor.<|quote|>"I love Willoughby, sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning; he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general character; but I will not raise objections against any one s conduct on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent."</|quote|>"You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to | unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister s wishes. It must be Willoughby therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to create alarm? can he be deceitful?" "I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor.<|quote|>"I love Willoughby, sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning; he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general character; but I will not raise objections against any one s conduct on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent."</|quote|>"You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be suspected. Though _we_ have not known him long, he is no stranger in this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage? Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately, it | mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at the altar, you would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But _I_ require no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly open and unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister s wishes. It must be Willoughby therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to create alarm? can he be deceitful?" "I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor.<|quote|>"I love Willoughby, sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning; he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general character; but I will not raise objections against any one s conduct on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent."</|quote|>"You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be suspected. Though _we_ have not known him long, he is no stranger in this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage? Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately, it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging everything to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage must be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it can | all this time? Do you suppose him really indifferent to her?" "No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her I am sure." "But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him." "You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this matter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed." "A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at the altar, you would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But _I_ require no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly open and unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister s wishes. It must be Willoughby therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to create alarm? can he be deceitful?" "I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor.<|quote|>"I love Willoughby, sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning; he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general character; but I will not raise objections against any one s conduct on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent."</|quote|>"You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be suspected. Though _we_ have not known him long, he is no stranger in this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage? Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately, it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging everything to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage must be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it can be observed, may now be very advisable." They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to acknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all. They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the room and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes were red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then restrained with difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could neither eat nor speak, and after some | to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last fortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation? Have we not perfectly understood each other? Has not my consent been daily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate respect? My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement? How could such a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed that Willoughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister s love, should leave her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of his affection; that they should part without a mutual exchange of confidence?" "I confess," replied Elinor, "that every circumstance except _one_ is in favour of their engagement; but that _one_ is the total silence of both on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other." "How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby, if, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the nature of the terms on which they are together. Has he been acting a part in his behaviour to your sister all this time? Do you suppose him really indifferent to her?" "No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her I am sure." "But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him." "You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this matter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed." "A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at the altar, you would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But _I_ require no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly open and unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister s wishes. It must be Willoughby therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to create alarm? can he be deceitful?" "I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor.<|quote|>"I love Willoughby, sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning; he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general character; but I will not raise objections against any one s conduct on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent."</|quote|>"You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be suspected. Though _we_ have not known him long, he is no stranger in this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage? Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately, it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging everything to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage must be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it can be observed, may now be very advisable." They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to acknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all. They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the room and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes were red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then restrained with difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could neither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother s silently pressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of fortitude was quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room. This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening. She was without any power, because she was without any desire of command over herself. The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby overpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most anxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings connected with him. CHAPTER XVI. Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby. She would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than when she lay down in it. But the feelings which made such composure a disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it. She was awake the whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it. She got up with a headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to | You had rather take evil upon credit than good. You had rather look out for misery for Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the latter. You are resolved to think him blameable, because he took leave of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has shown. And is no allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits depressed by recent disappointment? Are no probabilities to be accepted, merely because they are not certainties? Is nothing due to the man whom we have all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill of? To the possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though unavoidably secret for a while? And, after all, what is it you suspect him of?" "I can hardly tell myself. But suspicion of something unpleasant is the inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed in him. There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of the allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be candid in my judgment of every body. Willoughby may undoubtedly have very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has. But it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them at once. Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at its being practiced by him." "Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where the deviation is necessary. But you really do admit the justice of what I have said in his defence? I am happy and he is acquitted." "Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they _are_ engaged) from Mrs. Smith and if that is the case, it must be highly expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at present. But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us." "Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and Marianne of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes have been reproaching them every day for incautiousness." "I want no proof of their affection," said Elinor; "but of their engagement I do." "I am perfectly satisfied of both." "Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of them." "I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly. Has not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last fortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation? Have we not perfectly understood each other? Has not my consent been daily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate respect? My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement? How could such a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed that Willoughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister s love, should leave her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of his affection; that they should part without a mutual exchange of confidence?" "I confess," replied Elinor, "that every circumstance except _one_ is in favour of their engagement; but that _one_ is the total silence of both on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other." "How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby, if, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the nature of the terms on which they are together. Has he been acting a part in his behaviour to your sister all this time? Do you suppose him really indifferent to her?" "No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her I am sure." "But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him." "You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this matter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed." "A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at the altar, you would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But _I_ require no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly open and unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister s wishes. It must be Willoughby therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to create alarm? can he be deceitful?" "I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor.<|quote|>"I love Willoughby, sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning; he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general character; but I will not raise objections against any one s conduct on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent."</|quote|>"You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be suspected. Though _we_ have not known him long, he is no stranger in this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage? Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately, it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging everything to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage must be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it can be observed, may now be very advisable." They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to acknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all. They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the room and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes were red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then restrained with difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could neither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother s silently pressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of fortitude was quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room. This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening. She was without any power, because she was without any desire of command over herself. The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby overpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most anxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings connected with him. CHAPTER XVI. Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby. She would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than when she lay down in it. But the feelings which made such composure a disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it. She was awake the whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it. She got up with a headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment; giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all attempt at consolation from either. Her sensibility was potent enough! When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about the village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning. The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling. She played over every favourite song that she had been used to play to Willoughby, every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out for her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be gained; and this nourishment of grief was every day applied. She spent whole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing and crying; her voice often totally suspended by her tears. In books too, as well as in music, she courted the misery which a contrast between the past and present was certain of giving. She read nothing but what they had been used to read together. Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employments, to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and silent meditations, still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever. No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne. Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy. But Mrs. Dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at least satisfied herself. "Remember, Elinor," said she, "how very often Sir John fetches our letters himself from the post, and carries them to it. We have already agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through Sir John s hands." Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a motive sufficient for their silence. But there was one method so direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real state of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she could not help suggesting it to her mother. "Why do you not ask Marianne at once," said she, "whether she is or she is not engaged to Willoughby? | But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us." "Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and Marianne of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes have been reproaching them every day for incautiousness." "I want no proof of their affection," said Elinor; "but of their engagement I do." "I am perfectly satisfied of both." "Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of them." "I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly. Has not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last fortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation? Have we not perfectly understood each other? Has not my consent been daily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate respect? My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement? How could such a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed that Willoughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister s love, should leave her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of his affection; that they should part without a mutual exchange of confidence?" "I confess," replied Elinor, "that every circumstance except _one_ is in favour of their engagement; but that _one_ is the total silence of both on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other." "How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby, if, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the nature of the terms on which they are together. Has he been acting a part in his behaviour to your sister all this time? Do you suppose him really indifferent to her?" "No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her I am sure." "But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him." "You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this matter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed." "A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at the altar, you would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But _I_ require no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly open and unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister s wishes. It must be Willoughby therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to create alarm? can he be deceitful?" "I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor.<|quote|>"I love Willoughby, sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning; he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general character; but I will not raise objections against any one s conduct on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent."</|quote|>"You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be suspected. Though _we_ have not known him long, he is no stranger in this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage? Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately, it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging everything to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage must be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it can be observed, may now be very advisable." They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to acknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all. They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the room and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes were red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then restrained with difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could neither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother s silently pressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of fortitude was quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room. This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening. She was without any power, because she was without any desire of command over herself. The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby overpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most anxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings connected with him. CHAPTER XVI. Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby. She would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than when she lay down in it. But the feelings which made such composure a disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it. She was awake the whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it. She got up with a headache, was unable to | Sense And Sensibility |
"Oh dear, can I trust you?" | Brenda | tight too?" "A little bit."<|quote|>"Oh dear, can I trust you?"</|quote|>"I'll try." "Well, it doesn't | keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit."<|quote|>"Oh dear, can I trust you?"</|quote|>"I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... | my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit."<|quote|>"Oh dear, can I trust you?"</|quote|>"I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John, you've got to go. Those hooligans may turn up at any moment. Have you got your taxi fare? You'll find some change in my bag." * * * * * "Was that your girl?" "Yes." "Made it up?" "Not | we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit."<|quote|>"Oh dear, can I trust you?"</|quote|>"I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John, you've got to go. Those hooligans may turn up at any moment. Have you got your taxi fare? You'll find some change in my bag." * * * * * "Was that your girl?" "Yes." "Made it up?" "Not exactly." "Far better to make it up. Shall we have some more brandy or go round to Brenda straight away?" "Let's have some more brandy." "Jock, you aren't still feeling low, are you? Doesn't do to feel low. _I'm_ not feeling low. I _was_, but I'm not any more." "No, | see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit."<|quote|>"Oh dear, can I trust you?"</|quote|>"I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John, you've got to go. Those hooligans may turn up at any moment. Have you got your taxi fare? You'll find some change in my bag." * * * * * "Was that your girl?" "Yes." "Made it up?" "Not exactly." "Far better to make it up. Shall we have some more brandy or go round to Brenda straight away?" "Let's have some more brandy." "Jock, you aren't still feeling low, are you? Doesn't do to feel low. _I'm_ not feeling low. I _was_, but I'm not any more." "No, I'm not feeling low." "Then we'll have some brandy and then go to Brenda's." "All right." Half an hour later they got into Jock's car. "Tell you what, I shouldn't drive if I were you." "Not drive?" "No, I shouldn't drive. They'd say you were drunk." "Who would?" "Anyone you ran over. They'd say you were drunk." "Well, so I am." "Then I shouldn't drive." "Too far to walk." "We'll take a taxi." "Oh, hell, I can drive." "Or let's not go to Brenda's at all." "We'd better go to Brenda's," said Jock. "She's expecting us." "Well, I can't walk | she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit."<|quote|>"Oh dear, can I trust you?"</|quote|>"I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John, you've got to go. Those hooligans may turn up at any moment. Have you got your taxi fare? You'll find some change in my bag." * * * * * "Was that your girl?" "Yes." "Made it up?" "Not exactly." "Far better to make it up. Shall we have some more brandy or go round to Brenda straight away?" "Let's have some more brandy." "Jock, you aren't still feeling low, are you? Doesn't do to feel low. _I'm_ not feeling low. I _was_, but I'm not any more." "No, I'm not feeling low." "Then we'll have some brandy and then go to Brenda's." "All right." Half an hour later they got into Jock's car. "Tell you what, I shouldn't drive if I were you." "Not drive?" "No, I shouldn't drive. They'd say you were drunk." "Who would?" "Anyone you ran over. They'd say you were drunk." "Well, so I am." "Then I shouldn't drive." "Too far to walk." "We'll take a taxi." "Oh, hell, I can drive." "Or let's not go to Brenda's at all." "We'd better go to Brenda's," said Jock. "She's expecting us." "Well, I can't walk all that way. Besides, I don't think she really wanted us to come." "She'll be pleased when she sees us." "Yes, but it's a long way. Let's go some other place." "I'd like to see Brenda," said Jock. "I'm very fond of Brenda." "She's a grand girl." "She's a grand girl." "Well, let's take a taxi to Brenda's." But half-way Jock said, "Don't let's go there. Let's go some other place. Let's go to some low joint." "All the same to me. Tell him to go to some lousy joint." "Go to some lousy joint," said Jock, putting his head through the window. The cab wheeled round and made towards Regent Street. "We can always ring Brenda from the lousy joint." "Yes, I think we ought to do that. She's a grand girl." "Grand girl." The cab turned into Golden Square and then down Sink Street, a dingy little place inhabited for the most part by Asiatics. "D'you know, I believe he's taking us to the Old Hundredth." "Can't still be open? Thought they closed it down years ago." But the door was brightly illuminated and a seedy figure in peaked cap and braided overcoat stepped out to open the | Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit."<|quote|>"Oh dear, can I trust you?"</|quote|>"I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John, you've got to go. Those hooligans may turn up at any moment. Have you got your taxi fare? You'll find some change in my bag." * * * * * "Was that your girl?" "Yes." "Made it up?" "Not exactly." "Far better to make it up. Shall we have some more brandy or go round to Brenda straight away?" "Let's have some more brandy." "Jock, you aren't still feeling low, are you? Doesn't do to feel low. _I'm_ not feeling low. I _was_, but I'm not any more." "No, I'm not feeling low." "Then we'll have some brandy and then go to Brenda's." "All right." Half an hour later they got into Jock's car. "Tell you what, I shouldn't drive if I were you." "Not drive?" "No, I shouldn't drive. They'd say you were drunk." "Who would?" "Anyone you ran over. They'd say you were drunk." "Well, so I am." "Then I shouldn't drive." "Too far to walk." "We'll take a taxi." "Oh, hell, I can drive." "Or let's not go to Brenda's at all." "We'd better go to Brenda's," said Jock. "She's expecting us." "Well, I can't walk all that way. Besides, I don't think she really wanted us to come." "She'll be pleased when she sees us." "Yes, but it's a long way. Let's go some other place." "I'd like to see Brenda," said Jock. "I'm very fond of Brenda." "She's a grand girl." "She's a grand girl." "Well, let's take a taxi to Brenda's." But half-way Jock said, "Don't let's go there. Let's go some other place. Let's go to some low joint." "All the same to me. Tell him to go to some lousy joint." "Go to some lousy joint," said Jock, putting his head through the window. The cab wheeled round and made towards Regent Street. "We can always ring Brenda from the lousy joint." "Yes, I think we ought to do that. She's a grand girl." "Grand girl." The cab turned into Golden Square and then down Sink Street, a dingy little place inhabited for the most part by Asiatics. "D'you know, I believe he's taking us to the Old Hundredth." "Can't still be open? Thought they closed it down years ago." But the door was brightly illuminated and a seedy figure in peaked cap and braided overcoat stepped out to open the taxi for them. The Old Hundredth has never been shut. For a generation, while other night clubs have sprung into being, with various names and managers, and various pretensions to respectability, have enjoyed a precarious and brief existence, and come to grief at the hands either of police or creditors, the Old Hundredth has maintained a solid front against all adversity. It has not been immune from persecution; far from it. Times out of number, magistrates have struck it off, cancelled its licence, condemned its premises; the staff and proprietor have been constantly in and out of prison; there have been questions in the House and committees of enquiry, but whatever Home Secretaries and Commissioners of Police have risen into eminence and retired discredited, the doors of the Old Hundredth have always been open from nine in the evening until four at night, and inside there has been an unimpeded flow of dubious, alcoholic preparations. A kindly young lady admitted Tony and Jock to the ramshackle building. "D'you mind signing on?" Tony and Jock inscribed fictitious names at the foot of a form which stated, _I have been invited to a Bottle Party at 100 Sink Street given by Captain Weybridge_. "That's five bob each, please." It is not an expensive club to run, because none of the staff, except the band, receive any wages; they make what they can by going through the overcoat pockets and giving the wrong change to drunks. The young ladies get in free but they have to see to it that their patrons spend money. "Last time I was here, Tony, was the bachelor party before your wedding." "Tight that night." "Stinking." "I'll tell you who else was tight that night--Reggie. Broke a fruit gum machine." "Reggie was stinking." "I say, you don't still feel low about that girl?" "I don't feel low." "Come on, we'll go downstairs." The dance-room was fairly full. An elderly man had joined the band and was trying to conduct it. "I like this joint," said Jock. "What'll we drink?" "Brandy." They had to buy the bottle. They filled in an order form to the Montmorency Wine Company and paid two pounds. When it came there was a label saying _Very Old Liqueur Fine Champagne. Imported by the Montmorency Wine Co._ The waiter brought ginger ale and four glasses. Two young ladies came and sat with them. They were | The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit."<|quote|>"Oh dear, can I trust you?"</|quote|>"I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John, you've got to go. Those hooligans may turn up at any moment. Have you got your taxi fare? You'll find some change in my bag." * * * * * "Was that your girl?" "Yes." "Made it up?" "Not exactly." "Far better to make it up. Shall we have some more brandy or go round to Brenda straight away?" "Let's have some more brandy." "Jock, you aren't still feeling low, are you? Doesn't do to feel low. _I'm_ not feeling low. I _was_, but I'm not any more." "No, I'm not feeling low." "Then we'll have some brandy and then go to Brenda's." "All right." Half an hour later they got into Jock's car. "Tell you what, I shouldn't drive if I were you." "Not drive?" "No, I shouldn't drive. They'd say you were drunk." "Who would?" "Anyone you ran over. They'd say you were drunk." "Well, so I am." "Then I shouldn't drive." "Too far to walk." "We'll take a taxi." "Oh, hell, I can drive." "Or let's not go to Brenda's at all." "We'd better go to Brenda's," said Jock. "She's expecting us." "Well, I can't walk all that way. Besides, I don't think she really wanted us to come." "She'll be pleased when she sees us." "Yes, but it's a long way. Let's go some other place." "I'd like to see Brenda," said Jock. "I'm very fond of Brenda." "She's a grand girl." "She's a grand girl." "Well, let's take a taxi to Brenda's." But half-way Jock said, "Don't let's go there. Let's go some other place. Let's go to some low joint." "All the same to me. Tell him to go to some lousy joint." "Go to some lousy joint," said Jock, putting his head through the window. The cab wheeled round and made towards Regent Street. "We can always ring Brenda from the lousy joint." "Yes, I think we ought to do that. She's a grand girl." "Grand girl." The cab turned into Golden Square and then down Sink Street, a dingy little place inhabited for the most part by Asiatics. "D'you know, I believe he's taking us to the Old Hundredth." "Can't still be open? Thought they closed it down years ago." But the door was brightly illuminated and a seedy figure in peaked cap and braided overcoat stepped out to open the taxi for them. The Old Hundredth has never been shut. For a generation, while other night clubs have sprung into being, with various names and managers, and various pretensions to respectability, have enjoyed a precarious and brief existence, and come to grief at the hands either of police or creditors, | A Handful Of Dust |
she suddenly resumed, as if they had never mentioned happiness. | No speaker | bearings. "Hilda was here to-day,"<|quote|>she suddenly resumed, as if they had never mentioned happiness.</|quote|>"She brought Bobbie he s | considering happiness in all its bearings. "Hilda was here to-day,"<|quote|>she suddenly resumed, as if they had never mentioned happiness.</|quote|>"She brought Bobbie he s a fine boy now." Ralph | with another, and balancing them together before she made up her mind. "Happiness," she remarked at length enigmatically, rather as if she were sampling the word, and then she paused. She paused for a considerable space, as if she were considering happiness in all its bearings. "Hilda was here to-day,"<|quote|>she suddenly resumed, as if they had never mentioned happiness.</|quote|>"She brought Bobbie he s a fine boy now." Ralph observed, with an amusement that had a tinge of irony in it, that she was now going to sidle away quickly from this dangerous approach to intimacy on to topics of general and family interest. Nevertheless, he reflected, she was | Ralph?" "No. Are you? Perhaps I m as happy as most people, though. God knows whether I m happy or not. What is happiness?" He glanced with half a smile, in spite of his gloomy irritation, at his sister. She looked, as usual, as if she were weighing one thing with another, and balancing them together before she made up her mind. "Happiness," she remarked at length enigmatically, rather as if she were sampling the word, and then she paused. She paused for a considerable space, as if she were considering happiness in all its bearings. "Hilda was here to-day,"<|quote|>she suddenly resumed, as if they had never mentioned happiness.</|quote|>"She brought Bobbie he s a fine boy now." Ralph observed, with an amusement that had a tinge of irony in it, that she was now going to sidle away quickly from this dangerous approach to intimacy on to topics of general and family interest. Nevertheless, he reflected, she was the only one of his family with whom he found it possible to discuss happiness, although he might very well have discussed happiness with Miss Hilbery at their first meeting. He looked critically at Joan, and wished that she did not look so provincial or suburban in her high green | that we ve all got to be sacrificed? What s the use of denying it? What s the use of struggling against it? So it always has been, so it always will be. We ve got no money and we never shall have any money. We shall just turn round in the mill every day of our lives until we drop and die, worn out, as most people do, when one comes to think of it." Joan looked at him, opened her lips as if to speak, and closed them again. Then she said, very tentatively: "Aren t you happy, Ralph?" "No. Are you? Perhaps I m as happy as most people, though. God knows whether I m happy or not. What is happiness?" He glanced with half a smile, in spite of his gloomy irritation, at his sister. She looked, as usual, as if she were weighing one thing with another, and balancing them together before she made up her mind. "Happiness," she remarked at length enigmatically, rather as if she were sampling the word, and then she paused. She paused for a considerable space, as if she were considering happiness in all its bearings. "Hilda was here to-day,"<|quote|>she suddenly resumed, as if they had never mentioned happiness.</|quote|>"She brought Bobbie he s a fine boy now." Ralph observed, with an amusement that had a tinge of irony in it, that she was now going to sidle away quickly from this dangerous approach to intimacy on to topics of general and family interest. Nevertheless, he reflected, she was the only one of his family with whom he found it possible to discuss happiness, although he might very well have discussed happiness with Miss Hilbery at their first meeting. He looked critically at Joan, and wished that she did not look so provincial or suburban in her high green dress with the faded trimming, so patient, and almost resigned. He began to wish to tell her about the Hilberys in order to abuse them, for in the miniature battle which so often rages between two quickly following impressions of life, the life of the Hilberys was getting the better of the life of the Denhams in his mind, and he wanted to assure himself that there was some quality in which Joan infinitely surpassed Miss Hilbery. He should have felt that his own sister was more original, and had greater vitality than Miss Hilbery had; but his main impression | the threat was. In the course of his professional life, which now extended over six or seven years, Ralph had saved, perhaps, three or four hundred pounds. Considering the sacrifices he had made in order to put by this sum it always amazed Joan to find that he used it to gamble with, buying shares and selling them again, increasing it sometimes, sometimes diminishing it, and always running the risk of losing every penny of it in a day s disaster. But although she wondered, she could not help loving him the better for his odd combination of Spartan self-control and what appeared to her romantic and childish folly. Ralph interested her more than any one else in the world, and she often broke off in the middle of one of these economic discussions, in spite of their gravity, to consider some fresh aspect of his character. "I think you d be foolish to risk your money on poor old Charles," she observed. "Fond as I am of him, he doesn t seem to me exactly brilliant.... Besides, why should you be sacrificed?" "My dear Joan," Ralph exclaimed, stretching himself out with a gesture of impatience, "don t you see that we ve all got to be sacrificed? What s the use of denying it? What s the use of struggling against it? So it always has been, so it always will be. We ve got no money and we never shall have any money. We shall just turn round in the mill every day of our lives until we drop and die, worn out, as most people do, when one comes to think of it." Joan looked at him, opened her lips as if to speak, and closed them again. Then she said, very tentatively: "Aren t you happy, Ralph?" "No. Are you? Perhaps I m as happy as most people, though. God knows whether I m happy or not. What is happiness?" He glanced with half a smile, in spite of his gloomy irritation, at his sister. She looked, as usual, as if she were weighing one thing with another, and balancing them together before she made up her mind. "Happiness," she remarked at length enigmatically, rather as if she were sampling the word, and then she paused. She paused for a considerable space, as if she were considering happiness in all its bearings. "Hilda was here to-day,"<|quote|>she suddenly resumed, as if they had never mentioned happiness.</|quote|>"She brought Bobbie he s a fine boy now." Ralph observed, with an amusement that had a tinge of irony in it, that she was now going to sidle away quickly from this dangerous approach to intimacy on to topics of general and family interest. Nevertheless, he reflected, she was the only one of his family with whom he found it possible to discuss happiness, although he might very well have discussed happiness with Miss Hilbery at their first meeting. He looked critically at Joan, and wished that she did not look so provincial or suburban in her high green dress with the faded trimming, so patient, and almost resigned. He began to wish to tell her about the Hilberys in order to abuse them, for in the miniature battle which so often rages between two quickly following impressions of life, the life of the Hilberys was getting the better of the life of the Denhams in his mind, and he wanted to assure himself that there was some quality in which Joan infinitely surpassed Miss Hilbery. He should have felt that his own sister was more original, and had greater vitality than Miss Hilbery had; but his main impression of Katharine now was of a person of great vitality and composure; and at the moment he could not perceive what poor dear Joan had gained from the fact that she was the granddaughter of a man who kept a shop, and herself earned her own living. The infinite dreariness and sordidness of their life oppressed him in spite of his fundamental belief that, as a family, they were somehow remarkable. "Shall you talk to mother?" Joan inquired. "Because, you see, the thing s got to be settled, one way or another. Charles must write to Uncle John if he s going there." Ralph sighed impatiently. "I suppose it doesn t much matter either way," he exclaimed. "He s doomed to misery in the long run." A slight flush came into Joan s cheek. "You know you re talking nonsense," she said. "It doesn t hurt any one to have to earn their own living. I m very glad I have to earn mine." Ralph was pleased that she should feel this, and wished her to continue, but he went on, perversely enough. "Isn t that only because you ve forgotten how to enjoy yourself? You never have time for | too. He makes Molly slave for him." Ralph made a sound which belittled this particular argument. It was plain to Joan that she had struck one of her brother s perverse moods, and he was going to oppose whatever his mother said. He called her "she," which was a proof of it. She sighed involuntarily, and the sigh annoyed Ralph, and he exclaimed with irritation: "It s pretty hard lines to stick a boy into an office at seventeen!" "Nobody _wants_ to stick him into an office," she said. She, too, was becoming annoyed. She had spent the whole of the afternoon discussing wearisome details of education and expense with her mother, and she had come to her brother for help, encouraged, rather irrationally, to expect help by the fact that he had been out somewhere, she didn t know and didn t mean to ask where, all the afternoon. Ralph was fond of his sister, and her irritation made him think how unfair it was that all these burdens should be laid on her shoulders. "The truth is," he observed gloomily, "that I ought to have accepted Uncle John s offer. I should have been making six hundred a year by this time." "I don t think that for a moment," Joan replied quickly, repenting of her annoyance. "The question, to my mind, is, whether we couldn t cut down our expenses in some way." "A smaller house?" "Fewer servants, perhaps." Neither brother nor sister spoke with much conviction, and after reflecting for a moment what these proposed reforms in a strictly economical household meant, Ralph announced very decidedly: "It s out of the question." It was out of the question that she should put any more household work upon herself. No, the hardship must fall on him, for he was determined that his family should have as many chances of distinguishing themselves as other families had as the Hilberys had, for example. He believed secretly and rather defiantly, for it was a fact not capable of proof, that there was something very remarkable about his family. "If mother won t run risks" "You really can t expect her to sell out again." "She ought to look upon it as an investment; but if she won t, we must find some other way, that s all." A threat was contained in this sentence, and Joan knew, without asking, what the threat was. In the course of his professional life, which now extended over six or seven years, Ralph had saved, perhaps, three or four hundred pounds. Considering the sacrifices he had made in order to put by this sum it always amazed Joan to find that he used it to gamble with, buying shares and selling them again, increasing it sometimes, sometimes diminishing it, and always running the risk of losing every penny of it in a day s disaster. But although she wondered, she could not help loving him the better for his odd combination of Spartan self-control and what appeared to her romantic and childish folly. Ralph interested her more than any one else in the world, and she often broke off in the middle of one of these economic discussions, in spite of their gravity, to consider some fresh aspect of his character. "I think you d be foolish to risk your money on poor old Charles," she observed. "Fond as I am of him, he doesn t seem to me exactly brilliant.... Besides, why should you be sacrificed?" "My dear Joan," Ralph exclaimed, stretching himself out with a gesture of impatience, "don t you see that we ve all got to be sacrificed? What s the use of denying it? What s the use of struggling against it? So it always has been, so it always will be. We ve got no money and we never shall have any money. We shall just turn round in the mill every day of our lives until we drop and die, worn out, as most people do, when one comes to think of it." Joan looked at him, opened her lips as if to speak, and closed them again. Then she said, very tentatively: "Aren t you happy, Ralph?" "No. Are you? Perhaps I m as happy as most people, though. God knows whether I m happy or not. What is happiness?" He glanced with half a smile, in spite of his gloomy irritation, at his sister. She looked, as usual, as if she were weighing one thing with another, and balancing them together before she made up her mind. "Happiness," she remarked at length enigmatically, rather as if she were sampling the word, and then she paused. She paused for a considerable space, as if she were considering happiness in all its bearings. "Hilda was here to-day,"<|quote|>she suddenly resumed, as if they had never mentioned happiness.</|quote|>"She brought Bobbie he s a fine boy now." Ralph observed, with an amusement that had a tinge of irony in it, that she was now going to sidle away quickly from this dangerous approach to intimacy on to topics of general and family interest. Nevertheless, he reflected, she was the only one of his family with whom he found it possible to discuss happiness, although he might very well have discussed happiness with Miss Hilbery at their first meeting. He looked critically at Joan, and wished that she did not look so provincial or suburban in her high green dress with the faded trimming, so patient, and almost resigned. He began to wish to tell her about the Hilberys in order to abuse them, for in the miniature battle which so often rages between two quickly following impressions of life, the life of the Hilberys was getting the better of the life of the Denhams in his mind, and he wanted to assure himself that there was some quality in which Joan infinitely surpassed Miss Hilbery. He should have felt that his own sister was more original, and had greater vitality than Miss Hilbery had; but his main impression of Katharine now was of a person of great vitality and composure; and at the moment he could not perceive what poor dear Joan had gained from the fact that she was the granddaughter of a man who kept a shop, and herself earned her own living. The infinite dreariness and sordidness of their life oppressed him in spite of his fundamental belief that, as a family, they were somehow remarkable. "Shall you talk to mother?" Joan inquired. "Because, you see, the thing s got to be settled, one way or another. Charles must write to Uncle John if he s going there." Ralph sighed impatiently. "I suppose it doesn t much matter either way," he exclaimed. "He s doomed to misery in the long run." A slight flush came into Joan s cheek. "You know you re talking nonsense," she said. "It doesn t hurt any one to have to earn their own living. I m very glad I have to earn mine." Ralph was pleased that she should feel this, and wished her to continue, but he went on, perversely enough. "Isn t that only because you ve forgotten how to enjoy yourself? You never have time for anything decent" "As for instance?" "Well, going for walks, or music, or books, or seeing interesting people. You never do anything that s really worth doing any more than I do." "I always think you could make this room much nicer, if you liked," she observed. "What does it matter what sort of room I have when I m forced to spend all the best years of my life drawing up deeds in an office?" "You said two days ago that you found the law so interesting." "So it is if one could afford to know anything about it." (" "That s Herbert only just going to bed now," Joan interposed, as a door on the landing slammed vigorously. "And then he won t get up in the morning." ") Ralph looked at the ceiling, and shut his lips closely together. Why, he wondered, could Joan never for one moment detach her mind from the details of domestic life? It seemed to him that she was getting more and more enmeshed in them, and capable of shorter and less frequent flights into the outer world, and yet she was only thirty-three. "D you ever pay calls now?" he asked abruptly. "I don t often have the time. Why do you ask?" "It might be a good thing, to get to know new people, that s all." "Poor Ralph!" said Joan suddenly, with a smile. "You think your sister s getting very old and very dull that s it, isn t it?" "I don t think anything of the kind," he said stoutly, but he flushed. "But you lead a dog s life, Joan. When you re not working in an office, you re worrying over the rest of us. And I m not much good to you, I m afraid." Joan rose, and stood for a moment warming her hands, and, apparently, meditating as to whether she should say anything more or not. A feeling of great intimacy united the brother and sister, and the semicircular lines above their eyebrows disappeared. No, there was nothing more to be said on either side. Joan brushed her brother s head with her hand as she passed him, murmured good night, and left the room. For some minutes after she had gone Ralph lay quiescent, resting his head on his hand, but gradually his eyes filled with thought, and the line reappeared on | and rather defiantly, for it was a fact not capable of proof, that there was something very remarkable about his family. "If mother won t run risks" "You really can t expect her to sell out again." "She ought to look upon it as an investment; but if she won t, we must find some other way, that s all." A threat was contained in this sentence, and Joan knew, without asking, what the threat was. In the course of his professional life, which now extended over six or seven years, Ralph had saved, perhaps, three or four hundred pounds. Considering the sacrifices he had made in order to put by this sum it always amazed Joan to find that he used it to gamble with, buying shares and selling them again, increasing it sometimes, sometimes diminishing it, and always running the risk of losing every penny of it in a day s disaster. But although she wondered, she could not help loving him the better for his odd combination of Spartan self-control and what appeared to her romantic and childish folly. Ralph interested her more than any one else in the world, and she often broke off in the middle of one of these economic discussions, in spite of their gravity, to consider some fresh aspect of his character. "I think you d be foolish to risk your money on poor old Charles," she observed. "Fond as I am of him, he doesn t seem to me exactly brilliant.... Besides, why should you be sacrificed?" "My dear Joan," Ralph exclaimed, stretching himself out with a gesture of impatience, "don t you see that we ve all got to be sacrificed? What s the use of denying it? What s the use of struggling against it? So it always has been, so it always will be. We ve got no money and we never shall have any money. We shall just turn round in the mill every day of our lives until we drop and die, worn out, as most people do, when one comes to think of it." Joan looked at him, opened her lips as if to speak, and closed them again. Then she said, very tentatively: "Aren t you happy, Ralph?" "No. Are you? Perhaps I m as happy as most people, though. God knows whether I m happy or not. What is happiness?" He glanced with half a smile, in spite of his gloomy irritation, at his sister. She looked, as usual, as if she were weighing one thing with another, and balancing them together before she made up her mind. "Happiness," she remarked at length enigmatically, rather as if she were sampling the word, and then she paused. She paused for a considerable space, as if she were considering happiness in all its bearings. "Hilda was here to-day,"<|quote|>she suddenly resumed, as if they had never mentioned happiness.</|quote|>"She brought Bobbie he s a fine boy now." Ralph observed, with an amusement that had a tinge of irony in it, that she was now going to sidle away quickly from this dangerous approach to intimacy on to topics of general and family interest. Nevertheless, he reflected, she was the only one of his family with whom he found it possible to discuss happiness, although he might very well have discussed happiness with Miss Hilbery at their first meeting. He looked critically at Joan, and wished that she did not look so provincial or suburban in her high green dress with the faded trimming, so patient, and almost resigned. He began to wish to tell her about the Hilberys in order to abuse them, for in the miniature battle which so often rages between two quickly following impressions of life, the life of the Hilberys was getting the better of the life of the Denhams in his mind, and he wanted to assure himself that there was some quality in which Joan infinitely surpassed Miss Hilbery. He should have felt that his own sister was more original, and had greater vitality than Miss Hilbery had; but his main impression of Katharine now was of a person of great vitality and composure; and at the moment he could not perceive what poor dear Joan had gained from the fact that she was the granddaughter of a man who kept a shop, and herself earned her own living. The infinite dreariness and sordidness of their life oppressed him in spite of his fundamental belief that, as a family, they were somehow remarkable. "Shall you talk to mother?" Joan inquired. "Because, you see, the thing s got to be settled, one way or another. Charles must write to Uncle John if he s going there." Ralph sighed impatiently. "I suppose it doesn t much matter either way," he exclaimed. "He s doomed to misery in the long run." A slight flush came into Joan s cheek. "You know you re talking nonsense," she said. "It doesn t hurt any one to have to earn their own living. I m very glad I have to earn mine." Ralph was pleased that she should feel this, and wished her to continue, but he went on, perversely enough. "Isn t that only because you ve forgotten how to enjoy yourself? You never have time for anything decent" "As for instance?" "Well, going for walks, or music, or books, or seeing interesting people. You never do anything that s really worth doing any more than I do." "I always think you could make this room much nicer, if you liked," she observed. "What does it matter what sort of room I have when I m forced to spend all the best years of my life drawing up deeds in an office?" "You said two days ago that you found the law so interesting." "So it is if one could afford to know anything about it." (" "That s Herbert only just going to bed now," Joan interposed, as a door on | Night And Day |
“Look there!” | Henry C. Gatz | every detail to me eagerly.<|quote|>“Look there!”</|quote|>and then sought admiration from | many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly.<|quote|>“Look there!”</|quote|>and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown | was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly.<|quote|>“Look there!”</|quote|>and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” | When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly.<|quote|>“Look there!”</|quote|>and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of | matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly.<|quote|>“Look there!”</|quote|>and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: | of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly.<|quote|>“Look there!”</|quote|>and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out | better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly.<|quote|>“Look there!”</|quote|>and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a motor hearse, horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and me in the limousine, and a little later four or five servants and the postman from West Egg, in Gatsby’s station wagon, all wet to the skin. As we started through the gate into the cemetery I heard a car stop and then the sound of someone splashing after us over the soggy ground. I looked around. It was the man with owl-eyed glasses whom I had found marvelling over Gatsby’s books in the library one night three months before. I’d never seen him since then. I don’t know how he knew about the funeral, or even his name. The rain poured down his thick glasses, and he took them off and wiped them to see the protecting canvas unrolled from Gatsby’s grave. I tried to think about Gatsby then for a moment, but he was already too far away, and I could only remember, without resentment, that Daisy hadn’t sent a message or a flower. Dimly I heard someone murmur “Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on,” and then the owl-eyed man said “Amen to that,” in a brave voice. We straggled down quickly through the rain to the cars. Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate. “I couldn’t get to the house,” he remarked. “Neither could anybody else.” “Go on!” He started. “Why, my God! they used to go there by the hundreds.” He took off 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 | I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly.<|quote|>“Look there!”</|quote|>and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to | The Great Gatsby |
Dallas looked at him again, and then, with an incredulous gesture, passed out of sight under the vaulted doorway. Archer sat down on the bench and continued to gaze at the awninged balcony. He calculated the time it would take his son to be carried up in the lift to the fifth floor, to ring the bell, and be admitted to the hall, and then ushered into the drawing-room. He pictured Dallas entering that room with his quick assured step and his delightful smile, and wondered if the people were right who said that his boy "took after him." Then he tried to see the persons already in the room--for probably at that sociable hour there would be more than one--and among them a dark lady, pale and dark, who would look up quickly, half rise, and hold out a long thin hand with three rings on it.... He thought she would be sitting in a sofa-corner near the fire, with azaleas banked behind her on a table. | No speaker | "Say I'm old-fashioned: that's enough."<|quote|>Dallas looked at him again, and then, with an incredulous gesture, passed out of sight under the vaulted doorway. Archer sat down on the bench and continued to gaze at the awninged balcony. He calculated the time it would take his son to be carried up in the lift to the fifth floor, to ring the bell, and be admitted to the hall, and then ushered into the drawing-room. He pictured Dallas entering that room with his quick assured step and his delightful smile, and wondered if the people were right who said that his boy "took after him." Then he tried to see the persons already in the room--for probably at that sociable hour there would be more than one--and among them a dark lady, pale and dark, who would look up quickly, half rise, and hold out a long thin hand with three rings on it.... He thought she would be sitting in a sofa-corner near the fire, with azaleas banked behind her on a table.</|quote|>"It's more real to me | lifts." His father smiled again. "Say I'm old-fashioned: that's enough."<|quote|>Dallas looked at him again, and then, with an incredulous gesture, passed out of sight under the vaulted doorway. Archer sat down on the bench and continued to gaze at the awninged balcony. He calculated the time it would take his son to be carried up in the lift to the fifth floor, to ring the bell, and be admitted to the hall, and then ushered into the drawing-room. He pictured Dallas entering that room with his quick assured step and his delightful smile, and wondered if the people were right who said that his boy "took after him." Then he tried to see the persons already in the room--for probably at that sociable hour there would be more than one--and among them a dark lady, pale and dark, who would look up quickly, half rise, and hold out a long thin hand with three rings on it.... He thought she would be sitting in a sofa-corner near the fire, with azaleas banked behind her on a table.</|quote|>"It's more real to me here than if I went | what on earth shall I say?" "My dear fellow, don't you always know what to say?" his father rejoined with a smile. "Very well. I shall say you're old-fashioned, and prefer walking up the five flights because you don't like lifts." His father smiled again. "Say I'm old-fashioned: that's enough."<|quote|>Dallas looked at him again, and then, with an incredulous gesture, passed out of sight under the vaulted doorway. Archer sat down on the bench and continued to gaze at the awninged balcony. He calculated the time it would take his son to be carried up in the lift to the fifth floor, to ring the bell, and be admitted to the hall, and then ushered into the drawing-room. He pictured Dallas entering that room with his quick assured step and his delightful smile, and wondered if the people were right who said that his boy "took after him." Then he tried to see the persons already in the room--for probably at that sociable hour there would be more than one--and among them a dark lady, pale and dark, who would look up quickly, half rise, and hold out a long thin hand with three rings on it.... He thought she would be sitting in a sofa-corner near the fire, with azaleas banked behind her on a table.</|quote|>"It's more real to me here than if I went up," he suddenly heard himself say; and the fear lest that last shadow of reality should lose its edge kept him rooted to his seat as the minutes succeeded each other. He sat for a long time on the bench | me." Dallas paused before him, visibly bewildered. "But, I say, Dad: do you mean you won't come up at all?" "I don't know," said Archer slowly. "If you don't she won't understand." "Go, my boy; perhaps I shall follow you." Dallas gave him a long look through the twilight. "But what on earth shall I say?" "My dear fellow, don't you always know what to say?" his father rejoined with a smile. "Very well. I shall say you're old-fashioned, and prefer walking up the five flights because you don't like lifts." His father smiled again. "Say I'm old-fashioned: that's enough."<|quote|>Dallas looked at him again, and then, with an incredulous gesture, passed out of sight under the vaulted doorway. Archer sat down on the bench and continued to gaze at the awninged balcony. He calculated the time it would take his son to be carried up in the lift to the fifth floor, to ring the bell, and be admitted to the hall, and then ushered into the drawing-room. He pictured Dallas entering that room with his quick assured step and his delightful smile, and wondered if the people were right who said that his boy "took after him." Then he tried to see the persons already in the room--for probably at that sociable hour there would be more than one--and among them a dark lady, pale and dark, who would look up quickly, half rise, and hold out a long thin hand with three rings on it.... He thought she would be sitting in a sofa-corner near the fire, with azaleas banked behind her on a table.</|quote|>"It's more real to me here than if I went up," he suddenly heard himself say; and the fear lest that last shadow of reality should lose its edge kept him rooted to his seat as the minutes succeeded each other. He sat for a long time on the bench in the thickening dusk, his eyes never turning from the balcony. At length a light shone through the windows, and a moment later a man-servant came out on the balcony, drew up the awnings, and closed the shutters. At that, as if it had been the signal he waited for, | floor--?" Dallas conjectured; and moving toward the porte-cochere he put his head into the porter's lodge, and came back to say: "The fifth. It must be the one with the awnings." Archer remained motionless, gazing at the upper windows as if the end of their pilgrimage had been attained. "I say, you know, it's nearly six," his son at length reminded him. The father glanced away at an empty bench under the trees. "I believe I'll sit there a moment," he said. "Why--aren't you well?" his son exclaimed. "Oh, perfectly. But I should like you, please, to go up without me." Dallas paused before him, visibly bewildered. "But, I say, Dad: do you mean you won't come up at all?" "I don't know," said Archer slowly. "If you don't she won't understand." "Go, my boy; perhaps I shall follow you." Dallas gave him a long look through the twilight. "But what on earth shall I say?" "My dear fellow, don't you always know what to say?" his father rejoined with a smile. "Very well. I shall say you're old-fashioned, and prefer walking up the five flights because you don't like lifts." His father smiled again. "Say I'm old-fashioned: that's enough."<|quote|>Dallas looked at him again, and then, with an incredulous gesture, passed out of sight under the vaulted doorway. Archer sat down on the bench and continued to gaze at the awninged balcony. He calculated the time it would take his son to be carried up in the lift to the fifth floor, to ring the bell, and be admitted to the hall, and then ushered into the drawing-room. He pictured Dallas entering that room with his quick assured step and his delightful smile, and wondered if the people were right who said that his boy "took after him." Then he tried to see the persons already in the room--for probably at that sociable hour there would be more than one--and among them a dark lady, pale and dark, who would look up quickly, half rise, and hold out a long thin hand with three rings on it.... He thought she would be sitting in a sofa-corner near the fire, with azaleas banked behind her on a table.</|quote|>"It's more real to me here than if I went up," he suddenly heard himself say; and the fear lest that last shadow of reality should lose its edge kept him rooted to his seat as the minutes succeeded each other. He sat for a long time on the bench in the thickening dusk, his eyes never turning from the balcony. At length a light shone through the windows, and a moment later a man-servant came out on the balcony, drew up the awnings, and closed the shutters. At that, as if it had been the signal he waited for, Newland Archer got up slowly and walked back alone to his hotel. | been like a relic in a small dim chapel, where there was not time to pray every day.... They had crossed the Place des Invalides, and were walking down one of the thoroughfares flanking the building. It was a quiet quarter, after all, in spite of its splendour and its history; and the fact gave one an idea of the riches Paris had to draw on, since such scenes as this were left to the few and the indifferent. The day was fading into a soft sun-shot haze, pricked here and there by a yellow electric light, and passers were rare in the little square into which they had turned. Dallas stopped again, and looked up. "It must be here," he said, slipping his arm through his father's with a movement from which Archer's shyness did not shrink; and they stood together looking up at the house. It was a modern building, without distinctive character, but many-windowed, and pleasantly balconied up its wide cream-coloured front. On one of the upper balconies, which hung well above the rounded tops of the horse-chestnuts in the square, the awnings were still lowered, as though the sun had just left it. "I wonder which floor--?" Dallas conjectured; and moving toward the porte-cochere he put his head into the porter's lodge, and came back to say: "The fifth. It must be the one with the awnings." Archer remained motionless, gazing at the upper windows as if the end of their pilgrimage had been attained. "I say, you know, it's nearly six," his son at length reminded him. The father glanced away at an empty bench under the trees. "I believe I'll sit there a moment," he said. "Why--aren't you well?" his son exclaimed. "Oh, perfectly. But I should like you, please, to go up without me." Dallas paused before him, visibly bewildered. "But, I say, Dad: do you mean you won't come up at all?" "I don't know," said Archer slowly. "If you don't she won't understand." "Go, my boy; perhaps I shall follow you." Dallas gave him a long look through the twilight. "But what on earth shall I say?" "My dear fellow, don't you always know what to say?" his father rejoined with a smile. "Very well. I shall say you're old-fashioned, and prefer walking up the five flights because you don't like lifts." His father smiled again. "Say I'm old-fashioned: that's enough."<|quote|>Dallas looked at him again, and then, with an incredulous gesture, passed out of sight under the vaulted doorway. Archer sat down on the bench and continued to gaze at the awninged balcony. He calculated the time it would take his son to be carried up in the lift to the fifth floor, to ring the bell, and be admitted to the hall, and then ushered into the drawing-room. He pictured Dallas entering that room with his quick assured step and his delightful smile, and wondered if the people were right who said that his boy "took after him." Then he tried to see the persons already in the room--for probably at that sociable hour there would be more than one--and among them a dark lady, pale and dark, who would look up quickly, half rise, and hold out a long thin hand with three rings on it.... He thought she would be sitting in a sofa-corner near the fire, with azaleas banked behind her on a table.</|quote|>"It's more real to me here than if I went up," he suddenly heard himself say; and the fear lest that last shadow of reality should lose its edge kept him rooted to his seat as the minutes succeeded each other. He sat for a long time on the bench in the thickening dusk, his eyes never turning from the balcony. At length a light shone through the windows, and a moment later a man-servant came out on the balcony, drew up the awnings, and closed the shutters. At that, as if it had been the signal he waited for, Newland Archer got up slowly and walked back alone to his hotel. | insensitive, he knew; but he had the facility and self-confidence that came of looking at fate not as a master but as an equal. "That's it: they feel equal to things--they know their way about," he mused, thinking of his son as the spokesman of the new generation which had swept away all the old landmarks, and with them the sign-posts and the danger-signal. Suddenly Dallas stopped short, grasping his father's arm. "Oh, by Jove," he exclaimed. They had come out into the great tree-planted space before the Invalides. The dome of Mansart floated ethereally above the budding trees and the long grey front of the building: drawing up into itself all the rays of afternoon light, it hung there like the visible symbol of the race's glory. Archer knew that Madame Olenska lived in a square near one of the avenues radiating from the Invalides; and he had pictured the quarter as quiet and almost obscure, forgetting the central splendour that lit it up. Now, by some queer process of association, that golden light became for him the pervading illumination in which she lived. For nearly thirty years, her life--of which he knew so strangely little--had been spent in this rich atmosphere that he already felt to be too dense and yet too stimulating for his lungs. He thought of the theatres she must have been to, the pictures she must have looked at, the sober and splendid old houses she must have frequented, the people she must have talked with, the incessant stir of ideas, curiosities, images and associations thrown out by an intensely social race in a setting of immemorial manners; and suddenly he remembered the young Frenchman who had once said to him: "Ah, good conversation--there is nothing like it, is there?" Archer had not seen M. Riviere, or heard of him, for nearly thirty years; and that fact gave the measure of his ignorance of Madame Olenska's existence. More than half a lifetime divided them, and she had spent the long interval among people he did not know, in a society he but faintly guessed at, in conditions he would never wholly understand. During that time he had been living with his youthful memory of her; but she had doubtless had other and more tangible companionship. Perhaps she too had kept her memory of him as something apart; but if she had, it must have been like a relic in a small dim chapel, where there was not time to pray every day.... They had crossed the Place des Invalides, and were walking down one of the thoroughfares flanking the building. It was a quiet quarter, after all, in spite of its splendour and its history; and the fact gave one an idea of the riches Paris had to draw on, since such scenes as this were left to the few and the indifferent. The day was fading into a soft sun-shot haze, pricked here and there by a yellow electric light, and passers were rare in the little square into which they had turned. Dallas stopped again, and looked up. "It must be here," he said, slipping his arm through his father's with a movement from which Archer's shyness did not shrink; and they stood together looking up at the house. It was a modern building, without distinctive character, but many-windowed, and pleasantly balconied up its wide cream-coloured front. On one of the upper balconies, which hung well above the rounded tops of the horse-chestnuts in the square, the awnings were still lowered, as though the sun had just left it. "I wonder which floor--?" Dallas conjectured; and moving toward the porte-cochere he put his head into the porter's lodge, and came back to say: "The fifth. It must be the one with the awnings." Archer remained motionless, gazing at the upper windows as if the end of their pilgrimage had been attained. "I say, you know, it's nearly six," his son at length reminded him. The father glanced away at an empty bench under the trees. "I believe I'll sit there a moment," he said. "Why--aren't you well?" his son exclaimed. "Oh, perfectly. But I should like you, please, to go up without me." Dallas paused before him, visibly bewildered. "But, I say, Dad: do you mean you won't come up at all?" "I don't know," said Archer slowly. "If you don't she won't understand." "Go, my boy; perhaps I shall follow you." Dallas gave him a long look through the twilight. "But what on earth shall I say?" "My dear fellow, don't you always know what to say?" his father rejoined with a smile. "Very well. I shall say you're old-fashioned, and prefer walking up the five flights because you don't like lifts." His father smiled again. "Say I'm old-fashioned: that's enough."<|quote|>Dallas looked at him again, and then, with an incredulous gesture, passed out of sight under the vaulted doorway. Archer sat down on the bench and continued to gaze at the awninged balcony. He calculated the time it would take his son to be carried up in the lift to the fifth floor, to ring the bell, and be admitted to the hall, and then ushered into the drawing-room. He pictured Dallas entering that room with his quick assured step and his delightful smile, and wondered if the people were right who said that his boy "took after him." Then he tried to see the persons already in the room--for probably at that sociable hour there would be more than one--and among them a dark lady, pale and dark, who would look up quickly, half rise, and hold out a long thin hand with three rings on it.... He thought she would be sitting in a sofa-corner near the fire, with azaleas banked behind her on a table.</|quote|>"It's more real to me here than if I went up," he suddenly heard himself say; and the fear lest that last shadow of reality should lose its edge kept him rooted to his seat as the minutes succeeded each other. He sat for a long time on the bench in the thickening dusk, his eyes never turning from the balcony. At length a light shone through the windows, and a moment later a man-servant came out on the balcony, drew up the awnings, and closed the shutters. At that, as if it had been the signal he waited for, Newland Archer got up slowly and walked back alone to his hotel. | shrink; and they stood together looking up at the house. It was a modern building, without distinctive character, but many-windowed, and pleasantly balconied up its wide cream-coloured front. On one of the upper balconies, which hung well above the rounded tops of the horse-chestnuts in the square, the awnings were still lowered, as though the sun had just left it. "I wonder which floor--?" Dallas conjectured; and moving toward the porte-cochere he put his head into the porter's lodge, and came back to say: "The fifth. It must be the one with the awnings." Archer remained motionless, gazing at the upper windows as if the end of their pilgrimage had been attained. "I say, you know, it's nearly six," his son at length reminded him. The father glanced away at an empty bench under the trees. "I believe I'll sit there a moment," he said. "Why--aren't you well?" his son exclaimed. "Oh, perfectly. But I should like you, please, to go up without me." Dallas paused before him, visibly bewildered. "But, I say, Dad: do you mean you won't come up at all?" "I don't know," said Archer slowly. "If you don't she won't understand." "Go, my boy; perhaps I shall follow you." Dallas gave him a long look through the twilight. "But what on earth shall I say?" "My dear fellow, don't you always know what to say?" his father rejoined with a smile. "Very well. I shall say you're old-fashioned, and prefer walking up the five flights because you don't like lifts." His father smiled again. "Say I'm old-fashioned: that's enough."<|quote|>Dallas looked at him again, and then, with an incredulous gesture, passed out of sight under the vaulted doorway. Archer sat down on the bench and continued to gaze at the awninged balcony. He calculated the time it would take his son to be carried up in the lift to the fifth floor, to ring the bell, and be admitted to the hall, and then ushered into the drawing-room. He pictured Dallas entering that room with his quick assured step and his delightful smile, and wondered if the people were right who said that his boy "took after him." Then he tried to see the persons already in the room--for probably at that sociable hour there would be more than one--and among them a dark lady, pale and dark, who would look up quickly, half rise, and hold out a long thin hand with three rings on it.... He thought she would be sitting in a sofa-corner near the fire, with azaleas banked behind her on a table.</|quote|>"It's more real to me here than if I went up," he suddenly heard himself say; and the fear lest that last shadow of reality should lose its edge kept him rooted to his seat as the minutes succeeded each other. He sat for a long time on the bench in the thickening dusk, his eyes never turning from the balcony. At length a light shone through the windows, and a moment later a man-servant came out on the balcony, drew up the awnings, and closed the shutters. At that, as if it had been the signal he waited for, Newland Archer got up slowly and walked back alone to his hotel. | The Age Of Innocence |
'he's a garter snapper.' | No speaker | 'The trouble is,' "he said,"<|quote|>'he's a garter snapper.'</|quote|>"That's not bad." "That's not | him we talked about Hoffenheimer." 'The trouble is,' "he said,"<|quote|>'he's a garter snapper.'</|quote|>"That's not bad." "That's not bad." "He's through now," Harvey | eat or not." We had a drink. Harvey added my saucer to his own pile. "Do you know Mencken, Harvey?" "Yes. Why?" "What's he like?" "He's all right. He says some pretty funny things. Last time I had dinner with him we talked about Hoffenheimer." 'The trouble is,' "he said,"<|quote|>'he's a garter snapper.'</|quote|>"That's not bad." "That's not bad." "He's through now," Harvey went on. "He's written about all the things he knows, and now he's on all the things he doesn't know." "I guess he's all right," I said. "I just can't read him." "Oh, nobody reads him now," Harvey said, "except | I want to stay in my own room. I'm like a cat." I felt in my pocket. "Would a hundred help you any, Harvey?" "Yes." "Come on. Let's go and eat." "There's no hurry. Have a drink." "Better eat." "No. When I get like this I don't care whether I eat or not." We had a drink. Harvey added my saucer to his own pile. "Do you know Mencken, Harvey?" "Yes. Why?" "What's he like?" "He's all right. He says some pretty funny things. Last time I had dinner with him we talked about Hoffenheimer." 'The trouble is,' "he said,"<|quote|>'he's a garter snapper.'</|quote|>"That's not bad." "That's not bad." "He's through now," Harvey went on. "He's written about all the things he knows, and now he's on all the things he doesn't know." "I guess he's all right," I said. "I just can't read him." "Oh, nobody reads him now," Harvey said, "except the people that used to read the Alexander Hamilton Institute." "Well," I said. "That was a good thing, too." "Sure," said Harvey. So we sat and thought deeply for a while. "Have another port?" "All right," said Harvey. "There comes Cohn," I said. Robert Cohn was crossing the street. "That | States?" "Nothing. Absolutely nothing." "What's the matter?" "I don't know. I'm through with them. I'm absolutely through with them." He leaned forward and looked me in the eye. "Do you want to know something, Jake?" "Yes." "I haven't had anything to eat for five days." I figured rapidly back in my mind. It was three days ago that Harvey had won two hundred francs from me shaking poker dice in the New York Bar. "What's the matter?" "No money. Money hasn't come," he paused. "I tell you it's strange, Jake. When I'm like this I just want to be alone. I want to stay in my own room. I'm like a cat." I felt in my pocket. "Would a hundred help you any, Harvey?" "Yes." "Come on. Let's go and eat." "There's no hurry. Have a drink." "Better eat." "No. When I get like this I don't care whether I eat or not." We had a drink. Harvey added my saucer to his own pile. "Do you know Mencken, Harvey?" "Yes. Why?" "What's he like?" "He's all right. He says some pretty funny things. Last time I had dinner with him we talked about Hoffenheimer." 'The trouble is,' "he said,"<|quote|>'he's a garter snapper.'</|quote|>"That's not bad." "That's not bad." "He's through now," Harvey went on. "He's written about all the things he knows, and now he's on all the things he doesn't know." "I guess he's all right," I said. "I just can't read him." "Oh, nobody reads him now," Harvey said, "except the people that used to read the Alexander Hamilton Institute." "Well," I said. "That was a good thing, too." "Sure," said Harvey. So we sat and thought deeply for a while. "Have another port?" "All right," said Harvey. "There comes Cohn," I said. Robert Cohn was crossing the street. "That moron," said Harvey. Cohn came up to our table. "Hello, you bums," he said. "Hello, Robert," Harvey said. "I was just telling Jake here that you're a moron." "What do you mean?" "Tell us right off. Don't think. What would you rather do if you could do anything you wanted?" Cohn started to consider. "Don't think. Bring it right out." "I don't know," Cohn said. "What's it all about, anyway?" "I mean what would you rather do. What comes into your head first. No matter how silly it is." "I don't know," Cohn said. "I think I'd rather play football | Paris as ugly as the Boulevard Raspail. It is a street I do not mind walking down at all. But I cannot stand to ride along it. Perhaps I had read something about it once. That was the way Robert Cohn was about all of Paris. I wondered where Cohn got that incapacity to enjoy Paris. Possibly from Mencken. Mencken hates Paris, I believe. So many young men get their likes and dislikes from Mencken. The taxi stopped in front of the Rotonde. No matter what caf in Montparnasse you ask a taxi-driver to bring you to from the right bank of the river, they always take you to the Rotonde. Ten years from now it will probably be the Dome. It was near enough, anyway. I walked past the sad tables of the Rotonde to the Select. There were a few people inside at the bar, and outside, alone, sat Harvey Stone. He had a pile of saucers in front of him, and he needed a shave. "Sit down," said Harvey, "I've been looking for you." "What's the matter?" "Nothing. Just looking for you." "Been out to the races?" "No. Not since Sunday." "What do you hear from the States?" "Nothing. Absolutely nothing." "What's the matter?" "I don't know. I'm through with them. I'm absolutely through with them." He leaned forward and looked me in the eye. "Do you want to know something, Jake?" "Yes." "I haven't had anything to eat for five days." I figured rapidly back in my mind. It was three days ago that Harvey had won two hundred francs from me shaking poker dice in the New York Bar. "What's the matter?" "No money. Money hasn't come," he paused. "I tell you it's strange, Jake. When I'm like this I just want to be alone. I want to stay in my own room. I'm like a cat." I felt in my pocket. "Would a hundred help you any, Harvey?" "Yes." "Come on. Let's go and eat." "There's no hurry. Have a drink." "Better eat." "No. When I get like this I don't care whether I eat or not." We had a drink. Harvey added my saucer to his own pile. "Do you know Mencken, Harvey?" "Yes. Why?" "What's he like?" "He's all right. He says some pretty funny things. Last time I had dinner with him we talked about Hoffenheimer." 'The trouble is,' "he said,"<|quote|>'he's a garter snapper.'</|quote|>"That's not bad." "That's not bad." "He's through now," Harvey went on. "He's written about all the things he knows, and now he's on all the things he doesn't know." "I guess he's all right," I said. "I just can't read him." "Oh, nobody reads him now," Harvey said, "except the people that used to read the Alexander Hamilton Institute." "Well," I said. "That was a good thing, too." "Sure," said Harvey. So we sat and thought deeply for a while. "Have another port?" "All right," said Harvey. "There comes Cohn," I said. Robert Cohn was crossing the street. "That moron," said Harvey. Cohn came up to our table. "Hello, you bums," he said. "Hello, Robert," Harvey said. "I was just telling Jake here that you're a moron." "What do you mean?" "Tell us right off. Don't think. What would you rather do if you could do anything you wanted?" Cohn started to consider. "Don't think. Bring it right out." "I don't know," Cohn said. "What's it all about, anyway?" "I mean what would you rather do. What comes into your head first. No matter how silly it is." "I don't know," Cohn said. "I think I'd rather play football again with what I know about handling myself, now." "I misjudged you," Harvey said. "You're not a moron. You're only a case of arrested development." "You're awfully funny, Harvey," Cohn said. "Some day somebody will push your face in." Harvey Stone laughed. "You think so. They won't, though. Because it wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm not a fighter." "It would make a difference to you if anybody did it." "No, it wouldn't. That's where you make your big mistake. Because you're not intelligent." "Cut it out about me." "Sure," said Harvey. "It doesn't make any difference to me. You don't mean anything to me." "Come on, Harvey," I said. "Have another porto." "No," he said. "I'm going up the street and eat. See you later, Jake." He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic. "He always gets me sore," Cohn said. "I can't stand him." "I like him," I said. "I'm fond of him. You don't want to get sore at him." "I know it," Cohn said. "He just gets on my nerves." "Write this afternoon?" "No. I couldn't get it | "Sure. Anything. I never heard of Brett Ashley. How's that?" "No. Not that. About me going to hell." "Oh, don't go to hell," I said. "Stick around. We're just starting lunch." Cohn smiled again and sat down. He seemed glad to sit down. What the hell would he have done if he hadn't sat down? "You say such damned insulting things, Jake." "I'm sorry. I've got a nasty tongue. I never mean it when I say nasty things." "I know it," Cohn said. "You're really about the best friend I have, Jake." God help you, I thought. "Forget what I said," I said out loud. "I'm sorry." "It's all right. It's fine. I was just sore for a minute." "Good. Let's get something else to eat." After we finished the lunch we walked up to the Caf de la Paix and had coffee. I could feel Cohn wanted to bring up Brett again, but I held him off it. We talked about one thing and another, and I left him to come to the office. CHAPTER 6 At five o'clock I was in the Hotel Crillon waiting for Brett. She was not there, so I sat down and wrote some letters. They were not very good letters but I hoped their being on Crillon stationery would help them. Brett did not turn up, so about quarter to six I went down to the bar and had a Jack Rose with George the barman. Brett had not been in the bar either, and so I looked for her up-stairs on my way out, and took a taxi to the Caf Select. Crossing the Seine I saw a string of barges being towed empty down the current, riding high, the bargemen at the sweeps as they came toward the bridge. The river looked nice. It was always pleasant crossing bridges in Paris. The taxi rounded the statue of the inventor of the semaphore engaged in doing same, and turned up the Boulevard Raspail, and I sat back to let that part of the ride pass. The Boulevard Raspail always made dull riding. It was like a certain stretch on the P. L. M. between Fontainebleau and Montereau that always made me feel bored and dead and dull until it was over. I suppose it is some association of ideas that makes those dead places in a journey. There are other streets in Paris as ugly as the Boulevard Raspail. It is a street I do not mind walking down at all. But I cannot stand to ride along it. Perhaps I had read something about it once. That was the way Robert Cohn was about all of Paris. I wondered where Cohn got that incapacity to enjoy Paris. Possibly from Mencken. Mencken hates Paris, I believe. So many young men get their likes and dislikes from Mencken. The taxi stopped in front of the Rotonde. No matter what caf in Montparnasse you ask a taxi-driver to bring you to from the right bank of the river, they always take you to the Rotonde. Ten years from now it will probably be the Dome. It was near enough, anyway. I walked past the sad tables of the Rotonde to the Select. There were a few people inside at the bar, and outside, alone, sat Harvey Stone. He had a pile of saucers in front of him, and he needed a shave. "Sit down," said Harvey, "I've been looking for you." "What's the matter?" "Nothing. Just looking for you." "Been out to the races?" "No. Not since Sunday." "What do you hear from the States?" "Nothing. Absolutely nothing." "What's the matter?" "I don't know. I'm through with them. I'm absolutely through with them." He leaned forward and looked me in the eye. "Do you want to know something, Jake?" "Yes." "I haven't had anything to eat for five days." I figured rapidly back in my mind. It was three days ago that Harvey had won two hundred francs from me shaking poker dice in the New York Bar. "What's the matter?" "No money. Money hasn't come," he paused. "I tell you it's strange, Jake. When I'm like this I just want to be alone. I want to stay in my own room. I'm like a cat." I felt in my pocket. "Would a hundred help you any, Harvey?" "Yes." "Come on. Let's go and eat." "There's no hurry. Have a drink." "Better eat." "No. When I get like this I don't care whether I eat or not." We had a drink. Harvey added my saucer to his own pile. "Do you know Mencken, Harvey?" "Yes. Why?" "What's he like?" "He's all right. He says some pretty funny things. Last time I had dinner with him we talked about Hoffenheimer." 'The trouble is,' "he said,"<|quote|>'he's a garter snapper.'</|quote|>"That's not bad." "That's not bad." "He's through now," Harvey went on. "He's written about all the things he knows, and now he's on all the things he doesn't know." "I guess he's all right," I said. "I just can't read him." "Oh, nobody reads him now," Harvey said, "except the people that used to read the Alexander Hamilton Institute." "Well," I said. "That was a good thing, too." "Sure," said Harvey. So we sat and thought deeply for a while. "Have another port?" "All right," said Harvey. "There comes Cohn," I said. Robert Cohn was crossing the street. "That moron," said Harvey. Cohn came up to our table. "Hello, you bums," he said. "Hello, Robert," Harvey said. "I was just telling Jake here that you're a moron." "What do you mean?" "Tell us right off. Don't think. What would you rather do if you could do anything you wanted?" Cohn started to consider. "Don't think. Bring it right out." "I don't know," Cohn said. "What's it all about, anyway?" "I mean what would you rather do. What comes into your head first. No matter how silly it is." "I don't know," Cohn said. "I think I'd rather play football again with what I know about handling myself, now." "I misjudged you," Harvey said. "You're not a moron. You're only a case of arrested development." "You're awfully funny, Harvey," Cohn said. "Some day somebody will push your face in." Harvey Stone laughed. "You think so. They won't, though. Because it wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm not a fighter." "It would make a difference to you if anybody did it." "No, it wouldn't. That's where you make your big mistake. Because you're not intelligent." "Cut it out about me." "Sure," said Harvey. "It doesn't make any difference to me. You don't mean anything to me." "Come on, Harvey," I said. "Have another porto." "No," he said. "I'm going up the street and eat. See you later, Jake." He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic. "He always gets me sore," Cohn said. "I can't stand him." "I like him," I said. "I'm fond of him. You don't want to get sore at him." "I know it," Cohn said. "He just gets on my nerves." "Write this afternoon?" "No. I couldn't get it going. It's harder to do than my first book. I'm having a hard time handling it." The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he returned from America early in the spring was gone. Then he had been sure of his work, only with these personal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was gone. Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly. The reason is that until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice to watch on the tennis-court, he had a good body, and he kept it in shape; he handled his cards well at bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful. I do not believe he thought about his clothes much. Externally he had been formed at Princeton. Internally he had been moulded by the two women who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of cheerfulness that had never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said. "I have a date." "What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen." "There she is." Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you." "Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled. "Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one" "--shaking her head at Cohn--" "didn't come | bridge. The river looked nice. It was always pleasant crossing bridges in Paris. The taxi rounded the statue of the inventor of the semaphore engaged in doing same, and turned up the Boulevard Raspail, and I sat back to let that part of the ride pass. The Boulevard Raspail always made dull riding. It was like a certain stretch on the P. L. M. between Fontainebleau and Montereau that always made me feel bored and dead and dull until it was over. I suppose it is some association of ideas that makes those dead places in a journey. There are other streets in Paris as ugly as the Boulevard Raspail. It is a street I do not mind walking down at all. But I cannot stand to ride along it. Perhaps I had read something about it once. That was the way Robert Cohn was about all of Paris. I wondered where Cohn got that incapacity to enjoy Paris. Possibly from Mencken. Mencken hates Paris, I believe. So many young men get their likes and dislikes from Mencken. The taxi stopped in front of the Rotonde. No matter what caf in Montparnasse you ask a taxi-driver to bring you to from the right bank of the river, they always take you to the Rotonde. Ten years from now it will probably be the Dome. It was near enough, anyway. I walked past the sad tables of the Rotonde to the Select. There were a few people inside at the bar, and outside, alone, sat Harvey Stone. He had a pile of saucers in front of him, and he needed a shave. "Sit down," said Harvey, "I've been looking for you." "What's the matter?" "Nothing. Just looking for you." "Been out to the races?" "No. Not since Sunday." "What do you hear from the States?" "Nothing. Absolutely nothing." "What's the matter?" "I don't know. I'm through with them. I'm absolutely through with them." He leaned forward and looked me in the eye. "Do you want to know something, Jake?" "Yes." "I haven't had anything to eat for five days." I figured rapidly back in my mind. It was three days ago that Harvey had won two hundred francs from me shaking poker dice in the New York Bar. "What's the matter?" "No money. Money hasn't come," he paused. "I tell you it's strange, Jake. When I'm like this I just want to be alone. I want to stay in my own room. I'm like a cat." I felt in my pocket. "Would a hundred help you any, Harvey?" "Yes." "Come on. Let's go and eat." "There's no hurry. Have a drink." "Better eat." "No. When I get like this I don't care whether I eat or not." We had a drink. Harvey added my saucer to his own pile. "Do you know Mencken, Harvey?" "Yes. Why?" "What's he like?" "He's all right. He says some pretty funny things. Last time I had dinner with him we talked about Hoffenheimer." 'The trouble is,' "he said,"<|quote|>'he's a garter snapper.'</|quote|>"That's not bad." "That's not bad." "He's through now," Harvey went on. "He's written about all the things he knows, and now he's on all the things he doesn't know." "I guess he's all right," I said. "I just can't read him." "Oh, nobody reads him now," Harvey said, "except the people that used to read the Alexander Hamilton Institute." "Well," I said. "That was a good thing, too." "Sure," said Harvey. So we sat and thought deeply for a while. "Have another port?" "All right," said Harvey. "There comes Cohn," I said. Robert Cohn was crossing the street. "That moron," said Harvey. Cohn came up to our table. "Hello, you bums," he said. "Hello, Robert," Harvey said. "I was just telling Jake here that you're a moron." "What do you mean?" "Tell us right off. Don't think. What would you rather do if you could do anything you wanted?" Cohn started to consider. "Don't think. Bring it right out." "I don't know," Cohn said. "What's it all about, anyway?" "I mean what would you rather do. What comes into your head first. No matter how silly it is." "I don't know," Cohn said. "I think I'd rather play football again with what I know about handling myself, now." "I misjudged you," Harvey said. "You're not a moron. You're only a case of arrested development." "You're awfully funny, Harvey," Cohn said. "Some day somebody will push your face in." Harvey Stone laughed. "You think so. They won't, though. Because it wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm not a fighter." "It would make a difference to you if anybody did it." "No, it wouldn't. That's where you make your big mistake. Because you're not intelligent." "Cut it out about me." "Sure," said Harvey. "It doesn't make any difference to me. You don't mean anything to me." "Come on, Harvey," I said. "Have another porto." "No," he said. "I'm going up the street and eat. See you later, Jake." He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic. "He always gets me sore," Cohn said. "I can't stand him." "I like him," I said. "I'm fond of him. You don't want to get sore at him." "I know it," Cohn said. "He just gets on my nerves." "Write this afternoon?" "No. I couldn't get it going. It's harder to do than my first book. I'm having a hard time handling it." The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he returned from America early in the spring was gone. Then he had been sure of his work, only with these personal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was gone. Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly. The reason is that until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice to watch on the tennis-court, he had a good | The Sun Also Rises |
"But he is a quiet industrious man, and I'm sure he is a good husband." | Josiah Christmas | sternly. "I don't know, sir."<|quote|>"But he is a quiet industrious man, and I'm sure he is a good husband."</|quote|>"Yes, he's the best of | him." "Why?" asked Uncle Josiah sternly. "I don't know, sir."<|quote|>"But he is a quiet industrious man, and I'm sure he is a good husband."</|quote|>"Yes, he's the best of husbands," sobbed Sally. "Then why | 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."<|quote|>"But he is a quiet industrious man, and I'm sure he is a good husband."</|quote|>"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, | "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."<|quote|>"But he is a quiet industrious man, and I'm sure he is a good husband."</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>"But he is a quiet industrious man, and I'm sure he is a good husband."</|quote|>"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 | "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."<|quote|>"But he is a quiet industrious man, and I'm sure he is a good husband."</|quote|>"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," whispered Mrs Lavington; "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. | and then held up her hand as if to command silence. "Please, 'm, would you mind coming here?" she said softly. Mrs Lavington ran to the door, followed the woman across the hall, unaware of the fact that the old merchant was close at her heels. They paused as soon as they were inside the drawing-room, impressed by the scene before them, for there, half sitting, half lying, and fast asleep, with the tears on her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see. "Don't wake her," said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie. "Did you see Miss Kitty last night?" "Ye-es, sir." "Where?" "She comed into the kitchen, sir." "After we had gone to bed?" "Yes, sir." "And you said nothing just now?" "No, sir, I didn't like to." "That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly. "Laura. Here!" Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room. "The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon's return." "And he has not returned, Josiah," sobbed Mrs Lavington. "Here, stop! What are you going to do?" "I am going up to his room to see," said the sobbing woman. Uncle Josiah made no opposition, for he read the mother's thought, and followed her upstairs, where a half-open drawer told tales, and in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself. "I cannot say exactly," she said piteously; "but he has made up a bundle of his things." "The coward!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "Gone! Gone! My poor boy!" "Hush!" cried the old man sternly. "He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone," sobbed his sister. "Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words." "You are saying this to comfort me," said Mrs Lavington sadly. "I am saying what I think," cried her brother. "If I thought he had gone right off, I would say so, but I do not think anything of the kind. He may have thought of doing so last night, but this morning he will repent and come back." He took his sister's hand gently, and led her downstairs, making her resume her place at the table, and taking his own again, as he made a pretence of going on with his breakfast; but before he had eaten his second mouthful there was a dull heavy thump at the front door. "There!" cried the old man; "what did I say? Here he is." Before the front door could be opened, Kitty, who had been awakened by the knock, came in looking scared and strange. "Don," she said; "I have been asleep. Has he come back?" "Yes I think this is he," said the old man gently. "Come here, my pet; don't shrink like that. I'm not angry." "If you please, sir," said Jessie, "here's a woman from the yard." "Mrs Wimble?" "Yes, sir; and can she speak to you a minute?" "Yes, I'll come--no, show her in here. News. An ambassador, Laura," said the old man with a grim smile, as Jessie went out. "There, Kitty, my dear, don't cry. It will be all right soon." At that 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."<|quote|>"But he is a quiet industrious man, and I'm sure he is a good husband."</|quote|>"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," whispered Mrs Lavington; "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 | 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."<|quote|>"But he is a quiet industrious man, and I'm sure he is a good husband."</|quote|>"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," whispered Mrs Lavington; "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 | Don Lavington |
she still insisted. | No speaker | “Not then anything of ours?”<|quote|>she still insisted.</|quote|>“Of ‘ours’?” he echoed with | anything else is his car.” “Not then anything of ours?”<|quote|>she still insisted.</|quote|>“Of ‘ours’?” he echoed with a frown. “Are you afraid | “No, father--certainly,” she said. “You’re splendidly generous.” His eyes seemed rather sharply to ask her then how he could improve on that; but he added as if it were enough: “What the man must by this time want more than anything else is his car.” “Not then anything of ours?”<|quote|>she still insisted.</|quote|>“Of ‘ours’?” he echoed with a frown. “Are you afraid he has an eye to something of _yours?_” “Why, if we’ve a new treasure--which we certainly have if we possess a Mantovano--haven’t we all, even I, an immense interest in it?” And before he could answer, “Is _that_ exposed?” she | challenge. “‘My’ American? He’s none of mine!” “Well then Lord John’s.” “He’s none of his either--more, I mean, than any one else’s. He’s every one’s American, literally--to all appearance; and I’ve not to tell _you_, surely, with the freedom of your own visitors, how people stalk in and out here.” “No, father--certainly,” she said. “You’re splendidly generous.” His eyes seemed rather sharply to ask her then how he could improve on that; but he added as if it were enough: “What the man must by this time want more than anything else is his car.” “Not then anything of ours?”<|quote|>she still insisted.</|quote|>“Of ‘ours’?” he echoed with a frown. “Are you afraid he has an eye to something of _yours?_” “Why, if we’ve a new treasure--which we certainly have if we possess a Mantovano--haven’t we all, even I, an immense interest in it?” And before he could answer, “Is _that_ exposed?” she asked. Lord Theign, a little unready, cast about at his storied halls; any illusion to the “exposure” of the objects they so solidly sheltered was obviously unpleasant to him. But then it was as if he found at a stroke both his own reassurance and his daughter’s. “How can there | reason!--your time.” “May I ask then,” she said, “for still a little more?” He looked for this, verily, as if it was not in reason. “You know,” he then returned, “what he’ll feel that a sign of.” “Well, I’ll tell him what I mean.” “Then I’ll send him to you.” He glanced at his watch and was going, but after a “Thanks, father,” she had stopped him. “There’s one thing more.” An embarrassment showed in her manner, but at the cost of some effect of earnest abruptness she surmounted it. “What does your American--Mr. Bender--want?” Lord Theign plainly felt the challenge. “‘My’ American? He’s none of mine!” “Well then Lord John’s.” “He’s none of his either--more, I mean, than any one else’s. He’s every one’s American, literally--to all appearance; and I’ve not to tell _you_, surely, with the freedom of your own visitors, how people stalk in and out here.” “No, father--certainly,” she said. “You’re splendidly generous.” His eyes seemed rather sharply to ask her then how he could improve on that; but he added as if it were enough: “What the man must by this time want more than anything else is his car.” “Not then anything of ours?”<|quote|>she still insisted.</|quote|>“Of ‘ours’?” he echoed with a frown. “Are you afraid he has an eye to something of _yours?_” “Why, if we’ve a new treasure--which we certainly have if we possess a Mantovano--haven’t we all, even I, an immense interest in it?” And before he could answer, “Is _that_ exposed?” she asked. Lord Theign, a little unready, cast about at his storied halls; any illusion to the “exposure” of the objects they so solidly sheltered was obviously unpleasant to him. But then it was as if he found at a stroke both his own reassurance and his daughter’s. “How can there be a question of it when he only wants Sir Joshuas?” “He wants ours?” the girl gasped. “At absolutely any price.” “But you’re not,” she cried, “discussing it?” He hesitated as between chiding and contenting her--then he handsomely chose. “My dear child, for what do you take me?” With which he impatiently started, through the long and stately perspective, for the saloon. She sank into a chair when he had gone; she sat there some moments in a visible tension of thought, her hands clasped in her lap and her dropped eyes fixed and unperceiving; but she sprang up as | a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too much, you would have felt her ask, and wasn’t his visible wish for brevity of debate a sign of his uncomfortable and indeed rather irritated sense of his not making a figure in it? “Do you desire it very particularly?” was, however, all she at last brought out. “I should like it exceedingly--if you act from conviction. Then of course only; but of one thing I’m myself convinced--of what he thinks of yourself and feels for you.” “Then would you mind my waiting a little?” she asked. “I mean to be absolutely sure of myself.” After which, on his delaying to agree, she added frankly, as to help her case: “Upon my word, father, I should like to do what would please you.” But it determined in him a sharper impatience. “Ah, what would please _me!_ Don’t put it off on ‘me’! Judge absolutely for yourself” --he slightly took himself up-- “in the light of my having consented to do for him what I always _hate_ to do: deviate from my normal practice of never intermeddling. If I’ve deviated now you can judge. But to do so all round, of course, take--in reason!--your time.” “May I ask then,” she said, “for still a little more?” He looked for this, verily, as if it was not in reason. “You know,” he then returned, “what he’ll feel that a sign of.” “Well, I’ll tell him what I mean.” “Then I’ll send him to you.” He glanced at his watch and was going, but after a “Thanks, father,” she had stopped him. “There’s one thing more.” An embarrassment showed in her manner, but at the cost of some effect of earnest abruptness she surmounted it. “What does your American--Mr. Bender--want?” Lord Theign plainly felt the challenge. “‘My’ American? He’s none of mine!” “Well then Lord John’s.” “He’s none of his either--more, I mean, than any one else’s. He’s every one’s American, literally--to all appearance; and I’ve not to tell _you_, surely, with the freedom of your own visitors, how people stalk in and out here.” “No, father--certainly,” she said. “You’re splendidly generous.” His eyes seemed rather sharply to ask her then how he could improve on that; but he added as if it were enough: “What the man must by this time want more than anything else is his car.” “Not then anything of ours?”<|quote|>she still insisted.</|quote|>“Of ‘ours’?” he echoed with a frown. “Are you afraid he has an eye to something of _yours?_” “Why, if we’ve a new treasure--which we certainly have if we possess a Mantovano--haven’t we all, even I, an immense interest in it?” And before he could answer, “Is _that_ exposed?” she asked. Lord Theign, a little unready, cast about at his storied halls; any illusion to the “exposure” of the objects they so solidly sheltered was obviously unpleasant to him. But then it was as if he found at a stroke both his own reassurance and his daughter’s. “How can there be a question of it when he only wants Sir Joshuas?” “He wants ours?” the girl gasped. “At absolutely any price.” “But you’re not,” she cried, “discussing it?” He hesitated as between chiding and contenting her--then he handsomely chose. “My dear child, for what do you take me?” With which he impatiently started, through the long and stately perspective, for the saloon. She sank into a chair when he had gone; she sat there some moments in a visible tension of thought, her hands clasped in her lap and her dropped eyes fixed and unperceiving; but she sprang up as Hugh Crimble, in search of her, again stood before her. He presented himself as with winged sandals. “What luck to find you! I must take my spin back.” “You’ve seen everything as you wished?” “Oh,” he smiled, “I’ve seen wonders.” She showed her pleasure. “Yes, we’ve got some things.” “So Mr. Bender says!” he laughed. “You’ve got five or six--” “Only five or six?” she cried in bright alarm. “‘Only’?” he continued to laugh. “Why, that’s enormous, five or six things of the first importance! But I think I ought to mention to you,” he added, “a most barefaced ‘Rubens’ there in the library.” “It isn’t a Rubens?” “No more than I’m a Ruskin.” “Then you’ll brand us--expose us for it?” “No, I’ll let you off--I’ll be quiet if you’re good, if you go straight. I’ll only hold it _in terrorem_. One can’t be sure in these dreadful days--that’s always to remember; so that if you’re not good I’ll come down on you with it. But to balance against that threat,” he went on, “I’ve made the very grandest find. At least I believe I have!” She was all there for this news. “Of the Manto-vano--hidden in the other thing?” | him!” “Oh, I shall pay Mr. Crimble!” said her father, who had turned round. The whole question appeared to have provoked in Lord John a rise of spirits and a flush of humour. “Don’t you let him stick it on.” His host, however, bethinking himself, checked him. “Go _you_ to Mr. Bender straight!” Lord John saw the point. “Yes--till he leaves. But I shall find you here, shan’t I?” he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace. She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented. “I’ll wait for you.” “Then _à tantôt!_” It made him show for happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite--to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own. IX Lord Theign, when he had gone, revolved--it might have been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.” “Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.” “Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the character under discussion could after all be summed up without searching analysis. “I consider nevertheless that there’s plenty in him.” It was a moderate claim, to which Lady Grace might assent. “He strikes me as naturally quick and--well, nice. But I agree with you than he hasn’t had a chance.” “Then if you can see your way by sympathy and confidence to help him to one I dare say you’ll find your reward.” For a third time she considered, as if a certain curtness in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too much, you would have felt her ask, and wasn’t his visible wish for brevity of debate a sign of his uncomfortable and indeed rather irritated sense of his not making a figure in it? “Do you desire it very particularly?” was, however, all she at last brought out. “I should like it exceedingly--if you act from conviction. Then of course only; but of one thing I’m myself convinced--of what he thinks of yourself and feels for you.” “Then would you mind my waiting a little?” she asked. “I mean to be absolutely sure of myself.” After which, on his delaying to agree, she added frankly, as to help her case: “Upon my word, father, I should like to do what would please you.” But it determined in him a sharper impatience. “Ah, what would please _me!_ Don’t put it off on ‘me’! Judge absolutely for yourself” --he slightly took himself up-- “in the light of my having consented to do for him what I always _hate_ to do: deviate from my normal practice of never intermeddling. If I’ve deviated now you can judge. But to do so all round, of course, take--in reason!--your time.” “May I ask then,” she said, “for still a little more?” He looked for this, verily, as if it was not in reason. “You know,” he then returned, “what he’ll feel that a sign of.” “Well, I’ll tell him what I mean.” “Then I’ll send him to you.” He glanced at his watch and was going, but after a “Thanks, father,” she had stopped him. “There’s one thing more.” An embarrassment showed in her manner, but at the cost of some effect of earnest abruptness she surmounted it. “What does your American--Mr. Bender--want?” Lord Theign plainly felt the challenge. “‘My’ American? He’s none of mine!” “Well then Lord John’s.” “He’s none of his either--more, I mean, than any one else’s. He’s every one’s American, literally--to all appearance; and I’ve not to tell _you_, surely, with the freedom of your own visitors, how people stalk in and out here.” “No, father--certainly,” she said. “You’re splendidly generous.” His eyes seemed rather sharply to ask her then how he could improve on that; but he added as if it were enough: “What the man must by this time want more than anything else is his car.” “Not then anything of ours?”<|quote|>she still insisted.</|quote|>“Of ‘ours’?” he echoed with a frown. “Are you afraid he has an eye to something of _yours?_” “Why, if we’ve a new treasure--which we certainly have if we possess a Mantovano--haven’t we all, even I, an immense interest in it?” And before he could answer, “Is _that_ exposed?” she asked. Lord Theign, a little unready, cast about at his storied halls; any illusion to the “exposure” of the objects they so solidly sheltered was obviously unpleasant to him. But then it was as if he found at a stroke both his own reassurance and his daughter’s. “How can there be a question of it when he only wants Sir Joshuas?” “He wants ours?” the girl gasped. “At absolutely any price.” “But you’re not,” she cried, “discussing it?” He hesitated as between chiding and contenting her--then he handsomely chose. “My dear child, for what do you take me?” With which he impatiently started, through the long and stately perspective, for the saloon. She sank into a chair when he had gone; she sat there some moments in a visible tension of thought, her hands clasped in her lap and her dropped eyes fixed and unperceiving; but she sprang up as Hugh Crimble, in search of her, again stood before her. He presented himself as with winged sandals. “What luck to find you! I must take my spin back.” “You’ve seen everything as you wished?” “Oh,” he smiled, “I’ve seen wonders.” She showed her pleasure. “Yes, we’ve got some things.” “So Mr. Bender says!” he laughed. “You’ve got five or six--” “Only five or six?” she cried in bright alarm. “‘Only’?” he continued to laugh. “Why, that’s enormous, five or six things of the first importance! But I think I ought to mention to you,” he added, “a most barefaced ‘Rubens’ there in the library.” “It isn’t a Rubens?” “No more than I’m a Ruskin.” “Then you’ll brand us--expose us for it?” “No, I’ll let you off--I’ll be quiet if you’re good, if you go straight. I’ll only hold it _in terrorem_. One can’t be sure in these dreadful days--that’s always to remember; so that if you’re not good I’ll come down on you with it. But to balance against that threat,” he went on, “I’ve made the very grandest find. At least I believe I have!” She was all there for this news. “Of the Manto-vano--hidden in the other thing?” Hugh wondered--almost as if she had been before him. “You don’t mean to say _you’ve_ had the idea of that?” “No, but my father has told me.” “And is your father,” he eagerly asked, “really gratified?” With her conscious eyes on him--her eyes could clearly be very conscious about her father--she considered a moment. “He always prefers old associations and appearances to new; but I’m sure he’ll resign himself if you see your way to a certainty.” “Well, it will be a question of the weight of expert opinion that I shall invoke. But I’m not afraid,” he resolutely said, “and I shall make the thing, from its splendid rarity, the crown and flower of your glory.” Her serious face shone at him with a charmed gratitude. “It’s awfully beautiful then your having come to us so. It’s awfully beautiful your having brought us this way, in a flash--as dropping out of a chariot of fire--more light and what you apparently feel with myself as more honour.” “Ah, the beauty’s in your having yourself done it!” he returned. He gave way to the positive joy of it. “If I’ve brought the ‘light’ and the rest--that’s to say the very useful information--who in the world was it brought _me?_” She had a gesture of protest “You’d have come in some other way.” “I’m not so sure! I’m beastly shy--little as I may seem to show it: save in great causes, when I’m horridly bold and hideously offensive. Now at any rate I only know what _has_ been.” She turned off for it, moving away from him as with a sense of mingled things that made for unrest; and he had the next moment grown graver under the impression. “But does anything in it all,” he asked, “trouble you?” She faced about across the wider space, and there was a different note in what she brought out. “I don’t know what forces me so to _tell_ you things.” “‘Tell’ me?” he stared. “Why, you’ve told me nothing more monstrous than that I’ve been welcome!” “Well, however that may be, what did you mean just now by the chance of our not ‘going straight’? When you said you’d expose our bad--or is it our false?--Rubens in the event of a certain danger.” “Oh, in the event of your ever being bribed” --he laughed again as with relief. And then as her face seemed | her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the character under discussion could after all be summed up without searching analysis. “I consider nevertheless that there’s plenty in him.” It was a moderate claim, to which Lady Grace might assent. “He strikes me as naturally quick and--well, nice. But I agree with you than he hasn’t had a chance.” “Then if you can see your way by sympathy and confidence to help him to one I dare say you’ll find your reward.” For a third time she considered, as if a certain curtness in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too much, you would have felt her ask, and wasn’t his visible wish for brevity of debate a sign of his uncomfortable and indeed rather irritated sense of his not making a figure in it? “Do you desire it very particularly?” was, however, all she at last brought out. “I should like it exceedingly--if you act from conviction. Then of course only; but of one thing I’m myself convinced--of what he thinks of yourself and feels for you.” “Then would you mind my waiting a little?” she asked. “I mean to be absolutely sure of myself.” After which, on his delaying to agree, she added frankly, as to help her case: “Upon my word, father, I should like to do what would please you.” But it determined in him a sharper impatience. “Ah, what would please _me!_ Don’t put it off on ‘me’! Judge absolutely for yourself” --he slightly took himself up-- “in the light of my having consented to do for him what I always _hate_ to do: deviate from my normal practice of never intermeddling. If I’ve deviated now you can judge. But to do so all round, of course, take--in reason!--your time.” “May I ask then,” she said, “for still a little more?” He looked for this, verily, as if it was not in reason. “You know,” he then returned, “what he’ll feel that a sign of.” “Well, I’ll tell him what I mean.” “Then I’ll send him to you.” He glanced at his watch and was going, but after a “Thanks, father,” she had stopped him. “There’s one thing more.” An embarrassment showed in her manner, but at the cost of some effect of earnest abruptness she surmounted it. “What does your American--Mr. Bender--want?” Lord Theign plainly felt the challenge. “‘My’ American? He’s none of mine!” “Well then Lord John’s.” “He’s none of his either--more, I mean, than any one else’s. He’s every one’s American, literally--to all appearance; and I’ve not to tell _you_, surely, with the freedom of your own visitors, how people stalk in and out here.” “No, father--certainly,” she said. “You’re splendidly generous.” His eyes seemed rather sharply to ask her then how he could improve on that; but he added as if it were enough: “What the man must by this time want more than anything else is his car.” “Not then anything of ours?”<|quote|>she still insisted.</|quote|>“Of ‘ours’?” he echoed with a frown. “Are you afraid he has an eye to something of _yours?_” “Why, if we’ve a new treasure--which we certainly have if we possess a Mantovano--haven’t we all, even I, an immense interest in it?” And before he could answer, “Is _that_ exposed?” she asked. Lord Theign, a little unready, cast about at his storied halls; any illusion to the “exposure” of the objects they so solidly sheltered was obviously unpleasant to him. But then it was as if he found at a stroke both his own reassurance and his daughter’s. “How can there be a question of it when he only wants Sir Joshuas?” “He wants ours?” the girl gasped. “At absolutely any price.” “But you’re not,” she cried, “discussing it?” He hesitated as between chiding and contenting her--then he handsomely chose. “My dear child, for what do you take me?” With which he impatiently started, through the long and stately perspective, for the saloon. She sank into a chair when he had gone; she sat there some moments in a visible tension of thought, her hands clasped in her lap and her dropped eyes fixed and unperceiving; but she sprang up as Hugh Crimble, in search of her, again stood before her. He presented himself as with winged sandals. “What luck to find you! I must take my spin back.” “You’ve seen everything as you wished?” “Oh,” he smiled, “I’ve seen wonders.” She showed her pleasure. “Yes, we’ve got some things.” “So Mr. Bender says!” he laughed. “You’ve got five or six--” “Only five or six?” she cried in bright alarm. “‘Only’?” he continued to laugh. “Why, that’s enormous, five or six things of the first importance! But I think I ought to mention to you,” he added, “a most barefaced ‘Rubens’ there in the library.” “It isn’t a Rubens?” “No more than I’m a Ruskin.” “Then you’ll brand us--expose us for it?” “No, I’ll let you off--I’ll be quiet if you’re good, if you go straight. | The Outcry |
"I promised Granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer." | Ellen Olenska | Instead of answering she murmured:<|quote|>"I promised Granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer."</|quote|>"From me?" She bent her | "What do you think better?" Instead of answering she murmured:<|quote|>"I promised Granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer."</|quote|>"From me?" She bent her head slightly, without looking at | cap walked listlessly through the room like a ghost stalking through a necropolis. They fixed their eyes simultaneously on the case opposite them, and when the official figure had vanished down a vista of mummies and sarcophagi Archer spoke again. "What do you think better?" Instead of answering she murmured:<|quote|>"I promised Granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer."</|quote|>"From me?" She bent her head slightly, without looking at him. "Safer from loving me?" Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil. "Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!" | a deep breath of relief. He sprang up impatiently. "Well, then--it's my turn to ask: what is it, in God's name, that you think better?" She hung her head and continued to clasp and unclasp her hands in her muff. The step drew nearer, and a guardian in a braided cap walked listlessly through the room like a ghost stalking through a necropolis. They fixed their eyes simultaneously on the case opposite them, and when the official figure had vanished down a vista of mummies and sarcophagi Archer spoke again. "What do you think better?" Instead of answering she murmured:<|quote|>"I promised Granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer."</|quote|>"From me?" She bent her head slightly, without looking at him. "Safer from loving me?" Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil. "Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!" she protested. "What others? I don't profess to be different from my kind. I'm consumed by the same wants and the same longings." She glanced at him with a kind of terror, and he saw a faint colour steal into her cheeks. "Shall I--once come to you; and then go | then: this is better, isn't it?" she returned with a long questioning sigh. "Better--?" "We shall hurt others less. Isn't it, after all, what you always wanted?" "To have you here, you mean--in reach and yet out of reach? To meet you in this way, on the sly? It's the very reverse of what I want. I told you the other day what I wanted." She hesitated. "And you still think this--worse?" "A thousand times!" He paused. "It would be easy to lie to you; but the truth is I think it detestable." "Oh, so do I!" she cried with a deep breath of relief. He sprang up impatiently. "Well, then--it's my turn to ask: what is it, in God's name, that you think better?" She hung her head and continued to clasp and unclasp her hands in her muff. The step drew nearer, and a guardian in a braided cap walked listlessly through the room like a ghost stalking through a necropolis. They fixed their eyes simultaneously on the case opposite them, and when the official figure had vanished down a vista of mummies and sarcophagi Archer spoke again. "What do you think better?" Instead of answering she murmured:<|quote|>"I promised Granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer."</|quote|>"From me?" She bent her head slightly, without looking at him. "Safer from loving me?" Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil. "Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!" she protested. "What others? I don't profess to be different from my kind. I'm consumed by the same wants and the same longings." She glanced at him with a kind of terror, and he saw a faint colour steal into her cheeks. "Shall I--once come to you; and then go home?" she suddenly hazarded in a low clear voice. The blood rushed to the young man's forehead. "Dearest!" he said, without moving. It seemed as if he held his heart in his hands, like a full cup that the least motion might overbrim. Then her last phrase struck his ear and his face clouded. "Go home? What do you mean by going home?" "Home to my husband." "And you expect me to say yes to that?" She raised her troubled eyes to his. "What else is there? I can't stay here and lie to the people who've been good to | under a magnifying glass and labelled: 'Use unknown.'" "Yes; but meanwhile--" "Ah, meanwhile--" As she stood there, in her long sealskin coat, her hands thrust in a small round muff, her veil drawn down like a transparent mask to the tip of her nose, and the bunch of violets he had brought her stirring with her quickly-taken breath, it seemed incredible that this pure harmony of line and colour should ever suffer the stupid law of change. "Meanwhile everything matters--that concerns you," he said. She looked at him thoughtfully, and turned back to the divan. He sat down beside her and waited; but suddenly he heard a step echoing far off down the empty rooms, and felt the pressure of the minutes. "What is it you wanted to tell me?" she asked, as if she had received the same warning. "What I wanted to tell you?" he rejoined. "Why, that I believe you came to New York because you were afraid." "Afraid?" "Of my coming to Washington." She looked down at her muff, and he saw her hands stir in it uneasily. "Well--?" "Well--yes," she said. "You WERE afraid? You knew--?" "Yes: I knew ..." "Well, then?" he insisted. "Well, then: this is better, isn't it?" she returned with a long questioning sigh. "Better--?" "We shall hurt others less. Isn't it, after all, what you always wanted?" "To have you here, you mean--in reach and yet out of reach? To meet you in this way, on the sly? It's the very reverse of what I want. I told you the other day what I wanted." She hesitated. "And you still think this--worse?" "A thousand times!" He paused. "It would be easy to lie to you; but the truth is I think it detestable." "Oh, so do I!" she cried with a deep breath of relief. He sprang up impatiently. "Well, then--it's my turn to ask: what is it, in God's name, that you think better?" She hung her head and continued to clasp and unclasp her hands in her muff. The step drew nearer, and a guardian in a braided cap walked listlessly through the room like a ghost stalking through a necropolis. They fixed their eyes simultaneously on the case opposite them, and when the official figure had vanished down a vista of mummies and sarcophagi Archer spoke again. "What do you think better?" Instead of answering she murmured:<|quote|>"I promised Granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer."</|quote|>"From me?" She bent her head slightly, without looking at him. "Safer from loving me?" Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil. "Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!" she protested. "What others? I don't profess to be different from my kind. I'm consumed by the same wants and the same longings." She glanced at him with a kind of terror, and he saw a faint colour steal into her cheeks. "Shall I--once come to you; and then go home?" she suddenly hazarded in a low clear voice. The blood rushed to the young man's forehead. "Dearest!" he said, without moving. It seemed as if he held his heart in his hands, like a full cup that the least motion might overbrim. Then her last phrase struck his ear and his face clouded. "Go home? What do you mean by going home?" "Home to my husband." "And you expect me to say yes to that?" She raised her troubled eyes to his. "What else is there? I can't stay here and lie to the people who've been good to me." "But that's the very reason why I ask you to come away!" "And destroy their lives, when they've helped me to remake mine?" Archer sprang to his feet and stood looking down on her in inarticulate despair. It would have been easy to say: "Yes, come; come once." He knew the power she would put in his hands if she consented; there would be no difficulty then in persuading her not to go back to her husband. But something silenced the word on his lips. A sort of passionate honesty in her made it inconceivable that he should try to draw her into that familiar trap. "If I were to let her come," he said to himself, "I should have to let her go again." And that was not to be imagined. But he saw the shadow of the lashes on her wet cheek, and wavered. "After all," he began again, "we have lives of our own.... There's no use attempting the impossible. You're so unprejudiced about some things, so used, as you say, to looking at the Gorgon, that I don't know why you're afraid to face our case, and see it as it really is--unless you think | if conscious that her change of plans required some explanation. "Somewhere where we can be alone," he insisted. She gave a faint laugh that grated on him. "In New York? But there are no churches ... no monuments." "There's the Art Museum--in the Park," he explained, as she looked puzzled. "At half-past two. I shall be at the door ..." She turned away without answering and got quickly into the carriage. As it drove off she leaned forward, and he thought she waved her hand in the obscurity. He stared after her in a turmoil of contradictory feelings. It seemed to him that he had been speaking not to the woman he loved but to another, a woman he was indebted to for pleasures already wearied of: it was hateful to find himself the prisoner of this hackneyed vocabulary. "She'll come!" he said to himself, almost contemptuously. Avoiding the popular "Wolfe collection," whose anecdotic canvases filled one of the main galleries of the queer wilderness of cast-iron and encaustic tiles known as the Metropolitan Museum, they had wandered down a passage to the room where the "Cesnola antiquities" mouldered in unvisited loneliness. They had this melancholy retreat to themselves, and seated on the divan enclosing the central steam-radiator, they were staring silently at the glass cabinets mounted in ebonised wood which contained the recovered fragments of Ilium. "It's odd," Madame Olenska said, "I never came here before." "Ah, well--. Some day, I suppose, it will be a great Museum." "Yes," she assented absently. She stood up and wandered across the room. Archer, remaining seated, watched the light movements of her figure, so girlish even under its heavy furs, the cleverly planted heron wing in her fur cap, and the way a dark curl lay like a flattened vine spiral on each cheek above the ear. His mind, as always when they first met, was wholly absorbed in the delicious details that made her herself and no other. Presently he rose and approached the case before which she stood. Its glass shelves were crowded with small broken objects--hardly recognisable domestic utensils, ornaments and personal trifles--made of glass, of clay, of discoloured bronze and other time-blurred substances. "It seems cruel," she said, "that after a while nothing matters ... any more than these little things, that used to be necessary and important to forgotten people, and now have to be guessed at under a magnifying glass and labelled: 'Use unknown.'" "Yes; but meanwhile--" "Ah, meanwhile--" As she stood there, in her long sealskin coat, her hands thrust in a small round muff, her veil drawn down like a transparent mask to the tip of her nose, and the bunch of violets he had brought her stirring with her quickly-taken breath, it seemed incredible that this pure harmony of line and colour should ever suffer the stupid law of change. "Meanwhile everything matters--that concerns you," he said. She looked at him thoughtfully, and turned back to the divan. He sat down beside her and waited; but suddenly he heard a step echoing far off down the empty rooms, and felt the pressure of the minutes. "What is it you wanted to tell me?" she asked, as if she had received the same warning. "What I wanted to tell you?" he rejoined. "Why, that I believe you came to New York because you were afraid." "Afraid?" "Of my coming to Washington." She looked down at her muff, and he saw her hands stir in it uneasily. "Well--?" "Well--yes," she said. "You WERE afraid? You knew--?" "Yes: I knew ..." "Well, then?" he insisted. "Well, then: this is better, isn't it?" she returned with a long questioning sigh. "Better--?" "We shall hurt others less. Isn't it, after all, what you always wanted?" "To have you here, you mean--in reach and yet out of reach? To meet you in this way, on the sly? It's the very reverse of what I want. I told you the other day what I wanted." She hesitated. "And you still think this--worse?" "A thousand times!" He paused. "It would be easy to lie to you; but the truth is I think it detestable." "Oh, so do I!" she cried with a deep breath of relief. He sprang up impatiently. "Well, then--it's my turn to ask: what is it, in God's name, that you think better?" She hung her head and continued to clasp and unclasp her hands in her muff. The step drew nearer, and a guardian in a braided cap walked listlessly through the room like a ghost stalking through a necropolis. They fixed their eyes simultaneously on the case opposite them, and when the official figure had vanished down a vista of mummies and sarcophagi Archer spoke again. "What do you think better?" Instead of answering she murmured:<|quote|>"I promised Granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer."</|quote|>"From me?" She bent her head slightly, without looking at him. "Safer from loving me?" Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil. "Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!" she protested. "What others? I don't profess to be different from my kind. I'm consumed by the same wants and the same longings." She glanced at him with a kind of terror, and he saw a faint colour steal into her cheeks. "Shall I--once come to you; and then go home?" she suddenly hazarded in a low clear voice. The blood rushed to the young man's forehead. "Dearest!" he said, without moving. It seemed as if he held his heart in his hands, like a full cup that the least motion might overbrim. Then her last phrase struck his ear and his face clouded. "Go home? What do you mean by going home?" "Home to my husband." "And you expect me to say yes to that?" She raised her troubled eyes to his. "What else is there? I can't stay here and lie to the people who've been good to me." "But that's the very reason why I ask you to come away!" "And destroy their lives, when they've helped me to remake mine?" Archer sprang to his feet and stood looking down on her in inarticulate despair. It would have been easy to say: "Yes, come; come once." He knew the power she would put in his hands if she consented; there would be no difficulty then in persuading her not to go back to her husband. But something silenced the word on his lips. A sort of passionate honesty in her made it inconceivable that he should try to draw her into that familiar trap. "If I were to let her come," he said to himself, "I should have to let her go again." And that was not to be imagined. But he saw the shadow of the lashes on her wet cheek, and wavered. "After all," he began again, "we have lives of our own.... There's no use attempting the impossible. You're so unprejudiced about some things, so used, as you say, to looking at the Gorgon, that I don't know why you're afraid to face our case, and see it as it really is--unless you think the sacrifice is not worth making." She stood up also, her lips tightening under a rapid frown. "Call it that, then--I must go," she said, drawing her little watch from her bosom. She turned away, and he followed and caught her by the wrist. "Well, then: come to me once," he said, his head turning suddenly at the thought of losing her; and for a second or two they looked at each other almost like enemies. "When?" he insisted. "Tomorrow?" She hesitated. "The day after." "Dearest--!" he said again. She had disengaged her wrist; but for a moment they continued to hold each other's eyes, and he saw that her face, which had grown very pale, was flooded with a deep inner radiance. His heart beat with awe: he felt that he had never before beheld love visible. "Oh, I shall be late--good-bye. No, don't come any farther than this," she cried, walking hurriedly away down the long room, as if the reflected radiance in his eyes had frightened her. When she reached the door she turned for a moment to wave a quick farewell. Archer walked home alone. Darkness was falling when he let himself into his house, and he looked about at the familiar objects in the hall as if he viewed them from the other side of the grave. The parlour-maid, hearing his step, ran up the stairs to light the gas on the upper landing. "Is Mrs. Archer in?" "No, sir; Mrs. Archer went out in the carriage after luncheon, and hasn't come back." With a sense of relief he entered the library and flung himself down in his armchair. The parlour-maid followed, bringing the student lamp and shaking some coals onto the dying fire. When she left he continued to sit motionless, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his clasped hands, his eyes fixed on the red grate. He sat there without conscious thoughts, without sense of the lapse of time, in a deep and grave amazement that seemed to suspend life rather than quicken it. "This was what had to be, then ... this was what had to be," he kept repeating to himself, as if he hung in the clutch of doom. What he had dreamed of had been so different that there was a mortal chill in his rapture. The door opened and May came in. "I'm dreadfully late--you weren't | he said. She looked at him thoughtfully, and turned back to the divan. He sat down beside her and waited; but suddenly he heard a step echoing far off down the empty rooms, and felt the pressure of the minutes. "What is it you wanted to tell me?" she asked, as if she had received the same warning. "What I wanted to tell you?" he rejoined. "Why, that I believe you came to New York because you were afraid." "Afraid?" "Of my coming to Washington." She looked down at her muff, and he saw her hands stir in it uneasily. "Well--?" "Well--yes," she said. "You WERE afraid? You knew--?" "Yes: I knew ..." "Well, then?" he insisted. "Well, then: this is better, isn't it?" she returned with a long questioning sigh. "Better--?" "We shall hurt others less. Isn't it, after all, what you always wanted?" "To have you here, you mean--in reach and yet out of reach? To meet you in this way, on the sly? It's the very reverse of what I want. I told you the other day what I wanted." She hesitated. "And you still think this--worse?" "A thousand times!" He paused. "It would be easy to lie to you; but the truth is I think it detestable." "Oh, so do I!" she cried with a deep breath of relief. He sprang up impatiently. "Well, then--it's my turn to ask: what is it, in God's name, that you think better?" She hung her head and continued to clasp and unclasp her hands in her muff. The step drew nearer, and a guardian in a braided cap walked listlessly through the room like a ghost stalking through a necropolis. They fixed their eyes simultaneously on the case opposite them, and when the official figure had vanished down a vista of mummies and sarcophagi Archer spoke again. "What do you think better?" Instead of answering she murmured:<|quote|>"I promised Granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer."</|quote|>"From me?" She bent her head slightly, without looking at him. "Safer from loving me?" Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil. "Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!" she protested. "What others? I don't profess to be different from my kind. I'm consumed by the same wants and the same longings." She glanced at him with a kind of terror, and he saw a faint colour steal into her cheeks. "Shall I--once come to you; and then go home?" she suddenly hazarded in a low clear voice. The blood rushed to the young man's forehead. "Dearest!" he said, without moving. It seemed as if he held his heart in his hands, like a full cup that the least motion might overbrim. Then her last phrase struck his ear and his face clouded. "Go home? What do you mean by going home?" "Home to my husband." "And you expect me to say yes to that?" She raised her troubled eyes to his. "What else is there? I can't stay here and lie to the people who've been good to me." "But that's the very reason why I ask you to come away!" "And destroy their lives, when they've helped me to remake mine?" Archer sprang to his feet and stood looking down on her in inarticulate despair. It would have been easy to say: "Yes, come; come once." He knew the power she would put in his hands if she consented; there would be no difficulty then in persuading her not to go back to her husband. But something silenced the word on his lips. A sort of passionate honesty in her made it inconceivable that he should try to draw her into that familiar trap. "If I were to let her come," he said to himself, "I should have to let her go again." And that was not to be imagined. But he saw the shadow of the lashes on her wet cheek, and wavered. "After all," he began again, "we have lives of our own.... There's no use attempting the impossible. You're so unprejudiced about some things, so used, as you say, to looking at the Gorgon, that I don't know why you're afraid to face our case, and see it as it really is--unless you think the sacrifice is not worth making." She stood up also, her lips tightening under a rapid frown. "Call it that, then--I must go," she said, drawing her little watch from her bosom. She turned away, and he followed and caught her by the wrist. "Well, then: come to me once," he said, his head turning suddenly at the thought of losing her; and for a second or two they looked at each other almost like enemies. "When?" he insisted. "Tomorrow?" She hesitated. "The day after." "Dearest--!" he said again. She had disengaged her wrist; but for a moment they continued to hold each other's eyes, and he saw that her face, which | The Age Of Innocence |
"Listen, Jake," | Robert Cohn | lot of liquor," I agreed.<|quote|>"Listen, Jake,"</|quote|>he leaned forward on the | place," he said. "There's a lot of liquor," I agreed.<|quote|>"Listen, Jake,"</|quote|>he leaned forward on the bar. "Don't you ever get | important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we went down-stairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda. Cohn looked at the bottles in bins around the wall. "This is a good place," he said. "There's a lot of liquor," I agreed.<|quote|>"Listen, Jake,"</|quote|>he leaned forward on the bar. "Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?" "Yes, every once in a while." "Do you know that | to get rid of friends. Once you had a drink all you had to say was: "Well, I've got to get back and get off some cables," and it was done. It is very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we went down-stairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda. Cohn looked at the bottles in bins around the wall. "This is a good place," he said. "There's a lot of liquor," I agreed.<|quote|>"Listen, Jake,"</|quote|>he leaned forward on the bar. "Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?" "Yes, every once in a while." "Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we'll be dead?" "What the hell, Robert," I said. "What the hell." "I'm serious." "It's one thing I don't worry about," I said. "You ought to." "I've had plenty to worry about one time or other. I'm through worrying." "Well, I want to go to | "Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot?" "No, I wouldn't like that." "I'd go there with you." "No; that doesn't interest me." "That's because you never read a book about it. Go on and read a book all full of love affairs with the beautiful shiny black princesses." "I want to go to South America." He had a hard, Jewish, stubborn streak. "Come on down-stairs and have a drink." "Aren't you working?" "No," I said. We went down the stairs to the caf on the ground floor. I had discovered that was the best way to get rid of friends. Once you had a drink all you had to say was: "Well, I've got to get back and get off some cables," and it was done. It is very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we went down-stairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda. Cohn looked at the bottles in bins around the wall. "This is a good place," he said. "There's a lot of liquor," I agreed.<|quote|>"Listen, Jake,"</|quote|>he leaned forward on the bar. "Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?" "Yes, every once in a while." "Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we'll be dead?" "What the hell, Robert," I said. "What the hell." "I'm serious." "It's one thing I don't worry about," I said. "You ought to." "I've had plenty to worry about one time or other. I'm through worrying." "Well, I want to go to South America." "Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing to that." "But you've never been to South America." "South America hell! If you went there the way you feel now it would be exactly the same. This is a good town. Why don't you start living your life in Paris?" "I'm sick of Paris, and I'm sick of the Quarter." "Stay away from the Quarter. Cruise around by yourself and see what happens to you." "Nothing happens to | week's mail stories, and only half of them written. "Do you know any dirt?" I asked. "No." "None of your exalted connections getting divorces?" "No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?" "Why me?" "You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us." "No," I said, "I like this town and I go to Spain in the summer-time." "All my life I've wanted to go on a trip like that," Cohn said. He sat down. "I'll be too old before I can ever do it." "Don't be a fool," I said. "You can go anywhere you want. You've got plenty of money." "I know. But I can't get started." "Cheer up," I said. "All countries look just like the moving pictures." But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly. "I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really living it." "Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bull-fighters." "I'm not interested in bull-fighters. That's an abnormal life. I want to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip." "Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot?" "No, I wouldn't like that." "I'd go there with you." "No; that doesn't interest me." "That's because you never read a book about it. Go on and read a book all full of love affairs with the beautiful shiny black princesses." "I want to go to South America." He had a hard, Jewish, stubborn streak. "Come on down-stairs and have a drink." "Aren't you working?" "No," I said. We went down the stairs to the caf on the ground floor. I had discovered that was the best way to get rid of friends. Once you had a drink all you had to say was: "Well, I've got to get back and get off some cables," and it was done. It is very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we went down-stairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda. Cohn looked at the bottles in bins around the wall. "This is a good place," he said. "There's a lot of liquor," I agreed.<|quote|>"Listen, Jake,"</|quote|>he leaned forward on the bar. "Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?" "Yes, every once in a while." "Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we'll be dead?" "What the hell, Robert," I said. "What the hell." "I'm serious." "It's one thing I don't worry about," I said. "You ought to." "I've had plenty to worry about one time or other. I'm through worrying." "Well, I want to go to South America." "Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing to that." "But you've never been to South America." "South America hell! If you went there the way you feel now it would be exactly the same. This is a good town. Why don't you start living your life in Paris?" "I'm sick of Paris, and I'm sick of the Quarter." "Stay away from the Quarter. Cruise around by yourself and see what happens to you." "Nothing happens to me. I walked alone all one night and nothing happened except a bicycle cop stopped me and asked to see my papers." "Wasn't the town nice at night?" "I don't care for Paris." So there you were. I was sorry for him, but it was not a thing you could do anything about, because right away you ran up against the two stubbornnesses: South America could fix it and he did not like Paris. He got the first idea out of a book, and I suppose the second came out of a book too. "Well," I said, "I've got to go up-stairs and get off some cables." "Do you really have to go?" "Yes, I've got to get these cables off." "Do you mind if I come up and sit around the office?" "No, come on up." He sat in the outer room and read the papers, and the Editor and Publisher and I worked hard for two hours. Then I sorted out the carbons, stamped on a by-line, put the stuff in a couple of big manila envelopes and rang for a boy to take them to the Gare St. Lazare. I went out into the other room and | He had married on the rebound from the rotten time he had in college, and Frances took him on the rebound from his discovery that he had not been everything to his first wife. He was not in love yet but he realized that he was an attractive quantity to women, and that the fact of a woman caring for him and wanting to live with him was not simply a divine miracle. This changed him so that he was not so pleasant to have around. Also, playing for higher stakes than he could afford in some rather steep bridge games with his New York connections, he had held cards and won several hundred dollars. It made him rather vain of his bridge game, and he talked several times of how a man could always make a living at bridge if he were ever forced to. Then there was another thing. He had been reading W. H. Hudson. That sounds like an innocent occupation, but Cohn had read and reread "The Purple Land." "The Purple Land" is a very sinister book if read too late in life. It recounts splendid imaginary amorous adventures of a perfect English gentleman in an intensely romantic land, the scenery of which is very well described. For a man to take it at thirty-four as a guide-book to what life holds is about as safe as it would be for a man of the same age to enter Wall Street direct from a French convent, equipped with a complete set of the more practical Alger books. Cohn, I believe, took every word of "The Purple Land" as literally as though it had been an R. G. Dun report. You understand me, he made some reservations, but on the whole the book to him was sound. It was all that was needed to set him off. I did not realize the extent to which it had set him off until one day he came into my office. "Hello, Robert," I said. "Did you come in to cheer me up?" "Would you like to go to South America, Jake?" he asked. "No." "Why not?" "I don't know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway." "They're not the real South Americans." "They look awfully real to me." I had a boat train to catch with a week's mail stories, and only half of them written. "Do you know any dirt?" I asked. "No." "None of your exalted connections getting divorces?" "No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?" "Why me?" "You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us." "No," I said, "I like this town and I go to Spain in the summer-time." "All my life I've wanted to go on a trip like that," Cohn said. He sat down. "I'll be too old before I can ever do it." "Don't be a fool," I said. "You can go anywhere you want. You've got plenty of money." "I know. But I can't get started." "Cheer up," I said. "All countries look just like the moving pictures." But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly. "I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really living it." "Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bull-fighters." "I'm not interested in bull-fighters. That's an abnormal life. I want to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip." "Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot?" "No, I wouldn't like that." "I'd go there with you." "No; that doesn't interest me." "That's because you never read a book about it. Go on and read a book all full of love affairs with the beautiful shiny black princesses." "I want to go to South America." He had a hard, Jewish, stubborn streak. "Come on down-stairs and have a drink." "Aren't you working?" "No," I said. We went down the stairs to the caf on the ground floor. I had discovered that was the best way to get rid of friends. Once you had a drink all you had to say was: "Well, I've got to get back and get off some cables," and it was done. It is very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we went down-stairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda. Cohn looked at the bottles in bins around the wall. "This is a good place," he said. "There's a lot of liquor," I agreed.<|quote|>"Listen, Jake,"</|quote|>he leaned forward on the bar. "Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?" "Yes, every once in a while." "Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we'll be dead?" "What the hell, Robert," I said. "What the hell." "I'm serious." "It's one thing I don't worry about," I said. "You ought to." "I've had plenty to worry about one time or other. I'm through worrying." "Well, I want to go to South America." "Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing to that." "But you've never been to South America." "South America hell! If you went there the way you feel now it would be exactly the same. This is a good town. Why don't you start living your life in Paris?" "I'm sick of Paris, and I'm sick of the Quarter." "Stay away from the Quarter. Cruise around by yourself and see what happens to you." "Nothing happens to me. I walked alone all one night and nothing happened except a bicycle cop stopped me and asked to see my papers." "Wasn't the town nice at night?" "I don't care for Paris." So there you were. I was sorry for him, but it was not a thing you could do anything about, because right away you ran up against the two stubbornnesses: South America could fix it and he did not like Paris. He got the first idea out of a book, and I suppose the second came out of a book too. "Well," I said, "I've got to go up-stairs and get off some cables." "Do you really have to go?" "Yes, I've got to get these cables off." "Do you mind if I come up and sit around the office?" "No, come on up." He sat in the outer room and read the papers, and the Editor and Publisher and I worked hard for two hours. Then I sorted out the carbons, stamped on a by-line, put the stuff in a couple of big manila envelopes and rang for a boy to take them to the Gare St. Lazare. I went out into the other room and there was Robert Cohn asleep in the big chair. He was asleep with his head on his arms. I did not like to wake him up, but I wanted to lock the office and shove off. I put my hand on his shoulder. He shook his head. "I can't do it," he said, and put his head deeper into his arms. "I can't do it. Nothing will make me do it." "Robert," I said, and shook him by the shoulder. He looked up. He smiled and blinked. "Did I talk out loud just then?" "Something. But it wasn't clear." "God, what a rotten dream!" "Did the typewriter put you to sleep?" "Guess so. I didn't sleep all last night." "What was the matter?" "Talking," he said. I could picture it. I have a rotten habit of picturing the bedroom scenes of my friends. We went out to the Caf Napolitain to have an _ap ritif_ and watch the evening crowd on the Boulevard. CHAPTER 3 It was a warm spring night and I sat at a table on the terrace of the Napolitain after Robert had gone, watching it get dark and the electric signs come on, and the red and green stop-and-go traffic-signal, and the crowd going by, and the horse-cabs clippety-clopping along at the edge of the solid taxi traffic, and the _poules_ going by, singly and in pairs, looking for the evening meal. I watched a good-looking girl walk past the table and watched her go up the street and lost sight of her, and watched another, and then saw the first one coming back again. She went by once more and I caught her eye, and she came over and sat down at the table. The waiter came up. "Well, what will you drink?" I asked. "Pernod." "That's not good for little girls." "Little girl yourself. Dites gar on, un pernod." "A pernod for me, too." "What's the matter?" she asked. "Going on a party?" "Sure. Aren't you?" "I don't know. You never know in this town." "Don't you like Paris?" "No." "Why don't you go somewhere else?" "Isn't anywhere else." "You're happy, all right." "Happy, hell!" Pernod is greenish imitation absinthe. When you add water it turns milky. It tastes like licorice and it has a good uplift, but it drops you just as far. We sat and drank it, and the girl looked sullen. | which it had set him off until one day he came into my office. "Hello, Robert," I said. "Did you come in to cheer me up?" "Would you like to go to South America, Jake?" he asked. "No." "Why not?" "I don't know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway." "They're not the real South Americans." "They look awfully real to me." I had a boat train to catch with a week's mail stories, and only half of them written. "Do you know any dirt?" I asked. "No." "None of your exalted connections getting divorces?" "No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?" "Why me?" "You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us." "No," I said, "I like this town and I go to Spain in the summer-time." "All my life I've wanted to go on a trip like that," Cohn said. He sat down. "I'll be too old before I can ever do it." "Don't be a fool," I said. "You can go anywhere you want. You've got plenty of money." "I know. But I can't get started." "Cheer up," I said. "All countries look just like the moving pictures." But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly. "I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really living it." "Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bull-fighters." "I'm not interested in bull-fighters. That's an abnormal life. I want to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip." "Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot?" "No, I wouldn't like that." "I'd go there with you." "No; that doesn't interest me." "That's because you never read a book about it. Go on and read a book all full of love affairs with the beautiful shiny black princesses." "I want to go to South America." He had a hard, Jewish, stubborn streak. "Come on down-stairs and have a drink." "Aren't you working?" "No," I said. We went down the stairs to the caf on the ground floor. I had discovered that was the best way to get rid of friends. Once you had a drink all you had to say was: "Well, I've got to get back and get off some cables," and it was done. It is very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we went down-stairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda. Cohn looked at the bottles in bins around the wall. "This is a good place," he said. "There's a lot of liquor," I agreed.<|quote|>"Listen, Jake,"</|quote|>he leaned forward on the bar. "Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?" "Yes, every once in a while." "Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we'll be dead?" "What the hell, Robert," I said. "What the hell." "I'm serious." "It's one thing I don't worry about," I said. "You ought to." "I've had plenty to worry about one time or other. I'm through worrying." "Well, I want to go to South America." "Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing to that." "But you've never been to South America." "South America hell! If you went there the way you feel now it would be exactly the same. This is a good town. Why don't you start living your life in Paris?" "I'm sick of Paris, and I'm sick of the Quarter." "Stay away from the Quarter. Cruise around by yourself and see what happens to you." "Nothing happens to me. I walked alone all one night and nothing happened except a bicycle cop stopped me and asked to see my papers." "Wasn't the town nice at night?" "I don't care for Paris." So there you were. I was sorry for him, but it was not a thing you could do anything about, because right away you ran up against the two stubbornnesses: South America could fix it and he did not like Paris. He got the first idea out of a book, and I suppose the second came out of a book too. "Well," I said, "I've got to go up-stairs and get off some cables." "Do you really have to go?" "Yes, I've got to get these cables off." "Do you mind if I come up and sit around the office?" "No, come on up." He sat in the outer room and read the papers, and the Editor and Publisher and I worked hard for two hours. Then I sorted out the carbons, stamped on a by-line, put the stuff in a couple of big manila envelopes and rang for a boy to take them to the Gare St. Lazare. I went out into the other room and there was Robert Cohn asleep in the big chair. He was asleep with his head on his arms. I did not like to wake him up, but I wanted to lock the office and shove off. I put my hand on his shoulder. He shook his head. "I can't do it," he said, and put his head deeper into his arms. "I can't do | The Sun Also Rises |
said he, | No speaker | rather puzzled. "Upon my soul,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"I do not know much | and genius?" Sir John was rather puzzled. "Upon my soul,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"I do not know much about him as to all | you. A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England." "And is _that_ all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly. "But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his pursuits, his talents, and genius?" Sir John was rather puzzled. "Upon my soul,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"I do not know much about him as to all _that_. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him today?" But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour | over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on Thursday." "You know him then," said Mrs. Dashwood. "Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year." "And what sort of a young man is he?" "As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England." "And is _that_ all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly. "But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his pursuits, his talents, and genius?" Sir John was rather puzzled. "Upon my soul,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"I do not know much about him as to all _that_. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him today?" But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Willoughby s pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his mind. "But who is he?" said Elinor. "Where does he come from? Has he a house at Allenham?" On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he told them that Mr. Willoughby | favourite village, and she soon found out that of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming. Her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ankle was disregarded. Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne s accident being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any gentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham. "Willoughby!" cried Sir John; "what, is _he_ in the country? That is good news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on Thursday." "You know him then," said Mrs. Dashwood. "Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year." "And what sort of a young man is he?" "As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England." "And is _that_ all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly. "But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his pursuits, his talents, and genius?" Sir John was rather puzzled. "Upon my soul,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"I do not know much about him as to all _that_. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him today?" But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Willoughby s pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his mind. "But who is he?" said Elinor. "Where does he come from? Has he a house at Allenham?" On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will | home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood. The honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain. His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the theme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised against Marianne received particular spirit from his exterior attractions. Marianne herself had seen less of his person than the rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their entering the house. But she had seen enough of him to join in all the admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her praise. His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the house with so little previous formality, there was a rapidity of thought which particularly recommended the action to her. Every circumstance belonging to him was interesting. His name was good, his residence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming. Her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ankle was disregarded. Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne s accident being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any gentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham. "Willoughby!" cried Sir John; "what, is _he_ in the country? That is good news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on Thursday." "You know him then," said Mrs. Dashwood. "Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year." "And what sort of a young man is he?" "As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England." "And is _that_ all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly. "But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his pursuits, his talents, and genius?" Sir John was rather puzzled. "Upon my soul,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"I do not know much about him as to all _that_. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him today?" But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Willoughby s pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his mind. "But who is he?" said Elinor. "Where does he come from? Has he a house at Allenham?" On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care." "I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile, "that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of _my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him_. It is not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible." "He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated Sir John. "I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o clock till four, without once sitting down." "Did he indeed?" cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with elegance, with spirit?" "Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert." "That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue." "Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how | their face. Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged, though unwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own house. One consolation however remained for them, to which the exigence of the moment gave more than usual propriety, it was that of running with all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which led immediately to their garden gate. They set off. Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step brought her suddenly to the ground; and Margaret, unable to stop herself to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached the bottom in safety. A gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was passing up the hill and within a few yards of Marianne, when her accident happened. He put down his gun and ran to her assistance. She had raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in her fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. The gentleman offered his services; and perceiving that her modesty declined what her situation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther delay, and carried her down the hill. Then passing through the garden, the gate of which had been left open by Margaret, he bore her directly into the house, whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his hold till he had seated her in a chair in the parlour. Elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and while the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a secret admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he apologized for his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and so graceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, received additional charms from his voice and expression. Had he been even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Dashwood would have been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the action which came home to her feelings. She thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address which always attended her, invited him to be seated. But this he declined, as he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know to whom she was obliged. His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his present home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood. The honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain. His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the theme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised against Marianne received particular spirit from his exterior attractions. Marianne herself had seen less of his person than the rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their entering the house. But she had seen enough of him to join in all the admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her praise. His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the house with so little previous formality, there was a rapidity of thought which particularly recommended the action to her. Every circumstance belonging to him was interesting. His name was good, his residence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming. Her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ankle was disregarded. Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne s accident being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any gentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham. "Willoughby!" cried Sir John; "what, is _he_ in the country? That is good news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on Thursday." "You know him then," said Mrs. Dashwood. "Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year." "And what sort of a young man is he?" "As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England." "And is _that_ all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly. "But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his pursuits, his talents, and genius?" Sir John was rather puzzled. "Upon my soul,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"I do not know much about him as to all _that_. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him today?" But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Willoughby s pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his mind. "But who is he?" said Elinor. "Where does he come from? Has he a house at Allenham?" On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care." "I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile, "that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of _my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him_. It is not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible." "He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated Sir John. "I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o clock till four, without once sitting down." "Did he indeed?" cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with elegance, with spirit?" "Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert." "That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue." "Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor Brandon." "That is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, "which I particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is intended; and setting one s cap at a man, or making a conquest, are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity." Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if he did, and then replied, "Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other. Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles." CHAPTER X. Marianne s preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision, styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more than politeness; with a kindness which Sir John s account of him and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced him. Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview to be convinced. Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form, though not so correct as her sister s, in having the advantage of height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown, but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which could hardly be seen without delight. From Willoughby their expression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance of his assistance created. But when this passed away, when her spirits became collected, when she saw that to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, he united frankness and | from his voice and expression. Had he been even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Dashwood would have been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the action which came home to her feelings. She thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address which always attended her, invited him to be seated. But this he declined, as he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know to whom she was obliged. His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his present home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood. The honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain. His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the theme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised against Marianne received particular spirit from his exterior attractions. Marianne herself had seen less of his person than the rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their entering the house. But she had seen enough of him to join in all the admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her praise. His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the house with so little previous formality, there was a rapidity of thought which particularly recommended the action to her. Every circumstance belonging to him was interesting. His name was good, his residence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming. Her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ankle was disregarded. Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne s accident being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any gentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham. "Willoughby!" cried Sir John; "what, is _he_ in the country? That is good news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on Thursday." "You know him then," said Mrs. Dashwood. "Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year." "And what sort of a young man is he?" "As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England." "And is _that_ all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly. "But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his pursuits, his talents, and genius?" Sir John was rather puzzled. "Upon my soul,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"I do not know much about him as to all _that_. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him today?" But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Willoughby s pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his mind. "But who is he?" said Elinor. "Where does he come from? Has he a house at Allenham?" On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care." "I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile, "that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of _my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him_. It is not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible." "He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated Sir John. "I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o clock till four, without once sitting down." "Did he indeed?" cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with elegance, with spirit?" "Yes; and he was | Sense And Sensibility |
"You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old china it's pure delight to handle it, or even to look at it." | Mr. Lawrence Cavendish | Hastings?" I shook my head.<|quote|>"You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old china it's pure delight to handle it, or even to look at it."</|quote|>"Well, what am I to | not a connoisseur, are you, Hastings?" I shook my head.<|quote|>"You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old china it's pure delight to handle it, or even to look at it."</|quote|>"Well, what am I to tell Poirot?" "Tell him I | 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.<|quote|>"You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old china it's pure delight to handle it, or even to look at it."</|quote|>"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, | 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.<|quote|>"You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old china it's pure delight to handle it, or even to look at it."</|quote|>"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, | 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.<|quote|>"You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old china it's pure delight to handle it, or even to look at it."</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old china it's pure delight to handle it, or even to look at it."</|quote|>"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, and not merely locked?" "Oh, I see what you mean. No, I don't know. I said bolted, meaning that it was fastened, and I could not open it, but I believe all the doors were found bolted on the inside." "Still, as far as you are concerned, the door might equally well have been locked?" "Oh, yes." "You yourself did not happen to notice, madame, when you entered Mrs. Inglethorp's room, whether that door was bolted or not?" "I I believe it was." "But you did not see it?" "No. I never looked." "But _I_ did," interrupted Lawrence suddenly. "I happened to notice that it _was_ bolted." "Ah, that settles it." And Poirot looked crestfallen. I could not help rejoicing that, for once, one of his "little ideas" had come to naught. After lunch Poirot begged me to accompany him home. I consented rather | 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," I observed coldly. "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.<|quote|>"You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old china it's pure delight to handle it, or even to look at it."</|quote|>"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, and not merely locked?" "Oh, I see what you mean. No, I don't know. I said bolted, meaning that it was fastened, and I could not open it, but I believe all the doors were found bolted on the inside." "Still, as far as you are concerned, the door might equally well have been locked?" "Oh, yes." "You yourself did not happen to notice, madame, when you entered Mrs. Inglethorp's room, whether that door was bolted or not?" "I I believe it was." "But you did not see it?" "No. I never looked." "But _I_ did," interrupted Lawrence suddenly. "I happened to notice that it _was_ bolted." "Ah, that settles it." And Poirot looked crestfallen. I could not help rejoicing that, for once, one of his "little ideas" had come to naught. After lunch Poirot begged me to accompany him home. I consented rather stiffly. "You are annoyed, is it not so?" he asked anxiously, as we walked through the park. "Not at all," I said coldly. "That is well. That lifts a great load from my mind." This was not quite what I had intended. I had hoped that he would have observed the stiffness of my manner. Still, the fervour of his words went towards the appeasing of my just displeasure. I thawed. "I gave Lawrence your message," I said. "And what did he say? He was entirely puzzled?" "Yes. I am quite sure he had no idea of what you meant." I had expected Poirot to be disappointed; but, to my surprise, he replied that that was as he had thought, and that he was very glad. My pride forbade me to ask any questions. Poirot switched off on another tack. "Mademoiselle Cynthia was not at lunch to-day? How was that?" "She is at the hospital again. She resumed work to-day." "Ah, she is an industrious little demoiselle. And pretty too. She is like pictures I have seen in Italy. I would rather like to see that dispensary of hers. Do you think she would show it to me?" "I am sure she would be delighted. It's an interesting little place." "Does she go there every day?" "She has all Wednesdays off, and comes back to lunch on Saturdays. Those are her only times off." "I will remember. Women are doing great work nowadays, and Mademoiselle Cynthia is clever oh, yes, she has brains, that little one." "Yes. I believe she has passed quite a stiff exam." "Without doubt. After all, it is very responsible work. I suppose they have very strong poisons there?" "Yes, she showed them to us. They are kept locked up in a little cupboard. I believe they have to be very careful. They always take out the key before leaving the room." "Indeed. It is near the window, this cupboard?" "No, right the other side of the room. Why?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "I wondered. That is all. Will you come in?" We had reached the cottage. "No. I think I'll be getting back. I shall go round the long way through the woods." The woods round Styles were very beautiful. After the walk across the open park, it was pleasant to saunter lazily through the cool glades. There was hardly a breath of wind, the | 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.<|quote|>"You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old china it's pure delight to handle it, or even to look at it."</|quote|>"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, and not merely locked?" "Oh, I see what you mean. No, I don't know. I said bolted, meaning that it was fastened, and I could not open it, but I believe all the doors were found bolted on the inside." "Still, as far as you are concerned, the door might equally well have been locked?" "Oh, yes." "You yourself did not happen to notice, madame, when you entered Mrs. Inglethorp's room, whether that door was bolted or not?" "I I believe it was." "But you did not see it?" "No. I never looked." "But _I_ did," interrupted Lawrence suddenly. "I happened to notice that it _was_ bolted." "Ah, that settles it." And Poirot looked crestfallen. I could not help rejoicing that, for once, one of his "little ideas" had come to naught. After lunch Poirot begged me to accompany him home. I consented rather stiffly. "You are annoyed, is it not so?" he asked anxiously, as we walked through the park. "Not at | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
Soon grandfather returned, bringing with him Anton Jelinek, and that important person, the coroner. He was a mild, flurried old man, a Civil War veteran, with one sleeve hanging empty. He seemed to find this case very perplexing, and said if it had not been for grandfather he would have sworn out a warrant against Krajiek. | No speaker | to be laid amongst ’em.”<|quote|>Soon grandfather returned, bringing with him Anton Jelinek, and that important person, the coroner. He was a mild, flurried old man, a Civil War veteran, with one sleeve hanging empty. He seemed to find this case very perplexing, and said if it had not been for grandfather he would have sworn out a warrant against Krajiek.</|quote|>“The way he acted, and | see whether I’m good enough to be laid amongst ’em.”<|quote|>Soon grandfather returned, bringing with him Anton Jelinek, and that important person, the coroner. He was a mild, flurried old man, a Civil War veteran, with one sleeve hanging empty. He seemed to find this case very perplexing, and said if it had not been for grandfather he would have sworn out a warrant against Krajiek.</|quote|>“The way he acted, and the way his axe fit | we’ll have to have an American graveyard that will be more liberal-minded. I’ll get right after Josiah to start one in the spring. If anything was to happen to me, I don’t want the Norwegians holding inquisitions over me to see whether I’m good enough to be laid amongst ’em.”<|quote|>Soon grandfather returned, bringing with him Anton Jelinek, and that important person, the coroner. He was a mild, flurried old man, a Civil War veteran, with one sleeve hanging empty. He seemed to find this case very perplexing, and said if it had not been for grandfather he would have sworn out a warrant against Krajiek.</|quote|>“The way he acted, and the way his axe fit the wound, was enough to convict any man.” Although it was perfectly clear that Mr. Shimerda had killed himself, Jake and the coroner thought something ought to be done to Krajiek because he behaved like a guilty man. He was | grandfather would bring the coroner back with him to spend the night. The officers of the Norwegian church, he told us, had held a meeting and decided that the Norwegian graveyard could not extend its hospitality to Mr. Shimerda. Grandmother was indignant. “If these foreigners are so clannish, Mr. Bushy, we’ll have to have an American graveyard that will be more liberal-minded. I’ll get right after Josiah to start one in the spring. If anything was to happen to me, I don’t want the Norwegians holding inquisitions over me to see whether I’m good enough to be laid amongst ’em.”<|quote|>Soon grandfather returned, bringing with him Anton Jelinek, and that important person, the coroner. He was a mild, flurried old man, a Civil War veteran, with one sleeve hanging empty. He seemed to find this case very perplexing, and said if it had not been for grandfather he would have sworn out a warrant against Krajiek.</|quote|>“The way he acted, and the way his axe fit the wound, was enough to convict any man.” Although it was perfectly clear that Mr. Shimerda had killed himself, Jake and the coroner thought something ought to be done to Krajiek because he behaved like a guilty man. He was badly frightened, certainly, and perhaps he even felt some stirrings of remorse for his indifference to the old man’s misery and loneliness. At supper the men ate like vikings, and the chocolate cake, which I had hoped would linger on until to-morrow in a mutilated condition, disappeared on the second | was no one else to listen; but grandfather was naturally taciturn, and Jake and Otto were often so tired after supper that I used to feel as if I were surrounded by a wall of silence. Now every one seemed eager to talk. That afternoon Fuchs told me story after story; about the Black Tiger mine, and about violent deaths and casual buryings, and the queer fancies of dying men. You never really knew a man, he said, until you saw him die. Most men were game, and went without a grudge. The postmaster, going home, stopped to say that grandfather would bring the coroner back with him to spend the night. The officers of the Norwegian church, he told us, had held a meeting and decided that the Norwegian graveyard could not extend its hospitality to Mr. Shimerda. Grandmother was indignant. “If these foreigners are so clannish, Mr. Bushy, we’ll have to have an American graveyard that will be more liberal-minded. I’ll get right after Josiah to start one in the spring. If anything was to happen to me, I don’t want the Norwegians holding inquisitions over me to see whether I’m good enough to be laid amongst ’em.”<|quote|>Soon grandfather returned, bringing with him Anton Jelinek, and that important person, the coroner. He was a mild, flurried old man, a Civil War veteran, with one sleeve hanging empty. He seemed to find this case very perplexing, and said if it had not been for grandfather he would have sworn out a warrant against Krajiek.</|quote|>“The way he acted, and the way his axe fit the wound, was enough to convict any man.” Although it was perfectly clear that Mr. Shimerda had killed himself, Jake and the coroner thought something ought to be done to Krajiek because he behaved like a guilty man. He was badly frightened, certainly, and perhaps he even felt some stirrings of remorse for his indifference to the old man’s misery and loneliness. At supper the men ate like vikings, and the chocolate cake, which I had hoped would linger on until to-morrow in a mutilated condition, disappeared on the second round. They talked excitedly about where they should bury Mr. Shimerda; I gathered that the neighbors were all disturbed and shocked about something. It developed that Mrs. Shimerda and Ambrosch wanted the old man buried on the southwest corner of their own land; indeed, under the very stake that marked the corner. Grandfather had explained to Ambrosch that some day, when the country was put under fence and the roads were confined to section lines, two roads would cross exactly on that corner. But Ambrosch only said, “It makes no matter.” Grandfather asked Jelinek whether in the old country there | and after him came the father of the German family, our nearest neighbors on the south. They dismounted and joined us in the dining-room. They were all eager for any details about the suicide, and they were greatly concerned as to where Mr. Shimerda would be buried. The nearest Catholic cemetery was at Black Hawk, and it might be weeks before a wagon could get so far. Besides, Mr. Bushy and grandmother were sure that a man who had killed himself could not be buried in a Catholic graveyard. There was a burying-ground over by the Norwegian church, west of Squaw Creek; perhaps the Norwegians would take Mr. Shimerda in. After our visitors rode away in single file over the hill, we returned to the kitchen. Grandmother began to make the icing for a chocolate cake, and Otto again filled the house with the exciting, expectant song of the plane. One pleasant thing about this time was that everybody talked more than usual. I had never heard the postmaster say anything but “Only papers, to-day,” or, “I’ve got a sackful of mail for ye,” until this afternoon. Grandmother always talked, dear woman; to herself or to the Lord, if there was no one else to listen; but grandfather was naturally taciturn, and Jake and Otto were often so tired after supper that I used to feel as if I were surrounded by a wall of silence. Now every one seemed eager to talk. That afternoon Fuchs told me story after story; about the Black Tiger mine, and about violent deaths and casual buryings, and the queer fancies of dying men. You never really knew a man, he said, until you saw him die. Most men were game, and went without a grudge. The postmaster, going home, stopped to say that grandfather would bring the coroner back with him to spend the night. The officers of the Norwegian church, he told us, had held a meeting and decided that the Norwegian graveyard could not extend its hospitality to Mr. Shimerda. Grandmother was indignant. “If these foreigners are so clannish, Mr. Bushy, we’ll have to have an American graveyard that will be more liberal-minded. I’ll get right after Josiah to start one in the spring. If anything was to happen to me, I don’t want the Norwegians holding inquisitions over me to see whether I’m good enough to be laid amongst ’em.”<|quote|>Soon grandfather returned, bringing with him Anton Jelinek, and that important person, the coroner. He was a mild, flurried old man, a Civil War veteran, with one sleeve hanging empty. He seemed to find this case very perplexing, and said if it had not been for grandfather he would have sworn out a warrant against Krajiek.</|quote|>“The way he acted, and the way his axe fit the wound, was enough to convict any man.” Although it was perfectly clear that Mr. Shimerda had killed himself, Jake and the coroner thought something ought to be done to Krajiek because he behaved like a guilty man. He was badly frightened, certainly, and perhaps he even felt some stirrings of remorse for his indifference to the old man’s misery and loneliness. At supper the men ate like vikings, and the chocolate cake, which I had hoped would linger on until to-morrow in a mutilated condition, disappeared on the second round. They talked excitedly about where they should bury Mr. Shimerda; I gathered that the neighbors were all disturbed and shocked about something. It developed that Mrs. Shimerda and Ambrosch wanted the old man buried on the southwest corner of their own land; indeed, under the very stake that marked the corner. Grandfather had explained to Ambrosch that some day, when the country was put under fence and the roads were confined to section lines, two roads would cross exactly on that corner. But Ambrosch only said, “It makes no matter.” Grandfather asked Jelinek whether in the old country there was some superstition to the effect that a suicide must be buried at the cross-roads. Jelinek said he did n’t know; he seemed to remember hearing there had once been such a custom in Bohemia. “Mrs. Shimerda is made up her mind,” he added. “I try to persuade her, and say it looks bad for her to all the neighbors; but she say so it must be. ‘There I will bury him, if I dig the grave myself,’ she say. I have to promise her I help Ambrosch make the grave to-morrow.” Grandfather smoothed his beard and looked judicial. “I don’t know whose wish should decide the matter, if not hers. But if she thinks she will live to see the people of this country ride over that old man’s head, she is mistaken.” XVI MR. SHIMERDA lay dead in the barn four days, and on the fifth they buried him. All day Friday Jelinek was off with Ambrosch digging the grave, chopping out the frozen earth with old axes. On Saturday we breakfasted before daylight and got into the wagon with the coffin. Jake and Jelinek went ahead on horseback to cut the body loose from the pool of | The bucket traveled across a box cañon three hundred feet deep, and about a third full of water. Two Swedes had fell out of that bucket once, and hit the water, feet down. If you’ll believe it, they went to work the next day. You can’t kill a Swede. But in my time a little Eyetalian tried the high dive, and it turned out different with him. We was snowed in then, like we are now, and I happened to be the only man in camp that could make a coffin for him. It’s a handy thing to know, when you knock about like I’ve done.” “We’d be hard put to it now, if you did n’t know, Otto,” grandmother said. “Yes, ’m,” Fuchs admitted with modest pride. “So few folks does know how to make a good tight box that’ll turn water. I sometimes wonder if there’ll be anybody about to do it for me. However, I’m not at all particular that way.” All afternoon, wherever one went in the house, one could hear the panting wheeze of the saw or the pleasant purring of the plane. They were such cheerful noises, seeming to promise new things for living people: it was a pity that those freshly planed pine boards were to be put underground so soon. The lumber was hard to work because it was full of frost, and the boards gave off a sweet smell of pine woods, as the heap of yellow shavings grew higher and higher. I wondered why Fuchs had not stuck to cabinet-work, he settled down to it with such ease and content. He handled the tools as if he liked the feel of them; and when he planed, his hands went back and forth over the boards in an eager, beneficent way as if he were blessing them. He broke out now and then into German hymns, as if this occupation brought back old times to him. At four o’clock Mr. Bushy, the postmaster, with another neighbor who lived east of us, stopped in to get warm. They were on their way to the Shimerdas’. The news of what had happened over there had somehow got abroad through the snow-blocked country. Grandmother gave the visitors sugar-cakes and hot coffee. Before these callers were gone, the brother of the Widow Steavens, who lived on the Black Hawk road, drew up at our door, and after him came the father of the German family, our nearest neighbors on the south. They dismounted and joined us in the dining-room. They were all eager for any details about the suicide, and they were greatly concerned as to where Mr. Shimerda would be buried. The nearest Catholic cemetery was at Black Hawk, and it might be weeks before a wagon could get so far. Besides, Mr. Bushy and grandmother were sure that a man who had killed himself could not be buried in a Catholic graveyard. There was a burying-ground over by the Norwegian church, west of Squaw Creek; perhaps the Norwegians would take Mr. Shimerda in. After our visitors rode away in single file over the hill, we returned to the kitchen. Grandmother began to make the icing for a chocolate cake, and Otto again filled the house with the exciting, expectant song of the plane. One pleasant thing about this time was that everybody talked more than usual. I had never heard the postmaster say anything but “Only papers, to-day,” or, “I’ve got a sackful of mail for ye,” until this afternoon. Grandmother always talked, dear woman; to herself or to the Lord, if there was no one else to listen; but grandfather was naturally taciturn, and Jake and Otto were often so tired after supper that I used to feel as if I were surrounded by a wall of silence. Now every one seemed eager to talk. That afternoon Fuchs told me story after story; about the Black Tiger mine, and about violent deaths and casual buryings, and the queer fancies of dying men. You never really knew a man, he said, until you saw him die. Most men were game, and went without a grudge. The postmaster, going home, stopped to say that grandfather would bring the coroner back with him to spend the night. The officers of the Norwegian church, he told us, had held a meeting and decided that the Norwegian graveyard could not extend its hospitality to Mr. Shimerda. Grandmother was indignant. “If these foreigners are so clannish, Mr. Bushy, we’ll have to have an American graveyard that will be more liberal-minded. I’ll get right after Josiah to start one in the spring. If anything was to happen to me, I don’t want the Norwegians holding inquisitions over me to see whether I’m good enough to be laid amongst ’em.”<|quote|>Soon grandfather returned, bringing with him Anton Jelinek, and that important person, the coroner. He was a mild, flurried old man, a Civil War veteran, with one sleeve hanging empty. He seemed to find this case very perplexing, and said if it had not been for grandfather he would have sworn out a warrant against Krajiek.</|quote|>“The way he acted, and the way his axe fit the wound, was enough to convict any man.” Although it was perfectly clear that Mr. Shimerda had killed himself, Jake and the coroner thought something ought to be done to Krajiek because he behaved like a guilty man. He was badly frightened, certainly, and perhaps he even felt some stirrings of remorse for his indifference to the old man’s misery and loneliness. At supper the men ate like vikings, and the chocolate cake, which I had hoped would linger on until to-morrow in a mutilated condition, disappeared on the second round. They talked excitedly about where they should bury Mr. Shimerda; I gathered that the neighbors were all disturbed and shocked about something. It developed that Mrs. Shimerda and Ambrosch wanted the old man buried on the southwest corner of their own land; indeed, under the very stake that marked the corner. Grandfather had explained to Ambrosch that some day, when the country was put under fence and the roads were confined to section lines, two roads would cross exactly on that corner. But Ambrosch only said, “It makes no matter.” Grandfather asked Jelinek whether in the old country there was some superstition to the effect that a suicide must be buried at the cross-roads. Jelinek said he did n’t know; he seemed to remember hearing there had once been such a custom in Bohemia. “Mrs. Shimerda is made up her mind,” he added. “I try to persuade her, and say it looks bad for her to all the neighbors; but she say so it must be. ‘There I will bury him, if I dig the grave myself,’ she say. I have to promise her I help Ambrosch make the grave to-morrow.” Grandfather smoothed his beard and looked judicial. “I don’t know whose wish should decide the matter, if not hers. But if she thinks she will live to see the people of this country ride over that old man’s head, she is mistaken.” XVI MR. SHIMERDA lay dead in the barn four days, and on the fifth they buried him. All day Friday Jelinek was off with Ambrosch digging the grave, chopping out the frozen earth with old axes. On Saturday we breakfasted before daylight and got into the wagon with the coffin. Jake and Jelinek went ahead on horseback to cut the body loose from the pool of blood in which it was frozen fast to the ground. When grandmother and I went into the Shimerdas’ house, we found the women-folk alone; Ambrosch and Marek were at the barn. Mrs. Shimerda sat crouching by the stove, Ántonia was washing dishes. When she saw me she ran out of her dark corner and threw her arms around me. “Oh, Jimmy,” she sobbed, “what you tink for my lovely papa!” It seemed to me that I could feel her heart breaking as she clung to me. Mrs. Shimerda, sitting on the stump by the stove, kept looking over her shoulder toward the door while the neighbors were arriving. They came on horseback, all except the postmaster, who brought his family in a wagon over the only broken wagon-trail. The Widow Steavens rode up from her farm eight miles down the Black Hawk road. The cold drove the women into the cave-house, and it was soon crowded. A fine, sleety snow was beginning to fall, and every one was afraid of another storm and anxious to have the burial over with. Grandfather and Jelinek came to tell Mrs. Shimerda that it was time to start. After bundling her mother up in clothes the neighbors had brought, Ántonia put on an old cape from our house and the rabbit-skin hat her father had made for her. Four men carried Mr. Shimerda’s box up the hill; Krajiek slunk along behind them. The coffin was too wide for the door, so it was put down on the slope outside. I slipped out from the cave and looked at Mr. Shimerda. He was lying on his side, with his knees drawn up. His body was draped in a black shawl, and his head was bandaged in white muslin, like a mummy’s; one of his long, shapely hands lay out on the black cloth; that was all one could see of him. Mrs. Shimerda came out and placed an open prayer-book against the body, making the sign of the cross on the bandaged head with her fingers. Ambrosch knelt down and made the same gesture, and after him Ántonia and Marek. Yulka hung back. Her mother pushed her forward, and kept saying something to her over and over. Yulka knelt down, shut her eyes, and put out her hand a little way, but she drew it back and began to cry wildly. She was afraid to | the Widow Steavens, who lived on the Black Hawk road, drew up at our door, and after him came the father of the German family, our nearest neighbors on the south. They dismounted and joined us in the dining-room. They were all eager for any details about the suicide, and they were greatly concerned as to where Mr. Shimerda would be buried. The nearest Catholic cemetery was at Black Hawk, and it might be weeks before a wagon could get so far. Besides, Mr. Bushy and grandmother were sure that a man who had killed himself could not be buried in a Catholic graveyard. There was a burying-ground over by the Norwegian church, west of Squaw Creek; perhaps the Norwegians would take Mr. Shimerda in. After our visitors rode away in single file over the hill, we returned to the kitchen. Grandmother began to make the icing for a chocolate cake, and Otto again filled the house with the exciting, expectant song of the plane. One pleasant thing about this time was that everybody talked more than usual. I had never heard the postmaster say anything but “Only papers, to-day,” or, “I’ve got a sackful of mail for ye,” until this afternoon. Grandmother always talked, dear woman; to herself or to the Lord, if there was no one else to listen; but grandfather was naturally taciturn, and Jake and Otto were often so tired after supper that I used to feel as if I were surrounded by a wall of silence. Now every one seemed eager to talk. That afternoon Fuchs told me story after story; about the Black Tiger mine, and about violent deaths and casual buryings, and the queer fancies of dying men. You never really knew a man, he said, until you saw him die. Most men were game, and went without a grudge. The postmaster, going home, stopped to say that grandfather would bring the coroner back with him to spend the night. The officers of the Norwegian church, he told us, had held a meeting and decided that the Norwegian graveyard could not extend its hospitality to Mr. Shimerda. Grandmother was indignant. “If these foreigners are so clannish, Mr. Bushy, we’ll have to have an American graveyard that will be more liberal-minded. I’ll get right after Josiah to start one in the spring. If anything was to happen to me, I don’t want the Norwegians holding inquisitions over me to see whether I’m good enough to be laid amongst ’em.”<|quote|>Soon grandfather returned, bringing with him Anton Jelinek, and that important person, the coroner. He was a mild, flurried old man, a Civil War veteran, with one sleeve hanging empty. He seemed to find this case very perplexing, and said if it had not been for grandfather he would have sworn out a warrant against Krajiek.</|quote|>“The way he acted, and the way his axe fit the wound, was enough to convict any man.” Although it was perfectly clear that Mr. Shimerda had killed himself, Jake and the coroner thought something ought to be done to Krajiek because he behaved like a guilty man. He was badly frightened, certainly, and perhaps he even felt some stirrings of remorse for his indifference to the old man’s misery and loneliness. At supper the men ate like vikings, and the chocolate cake, which I had hoped would linger on until to-morrow in a mutilated condition, disappeared on the second round. They talked excitedly about where they should bury Mr. Shimerda; I gathered that the neighbors were all disturbed and shocked about something. It developed that Mrs. Shimerda and Ambrosch wanted the old man buried on the southwest corner of their own land; indeed, under the very stake that marked the corner. Grandfather had explained to Ambrosch that some day, when the country was put under fence and the roads were confined to section lines, two roads would cross exactly on that corner. But Ambrosch only said, “It makes no matter.” Grandfather asked Jelinek whether in the old country there was some superstition to the effect that a suicide must be buried at the cross-roads. Jelinek said he did n’t know; he seemed to remember hearing there had once been such a custom in Bohemia. “Mrs. Shimerda is made up her mind,” he added. “I try to persuade her, and say it looks bad for her to all the neighbors; but she say so it must be. ‘There I will bury him, if I dig the grave myself,’ she say. I | My Antonia |
"You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me to play and sing before any body and every body!--If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable, but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers." | Elizabeth | and you know what follows."<|quote|>"You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me to play and sing before any body and every body!--If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable, but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers."</|quote|>On Miss Lucas's persevering, however, | to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows."<|quote|>"You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me to play and sing before any body and every body!--If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable, but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers."</|quote|>On Miss Lucas's persevering, however, she added, "Very well; if | to give us a ball at Meryton?" "With great energy;--but it is a subject which always makes a lady energetic." "You are severe on us." "It will be _her_ turn soon to be teazed," said Miss Lucas. "I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows."<|quote|>"You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me to play and sing before any body and every body!--If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable, but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers."</|quote|>On Miss Lucas's persevering, however, she added, "Very well; if it must be so, it must." And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy, "There is a fine old saying, which every body here is of course familiar with--'Keep your breath to cool your porridge,'--and I shall keep mine to swell my | have any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such a subject to him, which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she turned to him and said, "Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teazing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?" "With great energy;--but it is a subject which always makes a lady energetic." "You are severe on us." "It will be _her_ turn soon to be teazed," said Miss Lucas. "I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows."<|quote|>"You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me to play and sing before any body and every body!--If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable, but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers."</|quote|>On Miss Lucas's persevering, however, she added, "Very well; if it must be so, it must." And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy, "There is a fine old saying, which every body here is of course familiar with--'Keep your breath to cool your porridge,'--and I shall keep mine to swell my song." Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain | with others. His doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas's, where a large party were assembled. "What does Mr. Darcy mean," said she to Charlotte, "by listening to my conversation with Colonel Forster?" "That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer." "But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him." On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such a subject to him, which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she turned to him and said, "Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teazing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?" "With great energy;--but it is a subject which always makes a lady energetic." "You are severe on us." "It will be _her_ turn soon to be teazed," said Miss Lucas. "I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows."<|quote|>"You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me to play and sing before any body and every body!--If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable, but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers."</|quote|>On Miss Lucas's persevering, however, she added, "Very well; if it must be so, it must." And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy, "There is a fine old saying, which every body here is of course familiar with--'Keep your breath to cool your porridge,'--and I shall keep mine to swell my song." Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always impatient for display. Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who with | was herself becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had hardly a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of this she was perfectly unaware;--to her he was only the man who made himself agreeable no where, and who had not thought her handsome enough to dance with. He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas's, where a large party were assembled. "What does Mr. Darcy mean," said she to Charlotte, "by listening to my conversation with Colonel Forster?" "That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer." "But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him." On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such a subject to him, which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she turned to him and said, "Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teazing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?" "With great energy;--but it is a subject which always makes a lady energetic." "You are severe on us." "It will be _her_ turn soon to be teazed," said Miss Lucas. "I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows."<|quote|>"You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me to play and sing before any body and every body!--If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable, but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers."</|quote|>On Miss Lucas's persevering, however, she added, "Very well; if it must be so, it must." And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy, "There is a fine old saying, which every body here is of course familiar with--'Keep your breath to cool your porridge,'--and I shall keep mine to swell my song." Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always impatient for display. Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who with some of the Lucases and two or three officers joined eagerly in dancing at one end of the room. Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too much engrossed by his own thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas was his neighbour, till Sir William thus began. "What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy!--There is nothing like dancing after all.--I consider it as one of the first refinements of polished societies." "Certainly, Sir;--and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world.--Every savage can dance." Sir William only smiled. "Your friend performs delightfully;" he continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group;--" "and I doubt not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy." "You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, Sir." "Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do you often dance at St. James's?" "Never, sir." "Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?" "It is a compliment which I never pay to any place | large mixed parties, it is impossible that every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should therefore make the most of every half hour in which she can command his attention. When she is secure of him, there will be leisure for falling in love as much as she chuses." "Your plan is a good one," replied Elizabeth, "where nothing is in question but the desire of being well married; and if I were determined to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But these are not Jane's feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet, she cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard, nor of its reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four dances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house, and has since dined in company with him four times. This is not quite enough to make her understand his character." "Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with him, she might only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must remember that four evenings have been also spent together--and four evenings may do a great deal." "Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they both like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to any other leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded." "Well," said Charlotte, "I wish Jane success with all my heart; and if she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a chance of happiness, as if she were to be studying his character for a twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other, or ever so similar before-hand, it does not advance their felicity in the least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life." "You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself." Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley's attentions to her sister, Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had hardly a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of this she was perfectly unaware;--to her he was only the man who made himself agreeable no where, and who had not thought her handsome enough to dance with. He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas's, where a large party were assembled. "What does Mr. Darcy mean," said she to Charlotte, "by listening to my conversation with Colonel Forster?" "That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer." "But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him." On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such a subject to him, which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she turned to him and said, "Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teazing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?" "With great energy;--but it is a subject which always makes a lady energetic." "You are severe on us." "It will be _her_ turn soon to be teazed," said Miss Lucas. "I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows."<|quote|>"You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me to play and sing before any body and every body!--If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable, but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers."</|quote|>On Miss Lucas's persevering, however, she added, "Very well; if it must be so, it must." And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy, "There is a fine old saying, which every body here is of course familiar with--'Keep your breath to cool your porridge,'--and I shall keep mine to swell my song." Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always impatient for display. Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who with some of the Lucases and two or three officers joined eagerly in dancing at one end of the room. Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too much engrossed by his own thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas was his neighbour, till Sir William thus began. "What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy!--There is nothing like dancing after all.--I consider it as one of the first refinements of polished societies." "Certainly, Sir;--and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world.--Every savage can dance." Sir William only smiled. "Your friend performs delightfully;" he continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group;--" "and I doubt not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy." "You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, Sir." "Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do you often dance at St. James's?" "Never, sir." "Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?" "It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it." "You have a house in town, I conclude?" Mr. Darcy bowed. "I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself--for I am fond of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of London would agree with Lady Lucas." He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not disposed to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was struck with the notion of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to her, "My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing?--Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner.--You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you." And taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy, who, though extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William, "Indeed, Sir, I have not the least intention of dancing.--I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner." Mr. Darcy with grave propriety requested to be allowed the honour of her hand; but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at all shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion. "You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one half hour." "Mr. Darcy is all politeness," said Elizabeth, smiling. "He is indeed--but considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza, we cannot wonder at his complaisance; for who would object to such a partner?" Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not injured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley, "I can guess the subject of your reverie." "I should imagine not." "You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner--in such society; and indeed I am quite of your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity and yet the noise; the nothingness and yet the self-importance of all these people!--What would I give to hear your strictures on them!" | to dance with. He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas's, where a large party were assembled. "What does Mr. Darcy mean," said she to Charlotte, "by listening to my conversation with Colonel Forster?" "That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer." "But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him." On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such a subject to him, which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she turned to him and said, "Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teazing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?" "With great energy;--but it is a subject which always makes a lady energetic." "You are severe on us." "It will be _her_ turn soon to be teazed," said Miss Lucas. "I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows."<|quote|>"You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me to play and sing before any body and every body!--If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable, but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers."</|quote|>On Miss Lucas's persevering, however, she added, "Very well; if it must be so, it must." And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy, "There is a fine old saying, which every body here is of course familiar with--'Keep your breath to cool your porridge,'--and I shall keep mine to swell my song." Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always impatient for display. Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who with some of the Lucases and two or three officers joined eagerly in dancing at one end of the room. Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too much engrossed by his own thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas was his neighbour, till Sir William thus began. "What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy!--There is nothing like dancing after all.--I consider it as one of the first refinements of polished societies." "Certainly, Sir;--and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world.--Every savage can dance." Sir William only smiled. "Your friend performs delightfully;" he continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group;--" "and I doubt not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy." "You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, Sir." "Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do you often dance at St. James's?" "Never, sir." "Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?" "It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it." "You have a house in town, I conclude?" Mr. Darcy bowed. "I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself--for I am fond of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of London would agree with Lady Lucas." He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not disposed to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was struck with the notion of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to her, "My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing?--Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner.--You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when | Pride And Prejudice |
said the Coroner, with a sigh. | No speaker | does not help us much,"<|quote|>said the Coroner, with a sigh.</|quote|>"There is no mention of | it attentively. "I fear it does not help us much,"<|quote|>said the Coroner, with a sigh.</|quote|>"There is no mention of any of the events of | the hachet? I have found it hard to forgive the things you said against my dear husband but I am an old woman & very fond of you Yours affectionately, Emily Inglethorpe It was handed to the jury who scrutinized it attentively. "I fear it does not help us much,"<|quote|>said the Coroner, with a sigh.</|quote|>"There is no mention of any of the events of that afternoon." "Plain as a pikestaff to me," said Miss Howard shortly. "It shows clearly enough that my poor old friend had just found out she'd been made a fool of!" "It says nothing of the kind in the letter," | written to her by Mrs. Inglethorp on the evening of the 17th. Poirot and I had, of course already seen it. It added nothing to our knowledge of the tragedy. The following is a facsimile: STYLES COURT ESSEX hand written note: July 17th My dear Evelyn Can we not bury the hachet? I have found it hard to forgive the things you said against my dear husband but I am an old woman & very fond of you Yours affectionately, Emily Inglethorpe It was handed to the jury who scrutinized it attentively. "I fear it does not help us much,"<|quote|>said the Coroner, with a sigh.</|quote|>"There is no mention of any of the events of that afternoon." "Plain as a pikestaff to me," said Miss Howard shortly. "It shows clearly enough that my poor old friend had just found out she'd been made a fool of!" "It says nothing of the kind in the letter," the Coroner pointed out. "No, because Emily never could bear to put herself in the wrong. But _I_ know her. She wanted me back. But she wasn't going to own that I'd been right. She went round about. Most people do. Don't believe in it myself." Mr. Wells smiled faintly. | the afternoon of the 17th to William Earl, under-gardener at Styles. William Earl and Manning succeeded her, and testified to witnessing a document. Manning fixed the time at about four-thirty, William was of the opinion that it was rather earlier. Cynthia Murdoch came next. She had, however, little to tell. She had known nothing of the tragedy, until awakened by Mrs. Cavendish. "You did not hear the table fall?" "No. I was fast asleep." The Coroner smiled. "A good conscience makes a sound sleeper," he observed. "Thank you, Miss Murdoch, that is all." "Miss Howard." Miss Howard produced the letter written to her by Mrs. Inglethorp on the evening of the 17th. Poirot and I had, of course already seen it. It added nothing to our knowledge of the tragedy. The following is a facsimile: STYLES COURT ESSEX hand written note: July 17th My dear Evelyn Can we not bury the hachet? I have found it hard to forgive the things you said against my dear husband but I am an old woman & very fond of you Yours affectionately, Emily Inglethorpe It was handed to the jury who scrutinized it attentively. "I fear it does not help us much,"<|quote|>said the Coroner, with a sigh.</|quote|>"There is no mention of any of the events of that afternoon." "Plain as a pikestaff to me," said Miss Howard shortly. "It shows clearly enough that my poor old friend had just found out she'd been made a fool of!" "It says nothing of the kind in the letter," the Coroner pointed out. "No, because Emily never could bear to put herself in the wrong. But _I_ know her. She wanted me back. But she wasn't going to own that I'd been right. She went round about. Most people do. Don't believe in it myself." Mr. Wells smiled faintly. So, I noticed, did several of the jury. Miss Howard was obviously quite a public character. "Anyway, all this tomfoolery is a great waste of time," continued the lady, glancing up and down the jury disparagingly. "Talk talk talk! When all the time we know perfectly well" The Coroner interrupted her in an agony of apprehension: "Thank you, Miss Howard, that is all." I fancy he breathed a sigh of relief when she complied. Then came the sensation of the day. The Coroner called Albert Mace, chemist's assistant. It was our agitated young man of the pale face. In answer | "And you remember nothing at all? _Nothing_, Mrs. Cavendish? Not one stray word or phrase to make you realize that it _was_ a private conversation?" She paused, and seemed to reflect, still outwardly as calm as ever. "Yes; I remember. Mrs. Inglethorp said something I do not remember exactly what about causing scandal between husband and wife." "Ah!" the Coroner leant back satisfied. "That corresponds with what Dorcas heard. But excuse me, Mrs. Cavendish, although you realized it was a private conversation, you did not move away? You remained where you were?" I caught the momentary gleam of her tawny eyes as she raised them. I felt certain that at that moment she would willingly have torn the little lawyer, with his insinuations, into pieces, but she replied quietly enough: "No. I was very comfortable where I was. I fixed my mind on my book." "And that is all you can tell us?" "That is all." The examination was over, though I doubted if the Coroner was entirely satisfied with it. I think he suspected that Mary Cavendish could tell more if she chose. Amy Hill, shop assistant, was next called, and deposed to having sold a will form on the afternoon of the 17th to William Earl, under-gardener at Styles. William Earl and Manning succeeded her, and testified to witnessing a document. Manning fixed the time at about four-thirty, William was of the opinion that it was rather earlier. Cynthia Murdoch came next. She had, however, little to tell. She had known nothing of the tragedy, until awakened by Mrs. Cavendish. "You did not hear the table fall?" "No. I was fast asleep." The Coroner smiled. "A good conscience makes a sound sleeper," he observed. "Thank you, Miss Murdoch, that is all." "Miss Howard." Miss Howard produced the letter written to her by Mrs. Inglethorp on the evening of the 17th. Poirot and I had, of course already seen it. It added nothing to our knowledge of the tragedy. The following is a facsimile: STYLES COURT ESSEX hand written note: July 17th My dear Evelyn Can we not bury the hachet? I have found it hard to forgive the things you said against my dear husband but I am an old woman & very fond of you Yours affectionately, Emily Inglethorpe It was handed to the jury who scrutinized it attentively. "I fear it does not help us much,"<|quote|>said the Coroner, with a sigh.</|quote|>"There is no mention of any of the events of that afternoon." "Plain as a pikestaff to me," said Miss Howard shortly. "It shows clearly enough that my poor old friend had just found out she'd been made a fool of!" "It says nothing of the kind in the letter," the Coroner pointed out. "No, because Emily never could bear to put herself in the wrong. But _I_ know her. She wanted me back. But she wasn't going to own that I'd been right. She went round about. Most people do. Don't believe in it myself." Mr. Wells smiled faintly. So, I noticed, did several of the jury. Miss Howard was obviously quite a public character. "Anyway, all this tomfoolery is a great waste of time," continued the lady, glancing up and down the jury disparagingly. "Talk talk talk! When all the time we know perfectly well" The Coroner interrupted her in an agony of apprehension: "Thank you, Miss Howard, that is all." I fancy he breathed a sigh of relief when she complied. Then came the sensation of the day. The Coroner called Albert Mace, chemist's assistant. It was our agitated young man of the pale face. In answer to the Coroner's questions, he explained that he was a qualified pharmacist, but had only recently come to this particular shop, as the assistant formerly there had just been called up for the army. These preliminaries completed, the Coroner proceeded to business. "Mr. Mace, have you lately sold strychnine to any unauthorized person?" "Yes, sir." "When was this?" "Last Monday night." "Monday? Not Tuesday?" "No, sir, Monday, the 16th." "Will you tell us to whom you sold it?" You could have heard a pin drop. "Yes, sir. It was to Mr. Inglethorp." Every eye turned simultaneously to where Alfred Inglethorp was sitting, impassive and wooden. He started slightly, as the damning words fell from the young man's lips. I half thought he was going to rise from his chair, but he remained seated, although a remarkably well acted expression of astonishment rose on his face. "You are sure of what you say?" asked the Coroner sternly. "Quite sure, sir." "Are you in the habit of selling strychnine indiscriminately over the counter?" The wretched young man wilted visibly under the Coroner's frown. "Oh, no, sir of course not. But, seeing it was Mr. Inglethorp of the Hall, I thought there was | the preceding afternoon. Dorcas's evidence on this point was substantially what Poirot and I had already heard, so I will not repeat it here. The next witness was Mary Cavendish. She stood very upright, and spoke in a low, clear, and perfectly composed voice. In answer to the Coroner's question, she told how, her alarm clock having aroused her at four-thirty as usual, she was dressing, when she was startled by the sound of something heavy falling. "That would have been the table by the bed?" commented the Coroner. "I opened my door," continued Mary, "and listened. In a few minutes a bell rang violently. Dorcas came running down and woke my husband, and we all went to my mother-in-law's room, but it was locked" The Coroner interrupted her. "I really do not think we need trouble you further on that point. We know all that can be known of the subsequent happenings. But I should be obliged if you would tell us all you overheard of the quarrel the day before." "I?" There was a faint insolence in her voice. She raised her hand and adjusted the ruffle of lace at her neck, turning her head a little as she did so. And quite spontaneously the thought flashed across my mind: "She is gaining time!" "Yes. I understand," continued the Coroner deliberately, "that you were sitting reading on the bench just outside the long window of the boudoir. That is so, is it not?" This was news to me and glancing sideways at Poirot, I fancied that it was news to him as well. There was the faintest pause, the mere hesitation of a moment, before she answered: "Yes, that is so." "And the boudoir window was open, was it not?" Surely her face grew a little paler as she answered: "Yes." "Then you cannot have failed to hear the voices inside, especially as they were raised in anger. In fact, they would be more audible where you were than in the hall." "Possibly." "Will you repeat to us what you overheard of the quarrel?" "I really do not remember hearing anything." "Do you mean to say you did not hear voices?" "Oh, yes, I heard the voices, but I did not hear what they said." A faint spot of colour came into her cheek. "I am not in the habit of listening to private conversations." The Coroner persisted. "And you remember nothing at all? _Nothing_, Mrs. Cavendish? Not one stray word or phrase to make you realize that it _was_ a private conversation?" She paused, and seemed to reflect, still outwardly as calm as ever. "Yes; I remember. Mrs. Inglethorp said something I do not remember exactly what about causing scandal between husband and wife." "Ah!" the Coroner leant back satisfied. "That corresponds with what Dorcas heard. But excuse me, Mrs. Cavendish, although you realized it was a private conversation, you did not move away? You remained where you were?" I caught the momentary gleam of her tawny eyes as she raised them. I felt certain that at that moment she would willingly have torn the little lawyer, with his insinuations, into pieces, but she replied quietly enough: "No. I was very comfortable where I was. I fixed my mind on my book." "And that is all you can tell us?" "That is all." The examination was over, though I doubted if the Coroner was entirely satisfied with it. I think he suspected that Mary Cavendish could tell more if she chose. Amy Hill, shop assistant, was next called, and deposed to having sold a will form on the afternoon of the 17th to William Earl, under-gardener at Styles. William Earl and Manning succeeded her, and testified to witnessing a document. Manning fixed the time at about four-thirty, William was of the opinion that it was rather earlier. Cynthia Murdoch came next. She had, however, little to tell. She had known nothing of the tragedy, until awakened by Mrs. Cavendish. "You did not hear the table fall?" "No. I was fast asleep." The Coroner smiled. "A good conscience makes a sound sleeper," he observed. "Thank you, Miss Murdoch, that is all." "Miss Howard." Miss Howard produced the letter written to her by Mrs. Inglethorp on the evening of the 17th. Poirot and I had, of course already seen it. It added nothing to our knowledge of the tragedy. The following is a facsimile: STYLES COURT ESSEX hand written note: July 17th My dear Evelyn Can we not bury the hachet? I have found it hard to forgive the things you said against my dear husband but I am an old woman & very fond of you Yours affectionately, Emily Inglethorpe It was handed to the jury who scrutinized it attentively. "I fear it does not help us much,"<|quote|>said the Coroner, with a sigh.</|quote|>"There is no mention of any of the events of that afternoon." "Plain as a pikestaff to me," said Miss Howard shortly. "It shows clearly enough that my poor old friend had just found out she'd been made a fool of!" "It says nothing of the kind in the letter," the Coroner pointed out. "No, because Emily never could bear to put herself in the wrong. But _I_ know her. She wanted me back. But she wasn't going to own that I'd been right. She went round about. Most people do. Don't believe in it myself." Mr. Wells smiled faintly. So, I noticed, did several of the jury. Miss Howard was obviously quite a public character. "Anyway, all this tomfoolery is a great waste of time," continued the lady, glancing up and down the jury disparagingly. "Talk talk talk! When all the time we know perfectly well" The Coroner interrupted her in an agony of apprehension: "Thank you, Miss Howard, that is all." I fancy he breathed a sigh of relief when she complied. Then came the sensation of the day. The Coroner called Albert Mace, chemist's assistant. It was our agitated young man of the pale face. In answer to the Coroner's questions, he explained that he was a qualified pharmacist, but had only recently come to this particular shop, as the assistant formerly there had just been called up for the army. These preliminaries completed, the Coroner proceeded to business. "Mr. Mace, have you lately sold strychnine to any unauthorized person?" "Yes, sir." "When was this?" "Last Monday night." "Monday? Not Tuesday?" "No, sir, Monday, the 16th." "Will you tell us to whom you sold it?" You could have heard a pin drop. "Yes, sir. It was to Mr. Inglethorp." Every eye turned simultaneously to where Alfred Inglethorp was sitting, impassive and wooden. He started slightly, as the damning words fell from the young man's lips. I half thought he was going to rise from his chair, but he remained seated, although a remarkably well acted expression of astonishment rose on his face. "You are sure of what you say?" asked the Coroner sternly. "Quite sure, sir." "Are you in the habit of selling strychnine indiscriminately over the counter?" The wretched young man wilted visibly under the Coroner's frown. "Oh, no, sir of course not. But, seeing it was Mr. Inglethorp of the Hall, I thought there was no harm in it. He said it was to poison a dog." Inwardly I sympathized. It was only human nature to endeavour to please "The Hall" especially when it might result in custom being transferred from Coot's to the local establishment. "Is it not customary for anyone purchasing poison to sign a book?" "Yes, sir, Mr. Inglethorp did so." "Have you got the book here?" "Yes, sir." It was produced; and, with a few words of stern censure, the Coroner dismissed the wretched Mr. Mace. Then, amidst a breathless silence, Alfred Inglethorp was called. Did he realize, I wondered, how closely the halter was being drawn around his neck? The Coroner went straight to the point. "On Monday evening last, did you purchase strychnine for the purpose of poisoning a dog?" Inglethorp replied with perfect calmness: "No, I did not. There is no dog at Styles, except an outdoor sheepdog, which is in perfect health." "You deny absolutely having purchased strychnine from Albert Mace on Monday last?" "I do." "Do you also deny _this_?" The Coroner handed him the register in which his signature was inscribed. "Certainly I do. The hand-writing is quite different from mine. I will show you." He took an old envelope out of his pocket, and wrote his name on it, handing it to the jury. It was certainly utterly dissimilar. "Then what is your explanation of Mr. Mace's statement?" Alfred Inglethorp replied imperturbably: "Mr. Mace must have been mistaken." The Coroner hesitated for a moment, and then said: "Mr. Inglethorp, as a mere matter of form, would you mind telling us where you were on the evening of Monday, July 16th?" "Really I cannot remember." "That is absurd, Mr. Inglethorp," said the Coroner sharply. "Think again." Inglethorp shook his head. "I cannot tell you. I have an idea that I was out walking." "In what direction?" "I really can't remember." The Coroner's face grew graver. "Were you in company with anyone?" "No." "Did you meet anyone on your walk?" "No." "That is a pity," said the Coroner dryly. "I am to take it then that you decline to say where you were at the time that Mr. Mace positively recognized you as entering the shop to purchase strychnine?" "If you like to take it that way, yes." "Be careful, Mr. Inglethorp." Poirot was fidgeting nervously. "_Sacr !_" he murmured. "Does this imbecile of a man | with his insinuations, into pieces, but she replied quietly enough: "No. I was very comfortable where I was. I fixed my mind on my book." "And that is all you can tell us?" "That is all." The examination was over, though I doubted if the Coroner was entirely satisfied with it. I think he suspected that Mary Cavendish could tell more if she chose. Amy Hill, shop assistant, was next called, and deposed to having sold a will form on the afternoon of the 17th to William Earl, under-gardener at Styles. William Earl and Manning succeeded her, and testified to witnessing a document. Manning fixed the time at about four-thirty, William was of the opinion that it was rather earlier. Cynthia Murdoch came next. She had, however, little to tell. She had known nothing of the tragedy, until awakened by Mrs. Cavendish. "You did not hear the table fall?" "No. I was fast asleep." The Coroner smiled. "A good conscience makes a sound sleeper," he observed. "Thank you, Miss Murdoch, that is all." "Miss Howard." Miss Howard produced the letter written to her by Mrs. Inglethorp on the evening of the 17th. Poirot and I had, of course already seen it. It added nothing to our knowledge of the tragedy. The following is a facsimile: STYLES COURT ESSEX hand written note: July 17th My dear Evelyn Can we not bury the hachet? I have found it hard to forgive the things you said against my dear husband but I am an old woman & very fond of you Yours affectionately, Emily Inglethorpe It was handed to the jury who scrutinized it attentively. "I fear it does not help us much,"<|quote|>said the Coroner, with a sigh.</|quote|>"There is no mention of any of the events of that afternoon." "Plain as a pikestaff to me," said Miss Howard shortly. "It shows clearly enough that my poor old friend had just found out she'd been made a fool of!" "It says nothing of the kind in the letter," the Coroner pointed out. "No, because Emily never could bear to put herself in the wrong. But _I_ know her. She wanted me back. But she wasn't going to own that I'd been right. She went round about. Most people do. Don't believe in it myself." Mr. Wells smiled faintly. So, I noticed, did several of the jury. Miss Howard was obviously quite a public character. "Anyway, all this tomfoolery is a great waste of time," continued the lady, glancing up and down the jury disparagingly. "Talk talk talk! When all the time we know perfectly well" The Coroner interrupted her in an agony of apprehension: "Thank you, Miss Howard, that is all." I fancy he breathed a sigh of relief when she complied. Then came the sensation of the day. The Coroner called Albert Mace, chemist's assistant. It was our agitated young man of the pale face. In answer to the Coroner's questions, he explained that he was a qualified pharmacist, but had only recently come to this particular shop, as the assistant formerly there had just been called up for the army. These preliminaries completed, the Coroner proceeded to business. "Mr. Mace, have you lately sold strychnine to any unauthorized person?" "Yes, sir." "When was this?" "Last Monday night." "Monday? Not Tuesday?" "No, sir, Monday, the 16th." "Will you tell us to whom you sold it?" You could have heard a pin drop. "Yes, sir. It was to Mr. Inglethorp." Every eye turned simultaneously to where Alfred Inglethorp was sitting, impassive and wooden. He started slightly, as the damning words fell from the young man's lips. I half thought he was going to rise from his chair, but he remained seated, although a remarkably well acted expression of astonishment rose on his face. "You are sure of what you say?" asked the Coroner sternly. "Quite sure, sir." "Are you in the habit of selling strychnine indiscriminately over the counter?" The wretched young man wilted visibly under the Coroner's frown. "Oh, no, sir of course not. But, seeing it was Mr. Inglethorp of the Hall, I thought there was no harm in it. He said it was to poison a dog." Inwardly I sympathized. It was only human nature to endeavour to please "The Hall" especially when it might result in custom being transferred from Coot's to the local establishment. "Is it not customary for anyone purchasing poison to sign a book?" "Yes, sir, Mr. Inglethorp did so." "Have you got the book here?" "Yes, sir." It was produced; and, with a few words of stern censure, the Coroner dismissed the wretched Mr. Mace. Then, amidst a breathless silence, Alfred Inglethorp was called. Did he realize, I wondered, how closely the halter was being drawn around his neck? The Coroner went straight to the point. "On Monday evening last, did you purchase strychnine for the purpose of poisoning a dog?" Inglethorp replied with perfect calmness: "No, I did not. There is no dog at Styles, except an outdoor sheepdog, which is in perfect health." "You deny absolutely having purchased strychnine from Albert Mace on Monday last?" "I do." "Do you also deny _this_?" The Coroner handed | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
"and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly believe it." | Basil Hallward | tell, Harry," answered the painter;<|quote|>"and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly believe it."</|quote|>Lord Henry smiled, and leaning | is really very little to tell, Harry," answered the painter;<|quote|>"and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly believe it."</|quote|>Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy | my own soul." Lord Henry laughed. "And what is that?" he asked. "I will tell you," said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came over his face. "I am all expectation, Basil," continued his companion, glancing at him. "Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry," answered the painter;<|quote|>"and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly believe it."</|quote|>Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass and examined it. "I am quite sure I shall understand it," he replied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk, "and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible." The | is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul." Lord Henry laughed. "And what is that?" he asked. "I will tell you," said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came over his face. "I am all expectation, Basil," continued his companion, glancing at him. "Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry," answered the painter;<|quote|>"and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly believe it."</|quote|>Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass and examined it. "I am quite sure I shall understand it," he replied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk, "and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible." The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a blue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze wings. Lord Henry felt | keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. "You know quite well." "I do not, Harry." "Well, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why you won t exhibit Dorian Gray s picture. I want the real reason." "I told you the real reason." "No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of yourself in it. Now, that is childish." "Harry," said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, "every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul." Lord Henry laughed. "And what is that?" he asked. "I will tell you," said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came over his face. "I am all expectation, Basil," continued his companion, glancing at him. "Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry," answered the painter;<|quote|>"and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly believe it."</|quote|>Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass and examined it. "I am quite sure I shall understand it," he replied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk, "and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible." The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a blue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze wings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward s heart beating, and wondered what was coming. "The story is simply this," said the painter after some time. "Two months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon s. You know we poor artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the public that we are not savages. With an evening coat and a white tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain a reputation for being civilized. Well, after I had been in the room about ten minutes, talking to | her dates, and I always do. But when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes wish she would; but she merely laughs at me." "I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry," said Basil Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. "I believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary fellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. Your cynicism is simply a pose." "Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know," cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous. After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. "I am afraid I must be going, Basil," he murmured, "and before I go, I insist on your answering a question I put to you some time ago." "What is that?" said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. "You know quite well." "I do not, Harry." "Well, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why you won t exhibit Dorian Gray s picture. I want the real reason." "I told you the real reason." "No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of yourself in it. Now, that is childish." "Harry," said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, "every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul." Lord Henry laughed. "And what is that?" he asked. "I will tell you," said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came over his face. "I am all expectation, Basil," continued his companion, glancing at him. "Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry," answered the painter;<|quote|>"and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly believe it."</|quote|>Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass and examined it. "I am quite sure I shall understand it," he replied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk, "and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible." The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a blue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze wings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward s heart beating, and wondered what was coming. "The story is simply this," said the painter after some time. "Two months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon s. You know we poor artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the public that we are not savages. With an evening coat and a white tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain a reputation for being civilized. Well, after I had been in the room about ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious academicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at me. I turned half-way round and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. I did not want any external influence in my life. You know yourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature. I have always been my own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray. Then but I don t know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. I grew afraid and turned to quit the room. It was not conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice. I take no credit | him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one s fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray s good looks we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly." "Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward. "Yes, that is his name. I didn t intend to tell it to you." "But why not?" "Oh, I can t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into one s life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?" "Not at all," answered Lord Henry, "not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. When we meet we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go down to the Duke s we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces. My wife is very good at it much better, in fact, than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes wish she would; but she merely laughs at me." "I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry," said Basil Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. "I believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary fellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. Your cynicism is simply a pose." "Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know," cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous. After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. "I am afraid I must be going, Basil," he murmured, "and before I go, I insist on your answering a question I put to you some time ago." "What is that?" said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. "You know quite well." "I do not, Harry." "Well, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why you won t exhibit Dorian Gray s picture. I want the real reason." "I told you the real reason." "No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of yourself in it. Now, that is childish." "Harry," said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, "every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul." Lord Henry laughed. "And what is that?" he asked. "I will tell you," said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came over his face. "I am all expectation, Basil," continued his companion, glancing at him. "Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry," answered the painter;<|quote|>"and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly believe it."</|quote|>Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass and examined it. "I am quite sure I shall understand it," he replied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk, "and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible." The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a blue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze wings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward s heart beating, and wondered what was coming. "The story is simply this," said the painter after some time. "Two months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon s. You know we poor artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the public that we are not savages. With an evening coat and a white tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain a reputation for being civilized. Well, after I had been in the room about ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious academicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at me. I turned half-way round and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. I did not want any external influence in my life. You know yourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature. I have always been my own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray. Then but I don t know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. I grew afraid and turned to quit the room. It was not conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice. I take no credit to myself for trying to escape." "Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil. Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all." "I don t believe that, Harry, and I don t believe you do either. However, whatever was my motive and it may have been pride, for I used to be very proud I certainly struggled to the door. There, of course, I stumbled against Lady Brandon." You are not going to run away so soon, Mr. Hallward? "she screamed out. You know her curiously shrill voice?" "Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty," said Lord Henry, pulling the daisy to bits with his long nervous fingers. "I could not get rid of her. She brought me up to royalties, and people with stars and garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras and parrot noses. She spoke of me as her dearest friend. I had only met her once before, but she took it into her head to lionize me. I believe some picture of mine had made a great success at the time, at least had been chattered about in the penny newspapers, which is the nineteenth-century standard of immortality. Suddenly I found myself face to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely stirred me. We were quite close, almost touching. Our eyes met again. It was reckless of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him. Perhaps it was not so reckless, after all. It was simply inevitable. We would have spoken to each other without any introduction. I am sure of that. Dorian told me so afterwards. He, too, felt that we were destined to know each other." "And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man?" asked his companion. "I know she goes in for giving a rapid _pr cis_ of all her guests. I remember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced old gentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my ear, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to everybody in the room, the most astounding details. I simply fled. I like to find out people for myself. But Lady Brandon treats her guests exactly as an auctioneer treats his goods. She either explains them entirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants to know." "Poor Lady Brandon! | a pose, and the most irritating pose I know," cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous. After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. "I am afraid I must be going, Basil," he murmured, "and before I go, I insist on your answering a question I put to you some time ago." "What is that?" said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. "You know quite well." "I do not, Harry." "Well, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why you won t exhibit Dorian Gray s picture. I want the real reason." "I told you the real reason." "No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of yourself in it. Now, that is childish." "Harry," said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, "every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul." Lord Henry laughed. "And what is that?" he asked. "I will tell you," said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came over his face. "I am all expectation, Basil," continued his companion, glancing at him. "Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry," answered the painter;<|quote|>"and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly believe it."</|quote|>Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass and examined it. "I am quite sure I shall understand it," he replied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk, "and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible." The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a blue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze wings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward s heart beating, and wondered what was coming. "The story is simply this," said the painter after some time. "Two months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon s. You know we poor artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the public that we are not savages. With an evening coat and a white tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain a reputation for being civilized. Well, after I had been in the room about ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious academicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at me. I turned half-way round and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. I did not want any external influence in my life. You know yourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature. I have always been my own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray. Then but I don t know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. I grew afraid and turned to quit the room. It was not conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice. I | The Picture Of Dorian Gray |
“death car” | No speaker | the business was over. The<|quote|>“death car”</|quote|>as the newspapers called it, | could move from his door the business was over. The<|quote|>“death car”</|quote|>as the newspapers called it, didn’t stop; it came out | Wilson’s voice, loud and scolding, downstairs in the garage. “Beat me!” he heard her cry. “Throw me down and beat me, you dirty little coward!” A moment later she rushed out into the dusk, waving her hands and shouting—before he could move from his door the business was over. The<|quote|>“death car”</|quote|>as the newspapers called it, didn’t stop; it came out of the gathering darkness, wavered tragically for a moment, and then disappeared around the next bend. Mavro Michaelis wasn’t even sure of its colour—he told the first policeman that it was light green. The other car, the one going toward | came past the door bound for his restaurant, and Michaelis took the opportunity to get away, intending to come back later. But he didn’t. He supposed he forgot to, that’s all. When he came outside again, a little after seven, he was reminded of the conversation because he heard Mrs. Wilson’s voice, loud and scolding, downstairs in the garage. “Beat me!” he heard her cry. “Throw me down and beat me, you dirty little coward!” A moment later she rushed out into the dusk, waving her hands and shouting—before he could move from his door the business was over. The<|quote|>“death car”</|quote|>as the newspapers called it, didn’t stop; it came out of the gathering darkness, wavered tragically for a moment, and then disappeared around the next bend. Mavro Michaelis wasn’t even sure of its colour—he told the first policeman that it was light green. The other car, the one going toward New York, came to rest a hundred yards beyond, and its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson, her life violently extinguished, knelt in the road and mingled her thick dark blood with the dust. Michaelis and this man reached her first, but when they had torn open her shirtwaist, | one of these worn-out men: when he wasn’t working, he sat on a chair in the doorway and stared at the people and the cars that passed along the road. When anyone spoke to him he invariably laughed in an agreeable, colourless way. He was his wife’s man and not his own. So naturally Michaelis tried to find out what had happened, but Wilson wouldn’t say a word—instead he began to throw curious, suspicious glances at his visitor and ask him what he’d been doing at certain times on certain days. Just as the latter was getting uneasy, some workmen came past the door bound for his restaurant, and Michaelis took the opportunity to get away, intending to come back later. But he didn’t. He supposed he forgot to, that’s all. When he came outside again, a little after seven, he was reminded of the conversation because he heard Mrs. Wilson’s voice, loud and scolding, downstairs in the garage. “Beat me!” he heard her cry. “Throw me down and beat me, you dirty little coward!” A moment later she rushed out into the dusk, waving her hands and shouting—before he could move from his door the business was over. The<|quote|>“death car”</|quote|>as the newspapers called it, didn’t stop; it came out of the gathering darkness, wavered tragically for a moment, and then disappeared around the next bend. Mavro Michaelis wasn’t even sure of its colour—he told the first policeman that it was light green. The other car, the one going toward New York, came to rest a hundred yards beyond, and its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson, her life violently extinguished, knelt in the road and mingled her thick dark blood with the dust. Michaelis and this man reached her first, but when they had torn open her shirtwaist, still damp with perspiration, they saw that her left breast was swinging loose like a flap, and there was no need to listen for the heart beneath. The mouth was wide open and ripped a little at the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the tremendous vitality she had stored so long. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ We saw the three or four automobiles and the crowd when we were still some distance away. “Wreck!” said Tom. “That’s good. Wilson’ll have a little business at last.” He slowed down, but still without any intention of stopping, until, as we | beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat’s shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand. So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The young Greek, Michaelis, who ran the coffee joint beside the ash-heaps was the principal witness at the inquest. He had slept through the heat until after five, when he strolled over to the garage, and found George Wilson sick in his office—really sick, pale as his own pale hair and shaking all over. Michaelis advised him to go to bed, but Wilson refused, saying that he’d miss a lot of business if he did. While his neighbour was trying to persuade him a violent racket broke out overhead. “I’ve got my wife locked in up there,” explained Wilson calmly. “She’s going to stay there till the day after tomorrow, and then we’re going to move away.” Michaelis was astonished; they had been neighbours for four years, and Wilson had never seemed faintly capable of such a statement. Generally he was one of these worn-out men: when he wasn’t working, he sat on a chair in the doorway and stared at the people and the cars that passed along the road. When anyone spoke to him he invariably laughed in an agreeable, colourless way. He was his wife’s man and not his own. So naturally Michaelis tried to find out what had happened, but Wilson wouldn’t say a word—instead he began to throw curious, suspicious glances at his visitor and ask him what he’d been doing at certain times on certain days. Just as the latter was getting uneasy, some workmen came past the door bound for his restaurant, and Michaelis took the opportunity to get away, intending to come back later. But he didn’t. He supposed he forgot to, that’s all. When he came outside again, a little after seven, he was reminded of the conversation because he heard Mrs. Wilson’s voice, loud and scolding, downstairs in the garage. “Beat me!” he heard her cry. “Throw me down and beat me, you dirty little coward!” A moment later she rushed out into the dusk, waving her hands and shouting—before he could move from his door the business was over. The<|quote|>“death car”</|quote|>as the newspapers called it, didn’t stop; it came out of the gathering darkness, wavered tragically for a moment, and then disappeared around the next bend. Mavro Michaelis wasn’t even sure of its colour—he told the first policeman that it was light green. The other car, the one going toward New York, came to rest a hundred yards beyond, and its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson, her life violently extinguished, knelt in the road and mingled her thick dark blood with the dust. Michaelis and this man reached her first, but when they had torn open her shirtwaist, still damp with perspiration, they saw that her left breast was swinging loose like a flap, and there was no need to listen for the heart beneath. The mouth was wide open and ripped a little at the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the tremendous vitality she had stored so long. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ We saw the three or four automobiles and the crowd when we were still some distance away. “Wreck!” said Tom. “That’s good. Wilson’ll have a little business at last.” He slowed down, but still without any intention of stopping, until, as we came nearer, the hushed, intent faces of the people at the garage door made him automatically put on the brakes. “We’ll take a look,” he said doubtfully, “just a look.” I became aware now of a hollow, wailing sound which issued incessantly from the garage, a sound which as we got out of the coupé and walked toward the door resolved itself into the words “Oh, my God!” uttered over and over in a gasping moan. “There’s some bad trouble here,” said Tom excitedly. He reached up on tiptoes and peered over a circle of heads into the garage, which was lit only by a yellow light in a swinging metal basket overhead. Then he made a harsh sound in his throat, and with a violent thrusting movement of his powerful arms pushed his way through. The circle closed up again with a running murmur of expostulation; it was a minute before I could see anything at all. Then new arrivals deranged the line, and Jordan and I were pushed suddenly inside. Myrtle Wilson’s body, wrapped in a blanket, and then in another blanket, as though she suffered from a chill in the hot night, lay on a worktable by | you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.” I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden—as if he had “killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in just that fantastic way. It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room. The voice begged again to go. “Please, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.” Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage she had had, were definitely gone. “You two start on home, Daisy,” said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.” She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous scorn. “Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over.” They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity. After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of whisky in the towel. “Want any of this stuff? Jordan? … Nick?” I didn’t answer. “Nick?” He asked again. “What?” “Want any?” “No … I just remembered that today’s my birthday.” I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a new decade. It was seven o’clock when we got into the coupé with him and started for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but his voice was as remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamour on the sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy has its limits, and we were content to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind. Thirty—the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning briefcase of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat’s shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand. So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The young Greek, Michaelis, who ran the coffee joint beside the ash-heaps was the principal witness at the inquest. He had slept through the heat until after five, when he strolled over to the garage, and found George Wilson sick in his office—really sick, pale as his own pale hair and shaking all over. Michaelis advised him to go to bed, but Wilson refused, saying that he’d miss a lot of business if he did. While his neighbour was trying to persuade him a violent racket broke out overhead. “I’ve got my wife locked in up there,” explained Wilson calmly. “She’s going to stay there till the day after tomorrow, and then we’re going to move away.” Michaelis was astonished; they had been neighbours for four years, and Wilson had never seemed faintly capable of such a statement. Generally he was one of these worn-out men: when he wasn’t working, he sat on a chair in the doorway and stared at the people and the cars that passed along the road. When anyone spoke to him he invariably laughed in an agreeable, colourless way. He was his wife’s man and not his own. So naturally Michaelis tried to find out what had happened, but Wilson wouldn’t say a word—instead he began to throw curious, suspicious glances at his visitor and ask him what he’d been doing at certain times on certain days. Just as the latter was getting uneasy, some workmen came past the door bound for his restaurant, and Michaelis took the opportunity to get away, intending to come back later. But he didn’t. He supposed he forgot to, that’s all. When he came outside again, a little after seven, he was reminded of the conversation because he heard Mrs. Wilson’s voice, loud and scolding, downstairs in the garage. “Beat me!” he heard her cry. “Throw me down and beat me, you dirty little coward!” A moment later she rushed out into the dusk, waving her hands and shouting—before he could move from his door the business was over. The<|quote|>“death car”</|quote|>as the newspapers called it, didn’t stop; it came out of the gathering darkness, wavered tragically for a moment, and then disappeared around the next bend. Mavro Michaelis wasn’t even sure of its colour—he told the first policeman that it was light green. The other car, the one going toward New York, came to rest a hundred yards beyond, and its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson, her life violently extinguished, knelt in the road and mingled her thick dark blood with the dust. Michaelis and this man reached her first, but when they had torn open her shirtwaist, still damp with perspiration, they saw that her left breast was swinging loose like a flap, and there was no need to listen for the heart beneath. The mouth was wide open and ripped a little at the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the tremendous vitality she had stored so long. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ We saw the three or four automobiles and the crowd when we were still some distance away. “Wreck!” said Tom. “That’s good. Wilson’ll have a little business at last.” He slowed down, but still without any intention of stopping, until, as we came nearer, the hushed, intent faces of the people at the garage door made him automatically put on the brakes. “We’ll take a look,” he said doubtfully, “just a look.” I became aware now of a hollow, wailing sound which issued incessantly from the garage, a sound which as we got out of the coupé and walked toward the door resolved itself into the words “Oh, my God!” uttered over and over in a gasping moan. “There’s some bad trouble here,” said Tom excitedly. He reached up on tiptoes and peered over a circle of heads into the garage, which was lit only by a yellow light in a swinging metal basket overhead. Then he made a harsh sound in his throat, and with a violent thrusting movement of his powerful arms pushed his way through. The circle closed up again with a running murmur of expostulation; it was a minute before I could see anything at all. Then new arrivals deranged the line, and Jordan and I were pushed suddenly inside. Myrtle Wilson’s body, wrapped in a blanket, and then in another blanket, as though she suffered from a chill in the hot night, lay on a worktable by the wall, and Tom, with his back to us, was bending over it, motionless. Next to him stood a motorcycle policeman taking down names with much sweat and correction in a little book. At first I couldn’t find the source of the high, groaning words that echoed clamorously through the bare garage—then I saw Wilson standing on the raised threshold of his office, swaying back and forth and holding to the doorposts with both hands. Some man was talking to him in a low voice and attempting, from time to time, to lay a hand on his shoulder, but Wilson neither heard nor saw. His eyes would drop slowly from the swinging light to the laden table by the wall, and then jerk back to the light again, and he gave out incessantly his high, horrible call: “Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od!” Presently Tom lifted his head with a jerk and, after staring around the garage with glazed eyes, addressed a mumbled incoherent remark to the policeman. “M-a-v—” the policeman was saying, “—o—” “No, r—” corrected the man, “M-a-v-r-o—” “Listen to me!” muttered Tom fiercely. “r—” said the policeman, “o—” “g—” “g—” He looked up as Tom’s broad hand fell sharply on his shoulder. “What you want, fella?” “What happened?—that’s what I want to know.” “Auto hit her. Ins’antly killed.” “Instantly killed,” repeated Tom, staring. “She ran out ina road. Son-of-a-bitch didn’t even stopus car.” “There was two cars,” said Michaelis, “one comin’, one goin’, see?” “Going where?” asked the policeman keenly. “One goin’ each way. Well, she” —his hand rose toward the blankets but stopped halfway and fell to his side— “she ran out there an’ the one comin’ from N’York knock right into her, goin’ thirty or forty miles an hour.” “What’s the name of this place here?” demanded the officer. “Hasn’t got any name.” A pale well-dressed negro stepped near. “It was a yellow car,” he said, “big yellow car. New.” “See the accident?” asked the policeman. “No, but the car passed me down the road, going faster’n forty. Going fifty, sixty.” “Come here and let’s have your name. Look out now. I want to get his name.” Some words of this conversation must have reached Wilson, swaying in the office door, for suddenly a new theme found voice among his grasping cries: “You don’t have to tell me what kind | and found George Wilson sick in his office—really sick, pale as his own pale hair and shaking all over. Michaelis advised him to go to bed, but Wilson refused, saying that he’d miss a lot of business if he did. While his neighbour was trying to persuade him a violent racket broke out overhead. “I’ve got my wife locked in up there,” explained Wilson calmly. “She’s going to stay there till the day after tomorrow, and then we’re going to move away.” Michaelis was astonished; they had been neighbours for four years, and Wilson had never seemed faintly capable of such a statement. Generally he was one of these worn-out men: when he wasn’t working, he sat on a chair in the doorway and stared at the people and the cars that passed along the road. When anyone spoke to him he invariably laughed in an agreeable, colourless way. He was his wife’s man and not his own. So naturally Michaelis tried to find out what had happened, but Wilson wouldn’t say a word—instead he began to throw curious, suspicious glances at his visitor and ask him what he’d been doing at certain times on certain days. Just as the latter was getting uneasy, some workmen came past the door bound for his restaurant, and Michaelis took the opportunity to get away, intending to come back later. But he didn’t. He supposed he forgot to, that’s all. When he came outside again, a little after seven, he was reminded of the conversation because he heard Mrs. Wilson’s voice, loud and scolding, downstairs in the garage. “Beat me!” he heard her cry. “Throw me down and beat me, you dirty little coward!” A moment later she rushed out into the dusk, waving her hands and shouting—before he could move from his door the business was over. The<|quote|>“death car”</|quote|>as the newspapers called it, didn’t stop; it came out of the gathering darkness, wavered tragically for a moment, and then disappeared around the next bend. Mavro Michaelis wasn’t even sure of its colour—he told the first policeman that it was light green. The other car, the one going toward New York, came to rest a hundred yards beyond, and its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson, her life violently extinguished, knelt in the road and mingled her thick dark blood with the dust. Michaelis and this man reached her first, but when they had torn open her shirtwaist, still damp with perspiration, they saw that her left breast was swinging loose like a flap, and there was no need to listen for the heart beneath. The mouth was wide open and ripped a little at the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the tremendous vitality she had stored so long. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ We saw the three or four automobiles and the crowd when we were still some distance away. “Wreck!” said Tom. “That’s good. Wilson’ll have a little business at last.” He slowed down, but still without any intention of stopping, until, as we came nearer, the hushed, intent faces of the people at the garage door made him automatically put on the brakes. “We’ll take a look,” he said doubtfully, “just a look.” I became aware now of a hollow, wailing sound which issued incessantly from the garage, a sound which as we got out of the coupé and walked toward the door resolved itself into the words “Oh, my God!” uttered over and over in a gasping moan. “There’s some bad trouble here,” said Tom excitedly. He reached up on tiptoes and peered over a circle of heads into the garage, which was lit only by a yellow light in a swinging metal basket overhead. Then he made a harsh sound in his throat, and with a violent thrusting movement of his powerful arms pushed his way through. The circle closed up again with a running murmur of expostulation; it was a minute before I could see anything at all. Then new arrivals deranged the line, and Jordan and I were pushed suddenly inside. Myrtle Wilson’s body, wrapped in a blanket, and then in another blanket, as though she suffered from a chill in the hot night, lay on a worktable by the wall, and Tom, with his back to us, was bending over it, motionless. Next to him stood a motorcycle policeman taking down names with | The Great Gatsby |
"Italy too," | Signor Carella | for international amenities, merely bowed.<|quote|>"Italy too,"</|quote|>the other continued a little | English." Philip, in no mood for international amenities, merely bowed.<|quote|>"Italy too,"</|quote|>the other continued a little resentfully, "is a great country. | himself that he must hear her defence before giving judgment. Signor Carella, heartened by the spaghetti and the throat-rasping wine, attempted to talk, and, looking politely towards Philip, said, "England is a great country. The Italians love England and the English." Philip, in no mood for international amenities, merely bowed.<|quote|>"Italy too,"</|quote|>the other continued a little resentfully, "is a great country. She has produced many famous men--for example Garibaldi and Dante. The latter wrote the Inferno, the Purgatorio, the Paradiso. The Inferno is the most beautiful." And with the complacent tone of one who has received a solid education, he quoted | Occasionally Miss Abbott had to act as interpreter between the lovers, and the situation became uncouth and revolting in the extreme. Yet Philip was too cowardly to break forth and denounce the engagement. He thought he should be more effective with Lilia if he had her alone, and pretended to himself that he must hear her defence before giving judgment. Signor Carella, heartened by the spaghetti and the throat-rasping wine, attempted to talk, and, looking politely towards Philip, said, "England is a great country. The Italians love England and the English." Philip, in no mood for international amenities, merely bowed.<|quote|>"Italy too,"</|quote|>the other continued a little resentfully, "is a great country. She has produced many famous men--for example Garibaldi and Dante. The latter wrote the Inferno, the Purgatorio, the Paradiso. The Inferno is the most beautiful." And with the complacent tone of one who has received a solid education, he quoted the opening lines-- Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura Che la diritta via era smarrita-- a quotation which was more apt than he supposed. Lilia glanced at Philip to see whether he noticed that she was marrying no ignoramus. Anxious to exhibit all | moment unconscious and calm. And Philip had seen that face before in Italy a hundred times--seen it and loved it, for it was not merely beautiful, but had the charm which is the rightful heritage of all who are born on that soil. But he did not want to see it opposite him at dinner. It was not the face of a gentleman. Conversation, to give it that name, was carried on in a mixture of English and Italian. Lilia had picked up hardly any of the latter language, and Signor Carella had not yet learnt any of the former. Occasionally Miss Abbott had to act as interpreter between the lovers, and the situation became uncouth and revolting in the extreme. Yet Philip was too cowardly to break forth and denounce the engagement. He thought he should be more effective with Lilia if he had her alone, and pretended to himself that he must hear her defence before giving judgment. Signor Carella, heartened by the spaghetti and the throat-rasping wine, attempted to talk, and, looking politely towards Philip, said, "England is a great country. The Italians love England and the English." Philip, in no mood for international amenities, merely bowed.<|quote|>"Italy too,"</|quote|>the other continued a little resentfully, "is a great country. She has produced many famous men--for example Garibaldi and Dante. The latter wrote the Inferno, the Purgatorio, the Paradiso. The Inferno is the most beautiful." And with the complacent tone of one who has received a solid education, he quoted the opening lines-- Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura Che la diritta via era smarrita-- a quotation which was more apt than he supposed. Lilia glanced at Philip to see whether he noticed that she was marrying no ignoramus. Anxious to exhibit all the good qualities of her betrothed, she abruptly introduced the subject of pallone, in which, it appeared, he was a proficient player. He suddenly became shy and developed a conceited grin--the grin of the village yokel whose cricket score is mentioned before a stranger. Philip himself had loved to watch pallone, that entrancing combination of lawn-tennis and fives. But he did not expect to love it quite so much again. "Oh, look!" exclaimed Lilia, "the poor wee fish!" A starved cat had been worrying them all for pieces of the purple quivering beef they were trying to swallow. Signor Carella, | smart and vociferous, was at the head of the table; Miss Abbott, also in her best, sat by Philip, looking, to his irritated nerves, more like the tragedy confidante every moment. That scion of the Italian nobility, Signor Carella, sat opposite. Behind him loomed a bowl of goldfish, who swam round and round, gaping at the guests. The face of Signor Carella was twitching too much for Philip to study it. But he could see the hands, which were not particularly clean, and did not get cleaner by fidgeting amongst the shining slabs of hair. His starched cuffs were not clean either, and as for his suit, it had obviously been bought for the occasion as something really English--a gigantic check, which did not even fit. His handkerchief he had forgotten, but never missed it. Altogether, he was quite unpresentable, and very lucky to have a father who was a dentist in Monteriano. And why, even Lilia--But as soon as the meal began it furnished Philip with an explanation. For the youth was hungry, and his lady filled his plate with spaghetti, and when those delicious slippery worms were flying down his throat, his face relaxed and became for a moment unconscious and calm. And Philip had seen that face before in Italy a hundred times--seen it and loved it, for it was not merely beautiful, but had the charm which is the rightful heritage of all who are born on that soil. But he did not want to see it opposite him at dinner. It was not the face of a gentleman. Conversation, to give it that name, was carried on in a mixture of English and Italian. Lilia had picked up hardly any of the latter language, and Signor Carella had not yet learnt any of the former. Occasionally Miss Abbott had to act as interpreter between the lovers, and the situation became uncouth and revolting in the extreme. Yet Philip was too cowardly to break forth and denounce the engagement. He thought he should be more effective with Lilia if he had her alone, and pretended to himself that he must hear her defence before giving judgment. Signor Carella, heartened by the spaghetti and the throat-rasping wine, attempted to talk, and, looking politely towards Philip, said, "England is a great country. The Italians love England and the English." Philip, in no mood for international amenities, merely bowed.<|quote|>"Italy too,"</|quote|>the other continued a little resentfully, "is a great country. She has produced many famous men--for example Garibaldi and Dante. The latter wrote the Inferno, the Purgatorio, the Paradiso. The Inferno is the most beautiful." And with the complacent tone of one who has received a solid education, he quoted the opening lines-- Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura Che la diritta via era smarrita-- a quotation which was more apt than he supposed. Lilia glanced at Philip to see whether he noticed that she was marrying no ignoramus. Anxious to exhibit all the good qualities of her betrothed, she abruptly introduced the subject of pallone, in which, it appeared, he was a proficient player. He suddenly became shy and developed a conceited grin--the grin of the village yokel whose cricket score is mentioned before a stranger. Philip himself had loved to watch pallone, that entrancing combination of lawn-tennis and fives. But he did not expect to love it quite so much again. "Oh, look!" exclaimed Lilia, "the poor wee fish!" A starved cat had been worrying them all for pieces of the purple quivering beef they were trying to swallow. Signor Carella, with the brutality so common in Italians, had caught her by the paw and flung her away from him. Now she had climbed up to the bowl and was trying to hook out the fish. He got up, drove her off, and finding a large glass stopper by the bowl, entirely plugged up the aperture with it. "But may not the fish die?" said Miss Abbott. "They have no air." "Fish live on water, not on air," he replied in a knowing voice, and sat down. Apparently he was at his ease again, for he took to spitting on the floor. Philip glanced at Lilia but did not detect her wincing. She talked bravely till the end of the disgusting meal, and then got up saying, "Well, Philip, I am sure you are ready for by-bye. We shall meet at twelve o clock lunch tomorrow, if we don t meet before. They give us caffe later in our rooms." It was a little too impudent. Philip replied, "I should like to see you now, please, in my room, as I have come all the way on business." He heard Miss Abbott gasp. Signor Carella, who was lighting a rank cigar, | was a pity Philip had talked so profusely. He had driven Miss Abbott half demented, but he had given himself no time to concert a plan. The end came so suddenly. They emerged from the trees on to the terrace before the walk, with the vision of half Tuscany radiant in the sun behind them, and then they turned in through the Siena gate, and their journey was over. The Dogana men admitted them with an air of gracious welcome, and they clattered up the narrow dark street, greeted by that mixture of curiosity and kindness which makes each Italian arrival so wonderful. He was stunned and knew not what to do. At the hotel he received no ordinary reception. The landlady wrung him by the hand; one person snatched his umbrella, another his bag; people pushed each other out of his way. The entrance seemed blocked with a crowd. Dogs were barking, bladder whistles being blown, women waving their handkerchiefs, excited children screaming on the stairs, and at the top of the stairs was Lilia herself, very radiant, with her best blouse on. "Welcome!" she cried. "Welcome to Monteriano!" He greeted her, for he did not know what else to do, and a sympathetic murmur rose from the crowd below. "You told me to come here," she continued, "and I don t forget it. Let me introduce Signor Carella!" Philip discerned in the corner behind her a young man who might eventually prove handsome and well-made, but certainly did not seem so then. He was half enveloped in the drapery of a cold dirty curtain, and nervously stuck out a hand, which Philip took and found thick and damp. There were more murmurs of approval from the stairs. "Well, din-din s nearly ready," said Lilia. "Your room s down the passage, Philip. You needn t go changing." He stumbled away to wash his hands, utterly crushed by her effrontery. "Dear Caroline!" whispered Lilia as soon as he had gone. "What an angel you ve been to tell him! He takes it so well. But you must have had a MAUVAIS QUART D HEURE." Miss Abbott s long terror suddenly turned into acidity. "I ve told nothing," she snapped. "It s all for you--and if it only takes a quarter of an hour you ll be lucky!" Dinner was a nightmare. They had the smelly dining-room to themselves. Lilia, very smart and vociferous, was at the head of the table; Miss Abbott, also in her best, sat by Philip, looking, to his irritated nerves, more like the tragedy confidante every moment. That scion of the Italian nobility, Signor Carella, sat opposite. Behind him loomed a bowl of goldfish, who swam round and round, gaping at the guests. The face of Signor Carella was twitching too much for Philip to study it. But he could see the hands, which were not particularly clean, and did not get cleaner by fidgeting amongst the shining slabs of hair. His starched cuffs were not clean either, and as for his suit, it had obviously been bought for the occasion as something really English--a gigantic check, which did not even fit. His handkerchief he had forgotten, but never missed it. Altogether, he was quite unpresentable, and very lucky to have a father who was a dentist in Monteriano. And why, even Lilia--But as soon as the meal began it furnished Philip with an explanation. For the youth was hungry, and his lady filled his plate with spaghetti, and when those delicious slippery worms were flying down his throat, his face relaxed and became for a moment unconscious and calm. And Philip had seen that face before in Italy a hundred times--seen it and loved it, for it was not merely beautiful, but had the charm which is the rightful heritage of all who are born on that soil. But he did not want to see it opposite him at dinner. It was not the face of a gentleman. Conversation, to give it that name, was carried on in a mixture of English and Italian. Lilia had picked up hardly any of the latter language, and Signor Carella had not yet learnt any of the former. Occasionally Miss Abbott had to act as interpreter between the lovers, and the situation became uncouth and revolting in the extreme. Yet Philip was too cowardly to break forth and denounce the engagement. He thought he should be more effective with Lilia if he had her alone, and pretended to himself that he must hear her defence before giving judgment. Signor Carella, heartened by the spaghetti and the throat-rasping wine, attempted to talk, and, looking politely towards Philip, said, "England is a great country. The Italians love England and the English." Philip, in no mood for international amenities, merely bowed.<|quote|>"Italy too,"</|quote|>the other continued a little resentfully, "is a great country. She has produced many famous men--for example Garibaldi and Dante. The latter wrote the Inferno, the Purgatorio, the Paradiso. The Inferno is the most beautiful." And with the complacent tone of one who has received a solid education, he quoted the opening lines-- Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura Che la diritta via era smarrita-- a quotation which was more apt than he supposed. Lilia glanced at Philip to see whether he noticed that she was marrying no ignoramus. Anxious to exhibit all the good qualities of her betrothed, she abruptly introduced the subject of pallone, in which, it appeared, he was a proficient player. He suddenly became shy and developed a conceited grin--the grin of the village yokel whose cricket score is mentioned before a stranger. Philip himself had loved to watch pallone, that entrancing combination of lawn-tennis and fives. But he did not expect to love it quite so much again. "Oh, look!" exclaimed Lilia, "the poor wee fish!" A starved cat had been worrying them all for pieces of the purple quivering beef they were trying to swallow. Signor Carella, with the brutality so common in Italians, had caught her by the paw and flung her away from him. Now she had climbed up to the bowl and was trying to hook out the fish. He got up, drove her off, and finding a large glass stopper by the bowl, entirely plugged up the aperture with it. "But may not the fish die?" said Miss Abbott. "They have no air." "Fish live on water, not on air," he replied in a knowing voice, and sat down. Apparently he was at his ease again, for he took to spitting on the floor. Philip glanced at Lilia but did not detect her wincing. She talked bravely till the end of the disgusting meal, and then got up saying, "Well, Philip, I am sure you are ready for by-bye. We shall meet at twelve o clock lunch tomorrow, if we don t meet before. They give us caffe later in our rooms." It was a little too impudent. Philip replied, "I should like to see you now, please, in my room, as I have come all the way on business." He heard Miss Abbott gasp. Signor Carella, who was lighting a rank cigar, had not understood. It was as he expected. When he was alone with Lilia he lost all nervousness. The remembrance of his long intellectual supremacy strengthened him, and he began volubly-- "My dear Lilia, don t let s have a scene. Before I arrived I thought I might have to question you. It is unnecessary. I know everything. Miss Abbott has told me a certain amount, and the rest I see for myself." "See for yourself?" she exclaimed, and he remembered afterwards that she had flushed crimson. "That he is probably a ruffian and certainly a cad." "There are no cads in Italy," she said quickly. He was taken aback. It was one of his own remarks. And she further upset him by adding, "He is the son of a dentist. Why not?" "Thank you for the information. I know everything, as I told you before. I am also aware of the social position of an Italian who pulls teeth in a minute provincial town." He was not aware of it, but he ventured to conclude that it was pretty, low. Nor did Lilia contradict him. But she was sharp enough to say, "Indeed, Philip, you surprise me. I understood you went in for equality and so on." "And I understood that Signor Carella was a member of the Italian nobility." "Well, we put it like that in the telegram so as not to shock dear Mrs. Herriton. But it is true. He is a younger branch. Of course families ramify--just as in yours there is your cousin Joseph." She adroitly picked out the only undesirable member of the Herriton clan. "Gino s father is courtesy itself, and rising rapidly in his profession. This very month he leaves Monteriano, and sets up at Poggibonsi. And for my own poor part, I think what people are is what matters, but I don t suppose you ll agree. And I should like you to know that Gino s uncle is a priest--the same as a clergyman at home." Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him with, "Well, his cousin s a lawyer at Rome." "What kind of lawyer ?" "Why, a lawyer just like you are--except that he has lots to do and can never get away." The remark hurt more than he cared to show. He changed | not get cleaner by fidgeting amongst the shining slabs of hair. His starched cuffs were not clean either, and as for his suit, it had obviously been bought for the occasion as something really English--a gigantic check, which did not even fit. His handkerchief he had forgotten, but never missed it. Altogether, he was quite unpresentable, and very lucky to have a father who was a dentist in Monteriano. And why, even Lilia--But as soon as the meal began it furnished Philip with an explanation. For the youth was hungry, and his lady filled his plate with spaghetti, and when those delicious slippery worms were flying down his throat, his face relaxed and became for a moment unconscious and calm. And Philip had seen that face before in Italy a hundred times--seen it and loved it, for it was not merely beautiful, but had the charm which is the rightful heritage of all who are born on that soil. But he did not want to see it opposite him at dinner. It was not the face of a gentleman. Conversation, to give it that name, was carried on in a mixture of English and Italian. Lilia had picked up hardly any of the latter language, and Signor Carella had not yet learnt any of the former. Occasionally Miss Abbott had to act as interpreter between the lovers, and the situation became uncouth and revolting in the extreme. Yet Philip was too cowardly to break forth and denounce the engagement. He thought he should be more effective with Lilia if he had her alone, and pretended to himself that he must hear her defence before giving judgment. Signor Carella, heartened by the spaghetti and the throat-rasping wine, attempted to talk, and, looking politely towards Philip, said, "England is a great country. The Italians love England and the English." Philip, in no mood for international amenities, merely bowed.<|quote|>"Italy too,"</|quote|>the other continued a little resentfully, "is a great country. She has produced many famous men--for example Garibaldi and Dante. The latter wrote the Inferno, the Purgatorio, the Paradiso. The Inferno is the most beautiful." And with the complacent tone of one who has received a solid education, he quoted the opening lines-- Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura Che la diritta via era smarrita-- a quotation which was more apt than he supposed. Lilia glanced at Philip to see whether he noticed that she was marrying no ignoramus. Anxious to exhibit all the good qualities of her betrothed, she abruptly introduced the subject of pallone, in which, it appeared, he was a proficient player. He suddenly became shy and developed a conceited grin--the grin of the village yokel whose cricket score is mentioned before a stranger. Philip himself had loved to watch pallone, that entrancing combination of lawn-tennis and fives. But he did not expect to love it quite so much again. "Oh, look!" exclaimed Lilia, "the poor wee fish!" A starved cat had been worrying them all for pieces of the purple quivering beef they were trying to swallow. Signor Carella, with the brutality so common in Italians, had caught her by the paw and flung her away from him. Now she had climbed up to the bowl and was trying to hook out the fish. He got up, drove her off, and finding a large glass stopper by the bowl, entirely plugged up the aperture with it. "But may not the fish die?" said Miss Abbott. "They have no air." "Fish live on water, not on air," he replied in a knowing voice, and sat down. Apparently he was at his ease again, for he took to spitting on the floor. Philip glanced at Lilia but did not detect her wincing. She talked bravely till the end of the disgusting meal, and then got up saying, "Well, Philip, I am sure you are ready for by-bye. We shall meet at twelve o clock lunch | Where Angels Fear To Tread |
The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him: | No speaker | see the child, and die."<|quote|>The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him:</|quote|>"Oh, you must not talk | articulated the words, "Let me see the child, and die."<|quote|>The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him:</|quote|>"Oh, you must not talk about dying yet." "Lor bless | proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, "Let me see the child, and die."<|quote|>The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him:</|quote|>"Oh, you must not talk about dying yet." "Lor bless her dear heart, no!" interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction. "Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as | upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter. As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, "Let me see the child, and die."<|quote|>The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him:</|quote|>"Oh, you must not talk about dying yet." "Lor bless her dear heart, no!" interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction. "Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on 'em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she'll know better than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there's a | brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver and Nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter. As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, "Let me see the child, and die."<|quote|>The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him:</|quote|>"Oh, you must not talk about dying yet." "Lor bless her dear heart, no!" interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction. "Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on 'em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she'll know better than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there's a dear young lamb do." Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother's prospects failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child. The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long. "It's all over, Mrs. Thingummy!" said the surgeon at last. "Ah, poor dear, | sorrow and trouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether the child would survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared; or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise and faithful specimen of biography, extant in the literature of any age or country. Although I am not disposed to maintain that the being born in a workhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office of respiration, a troublesome practice, but one which custom has rendered necessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and the next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver and Nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter. As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, "Let me see the child, and die."<|quote|>The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him:</|quote|>"Oh, you must not talk about dying yet." "Lor bless her dear heart, no!" interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction. "Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on 'em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she'll know better than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there's a dear young lamb do." Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother's prospects failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child. The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long. "It's all over, Mrs. Thingummy!" said the surgeon at last. "Ah, poor dear, so it is!" said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the child. "Poor dear!" "You needn't mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse," said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. "It's very likely it _will_ be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is." He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door, added, "She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?" "She was brought here last night," replied the old woman, "by the overseer's order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows." The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. "The old story," he said, shaking his head: "no wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good-night!" The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having once more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire, and proceeded to dress the | Oliver Twist OR THE PARISH BOY'S PROGRESS by Charles Dickens CHAPTER I. TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN AND OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDING HIS BIRTH Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter. For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether the child would survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared; or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise and faithful specimen of biography, extant in the literature of any age or country. Although I am not disposed to maintain that the being born in a workhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office of respiration, a troublesome practice, but one which custom has rendered necessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and the next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver and Nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter. As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, "Let me see the child, and die."<|quote|>The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him:</|quote|>"Oh, you must not talk about dying yet." "Lor bless her dear heart, no!" interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction. "Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on 'em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she'll know better than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there's a dear young lamb do." Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother's prospects failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child. The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long. "It's all over, Mrs. Thingummy!" said the surgeon at last. "Ah, poor dear, so it is!" said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the child. "Poor dear!" "You needn't mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse," said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. "It's very likely it _will_ be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is." He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door, added, "She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?" "She was brought here last night," replied the old woman, "by the overseer's order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows." The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. "The old story," he said, shaking his head: "no wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good-night!" The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having once more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant. What an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; it would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assigned him his proper station in society. But now that he was enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow in the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his place at once a parish child the orphan of a workhouse the humble, half-starved drudge to be cuffed and buffeted through the world despised by all, and pitied by none. Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to the tender mercies of church-wardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder. CHAPTER II. TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST'S GROWTH, EDUCATION, AND BOARD For the next eight or ten months, Oliver was the victim of a systematic course of treachery and deception. He was brought up by hand. The hungry and destitute situation of the infant orphan was duly reported by the workhouse authorities to the parish authorities. The parish authorities inquired with dignity of the workhouse authorities, whether there was no female then domiciled in "the house" who was in a situation to impart to Oliver Twist, the consolation and nourishment of which he stood in need. The workhouse authorities replied with humility, that there was not. Upon this, the parish authorities magnanimously and humanely resolved, that Oliver should be "farmed," or, in other words, that he should be dispatched to a branch-workhouse some three miles off, where twenty or thirty other juvenile offenders against the poor-laws, rolled about the floor all day, without the inconvenience of too much food or too much clothing, under the parental superintendence of an elderly female, who received the culprits at and for the consideration of sevenpence-halfpenny per small head per week. Sevenpence-halfpenny's worth per week is a good round diet for a child; a great deal may be got for sevenpence-halfpenny, quite enough to overload its stomach, and make it uncomfortable. The elderly female was a woman of wisdom and experience; she knew what was good for children; and she had a very accurate perception of what was good for herself. So, she appropriated the greater part of the weekly stipend to her | Oliver Twist OR THE PARISH BOY'S PROGRESS by Charles Dickens CHAPTER I. TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN AND OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDING HIS BIRTH Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter. For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether the child would survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared; or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise and faithful specimen of biography, extant in the literature of any age or country. Although I am not disposed to maintain that the being born in a workhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office of respiration, a troublesome practice, but one which custom has rendered necessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and the next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver and Nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter. As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, "Let me see the child, and die."<|quote|>The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him:</|quote|>"Oh, you must not talk about dying yet." "Lor bless her dear heart, no!" interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction. "Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on 'em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she'll know better than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there's a dear young lamb do." Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother's prospects failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child. The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long. "It's all over, Mrs. Thingummy!" said the surgeon at last. "Ah, poor dear, so it is!" said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the child. "Poor dear!" "You needn't mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse," said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. "It's very likely it _will_ be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is." He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door, added, "She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?" "She was brought here last night," replied the old woman, "by the overseer's order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going | Oliver Twist |
"Wiring to the family, I suppose. I gather it IS bad, if you're including Countess Olenska." | Lawrence Lefferts | "Very bad, eh?" Lefferts continued.<|quote|>"Wiring to the family, I suppose. I gather it IS bad, if you're including Countess Olenska."</|quote|>Archer's lips stiffened; he felt | his telegram under the lattice. "Very bad, eh?" Lefferts continued.<|quote|>"Wiring to the family, I suppose. I gather it IS bad, if you're including Countess Olenska."</|quote|>Archer's lips stiffened; he felt a savage impulse to dash | here. I've just heard of old Mrs. Mingott's stroke; and as I was on my way to the house I saw you turning down this street and nipped after you. I suppose you've come from there?" Archer nodded, and pushed his telegram under the lattice. "Very bad, eh?" Lefferts continued.<|quote|>"Wiring to the family, I suppose. I gather it IS bad, if you're including Countess Olenska."</|quote|>Archer's lips stiffened; he felt a savage impulse to dash his fist into the long vain handsome face at his side. "Why?" he questioned. Lefferts, who was known to shrink from discussion, raised his eye-brows with an ironic grimace that warned the other of the watching damsel behind the lattice. | May's rambling script. "It's an unlikely name for a New York telegraph office; at least in this quarter," an unexpected voice observed; and turning around Archer saw Lawrence Lefferts at his elbow, pulling an imperturbable moustache and affecting not to glance at the message. "Hallo, Newland: thought I'd catch you here. I've just heard of old Mrs. Mingott's stroke; and as I was on my way to the house I saw you turning down this street and nipped after you. I suppose you've come from there?" Archer nodded, and pushed his telegram under the lattice. "Very bad, eh?" Lefferts continued.<|quote|>"Wiring to the family, I suppose. I gather it IS bad, if you're including Countess Olenska."</|quote|>Archer's lips stiffened; he felt a savage impulse to dash his fist into the long vain handsome face at his side. "Why?" he questioned. Lefferts, who was known to shrink from discussion, raised his eye-brows with an ironic grimace that warned the other of the watching damsel behind the lattice. Nothing could be worse "form" the look reminded Archer, than any display of temper in a public place. Archer had never been more indifferent to the requirements of form; but his impulse to do Lawrence Lefferts a physical injury was only momentary. The idea of bandying Ellen Olenska's name with | heard his mother-in-law add, presumably to Mrs. Lovell Mingott: "But why on earth she should make you telegraph for Ellen Olenska--" and May's clear voice rejoin: "Perhaps it's to urge on her again that after all her duty is with her husband." The outer door closed on Archer and he walked hastily away toward the telegraph office. XXVIII. "Ol-ol--howjer spell it, anyhow?" asked the tart young lady to whom Archer had pushed his wife's telegram across the brass ledge of the Western Union office. "Olenska--O-len-ska," he repeated, drawing back the message in order to print out the foreign syllables above May's rambling script. "It's an unlikely name for a New York telegraph office; at least in this quarter," an unexpected voice observed; and turning around Archer saw Lawrence Lefferts at his elbow, pulling an imperturbable moustache and affecting not to glance at the message. "Hallo, Newland: thought I'd catch you here. I've just heard of old Mrs. Mingott's stroke; and as I was on my way to the house I saw you turning down this street and nipped after you. I suppose you've come from there?" Archer nodded, and pushed his telegram under the lattice. "Very bad, eh?" Lefferts continued.<|quote|>"Wiring to the family, I suppose. I gather it IS bad, if you're including Countess Olenska."</|quote|>Archer's lips stiffened; he felt a savage impulse to dash his fist into the long vain handsome face at his side. "Why?" he questioned. Lefferts, who was known to shrink from discussion, raised his eye-brows with an ironic grimace that warned the other of the watching damsel behind the lattice. Nothing could be worse "form" the look reminded Archer, than any display of temper in a public place. Archer had never been more indifferent to the requirements of form; but his impulse to do Lawrence Lefferts a physical injury was only momentary. The idea of bandying Ellen Olenska's name with him at such a time, and on whatsoever provocation, was unthinkable. He paid for his telegram, and the two young men went out together into the street. There Archer, having regained his self-control, went on: "Mrs. Mingott is much better: the doctor feels no anxiety whatever" "; and Lefferts, with profuse expressions of relief, asked him if he had heard that there were beastly bad rumours again about Beaufort.... That afternoon the announcement of the Beaufort failure was in all the papers. It overshadowed the report of Mrs. Manson Mingott's stroke, and only the few who had heard of the | on two silver bells. "Well, it can't go at once. Jasper and the pantry-boy are both out with notes and telegrams." May turned to her husband with a smile. "But here's Newland, ready to do anything. Will you take the telegram, Newland? There'll be just time before luncheon." Archer rose with a murmur of readiness, and she seated herself at old Catherine's rosewood "Bonheur du Jour," and wrote out the message in her large immature hand. When it was written she blotted it neatly and handed it to Archer. "What a pity," she said, "that you and Ellen will cross each other on the way!--Newland," she added, turning to her mother and aunt, "is obliged to go to Washington about a patent law-suit that is coming up before the Supreme Court. I suppose Uncle Lovell will be back by tomorrow night, and with Granny improving so much it doesn't seem right to ask Newland to give up an important engagement for the firm--does it?" She paused, as if for an answer, and Mrs. Welland hastily declared: "Oh, of course not, darling. Your Granny would be the last person to wish it." As Archer left the room with the telegram, he heard his mother-in-law add, presumably to Mrs. Lovell Mingott: "But why on earth she should make you telegraph for Ellen Olenska--" and May's clear voice rejoin: "Perhaps it's to urge on her again that after all her duty is with her husband." The outer door closed on Archer and he walked hastily away toward the telegraph office. XXVIII. "Ol-ol--howjer spell it, anyhow?" asked the tart young lady to whom Archer had pushed his wife's telegram across the brass ledge of the Western Union office. "Olenska--O-len-ska," he repeated, drawing back the message in order to print out the foreign syllables above May's rambling script. "It's an unlikely name for a New York telegraph office; at least in this quarter," an unexpected voice observed; and turning around Archer saw Lawrence Lefferts at his elbow, pulling an imperturbable moustache and affecting not to glance at the message. "Hallo, Newland: thought I'd catch you here. I've just heard of old Mrs. Mingott's stroke; and as I was on my way to the house I saw you turning down this street and nipped after you. I suppose you've come from there?" Archer nodded, and pushed his telegram under the lattice. "Very bad, eh?" Lefferts continued.<|quote|>"Wiring to the family, I suppose. I gather it IS bad, if you're including Countess Olenska."</|quote|>Archer's lips stiffened; he felt a savage impulse to dash his fist into the long vain handsome face at his side. "Why?" he questioned. Lefferts, who was known to shrink from discussion, raised his eye-brows with an ironic grimace that warned the other of the watching damsel behind the lattice. Nothing could be worse "form" the look reminded Archer, than any display of temper in a public place. Archer had never been more indifferent to the requirements of form; but his impulse to do Lawrence Lefferts a physical injury was only momentary. The idea of bandying Ellen Olenska's name with him at such a time, and on whatsoever provocation, was unthinkable. He paid for his telegram, and the two young men went out together into the street. There Archer, having regained his self-control, went on: "Mrs. Mingott is much better: the doctor feels no anxiety whatever" "; and Lefferts, with profuse expressions of relief, asked him if he had heard that there were beastly bad rumours again about Beaufort.... That afternoon the announcement of the Beaufort failure was in all the papers. It overshadowed the report of Mrs. Manson Mingott's stroke, and only the few who had heard of the mysterious connection between the two events thought of ascribing old Catherine's illness to anything but the accumulation of flesh and years. The whole of New York was darkened by the tale of Beaufort's dishonour. There had never, as Mr. Letterblair said, been a worse case in his memory, nor, for that matter, in the memory of the far-off Letterblair who had given his name to the firm. The bank had continued to take in money for a whole day after its failure was inevitable; and as many of its clients belonged to one or another of the ruling clans, Beaufort's duplicity seemed doubly cynical. If Mrs. Beaufort had not taken the tone that such misfortunes (the word was her own) were "the test of friendship," compassion for her might have tempered the general indignation against her husband. As it was--and especially after the object of her nocturnal visit to Mrs. Manson Mingott had become known--her cynicism was held to exceed his; and she had not the excuse--nor her detractors the satisfaction--of pleading that she was "a foreigner." It was some comfort (to those whose securities were not in jeopardy) to be able to remind themselves that Beaufort WAS; but, after | countenance than to talk about other people's," Mrs. Lovell Mingott agreed. "I understand that the emerald necklace she wore at the Opera last Friday had been sent on approval from Ball and Black's in the afternoon. I wonder if they'll ever get it back?" Archer listened unmoved to the relentless chorus. The idea of absolute financial probity as the first law of a gentleman's code was too deeply ingrained in him for sentimental considerations to weaken it. An adventurer like Lemuel Struthers might build up the millions of his Shoe Polish on any number of shady dealings; but unblemished honesty was the noblesse oblige of old financial New York. Nor did Mrs. Beaufort's fate greatly move Archer. He felt, no doubt, more sorry for her than her indignant relatives; but it seemed to him that the tie between husband and wife, even if breakable in prosperity, should be indissoluble in misfortune. As Mr. Letterblair had said, a wife's place was at her husband's side when he was in trouble; but society's place was not at his side, and Mrs. Beaufort's cool assumption that it was seemed almost to make her his accomplice. The mere idea of a woman's appealing to her family to screen her husband's business dishonour was inadmissible, since it was the one thing that the Family, as an institution, could not do. The mulatto maid called Mrs. Lovell Mingott into the hall, and the latter came back in a moment with a frowning brow. "She wants me to telegraph for Ellen Olenska. I had written to Ellen, of course, and to Medora; but now it seems that's not enough. I'm to telegraph to her immediately, and to tell her that she's to come alone." The announcement was received in silence. Mrs. Welland sighed resignedly, and May rose from her seat and went to gather up some newspapers that had been scattered on the floor. "I suppose it must be done," Mrs. Lovell Mingott continued, as if hoping to be contradicted; and May turned back toward the middle of the room. "Of course it must be done," she said. "Granny knows what she wants, and we must carry out all her wishes. Shall I write the telegram for you, Auntie? If it goes at once Ellen can probably catch tomorrow morning's train." She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells. "Well, it can't go at once. Jasper and the pantry-boy are both out with notes and telegrams." May turned to her husband with a smile. "But here's Newland, ready to do anything. Will you take the telegram, Newland? There'll be just time before luncheon." Archer rose with a murmur of readiness, and she seated herself at old Catherine's rosewood "Bonheur du Jour," and wrote out the message in her large immature hand. When it was written she blotted it neatly and handed it to Archer. "What a pity," she said, "that you and Ellen will cross each other on the way!--Newland," she added, turning to her mother and aunt, "is obliged to go to Washington about a patent law-suit that is coming up before the Supreme Court. I suppose Uncle Lovell will be back by tomorrow night, and with Granny improving so much it doesn't seem right to ask Newland to give up an important engagement for the firm--does it?" She paused, as if for an answer, and Mrs. Welland hastily declared: "Oh, of course not, darling. Your Granny would be the last person to wish it." As Archer left the room with the telegram, he heard his mother-in-law add, presumably to Mrs. Lovell Mingott: "But why on earth she should make you telegraph for Ellen Olenska--" and May's clear voice rejoin: "Perhaps it's to urge on her again that after all her duty is with her husband." The outer door closed on Archer and he walked hastily away toward the telegraph office. XXVIII. "Ol-ol--howjer spell it, anyhow?" asked the tart young lady to whom Archer had pushed his wife's telegram across the brass ledge of the Western Union office. "Olenska--O-len-ska," he repeated, drawing back the message in order to print out the foreign syllables above May's rambling script. "It's an unlikely name for a New York telegraph office; at least in this quarter," an unexpected voice observed; and turning around Archer saw Lawrence Lefferts at his elbow, pulling an imperturbable moustache and affecting not to glance at the message. "Hallo, Newland: thought I'd catch you here. I've just heard of old Mrs. Mingott's stroke; and as I was on my way to the house I saw you turning down this street and nipped after you. I suppose you've come from there?" Archer nodded, and pushed his telegram under the lattice. "Very bad, eh?" Lefferts continued.<|quote|>"Wiring to the family, I suppose. I gather it IS bad, if you're including Countess Olenska."</|quote|>Archer's lips stiffened; he felt a savage impulse to dash his fist into the long vain handsome face at his side. "Why?" he questioned. Lefferts, who was known to shrink from discussion, raised his eye-brows with an ironic grimace that warned the other of the watching damsel behind the lattice. Nothing could be worse "form" the look reminded Archer, than any display of temper in a public place. Archer had never been more indifferent to the requirements of form; but his impulse to do Lawrence Lefferts a physical injury was only momentary. The idea of bandying Ellen Olenska's name with him at such a time, and on whatsoever provocation, was unthinkable. He paid for his telegram, and the two young men went out together into the street. There Archer, having regained his self-control, went on: "Mrs. Mingott is much better: the doctor feels no anxiety whatever" "; and Lefferts, with profuse expressions of relief, asked him if he had heard that there were beastly bad rumours again about Beaufort.... That afternoon the announcement of the Beaufort failure was in all the papers. It overshadowed the report of Mrs. Manson Mingott's stroke, and only the few who had heard of the mysterious connection between the two events thought of ascribing old Catherine's illness to anything but the accumulation of flesh and years. The whole of New York was darkened by the tale of Beaufort's dishonour. There had never, as Mr. Letterblair said, been a worse case in his memory, nor, for that matter, in the memory of the far-off Letterblair who had given his name to the firm. The bank had continued to take in money for a whole day after its failure was inevitable; and as many of its clients belonged to one or another of the ruling clans, Beaufort's duplicity seemed doubly cynical. If Mrs. Beaufort had not taken the tone that such misfortunes (the word was her own) were "the test of friendship," compassion for her might have tempered the general indignation against her husband. As it was--and especially after the object of her nocturnal visit to Mrs. Manson Mingott had become known--her cynicism was held to exceed his; and she had not the excuse--nor her detractors the satisfaction--of pleading that she was "a foreigner." It was some comfort (to those whose securities were not in jeopardy) to be able to remind themselves that Beaufort WAS; but, after all, if a Dallas of South Carolina took his view of the case, and glibly talked of his soon being "on his feet again," the argument lost its edge, and there was nothing to do but to accept this awful evidence of the indissolubility of marriage. Society must manage to get on without the Beauforts, and there was an end of it--except indeed for such hapless victims of the disaster as Medora Manson, the poor old Miss Lannings, and certain other misguided ladies of good family who, if only they had listened to Mr. Henry van der Luyden ... "The best thing the Beauforts can do," said Mrs. Archer, summing it up as if she were pronouncing a diagnosis and prescribing a course of treatment, "is to go and live at Regina's little place in North Carolina. Beaufort has always kept a racing stable, and he had better breed trotting horses. I should say he had all the qualities of a successful horsedealer." Every one agreed with her, but no one condescended to enquire what the Beauforts really meant to do. The next day Mrs. Manson Mingott was much better: she recovered her voice sufficiently to give orders that no one should mention the Beauforts to her again, and asked--when Dr. Bencomb appeared--what in the world her family meant by making such a fuss about her health. "If people of my age WILL eat chicken-salad in the evening what are they to expect?" she enquired; and, the doctor having opportunely modified her dietary, the stroke was transformed into an attack of indigestion. But in spite of her firm tone old Catherine did not wholly recover her former attitude toward life. The growing remoteness of old age, though it had not diminished her curiosity about her neighbours, had blunted her never very lively compassion for their troubles; and she seemed to have no difficulty in putting the Beaufort disaster out of her mind. But for the first time she became absorbed in her own symptoms, and began to take a sentimental interest in certain members of her family to whom she had hitherto been contemptuously indifferent. Mr. Welland, in particular, had the privilege of attracting her notice. Of her sons-in-law he was the one she had most consistently ignored; and all his wife's efforts to represent him as a man of forceful character and marked intellectual ability (if he had only | now it seems that's not enough. I'm to telegraph to her immediately, and to tell her that she's to come alone." The announcement was received in silence. Mrs. Welland sighed resignedly, and May rose from her seat and went to gather up some newspapers that had been scattered on the floor. "I suppose it must be done," Mrs. Lovell Mingott continued, as if hoping to be contradicted; and May turned back toward the middle of the room. "Of course it must be done," she said. "Granny knows what she wants, and we must carry out all her wishes. Shall I write the telegram for you, Auntie? If it goes at once Ellen can probably catch tomorrow morning's train." She pronounced the syllables of the name with a peculiar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silver bells. "Well, it can't go at once. Jasper and the pantry-boy are both out with notes and telegrams." May turned to her husband with a smile. "But here's Newland, ready to do anything. Will you take the telegram, Newland? There'll be just time before luncheon." Archer rose with a murmur of readiness, and she seated herself at old Catherine's rosewood "Bonheur du Jour," and wrote out the message in her large immature hand. When it was written she blotted it neatly and handed it to Archer. "What a pity," she said, "that you and Ellen will cross each other on the way!--Newland," she added, turning to her mother and aunt, "is obliged to go to Washington about a patent law-suit that is coming up before the Supreme Court. I suppose Uncle Lovell will be back by tomorrow night, and with Granny improving so much it doesn't seem right to ask Newland to give up an important engagement for the firm--does it?" She paused, as if for an answer, and Mrs. Welland hastily declared: "Oh, of course not, darling. Your Granny would be the last person to wish it." As Archer left the room with the telegram, he heard his mother-in-law add, presumably to Mrs. Lovell Mingott: "But why on earth she should make you telegraph for Ellen Olenska--" and May's clear voice rejoin: "Perhaps it's to urge on her again that after all her duty is with her husband." The outer door closed on Archer and he walked hastily away toward the telegraph office. XXVIII. "Ol-ol--howjer spell it, anyhow?" asked the tart young lady to whom Archer had pushed his wife's telegram across the brass ledge of the Western Union office. "Olenska--O-len-ska," he repeated, drawing back the message in order to print out the foreign syllables above May's rambling script. "It's an unlikely name for a New York telegraph office; at least in this quarter," an unexpected voice observed; and turning around Archer saw Lawrence Lefferts at his elbow, pulling an imperturbable moustache and affecting not to glance at the message. "Hallo, Newland: thought I'd catch you here. I've just heard of old Mrs. Mingott's stroke; and as I was on my way to the house I saw you turning down this street and nipped after you. I suppose you've come from there?" Archer nodded, and pushed his telegram under the lattice. "Very bad, eh?" Lefferts continued.<|quote|>"Wiring to the family, I suppose. I gather it IS bad, if you're including Countess Olenska."</|quote|>Archer's lips stiffened; he felt a savage impulse to dash his fist into the long vain handsome face at his side. "Why?" he questioned. Lefferts, who was known to shrink from discussion, raised his eye-brows with an ironic grimace that warned the other of the watching damsel behind the lattice. Nothing could be worse "form" the look reminded Archer, than any display of temper in a public place. Archer had never been more indifferent to the requirements of form; but his impulse to do Lawrence Lefferts a physical injury was only momentary. The idea of bandying Ellen Olenska's name with him at such a time, and on whatsoever provocation, was unthinkable. He paid for his telegram, and the two young men went out together into the street. There Archer, having regained his self-control, went on: "Mrs. Mingott is much better: the doctor feels no anxiety whatever" "; and Lefferts, with profuse expressions of relief, asked him if he had heard that there were beastly bad rumours again about Beaufort.... That afternoon the announcement of the Beaufort failure was in all the papers. It overshadowed the report of Mrs. Manson Mingott's stroke, and only the few who had heard of the mysterious connection between the two events thought of ascribing old Catherine's illness to anything but the accumulation of flesh and years. The whole of New York was darkened by the tale of Beaufort's dishonour. There had never, as Mr. Letterblair said, been a worse case in his memory, nor, for that matter, in the memory of the far-off Letterblair who had given his name to the firm. The bank had continued to take in money for a whole day after its failure was inevitable; and as many | The Age Of Innocence |
"He's waiting for you now at Mrs. Struthers's; why don't you go to him?" | Newland Archer | when she pondered a question.<|quote|>"He's waiting for you now at Mrs. Struthers's; why don't you go to him?"</|quote|>Archer sneered. She turned to | bent, as her way was when she pondered a question.<|quote|>"He's waiting for you now at Mrs. Struthers's; why don't you go to him?"</|quote|>Archer sneered. She turned to ring the bell. "I shall | was prepared for an answering flare of anger; and he would have welcomed it as fuel for his own. But Madame Olenska only grew a shade paler, and stood with her arms hanging down before her, and her head slightly bent, as her way was when she pondered a question.<|quote|>"He's waiting for you now at Mrs. Struthers's; why don't you go to him?"</|quote|>Archer sneered. She turned to ring the bell. "I shall not go out this evening; tell the carriage to go and fetch the Signora Marchesa," she said when the maid came. After the door had closed again Archer continued to look at her with bitter eyes. "Why this sacrifice? Since | you unless I give you up." His arms were yearning up to her; but she drew away, and they remained facing each other, divided by the distance that her words had created. Then, abruptly, his anger overflowed. "And Beaufort? Is he to replace me?" As the words sprang out he was prepared for an answering flare of anger; and he would have welcomed it as fuel for his own. But Madame Olenska only grew a shade paler, and stood with her arms hanging down before her, and her head slightly bent, as her way was when she pondered a question.<|quote|>"He's waiting for you now at Mrs. Struthers's; why don't you go to him?"</|quote|>Archer sneered. She turned to ring the bell. "I shall not go out this evening; tell the carriage to go and fetch the Signora Marchesa," she said when the maid came. After the door had closed again Archer continued to look at her with bitter eyes. "Why this sacrifice? Since you tell me that you're lonely I've no right to keep you from your friends." She smiled a little under her wet lashes. "I shan't be lonely now. I WAS lonely; I WAS afraid. But the emptiness and the darkness are gone; when I turn back into myself now I'm | visible agitation; and each word, as it dropped from her, fell into his breast like burning lead. He sat bowed over, his head between his hands, staring at the hearthrug, and at the tip of the satin shoe that showed under her dress. Suddenly he knelt down and kissed the shoe. She bent over him, laying her hands on his shoulders, and looking at him with eyes so deep that he remained motionless under her gaze. "Ah, don't let us undo what you've done!" she cried. "I can't go back now to that other way of thinking. I can't love you unless I give you up." His arms were yearning up to her; but she drew away, and they remained facing each other, divided by the distance that her words had created. Then, abruptly, his anger overflowed. "And Beaufort? Is he to replace me?" As the words sprang out he was prepared for an answering flare of anger; and he would have welcomed it as fuel for his own. But Madame Olenska only grew a shade paler, and stood with her arms hanging down before her, and her head slightly bent, as her way was when she pondered a question.<|quote|>"He's waiting for you now at Mrs. Struthers's; why don't you go to him?"</|quote|>Archer sneered. She turned to ring the bell. "I shall not go out this evening; tell the carriage to go and fetch the Signora Marchesa," she said when the maid came. After the door had closed again Archer continued to look at her with bitter eyes. "Why this sacrifice? Since you tell me that you're lonely I've no right to keep you from your friends." She smiled a little under her wet lashes. "I shan't be lonely now. I WAS lonely; I WAS afraid. But the emptiness and the darkness are gone; when I turn back into myself now I'm like a child going at night into a room where there's always a light." Her tone and her look still enveloped her in a soft inaccessibility, and Archer groaned out again: "I don't understand you!" "Yet you understand May!" He reddened under the retort, but kept his eyes on her. "May is ready to give me up." "What! Three days after you've entreated her on your knees to hasten your marriage?" "She's refused; that gives me the right--" "Ah, you've taught me what an ugly word that is," she said. He turned away with a sense of utter weariness. He | insisted on announcing your engagement at the Beaufort ball, so that I might have two families to stand by me instead of one--" At that he broke into a laugh. "Just imagine," she said, "how stupid and unobservant I was! I knew nothing of all this till Granny blurted it out one day. New York simply meant peace and freedom to me: it was coming home. And I was so happy at being among my own people that every one I met seemed kind and good, and glad to see me. But from the very beginning," she continued, "I felt there was no one as kind as you; no one who gave me reasons that I understood for doing what at first seemed so hard and--unnecessary. The very good people didn't convince me; I felt they'd never been tempted. But you knew; you understood; you had felt the world outside tugging at one with all its golden hands--and yet you hated the things it asks of one; you hated happiness bought by disloyalty and cruelty and indifference. That was what I'd never known before--and it's better than anything I've known." She spoke in a low even voice, without tears or visible agitation; and each word, as it dropped from her, fell into his breast like burning lead. He sat bowed over, his head between his hands, staring at the hearthrug, and at the tip of the satin shoe that showed under her dress. Suddenly he knelt down and kissed the shoe. She bent over him, laying her hands on his shoulders, and looking at him with eyes so deep that he remained motionless under her gaze. "Ah, don't let us undo what you've done!" she cried. "I can't go back now to that other way of thinking. I can't love you unless I give you up." His arms were yearning up to her; but she drew away, and they remained facing each other, divided by the distance that her words had created. Then, abruptly, his anger overflowed. "And Beaufort? Is he to replace me?" As the words sprang out he was prepared for an answering flare of anger; and he would have welcomed it as fuel for his own. But Madame Olenska only grew a shade paler, and stood with her arms hanging down before her, and her head slightly bent, as her way was when she pondered a question.<|quote|>"He's waiting for you now at Mrs. Struthers's; why don't you go to him?"</|quote|>Archer sneered. She turned to ring the bell. "I shall not go out this evening; tell the carriage to go and fetch the Signora Marchesa," she said when the maid came. After the door had closed again Archer continued to look at her with bitter eyes. "Why this sacrifice? Since you tell me that you're lonely I've no right to keep you from your friends." She smiled a little under her wet lashes. "I shan't be lonely now. I WAS lonely; I WAS afraid. But the emptiness and the darkness are gone; when I turn back into myself now I'm like a child going at night into a room where there's always a light." Her tone and her look still enveloped her in a soft inaccessibility, and Archer groaned out again: "I don't understand you!" "Yet you understand May!" He reddened under the retort, but kept his eyes on her. "May is ready to give me up." "What! Three days after you've entreated her on your knees to hasten your marriage?" "She's refused; that gives me the right--" "Ah, you've taught me what an ugly word that is," she said. He turned away with a sense of utter weariness. He felt as though he had been struggling for hours up the face of a steep precipice, and now, just as he had fought his way to the top, his hold had given way and he was pitching down headlong into darkness. If he could have got her in his arms again he might have swept away her arguments; but she still held him at a distance by something inscrutably aloof in her look and attitude, and by his own awed sense of her sincerity. At length he began to plead again. "If we do this now it will be worse afterward--worse for every one--" "No--no--no!" she almost screamed, as if he frightened her. At that moment the bell sent a long tinkle through the house. They had heard no carriage stopping at the door, and they stood motionless, looking at each other with startled eyes. Outside, Nastasia's step crossed the hall, the outer door opened, and a moment later she came in carrying a telegram which she handed to the Countess Olenska. "The lady was very happy at the flowers," Nastasia said, smoothing her apron. "She thought it was her signor marito who had sent them, and she cried a | and came to her side. "Ellen! What madness! Why are you crying? Nothing's done that can't be undone. I'm still free, and you're going to be." He had her in his arms, her face like a wet flower at his lips, and all their vain terrors shrivelling up like ghosts at sunrise. The one thing that astonished him now was that he should have stood for five minutes arguing with her across the width of the room, when just touching her made everything so simple. She gave him back all his kiss, but after a moment he felt her stiffening in his arms, and she put him aside and stood up. "Ah, my poor Newland--I suppose this had to be. But it doesn't in the least alter things," she said, looking down at him in her turn from the hearth. "It alters the whole of life for me." "No, no--it mustn't, it can't. You're engaged to May Welland; and I'm married." He stood up too, flushed and resolute. "Nonsense! It's too late for that sort of thing. We've no right to lie to other people or to ourselves. We won't talk of your marriage; but do you see me marrying May after this?" She stood silent, resting her thin elbows on the mantelpiece, her profile reflected in the glass behind her. One of the locks of her chignon had become loosened and hung on her neck; she looked haggard and almost old. "I don't see you," she said at length, "putting that question to May. Do you?" He gave a reckless shrug. "It's too late to do anything else." "You say that because it's the easiest thing to say at this moment--not because it's true. In reality it's too late to do anything but what we'd both decided on." "Ah, I don't understand you!" She forced a pitiful smile that pinched her face instead of smoothing it. "You don't understand because you haven't yet guessed how you've changed things for me: oh, from the first--long before I knew all you'd done." "All I'd done?" "Yes. I was perfectly unconscious at first that people here were shy of me--that they thought I was a dreadful sort of person. It seems they had even refused to meet me at dinner. I found that out afterward; and how you'd made your mother go with you to the van der Luydens'; and how you'd insisted on announcing your engagement at the Beaufort ball, so that I might have two families to stand by me instead of one--" At that he broke into a laugh. "Just imagine," she said, "how stupid and unobservant I was! I knew nothing of all this till Granny blurted it out one day. New York simply meant peace and freedom to me: it was coming home. And I was so happy at being among my own people that every one I met seemed kind and good, and glad to see me. But from the very beginning," she continued, "I felt there was no one as kind as you; no one who gave me reasons that I understood for doing what at first seemed so hard and--unnecessary. The very good people didn't convince me; I felt they'd never been tempted. But you knew; you understood; you had felt the world outside tugging at one with all its golden hands--and yet you hated the things it asks of one; you hated happiness bought by disloyalty and cruelty and indifference. That was what I'd never known before--and it's better than anything I've known." She spoke in a low even voice, without tears or visible agitation; and each word, as it dropped from her, fell into his breast like burning lead. He sat bowed over, his head between his hands, staring at the hearthrug, and at the tip of the satin shoe that showed under her dress. Suddenly he knelt down and kissed the shoe. She bent over him, laying her hands on his shoulders, and looking at him with eyes so deep that he remained motionless under her gaze. "Ah, don't let us undo what you've done!" she cried. "I can't go back now to that other way of thinking. I can't love you unless I give you up." His arms were yearning up to her; but she drew away, and they remained facing each other, divided by the distance that her words had created. Then, abruptly, his anger overflowed. "And Beaufort? Is he to replace me?" As the words sprang out he was prepared for an answering flare of anger; and he would have welcomed it as fuel for his own. But Madame Olenska only grew a shade paler, and stood with her arms hanging down before her, and her head slightly bent, as her way was when she pondered a question.<|quote|>"He's waiting for you now at Mrs. Struthers's; why don't you go to him?"</|quote|>Archer sneered. She turned to ring the bell. "I shall not go out this evening; tell the carriage to go and fetch the Signora Marchesa," she said when the maid came. After the door had closed again Archer continued to look at her with bitter eyes. "Why this sacrifice? Since you tell me that you're lonely I've no right to keep you from your friends." She smiled a little under her wet lashes. "I shan't be lonely now. I WAS lonely; I WAS afraid. But the emptiness and the darkness are gone; when I turn back into myself now I'm like a child going at night into a room where there's always a light." Her tone and her look still enveloped her in a soft inaccessibility, and Archer groaned out again: "I don't understand you!" "Yet you understand May!" He reddened under the retort, but kept his eyes on her. "May is ready to give me up." "What! Three days after you've entreated her on your knees to hasten your marriage?" "She's refused; that gives me the right--" "Ah, you've taught me what an ugly word that is," she said. He turned away with a sense of utter weariness. He felt as though he had been struggling for hours up the face of a steep precipice, and now, just as he had fought his way to the top, his hold had given way and he was pitching down headlong into darkness. If he could have got her in his arms again he might have swept away her arguments; but she still held him at a distance by something inscrutably aloof in her look and attitude, and by his own awed sense of her sincerity. At length he began to plead again. "If we do this now it will be worse afterward--worse for every one--" "No--no--no!" she almost screamed, as if he frightened her. At that moment the bell sent a long tinkle through the house. They had heard no carriage stopping at the door, and they stood motionless, looking at each other with startled eyes. Outside, Nastasia's step crossed the hall, the outer door opened, and a moment later she came in carrying a telegram which she handed to the Countess Olenska. "The lady was very happy at the flowers," Nastasia said, smoothing her apron. "She thought it was her signor marito who had sent them, and she cried a little and said it was a folly." Her mistress smiled and took the yellow envelope. She tore it open and carried it to the lamp; then, when the door had closed again, she handed the telegram to Archer. It was dated from St. Augustine, and addressed to the Countess Olenska. In it he read: "Granny's telegram successful. Papa and Mamma agree marriage after Easter. Am telegraphing Newland. Am too happy for words and love you dearly. Your grateful May." Half an hour later, when Archer unlocked his own front-door, he found a similar envelope on the hall-table on top of his pile of notes and letters. The message inside the envelope was also from May Welland, and ran as follows: "Parents consent wedding Tuesday after Easter at twelve Grace Church eight bridesmaids please see Rector so happy love May." Archer crumpled up the yellow sheet as if the gesture could annihilate the news it contained. Then he pulled out a small pocket-diary and turned over the pages with trembling fingers; but he did not find what he wanted, and cramming the telegram into his pocket he mounted the stairs. A light was shining through the door of the little hall-room which served Janey as a dressing-room and boudoir, and her brother rapped impatiently on the panel. The door opened, and his sister stood before him in her immemorial purple flannel dressing-gown, with her hair "on pins." Her face looked pale and apprehensive. "Newland! I hope there's no bad news in that telegram? I waited on purpose, in case--" (No item of his correspondence was safe from Janey.) He took no notice of her question. "Look here--what day is Easter this year?" She looked shocked at such unchristian ignorance. "Easter? Newland! Why, of course, the first week in April. Why?" "The first week?" He turned again to the pages of his diary, calculating rapidly under his breath. "The first week, did you say?" He threw back his head with a long laugh. "For mercy's sake what's the matter?" "Nothing's the matter, except that I'm going to be married in a month." Janey fell upon his neck and pressed him to her purple flannel breast. "Oh Newland, how wonderful! I'm so glad! But, dearest, why do you keep on laughing? Do hush, or you'll wake Mamma." Book II XIX. The day was fresh, with a lively spring wind full of dust. All | very good people didn't convince me; I felt they'd never been tempted. But you knew; you understood; you had felt the world outside tugging at one with all its golden hands--and yet you hated the things it asks of one; you hated happiness bought by disloyalty and cruelty and indifference. That was what I'd never known before--and it's better than anything I've known." She spoke in a low even voice, without tears or visible agitation; and each word, as it dropped from her, fell into his breast like burning lead. He sat bowed over, his head between his hands, staring at the hearthrug, and at the tip of the satin shoe that showed under her dress. Suddenly he knelt down and kissed the shoe. She bent over him, laying her hands on his shoulders, and looking at him with eyes so deep that he remained motionless under her gaze. "Ah, don't let us undo what you've done!" she cried. "I can't go back now to that other way of thinking. I can't love you unless I give you up." His arms were yearning up to her; but she drew away, and they remained facing each other, divided by the distance that her words had created. Then, abruptly, his anger overflowed. "And Beaufort? Is he to replace me?" As the words sprang out he was prepared for an answering flare of anger; and he would have welcomed it as fuel for his own. But Madame Olenska only grew a shade paler, and stood with her arms hanging down before her, and her head slightly bent, as her way was when she pondered a question.<|quote|>"He's waiting for you now at Mrs. Struthers's; why don't you go to him?"</|quote|>Archer sneered. She turned to ring the bell. "I shall not go out this evening; tell the carriage to go and fetch the Signora Marchesa," she said when the maid came. After the door had closed again Archer continued to look at her with bitter eyes. "Why this sacrifice? Since you tell me that you're lonely I've no right to keep you from your friends." She smiled a little under her wet lashes. "I shan't be lonely now. I WAS lonely; I WAS afraid. But the emptiness and the darkness are gone; when I turn back into myself now I'm like a child going at night into a room where there's always a light." Her tone and her look still enveloped her in a soft inaccessibility, and Archer groaned out again: "I don't understand you!" "Yet you understand May!" He reddened under the retort, but kept his eyes on her. "May is ready to give me up." "What! Three days after you've entreated her on your knees to hasten your marriage?" "She's refused; that gives me the right--" "Ah, you've taught me what an ugly word that is," she said. He turned away with a sense of utter weariness. He felt as though he had been struggling for hours up the face of a steep precipice, and now, just as he had fought his way to the top, his hold had given way and he was pitching down headlong into darkness. If he could have got her in his arms again he might have swept away her arguments; but she still held him at a distance by something inscrutably aloof in her look and attitude, and by his own awed sense of her sincerity. At length he began to plead again. "If we do this now it will be worse afterward--worse for every one--" "No--no--no!" she almost screamed, as if he frightened her. At that moment the bell sent a long tinkle through the house. They had heard no carriage stopping at the door, and they stood motionless, looking at each other with startled eyes. Outside, Nastasia's step crossed the hall, the outer door opened, and a moment later she came in carrying a telegram which she handed to the Countess Olenska. "The lady was very happy at the flowers," Nastasia said, smoothing her apron. "She thought it was her signor marito who had sent them, and she cried a little and said it was a folly." Her mistress smiled and took the yellow envelope. She tore it open and carried it to the lamp; then, when the door had closed again, she handed the telegram to Archer. It was dated from St. Augustine, and addressed to the Countess Olenska. In it he read: "Granny's telegram successful. Papa and Mamma agree marriage after Easter. Am telegraphing Newland. Am too happy for words and love you dearly. Your grateful May." Half an hour later, when Archer unlocked his own front-door, he found a similar envelope on the hall-table on top of his pile of notes and letters. The message inside the envelope was also from May Welland, and ran as follows: "Parents consent wedding Tuesday after Easter at | The Age Of Innocence |
"Let us go on," | Katczinsky | and turns green and yellow.<|quote|>"Let us go on,"</|quote|>he stammers. I jump up, | with him. Suddenly Kat gurgles and turns green and yellow.<|quote|>"Let us go on,"</|quote|>he stammers. I jump up, eager to help him, I | 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.<|quote|>"Let us go on,"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"Let us go on,"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"Let us go on,"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"Let us go on,"</|quote|>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 | 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. "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.<|quote|>"Let us go on,"</|quote|>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 as usual. Only the Militiaman Stanislaus Katczinsky has died. Then I know nothing more. CHAPTER XII It is autumn. There are not many of the old hands left. I am the last of the seven fellows from our class. Everyone talks of peace and armistice. All wait. If it again proves an illusion, then they will break up; hope is high, it cannot be taken away again without an upheaval. If there is not peace, then there will be revolution. I have fourteen days rest, because I have swallowed a bit of gas; in a little garden I sit the whole day long in the sun. The armistice is coming soon, I believe it now too. Then we will go home. Here my thoughts stop and will not go any farther. All that meets me, all that floods over me are but feelings--greed of life, love of home, yearning of the blood, intoxication of deliverance. But no aims. Had we returned home in 1916, out of the suffering and the strength of our experiences we might have unleashed a storm. Now if we go back we will be weary, broken, burnt out, rootless, and without hope. We will not be able to find our way any more. And men will not understand us--for the generation that grew up before us, though it has passed these years with us here, already had a home and a calling; now it will return to its old occupations, and the war will be forgotten--and the generation that has grown up after us will be strange to us and push us aside. We will be superfluous even to ourselves, we will grow older, a few will adapt themselves, some others will merely submit, and most will be bewildered;--the years will pass by and in the end we shall fall into ruin. But perhaps all this that I think is mere melancholy and dismay, which will fly away as the dust, when I stand once again beneath the poplars and listen to the rustling of their leaves. It cannot be that it has gone, the yearning that made our blood unquiet, the unknown, the perplexing, the oncoming things, the thousand faces of the future, the melodies from dreams and from books, the whispers and divinations of women, it | 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.<|quote|>"Let us go on,"</|quote|>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 | All Quiet on the Western Front |
"It is too small--wants strength. It is like a woman's writing." | Mr. Knightley | admire it," said Mr. Knightley.<|quote|>"It is too small--wants strength. It is like a woman's writing."</|quote|>This was not submitted to | ever saw." "I do not admire it," said Mr. Knightley.<|quote|>"It is too small--wants strength. It is like a woman's writing."</|quote|>This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated | I were very bad.--No, I can pronounce his name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and better.--Now for it." Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again--" "Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentleman's hands I ever saw." "I do not admire it," said Mr. Knightley.<|quote|>"It is too small--wants strength. It is like a woman's writing."</|quote|>This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against the base aspersion. "No, it by no means wanted strength--it was not a large hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to produce?" No, she had heard from him very | else--and the pause gave her time to reflect, "Now, how am I going to introduce him?--Am I unequal to speaking his name at once before all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout phrase?--Your Yorkshire friend--your correspondent in Yorkshire;--that would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.--No, I can pronounce his name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and better.--Now for it." Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again--" "Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentleman's hands I ever saw." "I do not admire it," said Mr. Knightley.<|quote|>"It is too small--wants strength. It is like a woman's writing."</|quote|>This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against the base aspersion. "No, it by no means wanted strength--it was not a large hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to produce?" No, she had heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter, had put it away. "If we were in the other room," said Emma, "if I had my writing-desk, I am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his.--Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one | early age, and scramble into any hand they can get. Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I have not always known their writing apart." "Yes," said his brother hesitatingly, "there is a likeness. I know what you mean--but Emma's hand is the strongest." "Isabella and Emma both write beautifully," said Mr. Woodhouse; "and always did. And so does poor Mrs. Weston" "--with half a sigh and half a smile at her. "I never saw any gentleman's handwriting" "--Emma began, looking also at Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending to some one else--and the pause gave her time to reflect, "Now, how am I going to introduce him?--Am I unequal to speaking his name at once before all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout phrase?--Your Yorkshire friend--your correspondent in Yorkshire;--that would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.--No, I can pronounce his name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and better.--Now for it." Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again--" "Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentleman's hands I ever saw." "I do not admire it," said Mr. Knightley.<|quote|>"It is too small--wants strength. It is like a woman's writing."</|quote|>This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against the base aspersion. "No, it by no means wanted strength--it was not a large hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to produce?" No, she had heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter, had put it away. "If we were in the other room," said Emma, "if I had my writing-desk, I am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his.--Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?" "He chose to say he was employed" "-- "Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner to convince Mr. Knightley." "Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill," said Mr. Knightley dryly, "writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of course, put forth his best." Dinner was on table.--Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying-- "Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading | thinks of all that it has to do, and all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!" "It is certainly very well regulated." "So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! So seldom that a letter, among the thousands that are constantly passing about the kingdom, is even carried wrong--and not one in a million, I suppose, actually lost! And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad hands too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder." "The clerks grow expert from habit.--They must begin with some quickness of sight and hand, and exercise improves them. If you want any farther explanation," continued he, smiling, "they are paid for it. That is the key to a great deal of capacity. The public pays and must be served well." The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual observations made. "I have heard it asserted," said John Knightley, "that the same sort of handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the same master teaches, it is natural enough. But for that reason, I should imagine the likeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have very little teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand they can get. Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I have not always known their writing apart." "Yes," said his brother hesitatingly, "there is a likeness. I know what you mean--but Emma's hand is the strongest." "Isabella and Emma both write beautifully," said Mr. Woodhouse; "and always did. And so does poor Mrs. Weston" "--with half a sigh and half a smile at her. "I never saw any gentleman's handwriting" "--Emma began, looking also at Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending to some one else--and the pause gave her time to reflect, "Now, how am I going to introduce him?--Am I unequal to speaking his name at once before all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout phrase?--Your Yorkshire friend--your correspondent in Yorkshire;--that would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.--No, I can pronounce his name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and better.--Now for it." Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again--" "Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentleman's hands I ever saw." "I do not admire it," said Mr. Knightley.<|quote|>"It is too small--wants strength. It is like a woman's writing."</|quote|>This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against the base aspersion. "No, it by no means wanted strength--it was not a large hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to produce?" No, she had heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter, had put it away. "If we were in the other room," said Emma, "if I had my writing-desk, I am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his.--Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?" "He chose to say he was employed" "-- "Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner to convince Mr. Knightley." "Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill," said Mr. Knightley dryly, "writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of course, put forth his best." Dinner was on table.--Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying-- "Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading the way." Jane's solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma. She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether the wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it _had_; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not been in vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness than usual--a glow both of complexion and spirits. She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the expense of the Irish mails;--it was at her tongue's end--but she abstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt Jane Fairfax's feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each. CHAPTER XVII When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;--with so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged | you ought to be particularly careful, especially at this time of year. The spring I always think requires more than common care. Better wait an hour or two, or even half a day for your letters, than run the risk of bringing on your cough again. Now do not you feel that you had? Yes, I am sure you are much too reasonable. You look as if you would not do such a thing again." "Oh! she _shall_ _not_ do such a thing again," eagerly rejoined Mrs. Elton. "We will not allow her to do such a thing again:" "--and nodding significantly--" "there must be some arrangement made, there must indeed. I shall speak to Mr. E. The man who fetches our letters every morning (one of our men, I forget his name) shall inquire for yours too and bring them to you. That will obviate all difficulties you know; and from _us_ I really think, my dear Jane, you can have no scruple to accept such an accommodation." "You are extremely kind," said Jane; "but I cannot give up my early walk. I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can, I must walk somewhere, and the post-office is an object; and upon my word, I have scarcely ever had a bad morning before." "My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is determined, that is" (laughing affectedly) "as far as I can presume to determine any thing without the concurrence of my lord and master. You know, Mrs. Weston, you and I must be cautious how we express ourselves. But I do flatter myself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out. If I meet with no insuperable difficulties therefore, consider that point as settled." "Excuse me," said Jane earnestly, "I cannot by any means consent to such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant. If the errand were not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it always is when I am not here, by my grandmama's." "Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do!--And it is a kindness to employ our men." Jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but instead of answering, she began speaking again to Mr. John Knightley. "The post-office is a wonderful establishment!" said she.--" "The regularity and despatch of it! If one thinks of all that it has to do, and all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!" "It is certainly very well regulated." "So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! So seldom that a letter, among the thousands that are constantly passing about the kingdom, is even carried wrong--and not one in a million, I suppose, actually lost! And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad hands too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder." "The clerks grow expert from habit.--They must begin with some quickness of sight and hand, and exercise improves them. If you want any farther explanation," continued he, smiling, "they are paid for it. That is the key to a great deal of capacity. The public pays and must be served well." The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual observations made. "I have heard it asserted," said John Knightley, "that the same sort of handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the same master teaches, it is natural enough. But for that reason, I should imagine the likeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have very little teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand they can get. Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I have not always known their writing apart." "Yes," said his brother hesitatingly, "there is a likeness. I know what you mean--but Emma's hand is the strongest." "Isabella and Emma both write beautifully," said Mr. Woodhouse; "and always did. And so does poor Mrs. Weston" "--with half a sigh and half a smile at her. "I never saw any gentleman's handwriting" "--Emma began, looking also at Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending to some one else--and the pause gave her time to reflect, "Now, how am I going to introduce him?--Am I unequal to speaking his name at once before all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout phrase?--Your Yorkshire friend--your correspondent in Yorkshire;--that would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.--No, I can pronounce his name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and better.--Now for it." Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again--" "Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentleman's hands I ever saw." "I do not admire it," said Mr. Knightley.<|quote|>"It is too small--wants strength. It is like a woman's writing."</|quote|>This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against the base aspersion. "No, it by no means wanted strength--it was not a large hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to produce?" No, she had heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter, had put it away. "If we were in the other room," said Emma, "if I had my writing-desk, I am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his.--Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?" "He chose to say he was employed" "-- "Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner to convince Mr. Knightley." "Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill," said Mr. Knightley dryly, "writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of course, put forth his best." Dinner was on table.--Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying-- "Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading the way." Jane's solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma. She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether the wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it _had_; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not been in vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness than usual--a glow both of complexion and spirits. She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the expense of the Irish mails;--it was at her tongue's end--but she abstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt Jane Fairfax's feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each. CHAPTER XVII When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;--with so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be almost always either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton left them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she soon began again; and though much that passed between them was in a half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton's side, there was no avoiding a knowledge of their principal subjects: The post-office--catching cold--fetching letters--and friendship, were long under discussion; and to them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant to Jane--inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton's meditated activity. "Here is April come!" said she, "I get quite anxious about you. June will soon be here." "But I have never fixed on June or any other month--merely looked forward to the summer in general." "But have you really heard of nothing?" "I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet." "Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing." "I not aware!" said Jane, shaking her head; "dear Mrs. Elton, who can have thought of it as I have done?" "But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in." "Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer," said Jane. "I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present." "Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out | even carried wrong--and not one in a million, I suppose, actually lost! And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad hands too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder." "The clerks grow expert from habit.--They must begin with some quickness of sight and hand, and exercise improves them. If you want any farther explanation," continued he, smiling, "they are paid for it. That is the key to a great deal of capacity. The public pays and must be served well." The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual observations made. "I have heard it asserted," said John Knightley, "that the same sort of handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the same master teaches, it is natural enough. But for that reason, I should imagine the likeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have very little teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand they can get. Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I have not always known their writing apart." "Yes," said his brother hesitatingly, "there is a likeness. I know what you mean--but Emma's hand is the strongest." "Isabella and Emma both write beautifully," said Mr. Woodhouse; "and always did. And so does poor Mrs. Weston" "--with half a sigh and half a smile at her. "I never saw any gentleman's handwriting" "--Emma began, looking also at Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending to some one else--and the pause gave her time to reflect, "Now, how am I going to introduce him?--Am I unequal to speaking his name at once before all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout phrase?--Your Yorkshire friend--your correspondent in Yorkshire;--that would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.--No, I can pronounce his name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and better.--Now for it." Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again--" "Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentleman's hands I ever saw." "I do not admire it," said Mr. Knightley.<|quote|>"It is too small--wants strength. It is like a woman's writing."</|quote|>This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against the base aspersion. "No, it by no means wanted strength--it was not a large hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to produce?" No, she had heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter, had put it away. "If we were in the other room," said Emma, "if I had my writing-desk, I am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his.--Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?" "He chose to say he was employed" "-- "Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner to convince Mr. Knightley." "Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill," said Mr. Knightley dryly, "writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of course, put forth his best." Dinner was on table.--Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying-- "Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading the way." Jane's solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma. She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether the wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it _had_; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not been in vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness than usual--a glow both of complexion and spirits. She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the expense of the Irish mails;--it was at her tongue's end--but she abstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt Jane Fairfax's feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each. CHAPTER XVII When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;--with so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax | Emma |
"I see it, of course," | Rose Maylie | Don't you see all this?"<|quote|>"I see it, of course,"</|quote|>replied Rose, smiling at the | doing any good for himself! Don't you see all this?"<|quote|>"I see it, of course,"</|quote|>replied Rose, smiling at the doctor's impetuosity; "but still I | going to alarm the inmates, and so do the very thing that would set him all to rights, there rushes into the way, a blundering dog of a half-bred butler, and shoots him! As if on purpose to prevent his doing any good for himself! Don't you see all this?"<|quote|>"I see it, of course,"</|quote|>replied Rose, smiling at the doctor's impetuosity; "but still I do not see anything in it, to criminate the poor child." "No," replied the doctor; "of course not! Bless the bright eyes of your sex! They never see, whether for good or bad, more than one side of any question; | which he has not the remotest idea. He is brought down to Chertsey, by men who seem to have taken a violent fancy to him, whether he will or no; and is put through a window to rob a house; and then, just at the very moment when he is going to alarm the inmates, and so do the very thing that would set him all to rights, there rushes into the way, a blundering dog of a half-bred butler, and shoots him! As if on purpose to prevent his doing any good for himself! Don't you see all this?"<|quote|>"I see it, of course,"</|quote|>replied Rose, smiling at the doctor's impetuosity; "but still I do not see anything in it, to criminate the poor child." "No," replied the doctor; "of course not! Bless the bright eyes of your sex! They never see, whether for good or bad, more than one side of any question; and that is, always, the one which first presents itself to them." Having given vent to this result of experience, the doctor put his hands into his pockets, and walked up and down the room with even greater rapidity than before. "The more I think of it," said the doctor, | with their eyes, there are many ugly points about it; he can only prove the parts that look ill, and none of those that look well. Confound the fellows, they _will_ have the why and the wherefore, and will take nothing for granted. On his own showing, you see, he has been the companion of thieves for some time past; he has been carried to a police-officer, on a charge of picking a gentleman's pocket; he has been taken away, forcibly, from that gentleman's house, to a place which he cannot describe or point out, and of the situation of which he has not the remotest idea. He is brought down to Chertsey, by men who seem to have taken a violent fancy to him, whether he will or no; and is put through a window to rob a house; and then, just at the very moment when he is going to alarm the inmates, and so do the very thing that would set him all to rights, there rushes into the way, a blundering dog of a half-bred butler, and shoots him! As if on purpose to prevent his doing any good for himself! Don't you see all this?"<|quote|>"I see it, of course,"</|quote|>replied Rose, smiling at the doctor's impetuosity; "but still I do not see anything in it, to criminate the poor child." "No," replied the doctor; "of course not! Bless the bright eyes of your sex! They never see, whether for good or bad, more than one side of any question; and that is, always, the one which first presents itself to them." Having given vent to this result of experience, the doctor put his hands into his pockets, and walked up and down the room with even greater rapidity than before. "The more I think of it," said the doctor, "the more I see that it will occasion endless trouble and difficulty if we put these men in possession of the boy's real story. I am certain it will not be believed; and even if they can do nothing to him in the end, still the dragging it forward, and giving publicity to all the doubts that will be cast upon it, must interfere, materially, with your benevolent plan of rescuing him from misery." "Oh! what is to be done?" cried Rose. "Dear, dear! why did they send for these people?" "Why, indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Maylie. "I would not have | long council together, compared with which, for secrecy and solemnity, a consultation of great doctors on the knottiest point in medicine, would be mere child's play. Meanwhile, the doctor walked up and down the next room in a very uneasy state; and Mrs. Maylie and Rose looked on, with anxious faces. "Upon my word," he said, making a halt, after a great number of very rapid turns, "I hardly know what to do." "Surely," said Rose, "the poor child's story, faithfully repeated to these men, will be sufficient to exonerate him." "I doubt it, my dear young lady," said the doctor, shaking his head. "I don't think it would exonerate him, either with them, or with legal functionaries of a higher grade. What is he, after all, they would say? A runaway. Judged by mere worldly considerations and probabilities, his story is a very doubtful one." "You believe it, surely?" interrupted Rose. "_I_ believe it, strange as it is; and perhaps I may be an old fool for doing so," rejoined the doctor; "but I don't think it is exactly the tale for a practical police-officer, nevertheless." "Why not?" demanded Rose. "Because, my pretty cross-examiner," replied the doctor: "because, viewed with their eyes, there are many ugly points about it; he can only prove the parts that look ill, and none of those that look well. Confound the fellows, they _will_ have the why and the wherefore, and will take nothing for granted. On his own showing, you see, he has been the companion of thieves for some time past; he has been carried to a police-officer, on a charge of picking a gentleman's pocket; he has been taken away, forcibly, from that gentleman's house, to a place which he cannot describe or point out, and of the situation of which he has not the remotest idea. He is brought down to Chertsey, by men who seem to have taken a violent fancy to him, whether he will or no; and is put through a window to rob a house; and then, just at the very moment when he is going to alarm the inmates, and so do the very thing that would set him all to rights, there rushes into the way, a blundering dog of a half-bred butler, and shoots him! As if on purpose to prevent his doing any good for himself! Don't you see all this?"<|quote|>"I see it, of course,"</|quote|>replied Rose, smiling at the doctor's impetuosity; "but still I do not see anything in it, to criminate the poor child." "No," replied the doctor; "of course not! Bless the bright eyes of your sex! They never see, whether for good or bad, more than one side of any question; and that is, always, the one which first presents itself to them." Having given vent to this result of experience, the doctor put his hands into his pockets, and walked up and down the room with even greater rapidity than before. "The more I think of it," said the doctor, "the more I see that it will occasion endless trouble and difficulty if we put these men in possession of the boy's real story. I am certain it will not be believed; and even if they can do nothing to him in the end, still the dragging it forward, and giving publicity to all the doubts that will be cast upon it, must interfere, materially, with your benevolent plan of rescuing him from misery." "Oh! what is to be done?" cried Rose. "Dear, dear! why did they send for these people?" "Why, indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Maylie. "I would not have had them here, for the world." "All I know is," said Mr. Losberne, at last: sitting down with a kind of desperate calmness, "that we must try and carry it off with a bold face. The object is a good one, and that must be our excuse. The boy has strong symptoms of fever upon him, and is in no condition to be talked to any more; that's one comfort. We must make the best of it; and if bad be the best, it is no fault of ours. Come in!" "Well, master," said Blathers, entering the room followed by his colleague, and making the door fast, before he said any more. "This warn't a put-up thing." "And what the devil's a put-up thing?" demanded the doctor, impatiently. "We call it a put-up robbery, ladies," said Blathers, turning to them, as if he pitied their ignorance, but had a contempt for the doctor's, "when the servants is in it." "Nobody suspected them, in this case," said Mrs. Maylie. "Wery likely not, ma'am," replied Blathers; "but they might have been in it, for all that." "More likely on that wery account," said Duff. "We find it was a town hand," said | a yokel; eh, Duff?" "Certainly not," replied Duff. "And, translating the word yokel for the benefit of the ladies, I apprehend your meaning to be, that this attempt was not made by a countryman?" said Mr. Losberne, with a smile. "That's it, master," replied Blathers. "This is all about the robbery, is it?" "All," replied the doctor. "Now, what is this, about this here boy that the servants are a-talking on?" said Blathers. "Nothing at all," replied the doctor. "One of the frightened servants chose to take it into his head, that he had something to do with this attempt to break into the house; but it's nonsense: sheer absurdity." "Wery easy disposed of, if it is," remarked Duff. "What he says is quite correct," observed Blathers, nodding his head in a confirmatory way, and playing carelessly with the handcuffs, as if they were a pair of castanets. "Who is the boy? What account does he give of himself? Where did he come from? He didn't drop out of the clouds, did he, master?" "Of course not," replied the doctor, with a nervous glance at the two ladies. "I know his whole history: but we can talk about that presently. You would like, first, to see the place where the thieves made their attempt, I suppose?" "Certainly," rejoined Mr. Blathers. "We had better inspect the premises first, and examine the servants afterwards. That's the usual way of doing business." Lights were then procured; and Messrs. Blathers and Duff, attended by the native constable, Brittles, Giles, and everybody else in short, went into the little room at the end of the passage and looked out at the window; and afterwards went round by way of the lawn, and looked in at the window; and after that, had a candle handed out to inspect the shutter with; and after that, a lantern to trace the footsteps with; and after that, a pitchfork to poke the bushes with. This done, amidst the breathless interest of all beholders, they came in again; and Mr. Giles and Brittles were put through a melodramatic representation of their share in the previous night's adventures: which they performed some six times over: contradicting each other, in not more than one important respect, the first time, and in not more than a dozen the last. This consummation being arrived at, Blathers and Duff cleared the room, and held a long council together, compared with which, for secrecy and solemnity, a consultation of great doctors on the knottiest point in medicine, would be mere child's play. Meanwhile, the doctor walked up and down the next room in a very uneasy state; and Mrs. Maylie and Rose looked on, with anxious faces. "Upon my word," he said, making a halt, after a great number of very rapid turns, "I hardly know what to do." "Surely," said Rose, "the poor child's story, faithfully repeated to these men, will be sufficient to exonerate him." "I doubt it, my dear young lady," said the doctor, shaking his head. "I don't think it would exonerate him, either with them, or with legal functionaries of a higher grade. What is he, after all, they would say? A runaway. Judged by mere worldly considerations and probabilities, his story is a very doubtful one." "You believe it, surely?" interrupted Rose. "_I_ believe it, strange as it is; and perhaps I may be an old fool for doing so," rejoined the doctor; "but I don't think it is exactly the tale for a practical police-officer, nevertheless." "Why not?" demanded Rose. "Because, my pretty cross-examiner," replied the doctor: "because, viewed with their eyes, there are many ugly points about it; he can only prove the parts that look ill, and none of those that look well. Confound the fellows, they _will_ have the why and the wherefore, and will take nothing for granted. On his own showing, you see, he has been the companion of thieves for some time past; he has been carried to a police-officer, on a charge of picking a gentleman's pocket; he has been taken away, forcibly, from that gentleman's house, to a place which he cannot describe or point out, and of the situation of which he has not the remotest idea. He is brought down to Chertsey, by men who seem to have taken a violent fancy to him, whether he will or no; and is put through a window to rob a house; and then, just at the very moment when he is going to alarm the inmates, and so do the very thing that would set him all to rights, there rushes into the way, a blundering dog of a half-bred butler, and shoots him! As if on purpose to prevent his doing any good for himself! Don't you see all this?"<|quote|>"I see it, of course,"</|quote|>replied Rose, smiling at the doctor's impetuosity; "but still I do not see anything in it, to criminate the poor child." "No," replied the doctor; "of course not! Bless the bright eyes of your sex! They never see, whether for good or bad, more than one side of any question; and that is, always, the one which first presents itself to them." Having given vent to this result of experience, the doctor put his hands into his pockets, and walked up and down the room with even greater rapidity than before. "The more I think of it," said the doctor, "the more I see that it will occasion endless trouble and difficulty if we put these men in possession of the boy's real story. I am certain it will not be believed; and even if they can do nothing to him in the end, still the dragging it forward, and giving publicity to all the doubts that will be cast upon it, must interfere, materially, with your benevolent plan of rescuing him from misery." "Oh! what is to be done?" cried Rose. "Dear, dear! why did they send for these people?" "Why, indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Maylie. "I would not have had them here, for the world." "All I know is," said Mr. Losberne, at last: sitting down with a kind of desperate calmness, "that we must try and carry it off with a bold face. The object is a good one, and that must be our excuse. The boy has strong symptoms of fever upon him, and is in no condition to be talked to any more; that's one comfort. We must make the best of it; and if bad be the best, it is no fault of ours. Come in!" "Well, master," said Blathers, entering the room followed by his colleague, and making the door fast, before he said any more. "This warn't a put-up thing." "And what the devil's a put-up thing?" demanded the doctor, impatiently. "We call it a put-up robbery, ladies," said Blathers, turning to them, as if he pitied their ignorance, but had a contempt for the doctor's, "when the servants is in it." "Nobody suspected them, in this case," said Mrs. Maylie. "Wery likely not, ma'am," replied Blathers; "but they might have been in it, for all that." "More likely on that wery account," said Duff. "We find it was a town hand," said Blathers, continuing his report; "for the style of work is first-rate." "Wery pretty indeed it is," remarked Duff, in an undertone. "There was two of 'em in it," continued Blathers; "and they had a boy with 'em; that's plain from the size of the window. That's all to be said at present. We'll see this lad that you've got upstairs at once, if you please." "Perhaps they will take something to drink first, Mrs. Maylie?" said the doctor: his face brightening, as if some new thought had occurred to him. "Oh! to be sure!" exclaimed Rose, eagerly. "You shall have it immediately, if you will." "Why, thank you, miss!" said Blathers, drawing his coat-sleeve across his mouth; "it's dry work, this sort of duty. Anythink that's handy, miss; don't put yourself out of the way, on our accounts." "What shall it be?" asked the doctor, following the young lady to the sideboard. "A little drop of spirits, master, if it's all the same," replied Blathers. "It's a cold ride from London, ma'am; and I always find that spirits comes home warmer to the feelings." This interesting communication was addressed to Mrs. Maylie, who received it very graciously. While it was being conveyed to her, the doctor slipped out of the room. "Ah!" said Mr. Blathers: not holding his wine-glass by the stem, but grasping the bottom between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand: and placing it in front of his chest; "I have seen a good many pieces of business like this, in my time, ladies." "That crack down in the back lane at Edmonton, Blathers," said Mr. Duff, assisting his colleague's memory. "That was something in this way, warn't it?" rejoined Mr. Blathers; "that was done by Conkey Chickweed, that was." "You always gave that to him" replied Duff. "It was the Family Pet, I tell you. Conkey hadn't any more to do with it than I had." "Get out!" retorted Mr. Blathers; "I know better. Do you mind that time when Conkey was robbed of his money, though? What a start that was! Better than any novel-book _I_ ever see!" "What was that?" inquired Rose: anxious to encourage any symptoms of good-humour in the unwelcome visitors. "It was a robbery, miss, that hardly anybody would have been down upon," said Blathers. "This here Conkey Chickweed" "Conkey means Nosey, ma'am," interposed Duff. "Of course the lady knows | and looked out at the window; and afterwards went round by way of the lawn, and looked in at the window; and after that, had a candle handed out to inspect the shutter with; and after that, a lantern to trace the footsteps with; and after that, a pitchfork to poke the bushes with. This done, amidst the breathless interest of all beholders, they came in again; and Mr. Giles and Brittles were put through a melodramatic representation of their share in the previous night's adventures: which they performed some six times over: contradicting each other, in not more than one important respect, the first time, and in not more than a dozen the last. This consummation being arrived at, Blathers and Duff cleared the room, and held a long council together, compared with which, for secrecy and solemnity, a consultation of great doctors on the knottiest point in medicine, would be mere child's play. Meanwhile, the doctor walked up and down the next room in a very uneasy state; and Mrs. Maylie and Rose looked on, with anxious faces. "Upon my word," he said, making a halt, after a great number of very rapid turns, "I hardly know what to do." "Surely," said Rose, "the poor child's story, faithfully repeated to these men, will be sufficient to exonerate him." "I doubt it, my dear young lady," said the doctor, shaking his head. "I don't think it would exonerate him, either with them, or with legal functionaries of a higher grade. What is he, after all, they would say? A runaway. Judged by mere worldly considerations and probabilities, his story is a very doubtful one." "You believe it, surely?" interrupted Rose. "_I_ believe it, strange as it is; and perhaps I may be an old fool for doing so," rejoined the doctor; "but I don't think it is exactly the tale for a practical police-officer, nevertheless." "Why not?" demanded Rose. "Because, my pretty cross-examiner," replied the doctor: "because, viewed with their eyes, there are many ugly points about it; he can only prove the parts that look ill, and none of those that look well. Confound the fellows, they _will_ have the why and the wherefore, and will take nothing for granted. On his own showing, you see, he has been the companion of thieves for some time past; he has been carried to a police-officer, on a charge of picking a gentleman's pocket; he has been taken away, forcibly, from that gentleman's house, to a place which he cannot describe or point out, and of the situation of which he has not the remotest idea. He is brought down to Chertsey, by men who seem to have taken a violent fancy to him, whether he will or no; and is put through a window to rob a house; and then, just at the very moment when he is going to alarm the inmates, and so do the very thing that would set him all to rights, there rushes into the way, a blundering dog of a half-bred butler, and shoots him! As if on purpose to prevent his doing any good for himself! Don't you see all this?"<|quote|>"I see it, of course,"</|quote|>replied Rose, smiling at the doctor's impetuosity; "but still I do not see anything in it, to criminate the poor child." "No," replied the doctor; "of course not! Bless the bright eyes of your sex! They never see, whether for good or bad, more than one side of any question; and that is, always, the one which first presents itself to them." Having given vent to this result of experience, the doctor put his hands into his pockets, and walked up and down the room with even greater rapidity than before. "The more I think of it," said the doctor, "the more I see that it will occasion endless trouble and difficulty if we put these men in possession of the boy's real story. I am certain it will not be believed; and even if they can do nothing to him in the end, still the dragging it forward, and giving publicity to all the doubts that will be cast upon it, must interfere, materially, with your benevolent plan of rescuing him from misery." "Oh! what is to be done?" cried Rose. "Dear, dear! why did they send for these people?" "Why, indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Maylie. "I would not have had them here, for the world." "All I know is," said Mr. Losberne, at last: sitting | Oliver Twist |
"They are the sort of Americans that one does one s duty by not--not accepting." | Mrs. Costello | very common," Mrs. Costello declared.<|quote|>"They are the sort of Americans that one does one s duty by not--not accepting."</|quote|>"Ah, you don t accept | them," he said. "They are very common," Mrs. Costello declared.<|quote|>"They are the sort of Americans that one does one s duty by not--not accepting."</|quote|>"Ah, you don t accept them?" said the young man. | to him in many different lights, was, to Winterbourne s imagination, almost oppressively striking. He immediately perceived, from her tone, that Miss Daisy Miller s place in the social scale was low. "I am afraid you don t approve of them," he said. "They are very common," Mrs. Costello declared.<|quote|>"They are the sort of Americans that one does one s duty by not--not accepting."</|quote|>"Ah, you don t accept them?" said the young man. "I can t, my dear Frederick. I would if I could, but I can t." "The young girl is very pretty," said Winterbourne in a moment. "Of course she s pretty. But she is very common." "I see what you | gave him to understand, she exerted in the American capital. She admitted that she was very exclusive; but, if he were acquainted with New York, he would see that one had to be. And her picture of the minutely hierarchical constitution of the society of that city, which she presented to him in many different lights, was, to Winterbourne s imagination, almost oppressively striking. He immediately perceived, from her tone, that Miss Daisy Miller s place in the social scale was low. "I am afraid you don t approve of them," he said. "They are very common," Mrs. Costello declared.<|quote|>"They are the sort of Americans that one does one s duty by not--not accepting."</|quote|>"Ah, you don t accept them?" said the young man. "I can t, my dear Frederick. I would if I could, but I can t." "The young girl is very pretty," said Winterbourne in a moment. "Of course she s pretty. But she is very common." "I see what you mean, of course," said Winterbourne after another pause. "She has that charming look that they all have," his aunt resumed. "I can t think where they pick it up; and she dresses in perfection--no, you don t know how well she dresses. I can t think where they get their | on his travels, was rarely perceived to visit any particular city at the moment selected by his mother for her own appearance there. Her nephew, who had come up to Vevey expressly to see her, was therefore more attentive than those who, as she said, were nearer to her. He had imbibed at Geneva the idea that one must always be attentive to one s aunt. Mrs. Costello had not seen him for many years, and she was greatly pleased with him, manifesting her approbation by initiating him into many of the secrets of that social sway which, as she gave him to understand, she exerted in the American capital. She admitted that she was very exclusive; but, if he were acquainted with New York, he would see that one had to be. And her picture of the minutely hierarchical constitution of the society of that city, which she presented to him in many different lights, was, to Winterbourne s imagination, almost oppressively striking. He immediately perceived, from her tone, that Miss Daisy Miller s place in the social scale was low. "I am afraid you don t approve of them," he said. "They are very common," Mrs. Costello declared.<|quote|>"They are the sort of Americans that one does one s duty by not--not accepting."</|quote|>"Ah, you don t accept them?" said the young man. "I can t, my dear Frederick. I would if I could, but I can t." "The young girl is very pretty," said Winterbourne in a moment. "Of course she s pretty. But she is very common." "I see what you mean, of course," said Winterbourne after another pause. "She has that charming look that they all have," his aunt resumed. "I can t think where they pick it up; and she dresses in perfection--no, you don t know how well she dresses. I can t think where they get their taste." "But, my dear aunt, she is not, after all, a Comanche savage." "She is a young lady," said Mrs. Costello, "who has an intimacy with her mamma s courier." "An intimacy with the courier?" the young man demanded. "Oh, the mother is just as bad! They treat the courier like a familiar friend--like a gentleman. I shouldn t wonder if he dines with them. Very likely they have never seen a man with such good manners, such fine clothes, so like a gentleman. He probably corresponds to the young lady s idea of a count. He sits with them | gravel, said to himself that she had the tournure of a princess. He had, however, engaged to do more than proved feasible, in promising to present his aunt, Mrs. Costello, to Miss Daisy Miller. As soon as the former lady had got better of her headache, he waited upon her in her apartment; and, after the proper inquiries in regard to her health, he asked her if she had observed in the hotel an American family--a mamma, a daughter, and a little boy. "And a courier?" said Mrs. Costello. "Oh yes, I have observed them. Seen them--heard them--and kept out of their way." Mrs. Costello was a widow with a fortune; a person of much distinction, who frequently intimated that, if she were not so dreadfully liable to sick headaches, she would probably have left a deeper impress upon her time. She had a long, pale face, a high nose, and a great deal of very striking white hair, which she wore in large puffs and rouleaux over the top of her head. She had two sons married in New York and another who was now in Europe. This young man was amusing himself at Hamburg, and, though he was on his travels, was rarely perceived to visit any particular city at the moment selected by his mother for her own appearance there. Her nephew, who had come up to Vevey expressly to see her, was therefore more attentive than those who, as she said, were nearer to her. He had imbibed at Geneva the idea that one must always be attentive to one s aunt. Mrs. Costello had not seen him for many years, and she was greatly pleased with him, manifesting her approbation by initiating him into many of the secrets of that social sway which, as she gave him to understand, she exerted in the American capital. She admitted that she was very exclusive; but, if he were acquainted with New York, he would see that one had to be. And her picture of the minutely hierarchical constitution of the society of that city, which she presented to him in many different lights, was, to Winterbourne s imagination, almost oppressively striking. He immediately perceived, from her tone, that Miss Daisy Miller s place in the social scale was low. "I am afraid you don t approve of them," he said. "They are very common," Mrs. Costello declared.<|quote|>"They are the sort of Americans that one does one s duty by not--not accepting."</|quote|>"Ah, you don t accept them?" said the young man. "I can t, my dear Frederick. I would if I could, but I can t." "The young girl is very pretty," said Winterbourne in a moment. "Of course she s pretty. But she is very common." "I see what you mean, of course," said Winterbourne after another pause. "She has that charming look that they all have," his aunt resumed. "I can t think where they pick it up; and she dresses in perfection--no, you don t know how well she dresses. I can t think where they get their taste." "But, my dear aunt, she is not, after all, a Comanche savage." "She is a young lady," said Mrs. Costello, "who has an intimacy with her mamma s courier." "An intimacy with the courier?" the young man demanded. "Oh, the mother is just as bad! They treat the courier like a familiar friend--like a gentleman. I shouldn t wonder if he dines with them. Very likely they have never seen a man with such good manners, such fine clothes, so like a gentleman. He probably corresponds to the young lady s idea of a count. He sits with them in the garden in the evening. I think he smokes." Winterbourne listened with interest to these disclosures; they helped him to make up his mind about Miss Daisy. Evidently she was rather wild. "Well," he said, "I am not a courier, and yet she was very charming to me." "You had better have said at first," said Mrs. Costello with dignity, "that you had made her acquaintance." "We simply met in the garden, and we talked a bit." "Tout bonnement! And pray what did you say?" "I said I should take the liberty of introducing her to my admirable aunt." "I am much obliged to you." "It was to guarantee my respectability," said Winterbourne. "And pray who is to guarantee hers?" "Ah, you are cruel!" said the young man. "She s a very nice young girl." "You don t say that as if you believed it," Mrs. Costello observed. "She is completely uncultivated," Winterbourne went on. "But she is wonderfully pretty, and, in short, she is very nice. To prove that I believe it, I am going to take her to the Chateau de Chillon." "You two are going off there together? I should say it proved just the contrary. | declared. "Then we may arrange it. If mother will stay with Randolph, I guess Eugenio will." "Eugenio?" the young man inquired. "Eugenio s our courier. He doesn t like to stay with Randolph; he s the most fastidious man I ever saw. But he s a splendid courier. I guess he ll stay at home with Randolph if mother does, and then we can go to the castle." Winterbourne reflected for an instant as lucidly as possible--"we" could only mean Miss Daisy Miller and himself. This program seemed almost too agreeable for credence; he felt as if he ought to kiss the young lady s hand. Possibly he would have done so and quite spoiled the project, but at this moment another person, presumably Eugenio, appeared. A tall, handsome man, with superb whiskers, wearing a velvet morning coat and a brilliant watch chain, approached Miss Miller, looking sharply at her companion. "Oh, Eugenio!" said Miss Miller with the friendliest accent. Eugenio had looked at Winterbourne from head to foot; he now bowed gravely to the young lady. "I have the honor to inform mademoiselle that luncheon is upon the table." Miss Miller slowly rose. "See here, Eugenio!" she said; "I m going to that old castle, anyway." "To the Chateau de Chillon, mademoiselle?" the courier inquired. "Mademoiselle has made arrangements?" he added in a tone which struck Winterbourne as very impertinent. Eugenio s tone apparently threw, even to Miss Miller s own apprehension, a slightly ironical light upon the young girl s situation. She turned to Winterbourne, blushing a little--a very little. "You won t back out?" she said. "I shall not be happy till we go!" he protested. "And you are staying in this hotel?" she went on. "And you are really an American?" The courier stood looking at Winterbourne offensively. The young man, at least, thought his manner of looking an offense to Miss Miller; it conveyed an imputation that she "picked up" acquaintances. "I shall have the honor of presenting to you a person who will tell you all about me," he said, smiling and referring to his aunt. "Oh, well, we ll go some day," said Miss Miller. And she gave him a smile and turned away. She put up her parasol and walked back to the inn beside Eugenio. Winterbourne stood looking after her; and as she moved away, drawing her muslin furbelows over the gravel, said to himself that she had the tournure of a princess. He had, however, engaged to do more than proved feasible, in promising to present his aunt, Mrs. Costello, to Miss Daisy Miller. As soon as the former lady had got better of her headache, he waited upon her in her apartment; and, after the proper inquiries in regard to her health, he asked her if she had observed in the hotel an American family--a mamma, a daughter, and a little boy. "And a courier?" said Mrs. Costello. "Oh yes, I have observed them. Seen them--heard them--and kept out of their way." Mrs. Costello was a widow with a fortune; a person of much distinction, who frequently intimated that, if she were not so dreadfully liable to sick headaches, she would probably have left a deeper impress upon her time. She had a long, pale face, a high nose, and a great deal of very striking white hair, which she wore in large puffs and rouleaux over the top of her head. She had two sons married in New York and another who was now in Europe. This young man was amusing himself at Hamburg, and, though he was on his travels, was rarely perceived to visit any particular city at the moment selected by his mother for her own appearance there. Her nephew, who had come up to Vevey expressly to see her, was therefore more attentive than those who, as she said, were nearer to her. He had imbibed at Geneva the idea that one must always be attentive to one s aunt. Mrs. Costello had not seen him for many years, and she was greatly pleased with him, manifesting her approbation by initiating him into many of the secrets of that social sway which, as she gave him to understand, she exerted in the American capital. She admitted that she was very exclusive; but, if he were acquainted with New York, he would see that one had to be. And her picture of the minutely hierarchical constitution of the society of that city, which she presented to him in many different lights, was, to Winterbourne s imagination, almost oppressively striking. He immediately perceived, from her tone, that Miss Daisy Miller s place in the social scale was low. "I am afraid you don t approve of them," he said. "They are very common," Mrs. Costello declared.<|quote|>"They are the sort of Americans that one does one s duty by not--not accepting."</|quote|>"Ah, you don t accept them?" said the young man. "I can t, my dear Frederick. I would if I could, but I can t." "The young girl is very pretty," said Winterbourne in a moment. "Of course she s pretty. But she is very common." "I see what you mean, of course," said Winterbourne after another pause. "She has that charming look that they all have," his aunt resumed. "I can t think where they pick it up; and she dresses in perfection--no, you don t know how well she dresses. I can t think where they get their taste." "But, my dear aunt, she is not, after all, a Comanche savage." "She is a young lady," said Mrs. Costello, "who has an intimacy with her mamma s courier." "An intimacy with the courier?" the young man demanded. "Oh, the mother is just as bad! They treat the courier like a familiar friend--like a gentleman. I shouldn t wonder if he dines with them. Very likely they have never seen a man with such good manners, such fine clothes, so like a gentleman. He probably corresponds to the young lady s idea of a count. He sits with them in the garden in the evening. I think he smokes." Winterbourne listened with interest to these disclosures; they helped him to make up his mind about Miss Daisy. Evidently she was rather wild. "Well," he said, "I am not a courier, and yet she was very charming to me." "You had better have said at first," said Mrs. Costello with dignity, "that you had made her acquaintance." "We simply met in the garden, and we talked a bit." "Tout bonnement! And pray what did you say?" "I said I should take the liberty of introducing her to my admirable aunt." "I am much obliged to you." "It was to guarantee my respectability," said Winterbourne. "And pray who is to guarantee hers?" "Ah, you are cruel!" said the young man. "She s a very nice young girl." "You don t say that as if you believed it," Mrs. Costello observed. "She is completely uncultivated," Winterbourne went on. "But she is wonderfully pretty, and, in short, she is very nice. To prove that I believe it, I am going to take her to the Chateau de Chillon." "You two are going off there together? I should say it proved just the contrary. How long had you known her, may I ask, when this interesting project was formed? You haven t been twenty-four hours in the house." "I have known her half an hour!" said Winterbourne, smiling. "Dear me!" cried Mrs. Costello. "What a dreadful girl!" Her nephew was silent for some moments. "You really think, then," he began earnestly, and with a desire for trustworthy information--" "you really think that--" But he paused again. "Think what, sir?" said his aunt. "That she is the sort of young lady who expects a man, sooner or later, to carry her off?" "I haven t the least idea what such young ladies expect a man to do. But I really think that you had better not meddle with little American girls that are uncultivated, as you call them. You have lived too long out of the country. You will be sure to make some great mistake. You are too innocent." "My dear aunt, I am not so innocent," said Winterbourne, smiling and curling his mustache. "You are guilty too, then!" Winterbourne continued to curl his mustache meditatively. "You won t let the poor girl know you then?" he asked at last. "Is it literally true that she is going to the Chateau de Chillon with you?" "I think that she fully intends it." "Then, my dear Frederick," said Mrs. Costello, "I must decline the honor of her acquaintance. I am an old woman, but I am not too old, thank Heaven, to be shocked!" "But don t they all do these things--the young girls in America?" Winterbourne inquired. Mrs. Costello stared a moment. "I should like to see my granddaughters do them!" she declared grimly. This seemed to throw some light upon the matter, for Winterbourne remembered to have heard that his pretty cousins in New York were "tremendous flirts." If, therefore, Miss Daisy Miller exceeded the liberal margin allowed to these young ladies, it was probable that anything might be expected of her. Winterbourne was impatient to see her again, and he was vexed with himself that, by instinct, he should not appreciate her justly. Though he was impatient to see her, he hardly knew what he should say to her about his aunt s refusal to become acquainted with her; but he discovered, promptly enough, that with Miss Daisy Miller there was no great need of walking on tiptoe. He found her that | that she had the tournure of a princess. He had, however, engaged to do more than proved feasible, in promising to present his aunt, Mrs. Costello, to Miss Daisy Miller. As soon as the former lady had got better of her headache, he waited upon her in her apartment; and, after the proper inquiries in regard to her health, he asked her if she had observed in the hotel an American family--a mamma, a daughter, and a little boy. "And a courier?" said Mrs. Costello. "Oh yes, I have observed them. Seen them--heard them--and kept out of their way." Mrs. Costello was a widow with a fortune; a person of much distinction, who frequently intimated that, if she were not so dreadfully liable to sick headaches, she would probably have left a deeper impress upon her time. She had a long, pale face, a high nose, and a great deal of very striking white hair, which she wore in large puffs and rouleaux over the top of her head. She had two sons married in New York and another who was now in Europe. This young man was amusing himself at Hamburg, and, though he was on his travels, was rarely perceived to visit any particular city at the moment selected by his mother for her own appearance there. Her nephew, who had come up to Vevey expressly to see her, was therefore more attentive than those who, as she said, were nearer to her. He had imbibed at Geneva the idea that one must always be attentive to one s aunt. Mrs. Costello had not seen him for many years, and she was greatly pleased with him, manifesting her approbation by initiating him into many of the secrets of that social sway which, as she gave him to understand, she exerted in the American capital. She admitted that she was very exclusive; but, if he were acquainted with New York, he would see that one had to be. And her picture of the minutely hierarchical constitution of the society of that city, which she presented to him in many different lights, was, to Winterbourne s imagination, almost oppressively striking. He immediately perceived, from her tone, that Miss Daisy Miller s place in the social scale was low. "I am afraid you don t approve of them," he said. "They are very common," Mrs. Costello declared.<|quote|>"They are the sort of Americans that one does one s duty by not--not accepting."</|quote|>"Ah, you don t accept them?" said the young man. "I can t, my dear Frederick. I would if I could, but I can t." "The young girl is very pretty," said Winterbourne in a moment. "Of course she s pretty. But she is very common." "I see what you mean, of course," said Winterbourne after another pause. "She has that charming look that they all have," his aunt resumed. "I can t think where they pick it up; and she dresses in perfection--no, you don t know how well she dresses. I can t think where they get their taste." "But, my dear aunt, she is not, after all, a Comanche savage." "She is a young lady," said Mrs. Costello, "who has an intimacy with her mamma s courier." "An intimacy with the courier?" the young man demanded. "Oh, the mother is just as bad! They treat the courier like a familiar friend--like a gentleman. I shouldn t wonder if he dines with them. Very likely they have never seen a man with such good manners, such fine clothes, so like a gentleman. He probably corresponds to the young lady s idea of a count. He sits with them in the garden in the evening. I think he smokes." Winterbourne listened with interest to these disclosures; they helped him to make up his mind about Miss Daisy. Evidently she was rather wild. "Well," he said, "I am not a courier, and yet she was very charming to me." "You had better have said at first," said Mrs. Costello with dignity, "that you had made her acquaintance." "We simply met in the garden, and we talked a bit." "Tout bonnement! And pray what did you say?" "I said I should take the liberty of introducing her to my admirable aunt." "I am much obliged to you." "It was to guarantee my respectability," said Winterbourne. "And pray who is to guarantee hers?" "Ah, you are cruel!" said the young man. "She s a very nice young girl." "You don t say that as if you believed it," Mrs. Costello observed. "She is completely uncultivated," Winterbourne went on. "But she is wonderfully pretty, and, in short, she is very nice. To prove that I believe it, I am going to take her to the | Daisy Miller |
said she, | No speaker | not mind it, I know,"<|quote|>said she,</|quote|>"because I heard him say | walked away. "Your brother will not mind it, I know,"<|quote|>said she,</|quote|>"because I heard him say before that he hated dancing; | brother would be most happy to be introduced to her. Catherine, without hesitation, replied that she was very sure Miss Thorpe did not mean to dance at all. The cruel reply was passed on to the other, and he immediately walked away. "Your brother will not mind it, I know,"<|quote|>said she,</|quote|>"because I heard him say before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured in him to think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she might wish for a partner; but he is quite mistaken, for she would not dance upon any account in | was of full five minutes duration; and she was beginning to think it a very long quarter of an hour, when they both returned, and an explanation was given, by Henry s requesting to know if she thought her friend, Miss Thorpe, would have any objection to dancing, as his brother would be most happy to be introduced to her. Catherine, without hesitation, replied that she was very sure Miss Thorpe did not mean to dance at all. The cruel reply was passed on to the other, and he immediately walked away. "Your brother will not mind it, I know,"<|quote|>said she,</|quote|>"because I heard him say before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured in him to think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she might wish for a partner; but he is quite mistaken, for she would not dance upon any account in the world." Henry smiled, and said, "How very little trouble it can give you to understand the motive of other people s actions." "Why? What do you mean?" "With you, it is not, How is such a one likely to be influenced, What is the inducement most likely to act | sparkling eyes to everything he said; and, in finding him irresistible, becoming so herself. At the end of the first dance, Captain Tilney came towards them again, and, much to Catherine s dissatisfaction, pulled his brother away. They retired whispering together; and, though her delicate sensibility did not take immediate alarm, and lay it down as fact, that Captain Tilney must have heard some malevolent misrepresentation of her, which he now hastened to communicate to his brother, in the hope of separating them forever, she could not have her partner conveyed from her sight without very uneasy sensations. Her suspense was of full five minutes duration; and she was beginning to think it a very long quarter of an hour, when they both returned, and an explanation was given, by Henry s requesting to know if she thought her friend, Miss Thorpe, would have any objection to dancing, as his brother would be most happy to be introduced to her. Catherine, without hesitation, replied that she was very sure Miss Thorpe did not mean to dance at all. The cruel reply was passed on to the other, and he immediately walked away. "Your brother will not mind it, I know,"<|quote|>said she,</|quote|>"because I heard him say before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured in him to think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she might wish for a partner; but he is quite mistaken, for she would not dance upon any account in the world." Henry smiled, and said, "How very little trouble it can give you to understand the motive of other people s actions." "Why? What do you mean?" "With you, it is not, How is such a one likely to be influenced, What is the inducement most likely to act upon such a person s feelings, age, situation, and probable habits of life considered but, How should _I_ be influenced, What would be _my_ inducement in acting so and so?" "I do not understand you." "Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand you perfectly well." "Me? Yes; I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible." "Bravo! An excellent satire on modern language." "But pray tell me what you mean." "Shall I indeed? Do you really desire it? But you are not aware of the consequences; it will involve you in a very cruel embarrassment, and certainly bring | of a very fashionable-looking, handsome young man, whom she had never seen before, and who now evidently belonged to their party. She looked at him with great admiration, and even supposed it possible that some people might think him handsomer than his brother, though, in her eyes, his air was more assuming, and his countenance less prepossessing. His taste and manners were beyond a doubt decidedly inferior; for, within her hearing, he not only protested against every thought of dancing himself, but even laughed openly at Henry for finding it possible. From the latter circumstance it may be presumed that, whatever might be our heroine s opinion of him, his admiration of her was not of a very dangerous kind; not likely to produce animosities between the brothers, nor persecutions to the lady. _He_ cannot be the instigator of the three villains in horsemen s greatcoats, by whom she will hereafter be forced into a traveling-chaise and four, which will drive off with incredible speed. Catherine, meanwhile, undisturbed by presentiments of such an evil, or of any evil at all, except that of having but a short set to dance down, enjoyed her usual happiness with Henry Tilney, listening with sparkling eyes to everything he said; and, in finding him irresistible, becoming so herself. At the end of the first dance, Captain Tilney came towards them again, and, much to Catherine s dissatisfaction, pulled his brother away. They retired whispering together; and, though her delicate sensibility did not take immediate alarm, and lay it down as fact, that Captain Tilney must have heard some malevolent misrepresentation of her, which he now hastened to communicate to his brother, in the hope of separating them forever, she could not have her partner conveyed from her sight without very uneasy sensations. Her suspense was of full five minutes duration; and she was beginning to think it a very long quarter of an hour, when they both returned, and an explanation was given, by Henry s requesting to know if she thought her friend, Miss Thorpe, would have any objection to dancing, as his brother would be most happy to be introduced to her. Catherine, without hesitation, replied that she was very sure Miss Thorpe did not mean to dance at all. The cruel reply was passed on to the other, and he immediately walked away. "Your brother will not mind it, I know,"<|quote|>said she,</|quote|>"because I heard him say before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured in him to think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she might wish for a partner; but he is quite mistaken, for she would not dance upon any account in the world." Henry smiled, and said, "How very little trouble it can give you to understand the motive of other people s actions." "Why? What do you mean?" "With you, it is not, How is such a one likely to be influenced, What is the inducement most likely to act upon such a person s feelings, age, situation, and probable habits of life considered but, How should _I_ be influenced, What would be _my_ inducement in acting so and so?" "I do not understand you." "Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand you perfectly well." "Me? Yes; I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible." "Bravo! An excellent satire on modern language." "But pray tell me what you mean." "Shall I indeed? Do you really desire it? But you are not aware of the consequences; it will involve you in a very cruel embarrassment, and certainly bring on a disagreement between us." "No, no; it shall not do either; I am not afraid." "Well, then, I only meant that your attributing my brother s wish of dancing with Miss Thorpe to good nature alone convinced me of your being superior in good nature yourself to all the rest of the world." Catherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman s predictions were verified. There was a something, however, in his words which repaid her for the pain of confusion; and that something occupied her mind so much that she drew back for some time, forgetting to speak or to listen, and almost forgetting where she was; till, roused by the voice of Isabella, she looked up and saw her with Captain Tilney preparing to give them hands across. Isabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only explanation of this extraordinary change which could at that time be given; but as it was not quite enough for Catherine s comprehension, she spoke her astonishment in very plain terms to her partner. "I cannot think how it could happen! Isabella was so determined not to dance." "And did Isabella never change her mind before?" "Oh! But, because And your brother! | feelings are incomprehensible. And so he hardly looked once at you the whole day?" "I do not say so; but he did not seem in good spirits." "How contemptible! Of all things in the world inconstancy is my aversion. Let me entreat you never to think of him again, my dear Catherine; indeed he is unworthy of you." "Unworthy! I do not suppose he ever thinks of me." "That is exactly what I say; he never thinks of you. Such fickleness! Oh! How different to your brother and to mine! I really believe John has the most constant heart." "But as for General Tilney, I assure you it would be impossible for anybody to behave to me with greater civility and attention; it seemed to be his only care to entertain and make me happy." "Oh! I know no harm of him; I do not suspect him of pride. I believe he is a very gentleman-like man. John thinks very well of him, and John s judgment" "Well, I shall see how they behave to me this evening; we shall meet them at the rooms." "And must I go?" "Do not you intend it? I thought it was all settled." "Nay, since you make such a point of it, I can refuse you nothing. But do not insist upon my being very agreeable, for my heart, you know, will be some forty miles off. And as for dancing, do not mention it, I beg; _that_ is quite out of the question. Charles Hodges will plague me to death, I dare say; but I shall cut him very short. Ten to one but he guesses the reason, and that is exactly what I want to avoid, so I shall insist on his keeping his conjecture to himself." Isabella s opinion of the Tilneys did not influence her friend; she was sure there had been no insolence in the manners either of brother or sister; and she did not credit there being any pride in their hearts. The evening rewarded her confidence; she was met by one with the same kindness, and by the other with the same attention, as heretofore: Miss Tilney took pains to be near her, and Henry asked her to dance. Having heard the day before in Milsom Street that their elder brother, Captain Tilney, was expected almost every hour, she was at no loss for the name of a very fashionable-looking, handsome young man, whom she had never seen before, and who now evidently belonged to their party. She looked at him with great admiration, and even supposed it possible that some people might think him handsomer than his brother, though, in her eyes, his air was more assuming, and his countenance less prepossessing. His taste and manners were beyond a doubt decidedly inferior; for, within her hearing, he not only protested against every thought of dancing himself, but even laughed openly at Henry for finding it possible. From the latter circumstance it may be presumed that, whatever might be our heroine s opinion of him, his admiration of her was not of a very dangerous kind; not likely to produce animosities between the brothers, nor persecutions to the lady. _He_ cannot be the instigator of the three villains in horsemen s greatcoats, by whom she will hereafter be forced into a traveling-chaise and four, which will drive off with incredible speed. Catherine, meanwhile, undisturbed by presentiments of such an evil, or of any evil at all, except that of having but a short set to dance down, enjoyed her usual happiness with Henry Tilney, listening with sparkling eyes to everything he said; and, in finding him irresistible, becoming so herself. At the end of the first dance, Captain Tilney came towards them again, and, much to Catherine s dissatisfaction, pulled his brother away. They retired whispering together; and, though her delicate sensibility did not take immediate alarm, and lay it down as fact, that Captain Tilney must have heard some malevolent misrepresentation of her, which he now hastened to communicate to his brother, in the hope of separating them forever, she could not have her partner conveyed from her sight without very uneasy sensations. Her suspense was of full five minutes duration; and she was beginning to think it a very long quarter of an hour, when they both returned, and an explanation was given, by Henry s requesting to know if she thought her friend, Miss Thorpe, would have any objection to dancing, as his brother would be most happy to be introduced to her. Catherine, without hesitation, replied that she was very sure Miss Thorpe did not mean to dance at all. The cruel reply was passed on to the other, and he immediately walked away. "Your brother will not mind it, I know,"<|quote|>said she,</|quote|>"because I heard him say before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured in him to think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she might wish for a partner; but he is quite mistaken, for she would not dance upon any account in the world." Henry smiled, and said, "How very little trouble it can give you to understand the motive of other people s actions." "Why? What do you mean?" "With you, it is not, How is such a one likely to be influenced, What is the inducement most likely to act upon such a person s feelings, age, situation, and probable habits of life considered but, How should _I_ be influenced, What would be _my_ inducement in acting so and so?" "I do not understand you." "Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand you perfectly well." "Me? Yes; I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible." "Bravo! An excellent satire on modern language." "But pray tell me what you mean." "Shall I indeed? Do you really desire it? But you are not aware of the consequences; it will involve you in a very cruel embarrassment, and certainly bring on a disagreement between us." "No, no; it shall not do either; I am not afraid." "Well, then, I only meant that your attributing my brother s wish of dancing with Miss Thorpe to good nature alone convinced me of your being superior in good nature yourself to all the rest of the world." Catherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman s predictions were verified. There was a something, however, in his words which repaid her for the pain of confusion; and that something occupied her mind so much that she drew back for some time, forgetting to speak or to listen, and almost forgetting where she was; till, roused by the voice of Isabella, she looked up and saw her with Captain Tilney preparing to give them hands across. Isabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only explanation of this extraordinary change which could at that time be given; but as it was not quite enough for Catherine s comprehension, she spoke her astonishment in very plain terms to her partner. "I cannot think how it could happen! Isabella was so determined not to dance." "And did Isabella never change her mind before?" "Oh! But, because And your brother! After what you told him from me, how could he think of going to ask her?" "I cannot take surprise to myself on that head. You bid me be surprised on your friend s account, and therefore I am; but as for my brother, his conduct in the business, I must own, has been no more than I believed him perfectly equal to. The fairness of your friend was an open attraction; her firmness, you know, could only be understood by yourself." "You are laughing; but, I assure you, Isabella is very firm in general." "It is as much as should be said of anyone. To be always firm must be to be often obstinate. When properly to relax is the trial of judgment; and, without reference to my brother, I really think Miss Thorpe has by no means chosen ill in fixing on the present hour." The friends were not able to get together for any confidential discourse till all the dancing was over; but then, as they walked about the room arm in arm, Isabella thus explained herself: "I do not wonder at your surprise; and I am really fatigued to death. He is such a rattle! Amusing enough, if my mind had been disengaged; but I would have given the world to sit still." "Then why did not you?" "Oh! My dear! It would have looked so particular; and you know how I abhor doing that. I refused him as long as I possibly could, but he would take no denial. You have no idea how he pressed me. I begged him to excuse me, and get some other partner but no, not he; after aspiring to my hand, there was nobody else in the room he could bear to think of; and it was not that he wanted merely to dance, he wanted to be with me. Oh! Such nonsense! I told him he had taken a very unlikely way to prevail upon me; for, of all things in the world, I hated fine speeches and compliments; and so and so then I found there would be no peace if I did not stand up. Besides, I thought Mrs. Hughes, who introduced him, might take it ill if I did not: and your dear brother, I am sure he would have been miserable if I had sat down the whole evening. I am so glad it | undisturbed by presentiments of such an evil, or of any evil at all, except that of having but a short set to dance down, enjoyed her usual happiness with Henry Tilney, listening with sparkling eyes to everything he said; and, in finding him irresistible, becoming so herself. At the end of the first dance, Captain Tilney came towards them again, and, much to Catherine s dissatisfaction, pulled his brother away. They retired whispering together; and, though her delicate sensibility did not take immediate alarm, and lay it down as fact, that Captain Tilney must have heard some malevolent misrepresentation of her, which he now hastened to communicate to his brother, in the hope of separating them forever, she could not have her partner conveyed from her sight without very uneasy sensations. Her suspense was of full five minutes duration; and she was beginning to think it a very long quarter of an hour, when they both returned, and an explanation was given, by Henry s requesting to know if she thought her friend, Miss Thorpe, would have any objection to dancing, as his brother would be most happy to be introduced to her. Catherine, without hesitation, replied that she was very sure Miss Thorpe did not mean to dance at all. The cruel reply was passed on to the other, and he immediately walked away. "Your brother will not mind it, I know,"<|quote|>said she,</|quote|>"because I heard him say before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured in him to think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she might wish for a partner; but he is quite mistaken, for she would not dance upon any account in the world." Henry smiled, and said, "How very little trouble it can give you to understand the motive of other people s actions." "Why? What do you mean?" "With you, it is not, How is such a one likely to be influenced, What is the inducement most likely to act upon such a person s feelings, age, situation, and probable habits of life considered but, How should _I_ be influenced, What would be _my_ inducement in acting so and so?" "I do not understand you." "Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand you perfectly well." "Me? Yes; I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible." "Bravo! An excellent satire on modern language." "But pray tell me what you mean." "Shall I indeed? Do you really desire it? But you are not aware of the consequences; it will involve you in a very cruel embarrassment, and certainly bring on a disagreement between us." "No, no; it shall not do either; I am not afraid." "Well, then, I only meant that your attributing my brother s wish of dancing with Miss Thorpe to good nature alone convinced me of your being superior in good nature yourself to all the rest of the world." Catherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman s predictions were verified. There was a something, however, in his words which repaid her for the pain of confusion; and that something occupied her mind so much that she drew back for some time, forgetting to speak or to listen, and almost forgetting where she was; till, roused by the voice of Isabella, she looked up and saw her with Captain Tilney preparing to give them hands across. Isabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only explanation of this extraordinary change which could at that time be given; but as it was not quite enough for Catherine s comprehension, she spoke her astonishment in very plain terms to her partner. "I cannot think how it could happen! Isabella was so determined not to dance." "And did Isabella never change her mind before?" "Oh! But, because And your brother! After what you told him from me, how could he think of going to ask her?" "I cannot take surprise to myself on that head. You bid me be surprised on your friend s account, and therefore I am; but as for my brother, his conduct in the business, I must own, has been no more than I believed him perfectly equal to. The fairness of your friend was an open attraction; her firmness, you know, could only be understood by yourself." "You are laughing; but, I assure you, Isabella is very firm in general." "It is as much as should be said of anyone. To be always firm must be to be often obstinate. When properly to relax is the trial of judgment; and, without reference to my brother, I really think Miss Thorpe has by no means chosen | Northanger Abbey |
continued Mr. Knightley; | No speaker | closed. "It is so, indeed,"<|quote|>continued Mr. Knightley;</|quote|>"I have it from Robert | impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed,"<|quote|>continued Mr. Knightley;</|quote|>"I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me | pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed,"<|quote|>continued Mr. Knightley;</|quote|>"I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may | nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed,"<|quote|>continued Mr. Knightley;</|quote|>"I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot | which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed,"<|quote|>continued Mr. Knightley;</|quote|>"I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--" "Well!" "--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to | in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed,"<|quote|>continued Mr. Knightley;</|quote|>"I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--" "Well!" "--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. | the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!" "--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--" "Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him." "--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed,"<|quote|>continued Mr. Knightley;</|quote|>"I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--" "Well!" "--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a | with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!" "--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--" "Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him." "--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed,"<|quote|>continued Mr. Knightley;</|quote|>"I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--" "Well!" "--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith | Emma |
The Gambler by Fyodor Dostoyevsky Translated by C. J. Hogarth I At length I returned from two weeks leave of absence to find that my patrons had arrived three days ago in Roulettenberg. I received from them a welcome quite different to that which I had expected. The General eyed me coldly, greeted me in rather haughty fashion, and dismissed me to pay my respects to his sister. It was clear that from _somewhere_ money had been acquired. I thought I could even detect a certain shamefacedness in the General s glance. Maria Philipovna, too, seemed distraught, and conversed with me with an air of detachment. Nevertheless, she took the money which I handed to her, counted it, and listened to what I had to tell. To luncheon there were expected that day a Monsieur Mezentsov, a French lady, and an Englishman; for, whenever money was in hand, a banquet in Muscovite style was always given. Polina Alexandrovna, on seeing me, inquired why I had been so long away. Then, without waiting for an answer, she departed. Evidently this was not mere accident, and I felt that I must throw some light upon matters. It was high time that I did so. I was assigned a small room on the fourth floor of the hotel (for you must know that I belonged to the General s suite). So far as I could see, the party had already gained some notoriety in the place, which had come to look upon the General as a Russian nobleman of great wealth. Indeed, even before luncheon he charged me, among other things, to get two thousand-franc notes changed for him at the hotel counter, which put us in a position to be thought millionaires at all events for a week! Later, I was about to take Mischa and Nadia for a walk when a summons reached me from the staircase that I must attend the General. He began by deigning to inquire of me where I was going to take the children; and as he did so, I could see that he failed to look me in the eyes. He _wanted_ to do so, but each time was met by me with such a fixed, disrespectful stare that he desisted in confusion. In pompous language, however, which jumbled one sentence into another, and at length grew disconnected, he gave me to understand that I was to lead the children altogether away from the Casino, and out into the park. Finally his anger exploded, and he added sharply: | No speaker | <|quote|>The Gambler by Fyodor Dostoyevsky Translated by C. J. Hogarth I At length I returned from two weeks leave of absence to find that my patrons had arrived three days ago in Roulettenberg. I received from them a welcome quite different to that which I had expected. The General eyed me coldly, greeted me in rather haughty fashion, and dismissed me to pay my respects to his sister. It was clear that from _somewhere_ money had been acquired. I thought I could even detect a certain shamefacedness in the General s glance. Maria Philipovna, too, seemed distraught, and conversed with me with an air of detachment. Nevertheless, she took the money which I handed to her, counted it, and listened to what I had to tell. To luncheon there were expected that day a Monsieur Mezentsov, a French lady, and an Englishman; for, whenever money was in hand, a banquet in Muscovite style was always given. Polina Alexandrovna, on seeing me, inquired why I had been so long away. Then, without waiting for an answer, she departed. Evidently this was not mere accident, and I felt that I must throw some light upon matters. It was high time that I did so. I was assigned a small room on the fourth floor of the hotel (for you must know that I belonged to the General s suite). So far as I could see, the party had already gained some notoriety in the place, which had come to look upon the General as a Russian nobleman of great wealth. Indeed, even before luncheon he charged me, among other things, to get two thousand-franc notes changed for him at the hotel counter, which put us in a position to be thought millionaires at all events for a week! Later, I was about to take Mischa and Nadia for a walk when a summons reached me from the staircase that I must attend the General. He began by deigning to inquire of me where I was going to take the children; and as he did so, I could see that he failed to look me in the eyes. He _wanted_ to do so, but each time was met by me with such a fixed, disrespectful stare that he desisted in confusion. In pompous language, however, which jumbled one sentence into another, and at length grew disconnected, he gave me to understand that I was to lead the children altogether away from the Casino, and out into the park. Finally his anger exploded, and he added sharply:</|quote|>"I suppose you would like | <|quote|>The Gambler by Fyodor Dostoyevsky Translated by C. J. Hogarth I At length I returned from two weeks leave of absence to find that my patrons had arrived three days ago in Roulettenberg. I received from them a welcome quite different to that which I had expected. The General eyed me coldly, greeted me in rather haughty fashion, and dismissed me to pay my respects to his sister. It was clear that from _somewhere_ money had been acquired. I thought I could even detect a certain shamefacedness in the General s glance. Maria Philipovna, too, seemed distraught, and conversed with me with an air of detachment. Nevertheless, she took the money which I handed to her, counted it, and listened to what I had to tell. To luncheon there were expected that day a Monsieur Mezentsov, a French lady, and an Englishman; for, whenever money was in hand, a banquet in Muscovite style was always given. Polina Alexandrovna, on seeing me, inquired why I had been so long away. Then, without waiting for an answer, she departed. Evidently this was not mere accident, and I felt that I must throw some light upon matters. It was high time that I did so. I was assigned a small room on the fourth floor of the hotel (for you must know that I belonged to the General s suite). So far as I could see, the party had already gained some notoriety in the place, which had come to look upon the General as a Russian nobleman of great wealth. Indeed, even before luncheon he charged me, among other things, to get two thousand-franc notes changed for him at the hotel counter, which put us in a position to be thought millionaires at all events for a week! Later, I was about to take Mischa and Nadia for a walk when a summons reached me from the staircase that I must attend the General. He began by deigning to inquire of me where I was going to take the children; and as he did so, I could see that he failed to look me in the eyes. He _wanted_ to do so, but each time was met by me with such a fixed, disrespectful stare that he desisted in confusion. In pompous language, however, which jumbled one sentence into another, and at length grew disconnected, he gave me to understand that I was to lead the children altogether away from the Casino, and out into the park. Finally his anger exploded, and he added sharply:</|quote|>"I suppose you would like to take them to the | <|quote|>The Gambler by Fyodor Dostoyevsky Translated by C. J. Hogarth I At length I returned from two weeks leave of absence to find that my patrons had arrived three days ago in Roulettenberg. I received from them a welcome quite different to that which I had expected. The General eyed me coldly, greeted me in rather haughty fashion, and dismissed me to pay my respects to his sister. It was clear that from _somewhere_ money had been acquired. I thought I could even detect a certain shamefacedness in the General s glance. Maria Philipovna, too, seemed distraught, and conversed with me with an air of detachment. Nevertheless, she took the money which I handed to her, counted it, and listened to what I had to tell. To luncheon there were expected that day a Monsieur Mezentsov, a French lady, and an Englishman; for, whenever money was in hand, a banquet in Muscovite style was always given. Polina Alexandrovna, on seeing me, inquired why I had been so long away. Then, without waiting for an answer, she departed. Evidently this was not mere accident, and I felt that I must throw some light upon matters. It was high time that I did so. I was assigned a small room on the fourth floor of the hotel (for you must know that I belonged to the General s suite). So far as I could see, the party had already gained some notoriety in the place, which had come to look upon the General as a Russian nobleman of great wealth. Indeed, even before luncheon he charged me, among other things, to get two thousand-franc notes changed for him at the hotel counter, which put us in a position to be thought millionaires at all events for a week! Later, I was about to take Mischa and Nadia for a walk when a summons reached me from the staircase that I must attend the General. He began by deigning to inquire of me where I was going to take the children; and as he did so, I could see that he failed to look me in the eyes. He _wanted_ to do so, but each time was met by me with such a fixed, disrespectful stare that he desisted in confusion. In pompous language, however, which jumbled one sentence into another, and at length grew disconnected, he gave me to understand that I was to lead the children altogether away from the Casino, and out into the park. Finally his anger exploded, and he added sharply:</|quote|>"I suppose you would like to take them to the Casino to play roulette? Well, excuse my speaking so plainly, but I know how addicted you are to gambling. Though I am not your mentor, nor wish to be, at least I have a right to require that you shall | <|quote|>The Gambler by Fyodor Dostoyevsky Translated by C. J. Hogarth I At length I returned from two weeks leave of absence to find that my patrons had arrived three days ago in Roulettenberg. I received from them a welcome quite different to that which I had expected. The General eyed me coldly, greeted me in rather haughty fashion, and dismissed me to pay my respects to his sister. It was clear that from _somewhere_ money had been acquired. I thought I could even detect a certain shamefacedness in the General s glance. Maria Philipovna, too, seemed distraught, and conversed with me with an air of detachment. Nevertheless, she took the money which I handed to her, counted it, and listened to what I had to tell. To luncheon there were expected that day a Monsieur Mezentsov, a French lady, and an Englishman; for, whenever money was in hand, a banquet in Muscovite style was always given. Polina Alexandrovna, on seeing me, inquired why I had been so long away. Then, without waiting for an answer, she departed. Evidently this was not mere accident, and I felt that I must throw some light upon matters. It was high time that I did so. I was assigned a small room on the fourth floor of the hotel (for you must know that I belonged to the General s suite). So far as I could see, the party had already gained some notoriety in the place, which had come to look upon the General as a Russian nobleman of great wealth. Indeed, even before luncheon he charged me, among other things, to get two thousand-franc notes changed for him at the hotel counter, which put us in a position to be thought millionaires at all events for a week! Later, I was about to take Mischa and Nadia for a walk when a summons reached me from the staircase that I must attend the General. He began by deigning to inquire of me where I was going to take the children; and as he did so, I could see that he failed to look me in the eyes. He _wanted_ to do so, but each time was met by me with such a fixed, disrespectful stare that he desisted in confusion. In pompous language, however, which jumbled one sentence into another, and at length grew disconnected, he gave me to understand that I was to lead the children altogether away from the Casino, and out into the park. Finally his anger exploded, and he added sharply:</|quote|>"I suppose you would like to take them to the Casino to play roulette? Well, excuse my speaking so plainly, but I know how addicted you are to gambling. Though I am not your mentor, nor wish to be, at least I have a right to require that you shall not actually _compromise_ me." "I have no money for gambling," I quietly replied. "But you will soon be in receipt of some," retorted the General, reddening a little as he dived into his writing desk and applied himself to a memorandum book. From it he saw that he had 120 | <|quote|>The Gambler by Fyodor Dostoyevsky Translated by C. J. Hogarth I At length I returned from two weeks leave of absence to find that my patrons had arrived three days ago in Roulettenberg. I received from them a welcome quite different to that which I had expected. The General eyed me coldly, greeted me in rather haughty fashion, and dismissed me to pay my respects to his sister. It was clear that from _somewhere_ money had been acquired. I thought I could even detect a certain shamefacedness in the General s glance. Maria Philipovna, too, seemed distraught, and conversed with me with an air of detachment. Nevertheless, she took the money which I handed to her, counted it, and listened to what I had to tell. To luncheon there were expected that day a Monsieur Mezentsov, a French lady, and an Englishman; for, whenever money was in hand, a banquet in Muscovite style was always given. Polina Alexandrovna, on seeing me, inquired why I had been so long away. Then, without waiting for an answer, she departed. Evidently this was not mere accident, and I felt that I must throw some light upon matters. It was high time that I did so. I was assigned a small room on the fourth floor of the hotel (for you must know that I belonged to the General s suite). So far as I could see, the party had already gained some notoriety in the place, which had come to look upon the General as a Russian nobleman of great wealth. Indeed, even before luncheon he charged me, among other things, to get two thousand-franc notes changed for him at the hotel counter, which put us in a position to be thought millionaires at all events for a week! Later, I was about to take Mischa and Nadia for a walk when a summons reached me from the staircase that I must attend the General. He began by deigning to inquire of me where I was going to take the children; and as he did so, I could see that he failed to look me in the eyes. He _wanted_ to do so, but each time was met by me with such a fixed, disrespectful stare that he desisted in confusion. In pompous language, however, which jumbled one sentence into another, and at length grew disconnected, he gave me to understand that I was to lead the children altogether away from the Casino, and out into the park. Finally his anger exploded, and he added sharply:</|quote|>"I suppose you would like to take them to the Casino to play roulette? Well, excuse my speaking so plainly, but I know how addicted you are to gambling. Though I am not your mentor, nor wish to be, at least I have a right to require that you shall not actually _compromise_ me." "I have no money for gambling," I quietly replied. "But you will soon be in receipt of some," retorted the General, reddening a little as he dived into his writing desk and applied himself to a memorandum book. From it he saw that he had 120 roubles of mine in his keeping. "Let us calculate," he went on. "We must translate these roubles into thalers. Here take 100 thalers, as a round sum. The rest will be safe in my hands." In silence I took the money. "You must not be offended at what I say," he continued. "You are too touchy about these things. What I have said I have said merely as a warning. To do so is no more than my right." When returning home with the children before luncheon, I met a cavalcade of our party riding to view some ruins. Two | <|quote|>The Gambler by Fyodor Dostoyevsky Translated by C. J. Hogarth I At length I returned from two weeks leave of absence to find that my patrons had arrived three days ago in Roulettenberg. I received from them a welcome quite different to that which I had expected. The General eyed me coldly, greeted me in rather haughty fashion, and dismissed me to pay my respects to his sister. It was clear that from _somewhere_ money had been acquired. I thought I could even detect a certain shamefacedness in the General s glance. Maria Philipovna, too, seemed distraught, and conversed with me with an air of detachment. Nevertheless, she took the money which I handed to her, counted it, and listened to what I had to tell. To luncheon there were expected that day a Monsieur Mezentsov, a French lady, and an Englishman; for, whenever money was in hand, a banquet in Muscovite style was always given. Polina Alexandrovna, on seeing me, inquired why I had been so long away. Then, without waiting for an answer, she departed. Evidently this was not mere accident, and I felt that I must throw some light upon matters. It was high time that I did so. I was assigned a small room on the fourth floor of the hotel (for you must know that I belonged to the General s suite). So far as I could see, the party had already gained some notoriety in the place, which had come to look upon the General as a Russian nobleman of great wealth. Indeed, even before luncheon he charged me, among other things, to get two thousand-franc notes changed for him at the hotel counter, which put us in a position to be thought millionaires at all events for a week! Later, I was about to take Mischa and Nadia for a walk when a summons reached me from the staircase that I must attend the General. He began by deigning to inquire of me where I was going to take the children; and as he did so, I could see that he failed to look me in the eyes. He _wanted_ to do so, but each time was met by me with such a fixed, disrespectful stare that he desisted in confusion. In pompous language, however, which jumbled one sentence into another, and at length grew disconnected, he gave me to understand that I was to lead the children altogether away from the Casino, and out into the park. Finally his anger exploded, and he added sharply:</|quote|>"I suppose you would like to take them to the Casino to play roulette? Well, excuse my speaking so plainly, but I know how addicted you are to gambling. Though I am not your mentor, nor wish to be, at least I have a right to require that you shall not actually _compromise_ me." "I have no money for gambling," I quietly replied. "But you will soon be in receipt of some," retorted the General, reddening a little as he dived into his writing desk and applied himself to a memorandum book. From it he saw that he had 120 roubles of mine in his keeping. "Let us calculate," he went on. "We must translate these roubles into thalers. Here take 100 thalers, as a round sum. The rest will be safe in my hands." In silence I took the money. "You must not be offended at what I say," he continued. "You are too touchy about these things. What I have said I have said merely as a warning. To do so is no more than my right." When returning home with the children before luncheon, I met a cavalcade of our party riding to view some ruins. Two splendid carriages, magnificently horsed, with Mlle. Blanche, Maria Philipovna, and Polina Alexandrovna in one of them, and the Frenchman, the Englishman, and the General in attendance on horseback! The passers-by stopped to stare at them, for the effect was splendid the General could not have improved upon it. I calculated that, with the 4000 francs which I had brought with me, added to what my patrons seemed already to have acquired, the party must be in possession of at least 7000 or 8000 francs though that would be none too much for Mlle. Blanche, who, with her mother and the Frenchman, was also lodging in our hotel. The latter gentleman was called by the lacqueys "Monsieur le Comte," and Mlle. Blanche s mother was dubbed "Madame la Comtesse." Perhaps in very truth they _were_ "Comte et Comtesse." I knew that "Monsieur le Comte" would take no notice of me when we met at dinner, as also that the General would not dream of introducing us, nor of recommending me to the "Comte." However, the latter had lived awhile in Russia, and knew that the person referred to as an "uchitel" is never looked upon as a bird of fine feather. | <|quote|>The Gambler by Fyodor Dostoyevsky Translated by C. J. Hogarth I At length I returned from two weeks leave of absence to find that my patrons had arrived three days ago in Roulettenberg. I received from them a welcome quite different to that which I had expected. The General eyed me coldly, greeted me in rather haughty fashion, and dismissed me to pay my respects to his sister. It was clear that from _somewhere_ money had been acquired. I thought I could even detect a certain shamefacedness in the General s glance. Maria Philipovna, too, seemed distraught, and conversed with me with an air of detachment. Nevertheless, she took the money which I handed to her, counted it, and listened to what I had to tell. To luncheon there were expected that day a Monsieur Mezentsov, a French lady, and an Englishman; for, whenever money was in hand, a banquet in Muscovite style was always given. Polina Alexandrovna, on seeing me, inquired why I had been so long away. Then, without waiting for an answer, she departed. Evidently this was not mere accident, and I felt that I must throw some light upon matters. It was high time that I did so. I was assigned a small room on the fourth floor of the hotel (for you must know that I belonged to the General s suite). So far as I could see, the party had already gained some notoriety in the place, which had come to look upon the General as a Russian nobleman of great wealth. Indeed, even before luncheon he charged me, among other things, to get two thousand-franc notes changed for him at the hotel counter, which put us in a position to be thought millionaires at all events for a week! Later, I was about to take Mischa and Nadia for a walk when a summons reached me from the staircase that I must attend the General. He began by deigning to inquire of me where I was going to take the children; and as he did so, I could see that he failed to look me in the eyes. He _wanted_ to do so, but each time was met by me with such a fixed, disrespectful stare that he desisted in confusion. In pompous language, however, which jumbled one sentence into another, and at length grew disconnected, he gave me to understand that I was to lead the children altogether away from the Casino, and out into the park. Finally his anger exploded, and he added sharply:</|quote|>"I suppose you would like to take them to the Casino to play roulette? Well, excuse my speaking so plainly, but I know how addicted you are to gambling. Though I am not your mentor, nor wish to be, at least I have a right to require that you shall not actually _compromise_ me." "I have no money for gambling," I quietly replied. "But you will soon be in receipt of some," retorted the General, reddening a little as he dived into his writing desk and applied himself to a memorandum book. From it he saw that he had 120 roubles of mine in his keeping. "Let us calculate," he went on. "We must translate these roubles into thalers. Here take 100 thalers, as a round sum. The rest will be safe in my hands." In silence I took the money. "You must not be offended at what I say," he continued. "You are too touchy about these things. What I have said I have said merely as a warning. To do so is no more than my right." When returning home with the children before luncheon, I met a cavalcade of our party riding to view some ruins. Two splendid carriages, magnificently horsed, with Mlle. Blanche, Maria Philipovna, and Polina Alexandrovna in one of them, and the Frenchman, the Englishman, and the General in attendance on horseback! The passers-by stopped to stare at them, for the effect was splendid the General could not have improved upon it. I calculated that, with the 4000 francs which I had brought with me, added to what my patrons seemed already to have acquired, the party must be in possession of at least 7000 or 8000 francs though that would be none too much for Mlle. Blanche, who, with her mother and the Frenchman, was also lodging in our hotel. The latter gentleman was called by the lacqueys "Monsieur le Comte," and Mlle. Blanche s mother was dubbed "Madame la Comtesse." Perhaps in very truth they _were_ "Comte et Comtesse." I knew that "Monsieur le Comte" would take no notice of me when we met at dinner, as also that the General would not dream of introducing us, nor of recommending me to the "Comte." However, the latter had lived awhile in Russia, and knew that the person referred to as an "uchitel" is never looked upon as a bird of fine feather. Of course, strictly speaking, he _knew_ me; but I was an uninvited guest at the luncheon the General had forgotten to arrange otherwise, or I should have been dispatched to dine at the table d h te. Nevertheless, I presented myself in such guise that the General looked at me with a touch of approval; and, though the good Maria Philipovna was for showing me my place, the fact of my having previously met the Englishman, Mr. Astley, saved me, and thenceforward I figured as one of the company. This strange Englishman I had met first in Prussia, where we had happened to sit _vis- -vis_ in a railway train in which I was travelling to overtake our party; while, later, I had run across him in France, and again in Switzerland twice within the space of two weeks! To think, therefore, that I should suddenly encounter him again here, in Roulettenberg! Never in my life had I known a more retiring man, for he was shy to the pitch of imbecility, yet well aware of the fact (for he was no fool). At the same time, he was a gentle, amiable sort of an individual, and, even on our first encounter in Prussia I had contrived to draw him out, and he had told me that he had just been to the North Cape, and was now anxious to visit the fair at Nizhni Novgorod. How he had come to make the General s acquaintance I do not know, but, apparently, he was much struck with Polina. Also, he was delighted that I should sit next him at table, for he appeared to look upon me as his bosom friend. During the meal the Frenchman was in great feather: he was discursive and pompous to every one. In Moscow too, I remembered, he had blown a great many bubbles. Interminably he discoursed on finance and Russian politics, and though, at times, the General made feints to contradict him, he did so humbly, and as though wishing not wholly to lose sight of his own dignity. For myself, I was in a curious frame of mind. Even before luncheon was half finished I had asked myself the old, eternal question: "_Why_ do I continue to dance attendance upon the General, instead of having left him and his family long ago?" Every now and then I would glance at Polina Alexandrovna, | <|quote|>The Gambler by Fyodor Dostoyevsky Translated by C. J. Hogarth I At length I returned from two weeks leave of absence to find that my patrons had arrived three days ago in Roulettenberg. I received from them a welcome quite different to that which I had expected. The General eyed me coldly, greeted me in rather haughty fashion, and dismissed me to pay my respects to his sister. It was clear that from _somewhere_ money had been acquired. I thought I could even detect a certain shamefacedness in the General s glance. Maria Philipovna, too, seemed distraught, and conversed with me with an air of detachment. Nevertheless, she took the money which I handed to her, counted it, and listened to what I had to tell. To luncheon there were expected that day a Monsieur Mezentsov, a French lady, and an Englishman; for, whenever money was in hand, a banquet in Muscovite style was always given. Polina Alexandrovna, on seeing me, inquired why I had been so long away. Then, without waiting for an answer, she departed. Evidently this was not mere accident, and I felt that I must throw some light upon matters. It was high time that I did so. I was assigned a small room on the fourth floor of the hotel (for you must know that I belonged to the General s suite). So far as I could see, the party had already gained some notoriety in the place, which had come to look upon the General as a Russian nobleman of great wealth. Indeed, even before luncheon he charged me, among other things, to get two thousand-franc notes changed for him at the hotel counter, which put us in a position to be thought millionaires at all events for a week! Later, I was about to take Mischa and Nadia for a walk when a summons reached me from the staircase that I must attend the General. He began by deigning to inquire of me where I was going to take the children; and as he did so, I could see that he failed to look me in the eyes. He _wanted_ to do so, but each time was met by me with such a fixed, disrespectful stare that he desisted in confusion. In pompous language, however, which jumbled one sentence into another, and at length grew disconnected, he gave me to understand that I was to lead the children altogether away from the Casino, and out into the park. Finally his anger exploded, and he added sharply:</|quote|>"I suppose you would like to take them to the Casino to play roulette? Well, excuse my speaking so plainly, but I know how addicted you are to gambling. Though I am not your mentor, nor wish to be, at least I have a right to require that you shall not actually _compromise_ me." "I have no money for gambling," I quietly replied. "But you will soon be in receipt of some," retorted the General, reddening a little as he dived into his writing desk and applied himself to a memorandum book. From it he saw that he had 120 roubles of mine in his keeping. "Let us calculate," he went on. "We must translate these roubles into thalers. Here take 100 thalers, as a round sum. The rest will be safe in my hands." In silence I took the money. "You must not be offended at what I say," he continued. "You are too touchy about these things. What I have said I have said merely as a warning. To do so is no more than my right." When returning home with the children before luncheon, I met a cavalcade of our party riding to view some ruins. Two splendid carriages, magnificently horsed, with Mlle. Blanche, Maria Philipovna, and Polina Alexandrovna in one of them, and the Frenchman, the Englishman, and the General in attendance on horseback! The passers-by stopped to stare at them, for the effect was splendid the General could not have improved upon it. I calculated that, with the 4000 francs which I had brought with me, added to what my patrons seemed already to have acquired, the party must be in possession of at least 7000 or 8000 francs though that would be none too much for Mlle. Blanche, who, with her mother and the Frenchman, was also lodging in our hotel. The latter gentleman was called by the lacqueys "Monsieur le Comte," and Mlle. Blanche s mother was dubbed "Madame la Comtesse." Perhaps in very truth they _were_ "Comte et Comtesse." I knew that "Monsieur le Comte" would take no notice of me when we met at dinner, as also that the General would not dream of introducing us, nor of recommending me to the "Comte." However, the latter had lived awhile in Russia, and knew that the person referred to as an "uchitel" is never looked upon as a bird of fine feather. Of course, strictly speaking, he _knew_ me; but I was an uninvited guest at the luncheon the General had forgotten to arrange otherwise, or I should have been dispatched to dine at the table d h te. Nevertheless, I presented myself in such guise that the General looked at me with a touch of approval; and, though the good Maria Philipovna was for showing me my place, the fact of my having previously met the Englishman, Mr. Astley, saved me, and thenceforward I figured as one of | The Gambler |
"And the water's boiling hot," | Don Lavington | out-door kitchen?" replied Jem laughing.<|quote|>"And the water's boiling hot,"</|quote|>added Don. "You can see | that this was a foreign out-door kitchen?" replied Jem laughing.<|quote|>"And the water's boiling hot,"</|quote|>added Don. "You can see it bubbling just at this | eggs, into the sapphire depths, a jet of steam and a series of bubbles rising to the surface as the basket sank. "Why, Jem," said Don laughing, "you wanted to bathe in the big copper." "How was I to know that this was a foreign out-door kitchen?" replied Jem laughing.<|quote|>"And the water's boiling hot,"</|quote|>added Don. "You can see it bubbling just at this end." "Think o' that now!" said Jem. "I say, what a big fire there must be somewhere down b'low. Strikes me, Mas' Don, that when I makes my fortun' and buys an estate I sha'n't settle here." "No, Jem. `There's | for?" cried Jem. The Maori stepped forward, and made as if to dip in one of his feet, but snatched it back as if in pain. Then, smiling, he twisted some strands of grass into a band, fastened the end to the palm basket, and gently lowered it, full of eggs, into the sapphire depths, a jet of steam and a series of bubbles rising to the surface as the basket sank. "Why, Jem," said Don laughing, "you wanted to bathe in the big copper." "How was I to know that this was a foreign out-door kitchen?" replied Jem laughing.<|quote|>"And the water's boiling hot,"</|quote|>added Don. "You can see it bubbling just at this end." "Think o' that now!" said Jem. "I say, what a big fire there must be somewhere down b'low. Strikes me, Mas' Don, that when I makes my fortun' and buys an estate I sha'n't settle here." "No, Jem. `There's no place like home.'" "Well, home's where you settle, arn't it? But this won't do for me. It's dangerous to be safe." Meanwhile, Ngati was listening intently, but, save the hissing of steam, the gurgling of boiling water, and the softened roar that seemed now distant, now close at hand, | of steam was being forced out violently, he led the way there, when they had to pass over a tiny stream of hot water, and a few yards farther on, they came to its source, a beautiful bright fount of the loveliest sapphire blue, with an edge that looked like a marble bath of a roseate tint, fringed every here and there with crystals of sulphur. "Let's have a bathe!" cried Jem eagerly. "Is there time?" He stepped forward, and was about to plunge in his hand, when Ngati seized his shoulders and dragged him back. "What yer doing that for?" cried Jem. The Maori stepped forward, and made as if to dip in one of his feet, but snatched it back as if in pain. Then, smiling, he twisted some strands of grass into a band, fastened the end to the palm basket, and gently lowered it, full of eggs, into the sapphire depths, a jet of steam and a series of bubbles rising to the surface as the basket sank. "Why, Jem," said Don laughing, "you wanted to bathe in the big copper." "How was I to know that this was a foreign out-door kitchen?" replied Jem laughing.<|quote|>"And the water's boiling hot,"</|quote|>added Don. "You can see it bubbling just at this end." "Think o' that now!" said Jem. "I say, what a big fire there must be somewhere down b'low. Strikes me, Mas' Don, that when I makes my fortun' and buys an estate I sha'n't settle here." "No, Jem. `There's no place like home.'" "Well, home's where you settle, arn't it? But this won't do for me. It's dangerous to be safe." Meanwhile, Ngati was listening intently, but, save the hissing of steam, the gurgling of boiling water, and the softened roar that seemed now distant, now close at hand, there was nothing to be heard, so he signed to them to sit down and rest. He set the example, and Don followed, to lie upon his back, restfully gazing up at the blue sky above, when Jem, who had been more particular about the choice of a place, slowly sat down, remained stationary for a few moments, and then sprang up, uttering a cry of pain. "Why, that stone's red hot!" he cried. This was not the truth, but it was quite hot enough to make it a painful seat, and he chose another. "Well, of all the rum | ground, he saw that they were once more entering upon a volcanic district. Pillars of steam rose here and there, and all at once he started aside as a gurgling noise arose from beyond a patch of vivid green which covered the edges of a mud-pool, so hot that it was painful to the hand. From time to time Ngati had stopped to listen, the shouts growing fainter each time, while, as they progressed, a heavy thunderous roar grew louder, died away, and grew louder again. Don looked inquiringly at Jem. "It's the big chimney of that mountain drawing, Mas' Don." "Nonsense!" "Nay, that's what it is; and what I say is this. It's all wery well getting away from them cannibals, but don't let's let old Ngati--" The chief looked sharply round. "Yes, I'm a-talking about you, old chap. I say, you're not to take us right up that mountain, and into a place where we shall tumble in." "_Tapu_! _tapu_!" said Ngati, nodding his head, and pointing toward the steaming cloud above the mountain. "Oh, you aggrawating savage!" cried Jem. Ngati took it as a compliment, and smiled. Then, pointing to a cluster of rocks where a jet of steam was being forced out violently, he led the way there, when they had to pass over a tiny stream of hot water, and a few yards farther on, they came to its source, a beautiful bright fount of the loveliest sapphire blue, with an edge that looked like a marble bath of a roseate tint, fringed every here and there with crystals of sulphur. "Let's have a bathe!" cried Jem eagerly. "Is there time?" He stepped forward, and was about to plunge in his hand, when Ngati seized his shoulders and dragged him back. "What yer doing that for?" cried Jem. The Maori stepped forward, and made as if to dip in one of his feet, but snatched it back as if in pain. Then, smiling, he twisted some strands of grass into a band, fastened the end to the palm basket, and gently lowered it, full of eggs, into the sapphire depths, a jet of steam and a series of bubbles rising to the surface as the basket sank. "Why, Jem," said Don laughing, "you wanted to bathe in the big copper." "How was I to know that this was a foreign out-door kitchen?" replied Jem laughing.<|quote|>"And the water's boiling hot,"</|quote|>added Don. "You can see it bubbling just at this end." "Think o' that now!" said Jem. "I say, what a big fire there must be somewhere down b'low. Strikes me, Mas' Don, that when I makes my fortun' and buys an estate I sha'n't settle here." "No, Jem. `There's no place like home.'" "Well, home's where you settle, arn't it? But this won't do for me. It's dangerous to be safe." Meanwhile, Ngati was listening intently, but, save the hissing of steam, the gurgling of boiling water, and the softened roar that seemed now distant, now close at hand, there was nothing to be heard, so he signed to them to sit down and rest. He set the example, and Don followed, to lie upon his back, restfully gazing up at the blue sky above, when Jem, who had been more particular about the choice of a place, slowly sat down, remained stationary for a few moments, and then sprang up, uttering a cry of pain. "Why, that stone's red hot!" he cried. This was not the truth, but it was quite hot enough to make it a painful seat, and he chose another. "Well, of all the rum places, Mas' Don!" He said no more on the subject, for just then Ngati rose, and carefully drew the bag of eggs from the boiling pool. "And I called him a pig!" said Jem, self-reproachfully. "No: no pig," said Ngati, who caught the word. "Well, I didn't say there was, obstinit," said Jem. "Here, give us an egg. Fruit and young wood's all werry well; but there's no spoons and no salt!" In spite of these drawbacks, and amid a series of remarks on the convenience of cooking cauldrons all over the place, Jem made a hearty meal of new laid eggs, which they had just finished when Ngati looked up and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening. Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear. "I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the ravine again, his keen sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led the way onward at a rapid rate. The path grew more wild and rugged, and the roar increased | Sally, I'll get up. I--Oh, it's you, Mas' Don." "Quick, Jem! The Maoris are coming." Jem sprang to his feet and seized the spear offered to him, as Ngati came forward, brushed the ferns about so as to destroy the traces of their bivouac, and then, holding up his hand for silence, he stood listening. A faint shout was heard, followed by another, nearer; and signing them to follow, the Maori went along up the gully, with the stream on their right. It was arduous work, for the ground was rapidly rising; but they were forced to hurry along, for every time they halted, they could hear the shouts of their pursuers, who seemed to be coming on with a pertinacity that there was no shaking off. It was hot in the extreme, but a crisp, cool air was blowing to refresh them, and, of its kind, there was plenty of food, Ngati cautiously picking and breaking in places where the disarrangement was not likely to be seen. Every now and then, too, they saw him make quite an eager dash on one side and return with eggs, which he carefully placed in the woven bag he had made. This went on till he had nearly a couple of dozen, at which, as he trudged along, Jem kept casting longing eyes. In spite of the danger and weariness, Don could not help admiring the beauty of the scene, as, from time to time, the gully opened out sufficiently for him to see that they were steadily rising toward a fine cone, which stood up high above a cluster of mountains, the silvery cloud that floated from its summit telling plainly of its volcanic nature. "_Tapu_! _tapu_!" Ngati said, every time he saw Don gazing at the mountain; but it was not till long after that he comprehended the meaning of the chiefs words, that the place was "tapu," or sacred, and that it would act as a refuge for them, could they reach it, as the ordinary Maoris would not dare to follow them there. Higher up the valley, where the waters were dashing furiously down in many a cascade, Don began to realise that they were following the bed of a river, whose source was somewhere high up the mountain he kept on seeing from time to time, while, after several hours' climbing, often over the most arduous, rocky ground, he saw that they were once more entering upon a volcanic district. Pillars of steam rose here and there, and all at once he started aside as a gurgling noise arose from beyond a patch of vivid green which covered the edges of a mud-pool, so hot that it was painful to the hand. From time to time Ngati had stopped to listen, the shouts growing fainter each time, while, as they progressed, a heavy thunderous roar grew louder, died away, and grew louder again. Don looked inquiringly at Jem. "It's the big chimney of that mountain drawing, Mas' Don." "Nonsense!" "Nay, that's what it is; and what I say is this. It's all wery well getting away from them cannibals, but don't let's let old Ngati--" The chief looked sharply round. "Yes, I'm a-talking about you, old chap. I say, you're not to take us right up that mountain, and into a place where we shall tumble in." "_Tapu_! _tapu_!" said Ngati, nodding his head, and pointing toward the steaming cloud above the mountain. "Oh, you aggrawating savage!" cried Jem. Ngati took it as a compliment, and smiled. Then, pointing to a cluster of rocks where a jet of steam was being forced out violently, he led the way there, when they had to pass over a tiny stream of hot water, and a few yards farther on, they came to its source, a beautiful bright fount of the loveliest sapphire blue, with an edge that looked like a marble bath of a roseate tint, fringed every here and there with crystals of sulphur. "Let's have a bathe!" cried Jem eagerly. "Is there time?" He stepped forward, and was about to plunge in his hand, when Ngati seized his shoulders and dragged him back. "What yer doing that for?" cried Jem. The Maori stepped forward, and made as if to dip in one of his feet, but snatched it back as if in pain. Then, smiling, he twisted some strands of grass into a band, fastened the end to the palm basket, and gently lowered it, full of eggs, into the sapphire depths, a jet of steam and a series of bubbles rising to the surface as the basket sank. "Why, Jem," said Don laughing, "you wanted to bathe in the big copper." "How was I to know that this was a foreign out-door kitchen?" replied Jem laughing.<|quote|>"And the water's boiling hot,"</|quote|>added Don. "You can see it bubbling just at this end." "Think o' that now!" said Jem. "I say, what a big fire there must be somewhere down b'low. Strikes me, Mas' Don, that when I makes my fortun' and buys an estate I sha'n't settle here." "No, Jem. `There's no place like home.'" "Well, home's where you settle, arn't it? But this won't do for me. It's dangerous to be safe." Meanwhile, Ngati was listening intently, but, save the hissing of steam, the gurgling of boiling water, and the softened roar that seemed now distant, now close at hand, there was nothing to be heard, so he signed to them to sit down and rest. He set the example, and Don followed, to lie upon his back, restfully gazing up at the blue sky above, when Jem, who had been more particular about the choice of a place, slowly sat down, remained stationary for a few moments, and then sprang up, uttering a cry of pain. "Why, that stone's red hot!" he cried. This was not the truth, but it was quite hot enough to make it a painful seat, and he chose another. "Well, of all the rum places, Mas' Don!" He said no more on the subject, for just then Ngati rose, and carefully drew the bag of eggs from the boiling pool. "And I called him a pig!" said Jem, self-reproachfully. "No: no pig," said Ngati, who caught the word. "Well, I didn't say there was, obstinit," said Jem. "Here, give us an egg. Fruit and young wood's all werry well; but there's no spoons and no salt!" In spite of these drawbacks, and amid a series of remarks on the convenience of cooking cauldrons all over the place, Jem made a hearty meal of new laid eggs, which they had just finished when Ngati looked up and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening. Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear. "I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the ravine again, his keen sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led the way onward at a rapid rate. The path grew more wild and rugged, and the roar increased as they ascended, till, after turning an angle in the winding gully, the sound came continuously with a deep-toned, thunderous bellow. "There, what did I tell you?" said Jem, as the top of the mountain was plainly in view, emitting steam, and about a mile distant. "That's the chimney roaring." "It's a great waterfall somewhere on ahead," replied Don; and a few yards farther on they came once more upon the edge of the river, which here ran foaming along at the bottom of what was a mere jagged crack stretching down from high up the mountain, and with precipitous walls, a couple of hundred feet down. Ngati seemed more satisfied after a while, and they sat down in a narrow valley they were ascending to finish the eggs, whose shells were thrown into the torrent. "I should like to know where he's going to take us," said Jem, all at once. "It does not matter, so long as it is into safety," said Don. "For my part, I--Lie down, quick!" Jem obeyed, and bending low, Don seized the Maori's arm, pointing the while down the way they had come at a couple of naked savages, leaping from stone to stone, spear armed, and each wearing the white-tipped tail feathers of a bird in his hair. Ngati saw the danger instantly, fell flat on his breast, and signing to his companions to follow, began to crawl in and out among the rocks and bushes, making for every point likely to afford shelter, while, in an agony of apprehension as to whether they had been seen, Don and Jem followed painfully, till the chief halted to reconnoitre and make some plan of escape. It was quite time, for the Maoris had either seen them or some of the traces they had left behind; and, carefully examining every foot of the narrow valley shelf along which they had climbed, were coming rapidly on. Don's heart sank, for it seemed to him that they were in a trap. On his right was the wall-like side of the gully they ascended; on his left the sheer precipice down to the awful torrent; before them the sound of a mighty cataract; and behind the enemy, coming quickly and stealthily on. CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN. A DANGEROUS PHASE. Ngati took all in at a glance, and signing to his companions to follow, he again lay down, creeping | covered the edges of a mud-pool, so hot that it was painful to the hand. From time to time Ngati had stopped to listen, the shouts growing fainter each time, while, as they progressed, a heavy thunderous roar grew louder, died away, and grew louder again. Don looked inquiringly at Jem. "It's the big chimney of that mountain drawing, Mas' Don." "Nonsense!" "Nay, that's what it is; and what I say is this. It's all wery well getting away from them cannibals, but don't let's let old Ngati--" The chief looked sharply round. "Yes, I'm a-talking about you, old chap. I say, you're not to take us right up that mountain, and into a place where we shall tumble in." "_Tapu_! _tapu_!" said Ngati, nodding his head, and pointing toward the steaming cloud above the mountain. "Oh, you aggrawating savage!" cried Jem. Ngati took it as a compliment, and smiled. Then, pointing to a cluster of rocks where a jet of steam was being forced out violently, he led the way there, when they had to pass over a tiny stream of hot water, and a few yards farther on, they came to its source, a beautiful bright fount of the loveliest sapphire blue, with an edge that looked like a marble bath of a roseate tint, fringed every here and there with crystals of sulphur. "Let's have a bathe!" cried Jem eagerly. "Is there time?" He stepped forward, and was about to plunge in his hand, when Ngati seized his shoulders and dragged him back. "What yer doing that for?" cried Jem. The Maori stepped forward, and made as if to dip in one of his feet, but snatched it back as if in pain. Then, smiling, he twisted some strands of grass into a band, fastened the end to the palm basket, and gently lowered it, full of eggs, into the sapphire depths, a jet of steam and a series of bubbles rising to the surface as the basket sank. "Why, Jem," said Don laughing, "you wanted to bathe in the big copper." "How was I to know that this was a foreign out-door kitchen?" replied Jem laughing.<|quote|>"And the water's boiling hot,"</|quote|>added Don. "You can see it bubbling just at this end." "Think o' that now!" said Jem. "I say, what a big fire there must be somewhere down b'low. Strikes me, Mas' Don, that when I makes my fortun' and buys an estate I sha'n't settle here." "No, Jem. `There's no place like home.'" "Well, home's where you settle, arn't it? But this won't do for me. It's dangerous to be safe." Meanwhile, Ngati was listening intently, but, save the hissing of steam, the gurgling of boiling water, and the softened roar that seemed now distant, now close at hand, there was nothing to be heard, so he signed to them to sit down and rest. He set the example, and Don followed, to lie upon his back, restfully gazing up at the blue sky above, when Jem, who had been more particular about the choice of a place, slowly sat down, remained stationary for a few moments, and then sprang up, uttering a cry of pain. "Why, that stone's red hot!" he cried. This was not the truth, but it was quite hot enough to make it a painful seat, and he chose another. "Well, of all the rum places, Mas' Don!" He said no more on the subject, for just then Ngati rose, and carefully drew the bag of eggs from the boiling pool. "And I called him a pig!" said Jem, self-reproachfully. "No: no pig," said Ngati, who caught the word. "Well, I didn't say there was, obstinit," said Jem. "Here, give us an egg. Fruit and young wood's all werry well; but there's no spoons and no salt!" In spite of these drawbacks, and amid a series of remarks on the convenience of cooking cauldrons all over the place, Jem made a hearty meal of new laid eggs, which they had just finished when Ngati looked up and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening. Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear. "I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the ravine again, his keen sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led the way onward at a rapid rate. The path grew more wild and rugged, and the roar increased as they ascended, till, after turning an angle in the winding gully, the sound came continuously with a deep-toned, thunderous bellow. "There, what did I tell you?" said Jem, as the top of the mountain was plainly in view, emitting steam, and about a mile distant. "That's the chimney roaring." "It's a great waterfall somewhere on ahead," replied Don; and a few yards farther on they came once more upon the edge of the river, which here ran foaming along at the bottom of what was a mere jagged crack stretching down from high up the mountain, and with precipitous walls, a couple of hundred feet down. Ngati seemed more satisfied after a while, and they sat down in a narrow valley they were ascending to finish the eggs, whose shells were thrown into the torrent. "I should like to know where he's going to take us," said Jem, all at once. "It does not matter, so long as it is into safety," said Don. "For my part, I--Lie down, quick!" Jem obeyed, and bending low, Don seized the Maori's arm, pointing the while down the way they had come at a couple of | Don Lavington |
said the doctor, laying Oliver gently down again. | No speaker | to deny that, I suppose?"<|quote|>said the doctor, laying Oliver gently down again.</|quote|>"It was all done for | and perplexity. "You don't mean to deny that, I suppose?"<|quote|>said the doctor, laying Oliver gently down again.</|quote|>"It was all done for the for the best, sir," | can professionally certify." Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr. Giles, as he was thus recommended to their notice. The bewildered butler gazed from them towards Oliver, and from Oliver towards Mr. Losberne, with a most ludicrous mixture of fear and perplexity. "You don't mean to deny that, I suppose?"<|quote|>said the doctor, laying Oliver gently down again.</|quote|>"It was all done for the for the best, sir," answered Giles. "I am sure I thought it was the boy, or I wouldn't have meddled with him. I am not of an inhuman disposition, sir." "Thought it was what boy?" inquired the senior officer. "The housebreaker's boy, sir!" replied | spring-gun in some boyish trespass on Mr. What-d' ye-call-him's grounds, at the back here, comes to the house for assistance this morning, and is immediately laid hold of and maltreated, by that ingenious gentleman with the candle in his hand: who has placed his life in considerable danger, as I can professionally certify." Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr. Giles, as he was thus recommended to their notice. The bewildered butler gazed from them towards Oliver, and from Oliver towards Mr. Losberne, with a most ludicrous mixture of fear and perplexity. "You don't mean to deny that, I suppose?"<|quote|>said the doctor, laying Oliver gently down again.</|quote|>"It was all done for the for the best, sir," answered Giles. "I am sure I thought it was the boy, or I wouldn't have meddled with him. I am not of an inhuman disposition, sir." "Thought it was what boy?" inquired the senior officer. "The housebreaker's boy, sir!" replied Giles. "They they certainly had a boy." "Well? Do you think so now?" inquired Blathers. "Think what, now?" replied Giles, looking vacantly at his questioner. "Think it's the same boy, Stupid-head?" rejoined Blathers, impatiently. "I don't know; I really don't know," said Giles, with a rueful countenance. "I couldn't swear | following Mr. Losberne, the two officers ascended to Oliver's bedroom; Mr. Giles preceding the party, with a lighted candle. Oliver had been dozing; but looked worse, and was more feverish than he had appeared yet. Being assisted by the doctor, he managed to sit up in bed for a minute or so; and looked at the strangers without at all understanding what was going forward in fact, without seeming to recollect where he was, or what had been passing. "This," said Mr. Losberne, speaking softly, but with great vehemence notwithstanding, "this is the lad, who, being accidently wounded by a spring-gun in some boyish trespass on Mr. What-d' ye-call-him's grounds, at the back here, comes to the house for assistance this morning, and is immediately laid hold of and maltreated, by that ingenious gentleman with the candle in his hand: who has placed his life in considerable danger, as I can professionally certify." Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr. Giles, as he was thus recommended to their notice. The bewildered butler gazed from them towards Oliver, and from Oliver towards Mr. Losberne, with a most ludicrous mixture of fear and perplexity. "You don't mean to deny that, I suppose?"<|quote|>said the doctor, laying Oliver gently down again.</|quote|>"It was all done for the for the best, sir," answered Giles. "I am sure I thought it was the boy, or I wouldn't have meddled with him. I am not of an inhuman disposition, sir." "Thought it was what boy?" inquired the senior officer. "The housebreaker's boy, sir!" replied Giles. "They they certainly had a boy." "Well? Do you think so now?" inquired Blathers. "Think what, now?" replied Giles, looking vacantly at his questioner. "Think it's the same boy, Stupid-head?" rejoined Blathers, impatiently. "I don't know; I really don't know," said Giles, with a rueful countenance. "I couldn't swear to him." "What do you think?" asked Mr. Blathers. "I don't know what to think," replied poor Giles. "I don't think it is the boy; indeed, I'm almost certain that it isn't. You know it can't be." "Has this man been a-drinking, sir?" inquired Blathers, turning to the doctor. "What a precious muddle-headed chap you are!" said Duff, addressing Mr. Giles, with supreme contempt. Mr. Losberne had been feeling the patient's pulse during this short dialogue; but he now rose from the chair by the bedside, and remarked, that if the officers had any doubts upon the subject, they would | was playing tricks with him arterwards; and the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweed had gone mad with grief." "What did Jem Spyers say?" inquired the doctor; who had returned to the room shortly after the commencement of the story. "Jem Spyers," resumed the officer, "for a long time said nothing at all, and listened to everything without seeming to, which showed he understood his business. But, one morning, he walked into the bar, and taking out his snuffbox, says" Chickweed, I've found out who done this here robbery.' Have you?' "said Chickweed." Oh, my dear Spyers, only let me have wengeance, and I shall die contented! Oh, my dear Spyers, where is the villain!' Come!' "said Spyers, offering him a pinch of snuff," none of that gammon! You did it yourself.' "So he had; and a good bit of money he had made by it, too; and nobody would never have found it out, if he hadn't been so precious anxious to keep up appearances!" said Mr. Blathers, putting down his wine-glass, and clinking the handcuffs together. "Very curious, indeed," observed the doctor. "Now, if you please, you can walk upstairs." "If _you_ please, sir," returned Mr. Blathers. Closely following Mr. Losberne, the two officers ascended to Oliver's bedroom; Mr. Giles preceding the party, with a lighted candle. Oliver had been dozing; but looked worse, and was more feverish than he had appeared yet. Being assisted by the doctor, he managed to sit up in bed for a minute or so; and looked at the strangers without at all understanding what was going forward in fact, without seeming to recollect where he was, or what had been passing. "This," said Mr. Losberne, speaking softly, but with great vehemence notwithstanding, "this is the lad, who, being accidently wounded by a spring-gun in some boyish trespass on Mr. What-d' ye-call-him's grounds, at the back here, comes to the house for assistance this morning, and is immediately laid hold of and maltreated, by that ingenious gentleman with the candle in his hand: who has placed his life in considerable danger, as I can professionally certify." Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr. Giles, as he was thus recommended to their notice. The bewildered butler gazed from them towards Oliver, and from Oliver towards Mr. Losberne, with a most ludicrous mixture of fear and perplexity. "You don't mean to deny that, I suppose?"<|quote|>said the doctor, laying Oliver gently down again.</|quote|>"It was all done for the for the best, sir," answered Giles. "I am sure I thought it was the boy, or I wouldn't have meddled with him. I am not of an inhuman disposition, sir." "Thought it was what boy?" inquired the senior officer. "The housebreaker's boy, sir!" replied Giles. "They they certainly had a boy." "Well? Do you think so now?" inquired Blathers. "Think what, now?" replied Giles, looking vacantly at his questioner. "Think it's the same boy, Stupid-head?" rejoined Blathers, impatiently. "I don't know; I really don't know," said Giles, with a rueful countenance. "I couldn't swear to him." "What do you think?" asked Mr. Blathers. "I don't know what to think," replied poor Giles. "I don't think it is the boy; indeed, I'm almost certain that it isn't. You know it can't be." "Has this man been a-drinking, sir?" inquired Blathers, turning to the doctor. "What a precious muddle-headed chap you are!" said Duff, addressing Mr. Giles, with supreme contempt. Mr. Losberne had been feeling the patient's pulse during this short dialogue; but he now rose from the chair by the bedside, and remarked, that if the officers had any doubts upon the subject, they would perhaps like to step into the next room, and have Brittles before them. Acting upon this suggestion, they adjourned to a neighbouring apartment, where Mr. Brittles, being called in, involved himself and his respected superior in such a wonderful maze of fresh contradictions and impossibilities, as tended to throw no particular light on anything, but the fact of his own strong mystification; except, indeed, his declarations that he shouldn't know the real boy, if he were put before him that instant; that he had only taken Oliver to be he, because Mr. Giles had said he was; and that Mr. Giles had, five minutes previously, admitted in the kitchen, that he began to be very much afraid he had been a little too hasty. Among other ingenious surmises, the question was then raised, whether Mr. Giles had really hit anybody; and upon examination of the fellow pistol to that which he had fired, it turned out to have no more destructive loading than gunpowder and brown paper: a discovery which made a considerable impression on everybody but the doctor, who had drawn the ball about ten minutes before. Upon no one, however, did it make a greater impression than on | One day he came up to the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house." I see him, Spyers,' "said Chickweed," pass my house yesterday morning,' Why didn't you up, and collar him!' "says Spyers." I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,' "says the poor man;" but we're sure to have him; for between ten and eleven o'clock at night he passed again.' "Spyers no sooner heard this, than he put some clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he should have to stop a day or two; and away he goes, and sets himself down at one of the public-house windows behind the little red curtain, with his hat on, all ready to bolt out, at a moment's notice. He was smoking his pipe here, late at night, when all of a sudden Chickweed roars out," Here he is! Stop thief! Murder!' "Jem Spyers dashes out; and there he sees Chickweed, a-tearing down the street full cry. Away goes Spyers; on goes Chickweed; round turns the people; everybody roars out," Thieves!' "and Chickweed himself keeps on shouting, all the time, like mad. Spyers loses sight of him a minute as he turns a corner; shoots round; sees a little crowd; dives in;" Which is the man?' D me!' "says Chickweed," I've lost him again!' "It was a remarkable occurrence, but he warn't to be seen nowhere, so they went back to the public-house. Next morning, Spyers took his old place, and looked out, from behind the curtain, for a tall man with a black patch over his eye, till his own two eyes ached again. At last, he couldn't help shutting 'em, to ease 'em a minute; and the very moment he did so, he hears Chickweed a-roaring out," Here he is!' "Off he starts once more, with Chickweed half-way down the street ahead of him; and after twice as long a run as the yesterday's one, the man's lost again! This was done, once or twice more, till one-half the neighbours gave out that Mr. Chickweed had been robbed by the devil, who was playing tricks with him arterwards; and the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweed had gone mad with grief." "What did Jem Spyers say?" inquired the doctor; who had returned to the room shortly after the commencement of the story. "Jem Spyers," resumed the officer, "for a long time said nothing at all, and listened to everything without seeming to, which showed he understood his business. But, one morning, he walked into the bar, and taking out his snuffbox, says" Chickweed, I've found out who done this here robbery.' Have you?' "said Chickweed." Oh, my dear Spyers, only let me have wengeance, and I shall die contented! Oh, my dear Spyers, where is the villain!' Come!' "said Spyers, offering him a pinch of snuff," none of that gammon! You did it yourself.' "So he had; and a good bit of money he had made by it, too; and nobody would never have found it out, if he hadn't been so precious anxious to keep up appearances!" said Mr. Blathers, putting down his wine-glass, and clinking the handcuffs together. "Very curious, indeed," observed the doctor. "Now, if you please, you can walk upstairs." "If _you_ please, sir," returned Mr. Blathers. Closely following Mr. Losberne, the two officers ascended to Oliver's bedroom; Mr. Giles preceding the party, with a lighted candle. Oliver had been dozing; but looked worse, and was more feverish than he had appeared yet. Being assisted by the doctor, he managed to sit up in bed for a minute or so; and looked at the strangers without at all understanding what was going forward in fact, without seeming to recollect where he was, or what had been passing. "This," said Mr. Losberne, speaking softly, but with great vehemence notwithstanding, "this is the lad, who, being accidently wounded by a spring-gun in some boyish trespass on Mr. What-d' ye-call-him's grounds, at the back here, comes to the house for assistance this morning, and is immediately laid hold of and maltreated, by that ingenious gentleman with the candle in his hand: who has placed his life in considerable danger, as I can professionally certify." Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr. Giles, as he was thus recommended to their notice. The bewildered butler gazed from them towards Oliver, and from Oliver towards Mr. Losberne, with a most ludicrous mixture of fear and perplexity. "You don't mean to deny that, I suppose?"<|quote|>said the doctor, laying Oliver gently down again.</|quote|>"It was all done for the for the best, sir," answered Giles. "I am sure I thought it was the boy, or I wouldn't have meddled with him. I am not of an inhuman disposition, sir." "Thought it was what boy?" inquired the senior officer. "The housebreaker's boy, sir!" replied Giles. "They they certainly had a boy." "Well? Do you think so now?" inquired Blathers. "Think what, now?" replied Giles, looking vacantly at his questioner. "Think it's the same boy, Stupid-head?" rejoined Blathers, impatiently. "I don't know; I really don't know," said Giles, with a rueful countenance. "I couldn't swear to him." "What do you think?" asked Mr. Blathers. "I don't know what to think," replied poor Giles. "I don't think it is the boy; indeed, I'm almost certain that it isn't. You know it can't be." "Has this man been a-drinking, sir?" inquired Blathers, turning to the doctor. "What a precious muddle-headed chap you are!" said Duff, addressing Mr. Giles, with supreme contempt. Mr. Losberne had been feeling the patient's pulse during this short dialogue; but he now rose from the chair by the bedside, and remarked, that if the officers had any doubts upon the subject, they would perhaps like to step into the next room, and have Brittles before them. Acting upon this suggestion, they adjourned to a neighbouring apartment, where Mr. Brittles, being called in, involved himself and his respected superior in such a wonderful maze of fresh contradictions and impossibilities, as tended to throw no particular light on anything, but the fact of his own strong mystification; except, indeed, his declarations that he shouldn't know the real boy, if he were put before him that instant; that he had only taken Oliver to be he, because Mr. Giles had said he was; and that Mr. Giles had, five minutes previously, admitted in the kitchen, that he began to be very much afraid he had been a little too hasty. Among other ingenious surmises, the question was then raised, whether Mr. Giles had really hit anybody; and upon examination of the fellow pistol to that which he had fired, it turned out to have no more destructive loading than gunpowder and brown paper: a discovery which made a considerable impression on everybody but the doctor, who had drawn the ball about ten minutes before. Upon no one, however, did it make a greater impression than on Mr. Giles himself; who, after labouring, for some hours, under the fear of having mortally wounded a fellow-creature, eagerly caught at this new idea, and favoured it to the utmost. Finally, the officers, without troubling themselves very much about Oliver, left the Chertsey constable in the house, and took up their rest for that night in the town; promising to return the next morning. With the next morning, there came a rumour, that two men and a boy were in the cage at Kingston, who had been apprehended over night under suspicious circumstances; and to Kingston Messrs. Blathers and Duff journeyed accordingly. The suspicious circumstances, however, resolving themselves, on investigation, into the one fact, that they had been discovered sleeping under a haystack; which, although a great crime, is only punishable by imprisonment, and is, in the merciful eye of the English law, and its comprehensive love of all the King's subjects, held to be no satisfactory proof, in the absence of all other evidence, that the sleeper, or sleepers, have committed burglary accompanied with violence, and have therefore rendered themselves liable to the punishment of death; Messrs. Blathers and Duff came back again, as wise as they went. In short, after some more examination, and a great deal more conversation, a neighbouring magistrate was readily induced to take the joint bail of Mrs. Maylie and Mr. Losberne for Oliver's appearance if he should ever be called upon; and Blathers and Duff, being rewarded with a couple of guineas, returned to town with divided opinions on the subject of their expedition: the latter gentleman on a mature consideration of all the circumstances, inclining to the belief that the burglarious attempt had originated with the Family Pet; and the former being equally disposed to concede the full merit of it to the great Mr. Conkey Chickweed. Meanwhile, Oliver gradually throve and prospered under the united care of Mrs. Maylie, Rose, and the kind-hearted Mr. Losberne. If fervent prayers, gushing from hearts overcharged with gratitude, be heard in heaven and if they be not, what prayers are! the blessings which the orphan child called down upon them, sunk into their souls, diffusing peace and happiness. CHAPTER XXXII. OF THE HAPPY LIFE OLIVER BEGAN TO LEAD WITH HIS KIND FRIENDS Oliver's ailings were neither slight nor few. In addition to the pain and delay attendant on a broken limb, his exposure to the | with a black patch over his eye, till his own two eyes ached again. At last, he couldn't help shutting 'em, to ease 'em a minute; and the very moment he did so, he hears Chickweed a-roaring out," Here he is!' "Off he starts once more, with Chickweed half-way down the street ahead of him; and after twice as long a run as the yesterday's one, the man's lost again! This was done, once or twice more, till one-half the neighbours gave out that Mr. Chickweed had been robbed by the devil, who was playing tricks with him arterwards; and the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweed had gone mad with grief." "What did Jem Spyers say?" inquired the doctor; who had returned to the room shortly after the commencement of the story. "Jem Spyers," resumed the officer, "for a long time said nothing at all, and listened to everything without seeming to, which showed he understood his business. But, one morning, he walked into the bar, and taking out his snuffbox, says" Chickweed, I've found out who done this here robbery.' Have you?' "said Chickweed." Oh, my dear Spyers, only let me have wengeance, and I shall die contented! Oh, my dear Spyers, where is the villain!' Come!' "said Spyers, offering him a pinch of snuff," none of that gammon! You did it yourself.' "So he had; and a good bit of money he had made by it, too; and nobody would never have found it out, if he hadn't been so precious anxious to keep up appearances!" said Mr. Blathers, putting down his wine-glass, and clinking the handcuffs together. "Very curious, indeed," observed the doctor. "Now, if you please, you can walk upstairs." "If _you_ please, sir," returned Mr. Blathers. Closely following Mr. Losberne, the two officers ascended to Oliver's bedroom; Mr. Giles preceding the party, with a lighted candle. Oliver had been dozing; but looked worse, and was more feverish than he had appeared yet. Being assisted by the doctor, he managed to sit up in bed for a minute or so; and looked at the strangers without at all understanding what was going forward in fact, without seeming to recollect where he was, or what had been passing. "This," said Mr. Losberne, speaking softly, but with great vehemence notwithstanding, "this is the lad, who, being accidently wounded by a spring-gun in some boyish trespass on Mr. What-d' ye-call-him's grounds, at the back here, comes to the house for assistance this morning, and is immediately laid hold of and maltreated, by that ingenious gentleman with the candle in his hand: who has placed his life in considerable danger, as I can professionally certify." Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr. Giles, as he was thus recommended to their notice. The bewildered butler gazed from them towards Oliver, and from Oliver towards Mr. Losberne, with a most ludicrous mixture of fear and perplexity. "You don't mean to deny that, I suppose?"<|quote|>said the doctor, laying Oliver gently down again.</|quote|>"It was all done for the for the best, sir," answered Giles. "I am sure I thought it was the boy, or I wouldn't have meddled with him. I am not of an inhuman disposition, sir." "Thought it was what boy?" inquired the senior officer. "The housebreaker's boy, sir!" replied Giles. "They they certainly had a boy." "Well? Do you think so now?" inquired Blathers. "Think what, now?" replied Giles, looking vacantly at his questioner. "Think it's the same boy, Stupid-head?" rejoined Blathers, impatiently. "I don't know; I really don't know," said Giles, with a rueful countenance. "I couldn't swear to him." "What do you think?" asked Mr. Blathers. "I don't know what to think," replied poor Giles. "I don't think it is the boy; indeed, I'm almost certain that it isn't. You know it can't be." "Has this man been a-drinking, sir?" inquired Blathers, turning to the doctor. "What a precious muddle-headed chap you are!" said Duff, addressing Mr. Giles, with supreme contempt. Mr. Losberne had been feeling the patient's pulse during this short dialogue; but he now rose from the chair by the bedside, and remarked, that if the officers had any doubts upon the subject, they would perhaps like to step into the next room, and have Brittles before them. Acting upon this suggestion, they adjourned to a neighbouring apartment, where Mr. Brittles, being called in, involved himself and his respected superior in such a wonderful maze of fresh contradictions and impossibilities, as tended to throw no particular light on anything, but the fact of his own strong mystification; except, indeed, his declarations that he shouldn't know the real boy, if he were put before him that instant; that he had only taken Oliver to be he, because Mr. Giles had said he was; and that Mr. Giles had, five minutes previously, admitted in the kitchen, that he began to be very much afraid he had been a little too hasty. Among other ingenious surmises, the question was then raised, whether Mr. Giles had really hit anybody; and upon examination of the fellow pistol to that which he had fired, it turned out to have no more destructive loading than gunpowder and brown paper: a discovery which made a considerable impression on everybody but the doctor, who had drawn the ball about ten minutes before. Upon no one, however, did it make a greater impression than on Mr. Giles himself; who, after labouring, for some hours, under the fear of having mortally wounded a fellow-creature, eagerly caught at this new idea, and favoured it to the utmost. Finally, the officers, without troubling themselves very much about Oliver, left the Chertsey constable in the house, and took up their rest for that night in the town; promising to return the next morning. With the next morning, there came a rumour, that two men and a boy were in the cage at Kingston, who had been apprehended over night under suspicious circumstances; and to Kingston Messrs. Blathers and Duff journeyed accordingly. The suspicious circumstances, however, resolving themselves, on investigation, into the one fact, that they had been discovered sleeping under a haystack; which, although a great crime, is only punishable by imprisonment, and is, in the merciful eye of the English law, and its comprehensive love of all the King's subjects, held to be | Oliver Twist |
"What right have you, in the circumstances, to BE on any other ground?" | Newland Archer | is on quite other grounds."<|quote|>"What right have you, in the circumstances, to BE on any other ground?"</|quote|>Archer retorted. "If you're an | I come to you, it is on quite other grounds."<|quote|>"What right have you, in the circumstances, to BE on any other ground?"</|quote|>Archer retorted. "If you're an emissary you're an emissary." The | a liberty. Shall I say instead: on behalf of abstract justice?" Archer considered him ironically. "In other words: you are Count Olenski's messenger?" He saw his blush more darkly reflected in M. Riviere's sallow countenance. "Not to YOU, Monsieur. If I come to you, it is on quite other grounds."<|quote|>"What right have you, in the circumstances, to BE on any other ground?"</|quote|>Archer retorted. "If you're an emissary you're an emissary." The young man considered. "My mission is over: as far as the Countess Olenska goes, it has failed." "I can't help that," Archer rejoined on the same note of irony. "No: but you can help--" M. Riviere paused, turned his hat | came they sent the blood rushing to his temples as if he had been caught by a bent-back branch in a thicket. "And on whose behalf," he said, "do you wish to do this?" M. Riviere met the question sturdily. "Well--I might say HERS, if it did not sound like a liberty. Shall I say instead: on behalf of abstract justice?" Archer considered him ironically. "In other words: you are Count Olenski's messenger?" He saw his blush more darkly reflected in M. Riviere's sallow countenance. "Not to YOU, Monsieur. If I come to you, it is on quite other grounds."<|quote|>"What right have you, in the circumstances, to BE on any other ground?"</|quote|>Archer retorted. "If you're an emissary you're an emissary." The young man considered. "My mission is over: as far as the Countess Olenska goes, it has failed." "I can't help that," Archer rejoined on the same note of irony. "No: but you can help--" M. Riviere paused, turned his hat about in his still carefully gloved hands, looked into its lining and then back at Archer's face. "You can help, Monsieur, I am convinced, to make it equally a failure with her family." Archer pushed back his chair and stood up. "Well--and by God I will!" he exclaimed. He stood | his palms, raised them slightly, and the two men continued to look at each other across the office-desk till Archer roused himself to say: "Do sit down" "; whereupon M. Riviere bowed, took a distant chair, and again waited. "It was about this mission that you wanted to consult me?" Archer finally asked. M. Riviere bent his head. "Not in my own behalf: on that score I--I have fully dealt with myself. I should like--if I may--to speak to you about the Countess Olenska." Archer had known for the last few minutes that the words were coming; but when they came they sent the blood rushing to his temples as if he had been caught by a bent-back branch in a thicket. "And on whose behalf," he said, "do you wish to do this?" M. Riviere met the question sturdily. "Well--I might say HERS, if it did not sound like a liberty. Shall I say instead: on behalf of abstract justice?" Archer considered him ironically. "In other words: you are Count Olenski's messenger?" He saw his blush more darkly reflected in M. Riviere's sallow countenance. "Not to YOU, Monsieur. If I come to you, it is on quite other grounds."<|quote|>"What right have you, in the circumstances, to BE on any other ground?"</|quote|>Archer retorted. "If you're an emissary you're an emissary." The young man considered. "My mission is over: as far as the Countess Olenska goes, it has failed." "I can't help that," Archer rejoined on the same note of irony. "No: but you can help--" M. Riviere paused, turned his hat about in his still carefully gloved hands, looked into its lining and then back at Archer's face. "You can help, Monsieur, I am convinced, to make it equally a failure with her family." Archer pushed back his chair and stood up. "Well--and by God I will!" he exclaimed. He stood with his hands in his pockets, staring down wrathfully at the little Frenchman, whose face, though he too had risen, was still an inch or two below the line of Archer's eyes. M. Riviere paled to his normal hue: paler than that his complexion could hardly turn. "Why the devil," Archer explosively continued, "should you have thought--since I suppose you're appealing to me on the ground of my relationship to Madame Olenska--that I should take a view contrary to the rest of her family?" The change of expression in M. Riviere's face was for a time his only answer. His | of his hat. A horse-car received him, and Archer walked away. Punctually at the hour M. Riviere appeared, shaved, smoothed-out, but still unmistakably drawn and serious. Archer was alone in his office, and the young man, before accepting the seat he proffered, began abruptly: "I believe I saw you, sir, yesterday in Boston." The statement was insignificant enough, and Archer was about to frame an assent when his words were checked by something mysterious yet illuminating in his visitor's insistent gaze. "It is extraordinary, very extraordinary," M. Riviere continued, "that we should have met in the circumstances in which I find myself." "What circumstances?" Archer asked, wondering a little crudely if he needed money. M. Riviere continued to study him with tentative eyes. "I have come, not to look for employment, as I spoke of doing when we last met, but on a special mission--" "Ah--!" Archer exclaimed. In a flash the two meetings had connected themselves in his mind. He paused to take in the situation thus suddenly lighted up for him, and M. Riviere also remained silent, as if aware that what he had said was enough. "A special mission," Archer at length repeated. The young Frenchman, opening his palms, raised them slightly, and the two men continued to look at each other across the office-desk till Archer roused himself to say: "Do sit down" "; whereupon M. Riviere bowed, took a distant chair, and again waited. "It was about this mission that you wanted to consult me?" Archer finally asked. M. Riviere bent his head. "Not in my own behalf: on that score I--I have fully dealt with myself. I should like--if I may--to speak to you about the Countess Olenska." Archer had known for the last few minutes that the words were coming; but when they came they sent the blood rushing to his temples as if he had been caught by a bent-back branch in a thicket. "And on whose behalf," he said, "do you wish to do this?" M. Riviere met the question sturdily. "Well--I might say HERS, if it did not sound like a liberty. Shall I say instead: on behalf of abstract justice?" Archer considered him ironically. "In other words: you are Count Olenski's messenger?" He saw his blush more darkly reflected in M. Riviere's sallow countenance. "Not to YOU, Monsieur. If I come to you, it is on quite other grounds."<|quote|>"What right have you, in the circumstances, to BE on any other ground?"</|quote|>Archer retorted. "If you're an emissary you're an emissary." The young man considered. "My mission is over: as far as the Countess Olenska goes, it has failed." "I can't help that," Archer rejoined on the same note of irony. "No: but you can help--" M. Riviere paused, turned his hat about in his still carefully gloved hands, looked into its lining and then back at Archer's face. "You can help, Monsieur, I am convinced, to make it equally a failure with her family." Archer pushed back his chair and stood up. "Well--and by God I will!" he exclaimed. He stood with his hands in his pockets, staring down wrathfully at the little Frenchman, whose face, though he too had risen, was still an inch or two below the line of Archer's eyes. M. Riviere paled to his normal hue: paler than that his complexion could hardly turn. "Why the devil," Archer explosively continued, "should you have thought--since I suppose you're appealing to me on the ground of my relationship to Madame Olenska--that I should take a view contrary to the rest of her family?" The change of expression in M. Riviere's face was for a time his only answer. His look passed from timidity to absolute distress: for a young man of his usually resourceful mien it would have been difficult to appear more disarmed and defenceless. "Oh, Monsieur--" "I can't imagine," Archer continued, "why you should have come to me when there are others so much nearer to the Countess; still less why you thought I should be more accessible to the arguments I suppose you were sent over with." M. Riviere took this onslaught with a disconcerting humility. "The arguments I want to present to you, Monsieur, are my own and not those I was sent over with." "Then I see still less reason for listening to them." M. Riviere again looked into his hat, as if considering whether these last words were not a sufficiently broad hint to put it on and be gone. Then he spoke with sudden decision. "Monsieur--will you tell me one thing? Is it my right to be here that you question? Or do you perhaps believe the whole matter to be already closed?" His quiet insistence made Archer feel the clumsiness of his own bluster. M. Riviere had succeeded in imposing himself: Archer, reddening slightly, dropped into his chair again, and signed | same golden blur; but suddenly, as he left the station, one of the faces detached itself, came closer and forced itself upon his consciousness. It was, as he instantly recalled, the face of the young man he had seen, the day before, passing out of the Parker House, and had noted as not conforming to type, as not having an American hotel face. The same thing struck him now; and again he became aware of a dim stir of former associations. The young man stood looking about him with the dazed air of the foreigner flung upon the harsh mercies of American travel; then he advanced toward Archer, lifted his hat, and said in English: "Surely, Monsieur, we met in London?" "Ah, to be sure: in London!" Archer grasped his hand with curiosity and sympathy. "So you DID get here, after all?" he exclaimed, casting a wondering eye on the astute and haggard little countenance of young Carfry's French tutor. "Oh, I got here--yes," M. Riviere smiled with drawn lips. "But not for long; I return the day after tomorrow." He stood grasping his light valise in one neatly gloved hand, and gazing anxiously, perplexedly, almost appealingly, into Archer's face. "I wonder, Monsieur, since I've had the good luck to run across you, if I might--" "I was just going to suggest it: come to luncheon, won't you? Down town, I mean: if you'll look me up in my office I'll take you to a very decent restaurant in that quarter." M. Riviere was visibly touched and surprised. "You're too kind. But I was only going to ask if you would tell me how to reach some sort of conveyance. There are no porters, and no one here seems to listen--" "I know: our American stations must surprise you. When you ask for a porter they give you chewing-gum. But if you'll come along I'll extricate you; and you must really lunch with me, you know." The young man, after a just perceptible hesitation, replied, with profuse thanks, and in a tone that did not carry complete conviction, that he was already engaged; but when they had reached the comparative reassurance of the street he asked if he might call that afternoon. Archer, at ease in the midsummer leisure of the office, fixed an hour and scribbled his address, which the Frenchman pocketed with reiterated thanks and a wide flourish of his hat. A horse-car received him, and Archer walked away. Punctually at the hour M. Riviere appeared, shaved, smoothed-out, but still unmistakably drawn and serious. Archer was alone in his office, and the young man, before accepting the seat he proffered, began abruptly: "I believe I saw you, sir, yesterday in Boston." The statement was insignificant enough, and Archer was about to frame an assent when his words were checked by something mysterious yet illuminating in his visitor's insistent gaze. "It is extraordinary, very extraordinary," M. Riviere continued, "that we should have met in the circumstances in which I find myself." "What circumstances?" Archer asked, wondering a little crudely if he needed money. M. Riviere continued to study him with tentative eyes. "I have come, not to look for employment, as I spoke of doing when we last met, but on a special mission--" "Ah--!" Archer exclaimed. In a flash the two meetings had connected themselves in his mind. He paused to take in the situation thus suddenly lighted up for him, and M. Riviere also remained silent, as if aware that what he had said was enough. "A special mission," Archer at length repeated. The young Frenchman, opening his palms, raised them slightly, and the two men continued to look at each other across the office-desk till Archer roused himself to say: "Do sit down" "; whereupon M. Riviere bowed, took a distant chair, and again waited. "It was about this mission that you wanted to consult me?" Archer finally asked. M. Riviere bent his head. "Not in my own behalf: on that score I--I have fully dealt with myself. I should like--if I may--to speak to you about the Countess Olenska." Archer had known for the last few minutes that the words were coming; but when they came they sent the blood rushing to his temples as if he had been caught by a bent-back branch in a thicket. "And on whose behalf," he said, "do you wish to do this?" M. Riviere met the question sturdily. "Well--I might say HERS, if it did not sound like a liberty. Shall I say instead: on behalf of abstract justice?" Archer considered him ironically. "In other words: you are Count Olenski's messenger?" He saw his blush more darkly reflected in M. Riviere's sallow countenance. "Not to YOU, Monsieur. If I come to you, it is on quite other grounds."<|quote|>"What right have you, in the circumstances, to BE on any other ground?"</|quote|>Archer retorted. "If you're an emissary you're an emissary." The young man considered. "My mission is over: as far as the Countess Olenska goes, it has failed." "I can't help that," Archer rejoined on the same note of irony. "No: but you can help--" M. Riviere paused, turned his hat about in his still carefully gloved hands, looked into its lining and then back at Archer's face. "You can help, Monsieur, I am convinced, to make it equally a failure with her family." Archer pushed back his chair and stood up. "Well--and by God I will!" he exclaimed. He stood with his hands in his pockets, staring down wrathfully at the little Frenchman, whose face, though he too had risen, was still an inch or two below the line of Archer's eyes. M. Riviere paled to his normal hue: paler than that his complexion could hardly turn. "Why the devil," Archer explosively continued, "should you have thought--since I suppose you're appealing to me on the ground of my relationship to Madame Olenska--that I should take a view contrary to the rest of her family?" The change of expression in M. Riviere's face was for a time his only answer. His look passed from timidity to absolute distress: for a young man of his usually resourceful mien it would have been difficult to appear more disarmed and defenceless. "Oh, Monsieur--" "I can't imagine," Archer continued, "why you should have come to me when there are others so much nearer to the Countess; still less why you thought I should be more accessible to the arguments I suppose you were sent over with." M. Riviere took this onslaught with a disconcerting humility. "The arguments I want to present to you, Monsieur, are my own and not those I was sent over with." "Then I see still less reason for listening to them." M. Riviere again looked into his hat, as if considering whether these last words were not a sufficiently broad hint to put it on and be gone. Then he spoke with sudden decision. "Monsieur--will you tell me one thing? Is it my right to be here that you question? Or do you perhaps believe the whole matter to be already closed?" His quiet insistence made Archer feel the clumsiness of his own bluster. M. Riviere had succeeded in imposing himself: Archer, reddening slightly, dropped into his chair again, and signed to the young man to be seated. "I beg your pardon: but why isn't the matter closed?" M. Riviere gazed back at him with anguish. "You do, then, agree with the rest of the family that, in face of the new proposals I have brought, it is hardly possible for Madame Olenska not to return to her husband?" "Good God!" Archer exclaimed; and his visitor gave out a low murmur of confirmation. "Before seeing her, I saw--at Count Olenski's request--Mr. Lovell Mingott, with whom I had several talks before going to Boston. I understand that he represents his mother's view; and that Mrs. Manson Mingott's influence is great throughout her family." Archer sat silent, with the sense of clinging to the edge of a sliding precipice. The discovery that he had been excluded from a share in these negotiations, and even from the knowledge that they were on foot, caused him a surprise hardly dulled by the acuter wonder of what he was learning. He saw in a flash that if the family had ceased to consult him it was because some deep tribal instinct warned them that he was no longer on their side; and he recalled, with a start of comprehension, a remark of May's during their drive home from Mrs. Manson Mingott's on the day of the Archery Meeting: "Perhaps, after all, Ellen would be happier with her husband." Even in the tumult of new discoveries Archer remembered his indignant exclamation, and the fact that since then his wife had never named Madame Olenska to him. Her careless allusion had no doubt been the straw held up to see which way the wind blew; the result had been reported to the family, and thereafter Archer had been tacitly omitted from their counsels. He admired the tribal discipline which made May bow to this decision. She would not have done so, he knew, had her conscience protested; but she probably shared the family view that Madame Olenska would be better off as an unhappy wife than as a separated one, and that there was no use in discussing the case with Newland, who had an awkward way of suddenly not seeming to take the most fundamental things for granted. Archer looked up and met his visitor's anxious gaze. "Don't you know, Monsieur--is it possible you don't know--that the family begin to doubt if they have the right to | the street he asked if he might call that afternoon. Archer, at ease in the midsummer leisure of the office, fixed an hour and scribbled his address, which the Frenchman pocketed with reiterated thanks and a wide flourish of his hat. A horse-car received him, and Archer walked away. Punctually at the hour M. Riviere appeared, shaved, smoothed-out, but still unmistakably drawn and serious. Archer was alone in his office, and the young man, before accepting the seat he proffered, began abruptly: "I believe I saw you, sir, yesterday in Boston." The statement was insignificant enough, and Archer was about to frame an assent when his words were checked by something mysterious yet illuminating in his visitor's insistent gaze. "It is extraordinary, very extraordinary," M. Riviere continued, "that we should have met in the circumstances in which I find myself." "What circumstances?" Archer asked, wondering a little crudely if he needed money. M. Riviere continued to study him with tentative eyes. "I have come, not to look for employment, as I spoke of doing when we last met, but on a special mission--" "Ah--!" Archer exclaimed. In a flash the two meetings had connected themselves in his mind. He paused to take in the situation thus suddenly lighted up for him, and M. Riviere also remained silent, as if aware that what he had said was enough. "A special mission," Archer at length repeated. The young Frenchman, opening his palms, raised them slightly, and the two men continued to look at each other across the office-desk till Archer roused himself to say: "Do sit down" "; whereupon M. Riviere bowed, took a distant chair, and again waited. "It was about this mission that you wanted to consult me?" Archer finally asked. M. Riviere bent his head. "Not in my own behalf: on that score I--I have fully dealt with myself. I should like--if I may--to speak to you about the Countess Olenska." Archer had known for the last few minutes that the words were coming; but when they came they sent the blood rushing to his temples as if he had been caught by a bent-back branch in a thicket. "And on whose behalf," he said, "do you wish to do this?" M. Riviere met the question sturdily. "Well--I might say HERS, if it did not sound like a liberty. Shall I say instead: on behalf of abstract justice?" Archer considered him ironically. "In other words: you are Count Olenski's messenger?" He saw his blush more darkly reflected in M. Riviere's sallow countenance. "Not to YOU, Monsieur. If I come to you, it is on quite other grounds."<|quote|>"What right have you, in the circumstances, to BE on any other ground?"</|quote|>Archer retorted. "If you're an emissary you're an emissary." The young man considered. "My mission is over: as far as the Countess Olenska goes, it has failed." "I can't help that," Archer rejoined on the same note of irony. "No: but you can help--" M. Riviere paused, turned his hat about in his still carefully gloved hands, looked into its lining and then back at Archer's face. "You can help, Monsieur, I am convinced, to make it equally a failure with her family." Archer pushed back his chair and stood up. "Well--and by God I will!" he exclaimed. He stood with his hands in his pockets, staring down wrathfully at the little Frenchman, whose face, though he too had risen, was still an inch or two below the line of Archer's eyes. M. Riviere paled to his normal hue: paler than that his complexion could hardly turn. "Why the devil," Archer explosively continued, "should you have thought--since I suppose you're appealing to me on the ground of my relationship to Madame Olenska--that I should take a view contrary to the rest of her family?" The change of expression in M. Riviere's face was for a time his only answer. His look passed from timidity to absolute distress: for a young man of his usually resourceful mien it would have been difficult to appear more disarmed and defenceless. "Oh, Monsieur--" "I can't imagine," Archer continued, "why you should have come to me when there are others so much nearer to the Countess; still less why you thought I should be more accessible to the arguments I suppose you were sent over with." M. Riviere took this onslaught with a disconcerting humility. "The arguments I want to present to you, Monsieur, are my own and not those I was sent over with." "Then I see still less reason for listening to them." M. Riviere again looked into his hat, as if considering whether these last words were not a sufficiently broad hint to put it on and be gone. Then he spoke with sudden decision. "Monsieur--will you tell me | The Age Of Innocence |
"what on earth did you put into that cake?" | Marilla Cuthbert | cake. "Anne Shirley!" she exclaimed,<|quote|>"what on earth did you put into that cake?"</|quote|>"Nothing but what the recipe | and hastened to taste the cake. "Anne Shirley!" she exclaimed,<|quote|>"what on earth did you put into that cake?"</|quote|>"Nothing but what the recipe said, Marilla," cried Anne with | triangle, as did also the minister and Marilla. Mrs. Allan took a mouthful of hers and a most peculiar expression crossed her face; not a word did she say, however, but steadily ate away at it. Marilla saw the expression and hastened to taste the cake. "Anne Shirley!" she exclaimed,<|quote|>"what on earth did you put into that cake?"</|quote|>"Nothing but what the recipe said, Marilla," cried Anne with a look of anguish. "Oh, isn't it all right?" "All right! It's simply horrible. Mr. Allan, don't try to eat it. Anne, taste it yourself. What flavoring did you use?" "Vanilla," said Anne, her face scarlet with mortification after tasting | been helped to a bewildering variety, declined it. But Marilla, seeing the disappointment on Anne's face, said smilingly: "Oh, you must take a piece of this, Mrs. Allan. Anne made it on purpose for you." "In that case I must sample it," laughed Mrs. Allan, helping herself to a plump triangle, as did also the minister and Marilla. Mrs. Allan took a mouthful of hers and a most peculiar expression crossed her face; not a word did she say, however, but steadily ate away at it. Marilla saw the expression and hastened to taste the cake. "Anne Shirley!" she exclaimed,<|quote|>"what on earth did you put into that cake?"</|quote|>"Nothing but what the recipe said, Marilla," cried Anne with a look of anguish. "Oh, isn't it all right?" "All right! It's simply horrible. Mr. Allan, don't try to eat it. Anne, taste it yourself. What flavoring did you use?" "Vanilla," said Anne, her face scarlet with mortification after tasting the cake. "Only vanilla. Oh, Marilla, it must have been the baking powder. I had my suspicions of that bak--" "Baking powder fiddlesticks! Go and bring me the bottle of vanilla you used." Anne fled to the pantry and returned with a small bottle partially filled with a brown liquid | happiness for this world. Matthew was there, having been inveigled into the party only goodness and Anne knew how. He had been in such a state of shyness and nervousness that Marilla had given him up in despair, but Anne took him in hand so successfully that he now sat at the table in his best clothes and white collar and talked to the minister not uninterestingly. He never said a word to Mrs. Allan, but that perhaps was not to be expected. All went merry as a marriage bell until Anne's layer cake was passed. Mrs. Allan, having already been helped to a bewildering variety, declined it. But Marilla, seeing the disappointment on Anne's face, said smilingly: "Oh, you must take a piece of this, Mrs. Allan. Anne made it on purpose for you." "In that case I must sample it," laughed Mrs. Allan, helping herself to a plump triangle, as did also the minister and Marilla. Mrs. Allan took a mouthful of hers and a most peculiar expression crossed her face; not a word did she say, however, but steadily ate away at it. Marilla saw the expression and hastened to taste the cake. "Anne Shirley!" she exclaimed,<|quote|>"what on earth did you put into that cake?"</|quote|>"Nothing but what the recipe said, Marilla," cried Anne with a look of anguish. "Oh, isn't it all right?" "All right! It's simply horrible. Mr. Allan, don't try to eat it. Anne, taste it yourself. What flavoring did you use?" "Vanilla," said Anne, her face scarlet with mortification after tasting the cake. "Only vanilla. Oh, Marilla, it must have been the baking powder. I had my suspicions of that bak--" "Baking powder fiddlesticks! Go and bring me the bottle of vanilla you used." Anne fled to the pantry and returned with a small bottle partially filled with a brown liquid and labeled yellowly, "Best Vanilla." Marilla took it, uncorked it, smelled it. "Mercy on us, Anne, you've flavored that cake with _Anodyne Liniment_. I broke the liniment bottle last week and poured what was left into an old empty vanilla bottle. I suppose it's partly my fault--I should have warned you--but for pity's sake why couldn't you have smelled it?" Anne dissolved into tears under this double disgrace. "I couldn't--I had such a cold!" and with this she fairly fled to the gable chamber, where she cast herself on the bed and wept as one who refuses to be comforted. | possibly asking for another piece! "You'll be using the best tea set, of course, Marilla," she said. "Can I fix the table with ferns and wild roses?" "I think that's all nonsense," sniffed Marilla. "In my opinion it's the eatables that matter and not flummery decorations." "Mrs. Barry had _her_ table decorated," said Anne, who was not entirely guiltless of the wisdom of the serpent, "and the minister paid her an elegant compliment. He said it was a feast for the eye as well as the palate." "Well, do as you like," said Marilla, who was quite determined not to be surpassed by Mrs. Barry or anybody else. "Only mind you leave enough room for the dishes and the food." Anne laid herself out to decorate in a manner and after a fashion that should leave Mrs. Barry's nowhere. Having abundance of roses and ferns and a very artistic taste of her own, she made that tea table such a thing of beauty that when the minister and his wife sat down to it they exclaimed in chorus over it loveliness. "It's Anne's doings," said Marilla, grimly just; and Anne felt that Mrs. Allan's approving smile was almost too much happiness for this world. Matthew was there, having been inveigled into the party only goodness and Anne knew how. He had been in such a state of shyness and nervousness that Marilla had given him up in despair, but Anne took him in hand so successfully that he now sat at the table in his best clothes and white collar and talked to the minister not uninterestingly. He never said a word to Mrs. Allan, but that perhaps was not to be expected. All went merry as a marriage bell until Anne's layer cake was passed. Mrs. Allan, having already been helped to a bewildering variety, declined it. But Marilla, seeing the disappointment on Anne's face, said smilingly: "Oh, you must take a piece of this, Mrs. Allan. Anne made it on purpose for you." "In that case I must sample it," laughed Mrs. Allan, helping herself to a plump triangle, as did also the minister and Marilla. Mrs. Allan took a mouthful of hers and a most peculiar expression crossed her face; not a word did she say, however, but steadily ate away at it. Marilla saw the expression and hastened to taste the cake. "Anne Shirley!" she exclaimed,<|quote|>"what on earth did you put into that cake?"</|quote|>"Nothing but what the recipe said, Marilla," cried Anne with a look of anguish. "Oh, isn't it all right?" "All right! It's simply horrible. Mr. Allan, don't try to eat it. Anne, taste it yourself. What flavoring did you use?" "Vanilla," said Anne, her face scarlet with mortification after tasting the cake. "Only vanilla. Oh, Marilla, it must have been the baking powder. I had my suspicions of that bak--" "Baking powder fiddlesticks! Go and bring me the bottle of vanilla you used." Anne fled to the pantry and returned with a small bottle partially filled with a brown liquid and labeled yellowly, "Best Vanilla." Marilla took it, uncorked it, smelled it. "Mercy on us, Anne, you've flavored that cake with _Anodyne Liniment_. I broke the liniment bottle last week and poured what was left into an old empty vanilla bottle. I suppose it's partly my fault--I should have warned you--but for pity's sake why couldn't you have smelled it?" Anne dissolved into tears under this double disgrace. "I couldn't--I had such a cold!" and with this she fairly fled to the gable chamber, where she cast herself on the bed and wept as one who refuses to be comforted. Presently a light step sounded on the stairs and somebody entered the room. "Oh, Marilla," sobbed Anne, without looking up, "I'm disgraced forever. I shall never be able to live this down. It will get out--things always do get out in Avonlea. Diana will ask me how my cake turned out and I shall have to tell her the truth. I shall always be pointed at as the girl who flavored a cake with anodyne liniment. Gil--the boys in school will never get over laughing at it. Oh, Marilla, if you have a spark of Christian pity don't tell me that I must go down and wash the dishes after this. I'll wash them when the minister and his wife are gone, but I cannot ever look Mrs. Allan in the face again. Perhaps she'll think I tried to poison her. Mrs. Lynde says she knows an orphan girl who tried to poison her benefactor. But the liniment isn't poisonous. It's meant to be taken internally--although not in cakes. Won't you tell Mrs. Allan so, Marilla?" "Suppose you jump up and tell her so yourself," said a merry voice. Anne flew up, to find Mrs. Allan standing by her bed, | a terrible habit of turning out bad just when you especially want them to be good," sighed Anne, setting a particularly well-balsamed twig afloat. "However, I suppose I shall just have to trust to Providence and be careful to put in the flour. Oh, look, Diana, what a lovely rainbow! Do you suppose the dryad will come out after we go away and take it for a scarf?" "You know there is no such thing as a dryad," said Diana. Diana's mother had found out about the Haunted Wood and had been decidedly angry over it. As a result Diana had abstained from any further imitative flights of imagination and did not think it prudent to cultivate a spirit of belief even in harmless dryads. "But it's so easy to imagine there is," said Anne. "Every night before I go to bed, I look out of my window and wonder if the dryad is really sitting here, combing her locks with the spring for a mirror. Sometimes I look for her footprints in the dew in the morning. Oh, Diana, don't give up your faith in the dryad!" Wednesday morning came. Anne got up at sunrise because she was too excited to sleep. She had caught a severe cold in the head by reason of her dabbling in the spring on the preceding evening; but nothing short of absolute pneumonia could have quenched her interest in culinary matters that morning. After breakfast she proceeded to make her cake. When she finally shut the oven door upon it she drew a long breath. "I'm sure I haven't forgotten anything this time, Marilla. But do you think it will rise? Just suppose perhaps the baking powder isn't good? I used it out of the new can. And Mrs. Lynde says you can never be sure of getting good baking powder nowadays when everything is so adulterated. Mrs. Lynde says the Government ought to take the matter up, but she says we'll never see the day when a Tory Government will do it. Marilla, what if that cake doesn't rise?" "We'll have plenty without it" was Marilla's unimpassioned way of looking at the subject. The cake did rise, however, and came out of the oven as light and feathery as golden foam. Anne, flushed with delight, clapped it together with layers of ruby jelly and, in imagination, saw Mrs. Allan eating it and possibly asking for another piece! "You'll be using the best tea set, of course, Marilla," she said. "Can I fix the table with ferns and wild roses?" "I think that's all nonsense," sniffed Marilla. "In my opinion it's the eatables that matter and not flummery decorations." "Mrs. Barry had _her_ table decorated," said Anne, who was not entirely guiltless of the wisdom of the serpent, "and the minister paid her an elegant compliment. He said it was a feast for the eye as well as the palate." "Well, do as you like," said Marilla, who was quite determined not to be surpassed by Mrs. Barry or anybody else. "Only mind you leave enough room for the dishes and the food." Anne laid herself out to decorate in a manner and after a fashion that should leave Mrs. Barry's nowhere. Having abundance of roses and ferns and a very artistic taste of her own, she made that tea table such a thing of beauty that when the minister and his wife sat down to it they exclaimed in chorus over it loveliness. "It's Anne's doings," said Marilla, grimly just; and Anne felt that Mrs. Allan's approving smile was almost too much happiness for this world. Matthew was there, having been inveigled into the party only goodness and Anne knew how. He had been in such a state of shyness and nervousness that Marilla had given him up in despair, but Anne took him in hand so successfully that he now sat at the table in his best clothes and white collar and talked to the minister not uninterestingly. He never said a word to Mrs. Allan, but that perhaps was not to be expected. All went merry as a marriage bell until Anne's layer cake was passed. Mrs. Allan, having already been helped to a bewildering variety, declined it. But Marilla, seeing the disappointment on Anne's face, said smilingly: "Oh, you must take a piece of this, Mrs. Allan. Anne made it on purpose for you." "In that case I must sample it," laughed Mrs. Allan, helping herself to a plump triangle, as did also the minister and Marilla. Mrs. Allan took a mouthful of hers and a most peculiar expression crossed her face; not a word did she say, however, but steadily ate away at it. Marilla saw the expression and hastened to taste the cake. "Anne Shirley!" she exclaimed,<|quote|>"what on earth did you put into that cake?"</|quote|>"Nothing but what the recipe said, Marilla," cried Anne with a look of anguish. "Oh, isn't it all right?" "All right! It's simply horrible. Mr. Allan, don't try to eat it. Anne, taste it yourself. What flavoring did you use?" "Vanilla," said Anne, her face scarlet with mortification after tasting the cake. "Only vanilla. Oh, Marilla, it must have been the baking powder. I had my suspicions of that bak--" "Baking powder fiddlesticks! Go and bring me the bottle of vanilla you used." Anne fled to the pantry and returned with a small bottle partially filled with a brown liquid and labeled yellowly, "Best Vanilla." Marilla took it, uncorked it, smelled it. "Mercy on us, Anne, you've flavored that cake with _Anodyne Liniment_. I broke the liniment bottle last week and poured what was left into an old empty vanilla bottle. I suppose it's partly my fault--I should have warned you--but for pity's sake why couldn't you have smelled it?" Anne dissolved into tears under this double disgrace. "I couldn't--I had such a cold!" and with this she fairly fled to the gable chamber, where she cast herself on the bed and wept as one who refuses to be comforted. Presently a light step sounded on the stairs and somebody entered the room. "Oh, Marilla," sobbed Anne, without looking up, "I'm disgraced forever. I shall never be able to live this down. It will get out--things always do get out in Avonlea. Diana will ask me how my cake turned out and I shall have to tell her the truth. I shall always be pointed at as the girl who flavored a cake with anodyne liniment. Gil--the boys in school will never get over laughing at it. Oh, Marilla, if you have a spark of Christian pity don't tell me that I must go down and wash the dishes after this. I'll wash them when the minister and his wife are gone, but I cannot ever look Mrs. Allan in the face again. Perhaps she'll think I tried to poison her. Mrs. Lynde says she knows an orphan girl who tried to poison her benefactor. But the liniment isn't poisonous. It's meant to be taken internally--although not in cakes. Won't you tell Mrs. Allan so, Marilla?" "Suppose you jump up and tell her so yourself," said a merry voice. Anne flew up, to find Mrs. Allan standing by her bed, surveying her with laughing eyes. "My dear little girl, you mustn't cry like this," she said, genuinely disturbed by Anne's tragic face. "Why, it's all just a funny mistake that anybody might make." "Oh, no, it takes me to make such a mistake," said Anne forlornly. "And I wanted to have that cake so nice for you, Mrs. Allan." "Yes, I know, dear. And I assure you I appreciate your kindness and thoughtfulness just as much as if it had turned out all right. Now, you mustn't cry any more, but come down with me and show me your flower garden. Miss Cuthbert tells me you have a little plot all your own. I want to see it, for I'm very much interested in flowers." Anne permitted herself to be led down and comforted, reflecting that it was really providential that Mrs. Allan was a kindred spirit. Nothing more was said about the liniment cake, and when the guests went away Anne found that she had enjoyed the evening more than could have been expected, considering that terrible incident. Nevertheless, she sighed deeply. "Marilla, isn't it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?" "I'll warrant you'll make plenty in it," said Marilla. "I never saw your beat for making mistakes, Anne." "Yes, and well I know it," admitted Anne mournfully. "But have you ever noticed one encouraging thing about me, Marilla? I never make the same mistake twice." "I don't know as that's much benefit when you're always making new ones." "Oh, don't you see, Marilla? There must be a limit to the mistakes one person can make, and when I get to the end of them, then I'll be through with them. That's a very comforting thought." "Well, you'd better go and give that cake to the pigs," said Marilla. "It isn't fit for any human to eat, not even Jerry Boute." CHAPTER XXII. Anne is Invited Out to Tea "AND what are your eyes popping out of your head about. Now?" asked Marilla, when Anne had just come in from a run to the post office. "Have you discovered another kindred spirit?" Excitement hung around Anne like a garment, shone in her eyes, kindled in every feature. She had come dancing up the lane, like a wind-blown sprite, through the mellow sunshine and lazy shadows of the August evening. "No, | fix the table with ferns and wild roses?" "I think that's all nonsense," sniffed Marilla. "In my opinion it's the eatables that matter and not flummery decorations." "Mrs. Barry had _her_ table decorated," said Anne, who was not entirely guiltless of the wisdom of the serpent, "and the minister paid her an elegant compliment. He said it was a feast for the eye as well as the palate." "Well, do as you like," said Marilla, who was quite determined not to be surpassed by Mrs. Barry or anybody else. "Only mind you leave enough room for the dishes and the food." Anne laid herself out to decorate in a manner and after a fashion that should leave Mrs. Barry's nowhere. Having abundance of roses and ferns and a very artistic taste of her own, she made that tea table such a thing of beauty that when the minister and his wife sat down to it they exclaimed in chorus over it loveliness. "It's Anne's doings," said Marilla, grimly just; and Anne felt that Mrs. Allan's approving smile was almost too much happiness for this world. Matthew was there, having been inveigled into the party only goodness and Anne knew how. He had been in such a state of shyness and nervousness that Marilla had given him up in despair, but Anne took him in hand so successfully that he now sat at the table in his best clothes and white collar and talked to the minister not uninterestingly. He never said a word to Mrs. Allan, but that perhaps was not to be expected. All went merry as a marriage bell until Anne's layer cake was passed. Mrs. Allan, having already been helped to a bewildering variety, declined it. But Marilla, seeing the disappointment on Anne's face, said smilingly: "Oh, you must take a piece of this, Mrs. Allan. Anne made it on purpose for you." "In that case I must sample it," laughed Mrs. Allan, helping herself to a plump triangle, as did also the minister and Marilla. Mrs. Allan took a mouthful of hers and a most peculiar expression crossed her face; not a word did she say, however, but steadily ate away at it. Marilla saw the expression and hastened to taste the cake. "Anne Shirley!" she exclaimed,<|quote|>"what on earth did you put into that cake?"</|quote|>"Nothing but what the recipe said, Marilla," cried Anne with a look of anguish. "Oh, isn't it all right?" "All right! It's simply horrible. Mr. Allan, don't try to eat it. Anne, taste it yourself. What flavoring did you use?" "Vanilla," said Anne, her face scarlet with mortification after tasting the cake. "Only vanilla. Oh, Marilla, it must have been the baking powder. I had my suspicions of that bak--" "Baking powder fiddlesticks! Go and bring me the bottle of vanilla you used." Anne fled to the pantry and returned with a small bottle partially filled with a brown liquid and labeled yellowly, "Best Vanilla." Marilla took it, uncorked it, smelled it. "Mercy on us, Anne, you've flavored that cake with _Anodyne Liniment_. I broke the liniment bottle last week and poured what was left into an old empty vanilla bottle. I suppose it's partly my fault--I should have warned you--but for pity's sake why couldn't you have smelled it?" Anne dissolved into tears under this double disgrace. "I couldn't--I had such a cold!" and with this she fairly fled to the gable chamber, where she cast herself on the bed and wept as one who refuses to be comforted. Presently a light step sounded on the stairs and somebody entered the room. "Oh, Marilla," sobbed Anne, without looking up, "I'm disgraced forever. I shall never be able to live this down. It will get out--things always do get out in Avonlea. Diana will ask me how my cake turned out and I shall have to tell her the truth. I shall always be pointed at as the girl who flavored a cake with anodyne liniment. Gil--the boys in school will never get over laughing at it. Oh, Marilla, if you have a spark | Anne Of Green Gables |
"Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine some day should be mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now." | John Cavendish | John. He nodded rather gloomily.<|quote|>"Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine some day should be mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now."</|quote|>"Hard up, are you?" "My | old place," I said to John. He nodded rather gloomily.<|quote|>"Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine some day should be mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now."</|quote|>"Hard up, are you?" "My dear Hastings, I don't mind | thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house, and that vivid wicked little face that had just smiled into ours, and a vague chill of foreboding crept over me. I brushed it aside. "Styles is really a glorious old place," I said to John. He nodded rather gloomily.<|quote|>"Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine some day should be mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now."</|quote|>"Hard up, are you?" "My dear Hastings, I don't mind telling you that I'm at my wits' end for money." "Couldn't your brother help you?" "Lawrence? He's gone through every penny he ever had, publishing rotten verses in fancy bindings. No, we're an impecunious lot. My mother's always been awfully | of the gates on our way home again, a pretty young woman of gipsy type coming in the opposite direction bowed and smiled. "That's a pretty girl," I remarked appreciatively. John's face hardened. "That is Mrs. Raikes." "The one that Miss Howard" "Exactly," said John, with rather unnecessary abruptness. I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house, and that vivid wicked little face that had just smiled into ours, and a vague chill of foreboding crept over me. I brushed it aside. "Styles is really a glorious old place," I said to John. He nodded rather gloomily.<|quote|>"Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine some day should be mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now."</|quote|>"Hard up, are you?" "My dear Hastings, I don't mind telling you that I'm at my wits' end for money." "Couldn't your brother help you?" "Lawrence? He's gone through every penny he ever had, publishing rotten verses in fancy bindings. No, we're an impecunious lot. My mother's always been awfully good to us, I must say. That is, up to now. Since her marriage, of course" he broke off, frowning. For the first time I felt that, with Evelyn Howard, something indefinable had gone from the atmosphere. Her presence had spelt security. Now that security was removed and the air | after a bad nervous breakdown. He's a London specialist; a very clever man one of the greatest living experts on poisons, I believe." "And he's a great friend of Mary's," put in Cynthia, the irrepressible. John Cavendish frowned and changed the subject. "Come for a stroll, Hastings. This has been a most rotten business. She always had a rough tongue, but there is no stauncher friend in England than Evelyn Howard." He took the path through the plantation, and we walked down to the village through the woods which bordered one side of the estate. As we passed through one of the gates on our way home again, a pretty young woman of gipsy type coming in the opposite direction bowed and smiled. "That's a pretty girl," I remarked appreciatively. John's face hardened. "That is Mrs. Raikes." "The one that Miss Howard" "Exactly," said John, with rather unnecessary abruptness. I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house, and that vivid wicked little face that had just smiled into ours, and a vague chill of foreboding crept over me. I brushed it aside. "Styles is really a glorious old place," I said to John. He nodded rather gloomily.<|quote|>"Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine some day should be mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now."</|quote|>"Hard up, are you?" "My dear Hastings, I don't mind telling you that I'm at my wits' end for money." "Couldn't your brother help you?" "Lawrence? He's gone through every penny he ever had, publishing rotten verses in fancy bindings. No, we're an impecunious lot. My mother's always been awfully good to us, I must say. That is, up to now. Since her marriage, of course" he broke off, frowning. For the first time I felt that, with Evelyn Howard, something indefinable had gone from the atmosphere. Her presence had spelt security. Now that security was removed and the air seemed rife with suspicion. The sinister face of Dr. Bauerstein recurred to me unpleasantly. A vague suspicion of everyone and everything filled my mind. Just for a moment I had a premonition of approaching evil. CHAPTER II. THE 16TH AND 17TH OF JULY I had arrived at Styles on the 5th of July. I come now to the events of the 16th and 17th of that month. For the convenience of the reader I will recapitulate the incidents of those days in as exact a manner as possible. They were elicited subsequently at the trial by a process of long | I can, but I'm sure you're excited and overwrought." She interrupted me by slowly shaking her forefinger. "Young man, trust me. I've lived in the world rather longer than you have. All I ask you is to keep your eyes open. You'll see what I mean." The throb of the motor came through the open window, and Miss Howard rose and moved to the door. John's voice sounded outside. With her hand on the handle, she turned her head over her shoulder, and beckoned to me. "Above all, Mr. Hastings, watch that devil her husband!" There was no time for more. Miss Howard was swallowed up in an eager chorus of protests and good-byes. The Inglethorps did not appear. As the motor drove away, Mrs. Cavendish suddenly detached herself from the group, and moved across the drive to the lawn to meet a tall bearded man who had been evidently making for the house. The colour rose in her cheeks as she held out her hand to him. "Who is that?" I asked sharply, for instinctively I distrusted the man. "That's Dr. Bauerstein," said John shortly. "And who is Dr. Bauerstein?" "He's staying in the village doing a rest cure, after a bad nervous breakdown. He's a London specialist; a very clever man one of the greatest living experts on poisons, I believe." "And he's a great friend of Mary's," put in Cynthia, the irrepressible. John Cavendish frowned and changed the subject. "Come for a stroll, Hastings. This has been a most rotten business. She always had a rough tongue, but there is no stauncher friend in England than Evelyn Howard." He took the path through the plantation, and we walked down to the village through the woods which bordered one side of the estate. As we passed through one of the gates on our way home again, a pretty young woman of gipsy type coming in the opposite direction bowed and smiled. "That's a pretty girl," I remarked appreciatively. John's face hardened. "That is Mrs. Raikes." "The one that Miss Howard" "Exactly," said John, with rather unnecessary abruptness. I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house, and that vivid wicked little face that had just smiled into ours, and a vague chill of foreboding crept over me. I brushed it aside. "Styles is really a glorious old place," I said to John. He nodded rather gloomily.<|quote|>"Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine some day should be mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now."</|quote|>"Hard up, are you?" "My dear Hastings, I don't mind telling you that I'm at my wits' end for money." "Couldn't your brother help you?" "Lawrence? He's gone through every penny he ever had, publishing rotten verses in fancy bindings. No, we're an impecunious lot. My mother's always been awfully good to us, I must say. That is, up to now. Since her marriage, of course" he broke off, frowning. For the first time I felt that, with Evelyn Howard, something indefinable had gone from the atmosphere. Her presence had spelt security. Now that security was removed and the air seemed rife with suspicion. The sinister face of Dr. Bauerstein recurred to me unpleasantly. A vague suspicion of everyone and everything filled my mind. Just for a moment I had a premonition of approaching evil. CHAPTER II. THE 16TH AND 17TH OF JULY I had arrived at Styles on the 5th of July. I come now to the events of the 16th and 17th of that month. For the convenience of the reader I will recapitulate the incidents of those days in as exact a manner as possible. They were elicited subsequently at the trial by a process of long and tedious cross-examinations. I received a letter from Evelyn Howard a couple of days after her departure, telling me she was working as a nurse at the big hospital in Middlingham, a manufacturing town some fifteen miles away, and begging me to let her know if Mrs. Inglethorp should show any wish to be reconciled. The only fly in the ointment of my peaceful days was Mrs. Cavendish's extraordinary, and, for my part, unaccountable preference for the society of Dr. Bauerstein. What she saw in the man I cannot imagine, but she was always asking him up to the house, and often went off for long expeditions with him. I must confess that I was quite unable to see his attraction. The 16th of July fell on a Monday. It was a day of turmoil. The famous bazaar had taken place on Saturday, and an entertainment, in connection with the same charity, at which Mrs. Inglethorp was to recite a War poem, was to be held that night. We were all busy during the morning arranging and decorating the Hall in the village where it was to take place. We had a late luncheon and spent the afternoon resting in | mater, and Oh, here's Evie herself." Miss Howard entered. Her lips were set grimly together, and she carried a small suit-case. She looked excited and determined, and slightly on the defensive. "At any rate," she burst out, "I've spoken my mind!" "My dear Evelyn," cried Mrs. Cavendish, "this can't be true!" Miss Howard nodded grimly. "True enough! Afraid I said some things to Emily she won't forget or forgive in a hurry. Don't mind if they've only sunk in a bit. Probably water off a duck's back, though. I said right out:" You're an old woman, Emily, and there's no fool like an old fool. The man's twenty years younger than you, and don't you fool yourself as to what he married you for. Money! Well, don't let him have too much of it. Farmer Raikes has got a very pretty young wife. Just ask your Alfred how much time he spends over there.' "She was very angry. Natural! I went on," I'm going to warn you, whether you like it or not. That man would as soon murder you in your bed as look at you. He's a bad lot. You can say what you like to me, but remember what I've told you. He's a bad lot!'" "What did she say?" Miss Howard made an extremely expressive grimace. " Darling Alfred' dearest Alfred' wicked calumnies' wicked lies' wicked woman' "to accuse her" dear husband!' "The sooner I left her house the better. So I'm off." "But not now?" "This minute!" For a moment we sat and stared at her. Finally John Cavendish, finding his persuasions of no avail, went off to look up the trains. His wife followed him, murmuring something about persuading Mrs. Inglethorp to think better of it. As she left the room, Miss Howard's face changed. She leant towards me eagerly. "Mr. Hastings, you're honest. I can trust you?" I was a little startled. She laid her hand on my arm, and sank her voice to a whisper. "Look after her, Mr. Hastings. My poor Emily. They're a lot of sharks all of them. Oh, I know what I'm talking about. There isn't one of them that's not hard up and trying to get money out of her. I've protected her as much as I could. Now I'm out of the way, they'll impose upon her." "Of course, Miss Howard," I said, "I'll do everything I can, but I'm sure you're excited and overwrought." She interrupted me by slowly shaking her forefinger. "Young man, trust me. I've lived in the world rather longer than you have. All I ask you is to keep your eyes open. You'll see what I mean." The throb of the motor came through the open window, and Miss Howard rose and moved to the door. John's voice sounded outside. With her hand on the handle, she turned her head over her shoulder, and beckoned to me. "Above all, Mr. Hastings, watch that devil her husband!" There was no time for more. Miss Howard was swallowed up in an eager chorus of protests and good-byes. The Inglethorps did not appear. As the motor drove away, Mrs. Cavendish suddenly detached herself from the group, and moved across the drive to the lawn to meet a tall bearded man who had been evidently making for the house. The colour rose in her cheeks as she held out her hand to him. "Who is that?" I asked sharply, for instinctively I distrusted the man. "That's Dr. Bauerstein," said John shortly. "And who is Dr. Bauerstein?" "He's staying in the village doing a rest cure, after a bad nervous breakdown. He's a London specialist; a very clever man one of the greatest living experts on poisons, I believe." "And he's a great friend of Mary's," put in Cynthia, the irrepressible. John Cavendish frowned and changed the subject. "Come for a stroll, Hastings. This has been a most rotten business. She always had a rough tongue, but there is no stauncher friend in England than Evelyn Howard." He took the path through the plantation, and we walked down to the village through the woods which bordered one side of the estate. As we passed through one of the gates on our way home again, a pretty young woman of gipsy type coming in the opposite direction bowed and smiled. "That's a pretty girl," I remarked appreciatively. John's face hardened. "That is Mrs. Raikes." "The one that Miss Howard" "Exactly," said John, with rather unnecessary abruptness. I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house, and that vivid wicked little face that had just smiled into ours, and a vague chill of foreboding crept over me. I brushed it aside. "Styles is really a glorious old place," I said to John. He nodded rather gloomily.<|quote|>"Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine some day should be mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now."</|quote|>"Hard up, are you?" "My dear Hastings, I don't mind telling you that I'm at my wits' end for money." "Couldn't your brother help you?" "Lawrence? He's gone through every penny he ever had, publishing rotten verses in fancy bindings. No, we're an impecunious lot. My mother's always been awfully good to us, I must say. That is, up to now. Since her marriage, of course" he broke off, frowning. For the first time I felt that, with Evelyn Howard, something indefinable had gone from the atmosphere. Her presence had spelt security. Now that security was removed and the air seemed rife with suspicion. The sinister face of Dr. Bauerstein recurred to me unpleasantly. A vague suspicion of everyone and everything filled my mind. Just for a moment I had a premonition of approaching evil. CHAPTER II. THE 16TH AND 17TH OF JULY I had arrived at Styles on the 5th of July. I come now to the events of the 16th and 17th of that month. For the convenience of the reader I will recapitulate the incidents of those days in as exact a manner as possible. They were elicited subsequently at the trial by a process of long and tedious cross-examinations. I received a letter from Evelyn Howard a couple of days after her departure, telling me she was working as a nurse at the big hospital in Middlingham, a manufacturing town some fifteen miles away, and begging me to let her know if Mrs. Inglethorp should show any wish to be reconciled. The only fly in the ointment of my peaceful days was Mrs. Cavendish's extraordinary, and, for my part, unaccountable preference for the society of Dr. Bauerstein. What she saw in the man I cannot imagine, but she was always asking him up to the house, and often went off for long expeditions with him. I must confess that I was quite unable to see his attraction. The 16th of July fell on a Monday. It was a day of turmoil. The famous bazaar had taken place on Saturday, and an entertainment, in connection with the same charity, at which Mrs. Inglethorp was to recite a War poem, was to be held that night. We were all busy during the morning arranging and decorating the Hall in the village where it was to take place. We had a late luncheon and spent the afternoon resting in the garden. I noticed that John's manner was somewhat unusual. He seemed very excited and restless. After tea, Mrs. Inglethorp went to lie down to rest before her efforts in the evening and I challenged Mary Cavendish to a single at tennis. About a quarter to seven, Mrs. Inglethorp called us that we should be late as supper was early that night. We had rather a scramble to get ready in time; and before the meal was over the motor was waiting at the door. The entertainment was a great success, Mrs. Inglethorp's recitation receiving tremendous applause. There were also some tableaux in which Cynthia took part. She did not return with us, having been asked to a supper party, and to remain the night with some friends who had been acting with her in the tableaux. The following morning, Mrs. Inglethorp stayed in bed to breakfast, as she was rather overtired; but she appeared in her briskest mood about 12.30, and swept Lawrence and myself off to a luncheon party. "Such a charming invitation from Mrs. Rolleston. Lady Tadminster's sister, you know. The Rollestons came over with the Conqueror one of our oldest families." Mary had excused herself on the plea of an engagement with Dr. Bauerstein. We had a pleasant luncheon, and as we drove away Lawrence suggested that we should return by Tadminster, which was barely a mile out of our way, and pay a visit to Cynthia in her dispensary. Mrs. Inglethorp replied that this was an excellent idea, but as she had several letters to write she would drop us there, and we could come back with Cynthia in the pony-trap. We were detained under suspicion by the hospital porter, until Cynthia appeared to vouch for us, looking very cool and sweet in her long white overall. She took us up to her sanctum, and introduced us to her fellow dispenser, a rather awe-inspiring individual, whom Cynthia cheerily addressed as "Nibs." "What a lot of bottles!" I exclaimed, as my eye travelled round the small room. "Do you really know what's in them all?" "Say something original," groaned Cynthia. "Every single person who comes up here says that. We are really thinking of bestowing a prize on the first individual who does _not_ say:" What a lot of bottles!' "And I know the next thing you're going to say is: How many people have you | I could. Now I'm out of the way, they'll impose upon her." "Of course, Miss Howard," I said, "I'll do everything I can, but I'm sure you're excited and overwrought." She interrupted me by slowly shaking her forefinger. "Young man, trust me. I've lived in the world rather longer than you have. All I ask you is to keep your eyes open. You'll see what I mean." The throb of the motor came through the open window, and Miss Howard rose and moved to the door. John's voice sounded outside. With her hand on the handle, she turned her head over her shoulder, and beckoned to me. "Above all, Mr. Hastings, watch that devil her husband!" There was no time for more. Miss Howard was swallowed up in an eager chorus of protests and good-byes. The Inglethorps did not appear. As the motor drove away, Mrs. Cavendish suddenly detached herself from the group, and moved across the drive to the lawn to meet a tall bearded man who had been evidently making for the house. The colour rose in her cheeks as she held out her hand to him. "Who is that?" I asked sharply, for instinctively I distrusted the man. "That's Dr. Bauerstein," said John shortly. "And who is Dr. Bauerstein?" "He's staying in the village doing a rest cure, after a bad nervous breakdown. He's a London specialist; a very clever man one of the greatest living experts on poisons, I believe." "And he's a great friend of Mary's," put in Cynthia, the irrepressible. John Cavendish frowned and changed the subject. "Come for a stroll, Hastings. This has been a most rotten business. She always had a rough tongue, but there is no stauncher friend in England than Evelyn Howard." He took the path through the plantation, and we walked down to the village through the woods which bordered one side of the estate. As we passed through one of the gates on our way home again, a pretty young woman of gipsy type coming in the opposite direction bowed and smiled. "That's a pretty girl," I remarked appreciatively. John's face hardened. "That is Mrs. Raikes." "The one that Miss Howard" "Exactly," said John, with rather unnecessary abruptness. I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house, and that vivid wicked little face that had just smiled into ours, and a vague chill of foreboding crept over me. I brushed it aside. "Styles is really a glorious old place," I said to John. He nodded rather gloomily.<|quote|>"Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine some day should be mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now."</|quote|>"Hard up, are you?" "My dear Hastings, I don't mind telling you that I'm at my wits' end for money." "Couldn't your brother help you?" "Lawrence? He's gone through every penny he ever had, publishing rotten verses in fancy bindings. No, we're an impecunious lot. My mother's always been awfully good to us, I must say. That is, up to now. Since her marriage, of course" he broke off, frowning. For the first time I felt that, with Evelyn Howard, something indefinable had gone from the atmosphere. Her presence had spelt security. Now that security was removed and the air seemed rife with suspicion. The sinister face of Dr. Bauerstein recurred to me unpleasantly. A vague suspicion of everyone and everything filled my mind. Just for a moment I had a premonition of approaching evil. CHAPTER II. THE 16TH AND 17TH OF JULY I had arrived at Styles on the 5th of July. I come now to the events of the 16th and 17th of that month. For the convenience of the reader I will recapitulate the incidents of those days in as exact a manner as possible. They were elicited subsequently at the trial by a process of long and tedious cross-examinations. I received a letter from Evelyn Howard a couple of days after her departure, telling me she was working as a nurse at the big hospital in Middlingham, a manufacturing town some fifteen miles away, and begging me to let her know if Mrs. Inglethorp should show any wish to be reconciled. The only fly in the ointment of my peaceful days was Mrs. Cavendish's extraordinary, and, for my part, unaccountable preference for the society of Dr. Bauerstein. What she saw in the man I cannot imagine, but she was always asking him up to the | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
gasped Lucy. | No speaker | for ever?" "I don't know,"<|quote|>gasped Lucy.</|quote|>"I don't understand this sort | slip back into the darkness for ever?" "I don't know,"<|quote|>gasped Lucy.</|quote|>"I don't understand this sort of thing. I was not | 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,"<|quote|>gasped Lucy.</|quote|>"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 | 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,"<|quote|>gasped Lucy.</|quote|>"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 | "'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,"<|quote|>gasped Lucy.</|quote|>"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 | was madness when you brought your cousin in; that whatever you felt you did not mean. Yet" "--his voice gathered strength: he spoke out to make certain--" "Miss Honeychurch, do you remember Italy?" Lucy selected a book--a volume of Old Testament commentaries. Holding it up to her eyes, she said: "I have no wish to discuss Italy or any subject connected with your son." "But you do remember it?" "He has misbehaved himself from the first." "I only was told that he loved you last Sunday. I never could judge behaviour. I--I--suppose he has." Feeling a little steadier, she put the book back and turned round to him. His face was drooping and swollen, but his eyes, though they were sunken deep, gleamed with a child's courage. "Why, he has behaved abominably," she said. "I am glad he is sorry. Do you know what he did?" "Not 'abominably," '" was the gentle correction. "He only tried when he should not have tried. You have all you want, Miss Honeychurch: you are going to marry the man you love. Do not go out of George's life saying he is abominable." "No, of course," said Lucy, ashamed at the reference to Cecil. "'Abominable' "is much too strong. I am sorry I used it about your son. I think I will go to church, after all. My mother and my cousin have gone. I shall not be so very late--" "Especially as he has gone under," he said quietly. "What was that?" "Gone under naturally." He beat his palms together in silence; his head fell on his chest. "I don't understand." "As his mother did." "But, Mr. Emerson--MR. EMERSON--what are you talking about?" "When I wouldn't have George baptized," said he. Lucy was frightened. "And she agreed that baptism was nothing, but he caught that fever when he was twelve and she turned round. She thought it a judgement." He shuddered. "Oh, horrible, when we had given up that sort of thing and broken away from her parents. Oh, horrible--worst of all--worse than death, when you have made a little clearing in the wilderness, planted your little garden, let in your sunlight, and then the weeds creep in again! A judgement! And our boy had typhoid because no clergyman had dropped water on him in church! Is it possible, Miss Honeychurch? Shall we slip back into the darkness for ever?" "I don't know,"<|quote|>gasped Lucy.</|quote|>"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 | his mother had already gone, but she had refused to start until she obtained her hostess's full sanction, for it would mean keeping the horse waiting a good ten minutes more. "Certainly," said the hostess wearily. "I forgot it was Friday. Let's all go. Powell can go round to the stables." "Lucy dearest--" "No church for me, thank you." A sigh, and they departed. The church was invisible, but up in the darkness to the left there was a hint of colour. This was a stained window, through which some feeble light was shining, and when the door opened Lucy heard Mr. Beebe's voice running through the litany to a minute congregation. Even their church, built upon the slope of the hill so artfully, with its beautiful raised transept and its spire of silvery shingle--even their church had lost its charm; and the thing one never talked about--religion--was fading like all the other things. She followed the maid into the Rectory. Would she object to sitting in Mr. Beebe's study? There was only that one fire. She would not object. Some one was there already, for Lucy heard the words: "A lady to wait, sir." Old Mr. Emerson was sitting by the fire, with his foot upon a gout-stool. "Oh, Miss Honeychurch, that you should come!" he quavered; and Lucy saw an alteration in him since last Sunday. Not a word would come to her lips. George she had faced, and could have faced again, but she had forgotten how to treat his father. "Miss Honeychurch, dear, we are so sorry! George is so sorry! He thought he had a right to try. I cannot blame my boy, and yet I wish he had told me first. He ought not to have tried. I knew nothing about it at all." If only she could remember how to behave! He held up his hand. "But you must not scold him." Lucy turned her back, and began to look at Mr. Beebe's books. "I taught him," he quavered, "to trust in love. I said:" 'When love comes, that is reality.' "I said:" 'Passion does not blind. No. Passion is sanity, and the woman you love, she is the only person you will ever really understand.'" He sighed: "True, everlastingly true, though my day is over, and though there is the result. Poor boy! He is so sorry! He said he knew it was madness when you brought your cousin in; that whatever you felt you did not mean. Yet" "--his voice gathered strength: he spoke out to make certain--" "Miss Honeychurch, do you remember Italy?" Lucy selected a book--a volume of Old Testament commentaries. Holding it up to her eyes, she said: "I have no wish to discuss Italy or any subject connected with your son." "But you do remember it?" "He has misbehaved himself from the first." "I only was told that he loved you last Sunday. I never could judge behaviour. I--I--suppose he has." Feeling a little steadier, she put the book back and turned round to him. His face was drooping and swollen, but his eyes, though they were sunken deep, gleamed with a child's courage. "Why, he has behaved abominably," she said. "I am glad he is sorry. Do you know what he did?" "Not 'abominably," '" was the gentle correction. "He only tried when he should not have tried. You have all you want, Miss Honeychurch: you are going to marry the man you love. Do not go out of George's life saying he is abominable." "No, of course," said Lucy, ashamed at the reference to Cecil. "'Abominable' "is much too strong. I am sorry I used it about your son. I think I will go to church, after all. My mother and my cousin have gone. I shall not be so very late--" "Especially as he has gone under," he said quietly. "What was that?" "Gone under naturally." He beat his palms together in silence; his head fell on his chest. "I don't understand." "As his mother did." "But, Mr. Emerson--MR. EMERSON--what are you talking about?" "When I wouldn't have George baptized," said he. Lucy was frightened. "And she agreed that baptism was nothing, but he caught that fever when he was twelve and she turned round. She thought it a judgement." He shuddered. "Oh, horrible, when we had given up that sort of thing and broken away from her parents. Oh, horrible--worst of all--worse than death, when you have made a little clearing in the wilderness, planted your little garden, let in your sunlight, and then the weeds creep in again! A judgement! And our boy had typhoid because no clergyman had dropped water on him in church! Is it possible, Miss Honeychurch? Shall we slip back into the darkness for ever?" "I don't know,"<|quote|>gasped Lucy.</|quote|>"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" "--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 | He said he knew it was madness when you brought your cousin in; that whatever you felt you did not mean. Yet" "--his voice gathered strength: he spoke out to make certain--" "Miss Honeychurch, do you remember Italy?" Lucy selected a book--a volume of Old Testament commentaries. Holding it up to her eyes, she said: "I have no wish to discuss Italy or any subject connected with your son." "But you do remember it?" "He has misbehaved himself from the first." "I only was told that he loved you last Sunday. I never could judge behaviour. I--I--suppose he has." Feeling a little steadier, she put the book back and turned round to him. His face was drooping and swollen, but his eyes, though they were sunken deep, gleamed with a child's courage. "Why, he has behaved abominably," she said. "I am glad he is sorry. Do you know what he did?" "Not 'abominably," '" was the gentle correction. "He only tried when he should not have tried. You have all you want, Miss Honeychurch: you are going to marry the man you love. Do not go out of George's life saying he is abominable." "No, of course," said Lucy, ashamed at the reference to Cecil. "'Abominable' "is much too strong. I am sorry I used it about your son. I think I will go to church, after all. My mother and my cousin have gone. I shall not be so very late--" "Especially as he has gone under," he said quietly. "What was that?" "Gone under naturally." He beat his palms together in silence; his head fell on his chest. "I don't understand." "As his mother did." "But, Mr. Emerson--MR. EMERSON--what are you talking about?" "When I wouldn't have George baptized," said he. Lucy was frightened. "And she agreed that baptism was nothing, but he caught that fever when he was twelve and she turned round. She thought it a judgement." He shuddered. "Oh, horrible, when we had given up that sort of thing and broken away from her parents. Oh, horrible--worst of all--worse than death, when you have made a little clearing in the wilderness, planted your little garden, let in your sunlight, and then the weeds creep in again! A judgement! And our boy had typhoid because no clergyman had dropped water on him in church! Is it possible, Miss Honeychurch? Shall we slip back into the darkness for ever?" "I don't know,"<|quote|>gasped Lucy.</|quote|>"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." | A Room With A View |
"You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying story-books," | Mr. Grimwig | the old lady, firmly. "Never!"<|quote|>"You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying story-books,"</|quote|>growled Mr. Grimwig. "I knew | will believe it, sir," replied the old lady, firmly. "Never!"<|quote|>"You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying story-books,"</|quote|>growled Mr. Grimwig. "I knew it all along. Why didn't | tell you he is," retorted the old gentleman. "What do you mean by can't be? We have just heard a full account of him from his birth; and he has been a thorough-paced little villain, all his life." "I never will believe it, sir," replied the old lady, firmly. "Never!"<|quote|>"You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying story-books,"</|quote|>growled Mr. Grimwig. "I knew it all along. Why didn't you take my advise in the beginning; you would if he hadn't had a fever, I suppose, eh? He was interesting, wasn't he? Interesting! Bah!" And Mr. Grimwig poked the fire with a flourish. "He was a dear, grateful, gentle | by the beadle's tale, that even Mr. Grimwig forbore to vex him further. At length he stopped, and rang the bell violently. "Mrs. Bedwin," said Mr. Brownlow, when the housekeeper appeared; "that boy, Oliver, is an imposter." "It can't be, sir. It cannot be," said the old lady energetically. "I tell you he is," retorted the old gentleman. "What do you mean by can't be? We have just heard a full account of him from his birth; and he has been a thorough-paced little villain, all his life." "I never will believe it, sir," replied the old lady, firmly. "Never!"<|quote|>"You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying story-books,"</|quote|>growled Mr. Grimwig. "I knew it all along. Why didn't you take my advise in the beginning; you would if he hadn't had a fever, I suppose, eh? He was interesting, wasn't he? Interesting! Bah!" And Mr. Grimwig poked the fire with a flourish. "He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir," retorted Mrs. Bedwin, indignantly. "I know what children are, sir; and have done these forty years; and people who can't say the same, shouldn't say anything about them. That's my opinion!" This was a hard hit at Mr. Grimwig, who was a bachelor. As it extorted nothing from | sorrowfully, after looking over the papers. "This is not much for your intelligence; but I would gladly have given you treble the money, if it had been favourable to the boy." It is not improbable that if Mr. Bumble had been possessed of this information at an earlier period of the interview, he might have imparted a very different colouring to his little history. It was too late to do it now, however; so he shook his head gravely, and, pocketing the five guineas, withdrew. Mr. Brownlow paced the room to and fro for some minutes; evidently so much disturbed by the beadle's tale, that even Mr. Grimwig forbore to vex him further. At length he stopped, and rang the bell violently. "Mrs. Bedwin," said Mr. Brownlow, when the housekeeper appeared; "that boy, Oliver, is an imposter." "It can't be, sir. It cannot be," said the old lady energetically. "I tell you he is," retorted the old gentleman. "What do you mean by can't be? We have just heard a full account of him from his birth; and he has been a thorough-paced little villain, all his life." "I never will believe it, sir," replied the old lady, firmly. "Never!"<|quote|>"You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying story-books,"</|quote|>growled Mr. Grimwig. "I knew it all along. Why didn't you take my advise in the beginning; you would if he hadn't had a fever, I suppose, eh? He was interesting, wasn't he? Interesting! Bah!" And Mr. Grimwig poked the fire with a flourish. "He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir," retorted Mrs. Bedwin, indignantly. "I know what children are, sir; and have done these forty years; and people who can't say the same, shouldn't say anything about them. That's my opinion!" This was a hard hit at Mr. Grimwig, who was a bachelor. As it extorted nothing from that gentleman but a smile, the old lady tossed her head, and smoothed down her apron preparatory to another speech, when she was stopped by Mr. Brownlow. "Silence!" said the old gentleman, feigning an anger he was far from feeling. "Never let me hear the boy's name again. I rang to tell you that. Never. Never, on any pretence, mind! You may leave the room, Mrs. Bedwin. Remember! I am in earnest." There were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow's that night. Oliver's heart sank within him, when he thought of his good friends; it was well for him that he | head with portentous solemnity. "You see?" said Mr. Grimwig, looking triumphantly at Mr. Brownlow. Mr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr. Bumble's pursed-up countenance; and requested him to communicate what he knew regarding Oliver, in as few words as possible. Mr. Bumble put down his hat; unbuttoned his coat; folded his arms; inclined his head in a retrospective manner; and, after a few moments' reflection, commenced his story. It would be tedious if given in the beadle's words: occupying, as it did, some twenty minutes in the telling; but the sum and substance of it was, that Oliver was a foundling, born of low and vicious parents. That he had, from his birth, displayed no better qualities than treachery, ingratitude, and malice. That he had terminated his brief career in the place of his birth, by making a sanguinary and cowardly attack on an unoffending lad, and running away in the night-time from his master's house. In proof of his really being the person he represented himself, Mr. Bumble laid upon the table the papers he had brought to town. Folding his arms again, he then awaited Mr. Brownlow's observations. "I fear it is all too true," said the old gentleman sorrowfully, after looking over the papers. "This is not much for your intelligence; but I would gladly have given you treble the money, if it had been favourable to the boy." It is not improbable that if Mr. Bumble had been possessed of this information at an earlier period of the interview, he might have imparted a very different colouring to his little history. It was too late to do it now, however; so he shook his head gravely, and, pocketing the five guineas, withdrew. Mr. Brownlow paced the room to and fro for some minutes; evidently so much disturbed by the beadle's tale, that even Mr. Grimwig forbore to vex him further. At length he stopped, and rang the bell violently. "Mrs. Bedwin," said Mr. Brownlow, when the housekeeper appeared; "that boy, Oliver, is an imposter." "It can't be, sir. It cannot be," said the old lady energetically. "I tell you he is," retorted the old gentleman. "What do you mean by can't be? We have just heard a full account of him from his birth; and he has been a thorough-paced little villain, all his life." "I never will believe it, sir," replied the old lady, firmly. "Never!"<|quote|>"You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying story-books,"</|quote|>growled Mr. Grimwig. "I knew it all along. Why didn't you take my advise in the beginning; you would if he hadn't had a fever, I suppose, eh? He was interesting, wasn't he? Interesting! Bah!" And Mr. Grimwig poked the fire with a flourish. "He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir," retorted Mrs. Bedwin, indignantly. "I know what children are, sir; and have done these forty years; and people who can't say the same, shouldn't say anything about them. That's my opinion!" This was a hard hit at Mr. Grimwig, who was a bachelor. As it extorted nothing from that gentleman but a smile, the old lady tossed her head, and smoothed down her apron preparatory to another speech, when she was stopped by Mr. Brownlow. "Silence!" said the old gentleman, feigning an anger he was far from feeling. "Never let me hear the boy's name again. I rang to tell you that. Never. Never, on any pretence, mind! You may leave the room, Mrs. Bedwin. Remember! I am in earnest." There were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow's that night. Oliver's heart sank within him, when he thought of his good friends; it was well for him that he could not know what they had heard, or it might have broken outright. CHAPTER XVIII. HOW OLIVER PASSED HIS TIME IN THE IMPROVING SOCIETY OF HIS REPUTABLE FRIENDS About noon next day, when the Dodger and Master Bates had gone out to pursue their customary avocations, Mr. Fagin took the opportunity of reading Oliver a long lecture on the crying sin of ingratitude; of which he clearly demonstrated he had been guilty, to no ordinary extent, in wilfully absenting himself from the society of his anxious friends; and, still more, in endeavouring to escape from them after so much trouble and expense had been incurred in his recovery. Mr. Fagin laid great stress on the fact of his having taken Oliver in, and cherished him, when, without his timely aid, he might have perished with hunger; and he related the dismal and affecting history of a young lad whom, in his philanthropy, he had succoured under parallel circumstances, but who, proving unworthy of his confidence and evincing a desire to communicate with the police, had unfortunately come to be hanged at the Old Bailey one morning. Mr. Fagin did not seek to conceal his share in the catastrophe, but lamented | Pentonville: having actually, in his excitement, left the glass of hot gin-and-water, untasted. "Is Mr. Brownlow at home?" inquired Mr. Bumble of the girl who opened the door. To this inquiry the girl returned the not uncommon, but rather evasive reply of "I don't know; where do you come from?" Mr. Bumble no sooner uttered Oliver's name, in explanation of his errand, than Mrs. Bedwin, who had been listening at the parlour door, hastened into the passage in a breathless state. "Come in, come in," said the old lady: "I knew we should hear of him. Poor dear! I knew we should! I was certain of it. Bless his heart! I said so all along." Having heard this, the worthy old lady hurried back into the parlour again; and seating herself on a sofa, burst into tears. The girl, who was not quite so susceptible, had run upstairs meanwhile; and now returned with a request that Mr. Bumble would follow her immediately: which he did. He was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr. Brownlow and his friend Mr. Grimwig, with decanters and glasses before them. The latter gentleman at once burst into the exclamation: "A beadle. A parish beadle, or I'll eat my head." "Pray don't interrupt just now," said Mr. Brownlow. "Take a seat, will you?" Mr. Bumble sat himself down; quite confounded by the oddity of Mr. Grimwig's manner. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp, so as to obtain an uninterrupted view of the beadle's countenance; and said, with a little impatience, "Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the advertisement?" "Yes, sir," said Mr. Bumble. "And you ARE a beadle, are you not?" inquired Mr. Grimwig. "I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen," rejoined Mr. Bumble proudly. "Of course," observed Mr. Grimwig aside to his friend, "I knew he was. A beadle all over!" Mr. Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence on his friend, and resumed: "Do you know where this poor boy is now?" "No more than nobody," replied Mr. Bumble. "Well, what _do_ you know of him?" inquired the old gentleman. "Speak out, my friend, if you have anything to say. What _do_ you know of him?" "You don't happen to know any good of him, do you?" said Mr. Grimwig, caustically; after an attentive perusal of Mr. Bumble's features. Mr. Bumble, catching at the inquiry very quickly, shook his head with portentous solemnity. "You see?" said Mr. Grimwig, looking triumphantly at Mr. Brownlow. Mr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr. Bumble's pursed-up countenance; and requested him to communicate what he knew regarding Oliver, in as few words as possible. Mr. Bumble put down his hat; unbuttoned his coat; folded his arms; inclined his head in a retrospective manner; and, after a few moments' reflection, commenced his story. It would be tedious if given in the beadle's words: occupying, as it did, some twenty minutes in the telling; but the sum and substance of it was, that Oliver was a foundling, born of low and vicious parents. That he had, from his birth, displayed no better qualities than treachery, ingratitude, and malice. That he had terminated his brief career in the place of his birth, by making a sanguinary and cowardly attack on an unoffending lad, and running away in the night-time from his master's house. In proof of his really being the person he represented himself, Mr. Bumble laid upon the table the papers he had brought to town. Folding his arms again, he then awaited Mr. Brownlow's observations. "I fear it is all too true," said the old gentleman sorrowfully, after looking over the papers. "This is not much for your intelligence; but I would gladly have given you treble the money, if it had been favourable to the boy." It is not improbable that if Mr. Bumble had been possessed of this information at an earlier period of the interview, he might have imparted a very different colouring to his little history. It was too late to do it now, however; so he shook his head gravely, and, pocketing the five guineas, withdrew. Mr. Brownlow paced the room to and fro for some minutes; evidently so much disturbed by the beadle's tale, that even Mr. Grimwig forbore to vex him further. At length he stopped, and rang the bell violently. "Mrs. Bedwin," said Mr. Brownlow, when the housekeeper appeared; "that boy, Oliver, is an imposter." "It can't be, sir. It cannot be," said the old lady energetically. "I tell you he is," retorted the old gentleman. "What do you mean by can't be? We have just heard a full account of him from his birth; and he has been a thorough-paced little villain, all his life." "I never will believe it, sir," replied the old lady, firmly. "Never!"<|quote|>"You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying story-books,"</|quote|>growled Mr. Grimwig. "I knew it all along. Why didn't you take my advise in the beginning; you would if he hadn't had a fever, I suppose, eh? He was interesting, wasn't he? Interesting! Bah!" And Mr. Grimwig poked the fire with a flourish. "He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir," retorted Mrs. Bedwin, indignantly. "I know what children are, sir; and have done these forty years; and people who can't say the same, shouldn't say anything about them. That's my opinion!" This was a hard hit at Mr. Grimwig, who was a bachelor. As it extorted nothing from that gentleman but a smile, the old lady tossed her head, and smoothed down her apron preparatory to another speech, when she was stopped by Mr. Brownlow. "Silence!" said the old gentleman, feigning an anger he was far from feeling. "Never let me hear the boy's name again. I rang to tell you that. Never. Never, on any pretence, mind! You may leave the room, Mrs. Bedwin. Remember! I am in earnest." There were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow's that night. Oliver's heart sank within him, when he thought of his good friends; it was well for him that he could not know what they had heard, or it might have broken outright. CHAPTER XVIII. HOW OLIVER PASSED HIS TIME IN THE IMPROVING SOCIETY OF HIS REPUTABLE FRIENDS About noon next day, when the Dodger and Master Bates had gone out to pursue their customary avocations, Mr. Fagin took the opportunity of reading Oliver a long lecture on the crying sin of ingratitude; of which he clearly demonstrated he had been guilty, to no ordinary extent, in wilfully absenting himself from the society of his anxious friends; and, still more, in endeavouring to escape from them after so much trouble and expense had been incurred in his recovery. Mr. Fagin laid great stress on the fact of his having taken Oliver in, and cherished him, when, without his timely aid, he might have perished with hunger; and he related the dismal and affecting history of a young lad whom, in his philanthropy, he had succoured under parallel circumstances, but who, proving unworthy of his confidence and evincing a desire to communicate with the police, had unfortunately come to be hanged at the Old Bailey one morning. Mr. Fagin did not seek to conceal his share in the catastrophe, but lamented with tears in his eyes that the wrong-headed and treacherous behaviour of the young person in question, had rendered it necessary that he should become the victim of certain evidence for the crown: which, if it were not precisely true, was indispensably necessary for the safety of him (Mr. Fagin) and a few select friends. Mr. Fagin concluded by drawing a rather disagreeable picture of the discomforts of hanging; and, with great friendliness and politeness of manner, expressed his anxious hopes that he might never be obliged to submit Oliver Twist to that unpleasant operation. Little Oliver's blood ran cold, as he listened to the Jew's words, and imperfectly comprehended the dark threats conveyed in them. That it was possible even for justice itself to confound the innocent with the guilty when they were in accidental companionship, he knew already; and that deeply-laid plans for the destruction of inconveniently knowing or over-communicative persons, had been really devised and carried out by the Jew on more occasions than one, he thought by no means unlikely, when he recollected the general nature of the altercations between that gentleman and Mr. Sikes: which seemed to bear reference to some foregone conspiracy of the kind. As he glanced timidly up, and met the Jew's searching look, he felt that his pale face and trembling limbs were neither unnoticed nor unrelished by that wary old gentleman. The Jew, smiling hideously, patted Oliver on the head, and said, that if he kept himself quiet, and applied himself to business, he saw they would be very good friends yet. Then, taking his hat, and covering himself with an old patched great-coat, he went out, and locked the room-door behind him. And so Oliver remained all that day, and for the greater part of many subsequent days, seeing nobody, between early morning and midnight, and left during the long hours to commune with his own thoughts. Which, never failing to revert to his kind friends, and the opinion they must long ago have formed of him, were sad indeed. After the lapse of a week or so, the Jew left the room-door unlocked; and he was at liberty to wander about the house. It was a very dirty place. The rooms upstairs had great high wooden chimney-pieces and large doors, with panelled walls and cornices to the ceiling; which, although they were black with neglect and dust, were | master's house. In proof of his really being the person he represented himself, Mr. Bumble laid upon the table the papers he had brought to town. Folding his arms again, he then awaited Mr. Brownlow's observations. "I fear it is all too true," said the old gentleman sorrowfully, after looking over the papers. "This is not much for your intelligence; but I would gladly have given you treble the money, if it had been favourable to the boy." It is not improbable that if Mr. Bumble had been possessed of this information at an earlier period of the interview, he might have imparted a very different colouring to his little history. It was too late to do it now, however; so he shook his head gravely, and, pocketing the five guineas, withdrew. Mr. Brownlow paced the room to and fro for some minutes; evidently so much disturbed by the beadle's tale, that even Mr. Grimwig forbore to vex him further. At length he stopped, and rang the bell violently. "Mrs. Bedwin," said Mr. Brownlow, when the housekeeper appeared; "that boy, Oliver, is an imposter." "It can't be, sir. It cannot be," said the old lady energetically. "I tell you he is," retorted the old gentleman. "What do you mean by can't be? We have just heard a full account of him from his birth; and he has been a thorough-paced little villain, all his life." "I never will believe it, sir," replied the old lady, firmly. "Never!"<|quote|>"You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying story-books,"</|quote|>growled Mr. Grimwig. "I knew it all along. Why didn't you take my advise in the beginning; you would if he hadn't had a fever, I suppose, eh? He was interesting, wasn't he? Interesting! Bah!" And Mr. Grimwig poked the fire with a flourish. "He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir," retorted Mrs. Bedwin, indignantly. "I know what children are, sir; and have done these forty years; and people who can't say the same, shouldn't say anything about them. That's my opinion!" This was a hard hit at Mr. Grimwig, who was a bachelor. As it extorted nothing from that gentleman but a smile, the old lady tossed her head, and smoothed down her apron preparatory to another speech, when she was stopped by Mr. Brownlow. "Silence!" said the old gentleman, feigning an anger he was far from feeling. "Never let me hear the boy's name again. I rang to tell you that. Never. Never, on any pretence, mind! You may leave the room, Mrs. Bedwin. Remember! I am in earnest." There were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow's that night. Oliver's heart sank within him, when he thought of his good friends; it was well for him that he could not know what they had heard, or it might have broken outright. CHAPTER XVIII. HOW OLIVER PASSED HIS TIME IN THE | Oliver Twist |
"And went into a bank instead?" | Margaret | t you?" "That s right."<|quote|>"And went into a bank instead?"</|quote|>"I told you all that," | was a bad concern, didn t you?" "That s right."<|quote|>"And went into a bank instead?"</|quote|>"I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced | supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening s work that was on Chelsea Embankment." Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. "I don t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was a bad concern, didn t you?" "That s right."<|quote|>"And went into a bank instead?"</|quote|>"I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after he had been in a month, and now he s penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are directly to blame." "I hate all this," Leonard muttered. "I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it | "I m sure I don t want to intrude," began Leonard, in answer to Margaret s question. "But you have been so kind to me in the past in warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I wondered whether--" "Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again," supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening s work that was on Chelsea Embankment." Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. "I don t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was a bad concern, didn t you?" "That s right."<|quote|>"And went into a bank instead?"</|quote|>"I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after he had been in a month, and now he s penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are directly to blame." "I hate all this," Leonard muttered. "I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it s no good mincing matters. You have done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake." "I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen. "I can only | at Paddington next morning. Leonard had feebly protested, and when the morning came, had suggested that they shouldn t go. But she, half mesmerised, had obeyed. The lady had told them to, and they must, and their bed-sitting-room had accordingly changed into Paddington, and Paddington into a railway carriage, that shook, and grew hot, and grew cold, and vanished entirely, and reappeared amid torrents of expensive scent. "You have fainted," said the lady in an awe-struck voice. "Perhaps the air will do you good." And perhaps it had, for here she was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers. "I m sure I don t want to intrude," began Leonard, in answer to Margaret s question. "But you have been so kind to me in the past in warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I wondered whether--" "Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again," supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening s work that was on Chelsea Embankment." Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. "I don t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was a bad concern, didn t you?" "That s right."<|quote|>"And went into a bank instead?"</|quote|>"I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after he had been in a month, and now he s penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are directly to blame." "I hate all this," Leonard muttered. "I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it s no good mincing matters. You have done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake." "I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen. "I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It s too late to get to town, but you ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope you ll be my guests there." "That isn t what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You re very kind, and no doubt it s a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at all." "It s work he wants," interpreted Helen. "Can t you see?" Then he | two hangers-on of ours, whom she has brought here for no conceivable reason." "Kindly take back that word hangers-on," said Helen, ominously calm. "Very well," conceded Margaret, who for all her wrath was determined to avoid a real quarrel. "I, too, am sorry about them, but it beats me why you ve brought them here, or why you re here yourself." "It s our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox." Margaret moved towards the house at this. She was determined not to worry Henry. "He s going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on seeing him." "Yes, to-morrow." "I knew it was our last chance." "How do you do, Mr. Bast?" said Margaret, trying to control her voice. "This is an odd business. What view do you take of it?" "There is Mrs. Bast, too," prompted Helen. Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was shy, and, furthermore, ill, and furthermore, so bestially stupid that she could not grasp what was happening. She only knew that the lady had swept down like a whirlwind last night, had paid the rent, redeemed the furniture, provided them with a dinner and a breakfast, and ordered them to meet her at Paddington next morning. Leonard had feebly protested, and when the morning came, had suggested that they shouldn t go. But she, half mesmerised, had obeyed. The lady had told them to, and they must, and their bed-sitting-room had accordingly changed into Paddington, and Paddington into a railway carriage, that shook, and grew hot, and grew cold, and vanished entirely, and reappeared amid torrents of expensive scent. "You have fainted," said the lady in an awe-struck voice. "Perhaps the air will do you good." And perhaps it had, for here she was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers. "I m sure I don t want to intrude," began Leonard, in answer to Margaret s question. "But you have been so kind to me in the past in warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I wondered whether--" "Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again," supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening s work that was on Chelsea Embankment." Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. "I don t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was a bad concern, didn t you?" "That s right."<|quote|>"And went into a bank instead?"</|quote|>"I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after he had been in a month, and now he s penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are directly to blame." "I hate all this," Leonard muttered. "I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it s no good mincing matters. You have done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake." "I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen. "I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It s too late to get to town, but you ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope you ll be my guests there." "That isn t what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You re very kind, and no doubt it s a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at all." "It s work he wants," interpreted Helen. "Can t you see?" Then he said: "Jacky, let s go. We re more bother than we re worth. We re costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and they never will. There s nothing we re good enough to do." "We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather conventionally. "We want to--I, like my sister. You re only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a good night s rest, and some day you shall pay me back the bill, if you prefer it." But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly. "You don t know what you re talking about," he said. "I shall never get work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another. Not I. I had my groove, and I ve got out of it. I could do one particular branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to command 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 | are those people?" she asked. "They re callers!" exclaimed Henry. "It s too late for callers." "Perhaps they re town people who want to see the wedding presents." "I m not at home yet to townees." "Well, hide among the ruins, and if I can stop them, I will." He thanked her. Margaret went forward, smiling socially. She supposed that these were unpunctual guests, who would have to be content with vicarious civility, since Evie and Charles were gone, Henry tired, and the others in their rooms. She assumed the airs of a hostess; not for long. For one of the group was Helen--Helen in her oldest clothes, and dominated by that tense, wounding excitement that had made her a terror in their nursery days. "What is it?" she called. "Oh, what s wrong? Is Tibby ill?" Helen spoke to her two companions, who fell back. Then she bore forward furiously. "They re starving!" she shouted. "I found them starving!" "Who? Why have you come?" "The Basts." "Oh, Helen!" moaned Margaret. "Whatever have you done now?" "He has lost his place. He has been turned out of his bank. Yes, he s done for. We upper classes have ruined him, and I suppose you ll tell me it s the battle of life. Starving. His wife is ill. Starving. She fainted in the train." "Helen, are you mad?" "Perhaps. Yes. If you like, I m mad. But I ve brought them. I ll stand injustice no longer. I ll show up the wretchedness that lies under this luxury, this talk of impersonal forces, this cant about God doing what we re too slack to do ourselves." "Have you actually brought two starving people from London to Shropshire, Helen?" Helen was checked. She had not thought of this, and her hysteria abated. "There was a restaurant car on the train," she said. "Don t be absurd. They aren t starving, and you know it. Now, begin from the beginning. I won t have such theatrical nonsense. How dare you! Yes, how dare you!" she repeated, as anger filled her, "bursting in to Evie s wedding in this heartless way. My goodness! but you ve a perverted notion of philanthropy. Look" "--she indicated the house--" "servants, people out of the windows. They think it s some vulgar scandal, and I must explain, Oh no, it s only my sister screaming, and only two hangers-on of ours, whom she has brought here for no conceivable reason." "Kindly take back that word hangers-on," said Helen, ominously calm. "Very well," conceded Margaret, who for all her wrath was determined to avoid a real quarrel. "I, too, am sorry about them, but it beats me why you ve brought them here, or why you re here yourself." "It s our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox." Margaret moved towards the house at this. She was determined not to worry Henry. "He s going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on seeing him." "Yes, to-morrow." "I knew it was our last chance." "How do you do, Mr. Bast?" said Margaret, trying to control her voice. "This is an odd business. What view do you take of it?" "There is Mrs. Bast, too," prompted Helen. Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was shy, and, furthermore, ill, and furthermore, so bestially stupid that she could not grasp what was happening. She only knew that the lady had swept down like a whirlwind last night, had paid the rent, redeemed the furniture, provided them with a dinner and a breakfast, and ordered them to meet her at Paddington next morning. Leonard had feebly protested, and when the morning came, had suggested that they shouldn t go. But she, half mesmerised, had obeyed. The lady had told them to, and they must, and their bed-sitting-room had accordingly changed into Paddington, and Paddington into a railway carriage, that shook, and grew hot, and grew cold, and vanished entirely, and reappeared amid torrents of expensive scent. "You have fainted," said the lady in an awe-struck voice. "Perhaps the air will do you good." And perhaps it had, for here she was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers. "I m sure I don t want to intrude," began Leonard, in answer to Margaret s question. "But you have been so kind to me in the past in warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I wondered whether--" "Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again," supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening s work that was on Chelsea Embankment." Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. "I don t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was a bad concern, didn t you?" "That s right."<|quote|>"And went into a bank instead?"</|quote|>"I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after he had been in a month, and now he s penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are directly to blame." "I hate all this," Leonard muttered. "I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it s no good mincing matters. You have done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake." "I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen. "I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It s too late to get to town, but you ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope you ll be my guests there." "That isn t what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You re very kind, and no doubt it s a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at all." "It s work he wants," interpreted Helen. "Can t you see?" Then he said: "Jacky, let s go. We re more bother than we re worth. We re costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and they never will. There s nothing we re good enough to do." "We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather conventionally. "We want to--I, like my sister. You re only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a good night s rest, and some day you shall pay me back the bill, if you prefer it." But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly. "You don t know what you re talking about," he said. "I shall never get work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another. Not I. I had my groove, and I ve got out of it. I could do one particular branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to command 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 | theatrical nonsense. How dare you! Yes, how dare you!" she repeated, as anger filled her, "bursting in to Evie s wedding in this heartless way. My goodness! but you ve a perverted notion of philanthropy. Look" "--she indicated the house--" "servants, people out of the windows. They think it s some vulgar scandal, and I must explain, Oh no, it s only my sister screaming, and only two hangers-on of ours, whom she has brought here for no conceivable reason." "Kindly take back that word hangers-on," said Helen, ominously calm. "Very well," conceded Margaret, who for all her wrath was determined to avoid a real quarrel. "I, too, am sorry about them, but it beats me why you ve brought them here, or why you re here yourself." "It s our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox." Margaret moved towards the house at this. She was determined not to worry Henry. "He s going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on seeing him." "Yes, to-morrow." "I knew it was our last chance." "How do you do, Mr. Bast?" said Margaret, trying to control her voice. "This is an odd business. What view do you take of it?" "There is Mrs. Bast, too," prompted Helen. Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was shy, and, furthermore, ill, and furthermore, so bestially stupid that she could not grasp what was happening. She only knew that the lady had swept down like a whirlwind last night, had paid the rent, redeemed the furniture, provided them with a dinner and a breakfast, and ordered them to meet her at Paddington next morning. Leonard had feebly protested, and when the morning came, had suggested that they shouldn t go. But she, half mesmerised, had obeyed. The lady had told them to, and they must, and their bed-sitting-room had accordingly changed into Paddington, and Paddington into a railway carriage, that shook, and grew hot, and grew cold, and vanished entirely, and reappeared amid torrents of expensive scent. "You have fainted," said the lady in an awe-struck voice. "Perhaps the air will do you good." And perhaps it had, for here she was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers. "I m sure I don t want to intrude," began Leonard, in answer to Margaret s question. "But you have been so kind to me in the past in warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I wondered whether--" "Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again," supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening s work that was on Chelsea Embankment." Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. "I don t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was a bad concern, didn t you?" "That s right."<|quote|>"And went into a bank instead?"</|quote|>"I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after he had been in a month, and now he s penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are directly to blame." "I hate all this," Leonard muttered. "I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it s no good mincing matters. You have done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake." "I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen. "I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It s too late to get to town, but you ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope you ll be my guests there." "That isn t what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You re very kind, and no doubt it s a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at all." "It s work he wants," interpreted Helen. "Can t you see?" Then he said: "Jacky, let s go. We re more bother than we re worth. We re costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and they never will. There s nothing we re good enough to do." "We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather conventionally. "We want to--I, like my sister. You re only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a good night s rest, and some day you shall pay me back the bill, if you prefer it." But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly. "You don t know what you re talking about," he said. "I shall never get work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another. Not I. I had my groove, and I ve got out of it. I could do one particular branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to command 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 | Howards End |
"I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us." | The Policeman | police system," replied the other.<|quote|>"I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us."</|quote|>"Join you in what?" asked | the latest development in our police system," replied the other.<|quote|>"I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us."</|quote|>"Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," | suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?" "You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other.<|quote|>"I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us."</|quote|>"Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of | in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear." "If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?" "You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other.<|quote|>"I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us."</|quote|>"Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation. He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in | you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said, "you oughtn't to be a policeman!" The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear." "If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?" "You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other.<|quote|>"I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us."</|quote|>"Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation. He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense. I am a democrat myself, and I am fully aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue. But it would obviously be undesirable to employ the common policeman in an investigation which is also a heresy hunt." Syme's eyes were bright with a sympathetic curiosity. "What do you do, then?" he said. "The work of the philosophical policeman," replied the man in blue, "is at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we | a crisis of his morbid fears for humanity, seemed stung by the mere stolidity of the automatic official, a mere bulk of blue in the twilight. "A good evening is it?" he said sharply. "You fellows would call the end of the world a good evening. Look at that bloody red sun and that bloody river! I tell you that if that were literally human blood, spilt and shining, you would still be standing here as solid as ever, looking out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on. You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm." "If we are calm," replied the policeman, "it is the calm of organised resistance." "Eh?" said Syme, staring. "The soldier must be calm in the thick of the battle," pursued the policeman. "The composure of an army is the anger of a nation." "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said, "you oughtn't to be a policeman!" The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear." "If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?" "You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other.<|quote|>"I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us."</|quote|>"Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation. He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense. I am a democrat myself, and I am fully aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue. But it would obviously be undesirable to employ the common policeman in an investigation which is also a heresy hunt." Syme's eyes were bright with a sympathetic curiosity. "What do you do, then?" he said. "The work of the philosophical policeman," replied the man in blue, "is at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea-parties to detect pessimists. The ordinary detective discovers from a ledger or a diary that a crime has been committed. We discover from a book of sonnets that a crime will be committed. We have to trace the origin of those dreadful thoughts that drive men on at last to intellectual fanaticism and intellectual crime. We were only just in time to prevent the assassination at Hartlepool, and that was entirely due to the fact that our Mr. Wilks (a smart young fellow) thoroughly understood a triolet." "Do you mean," asked Syme, "that there is really as much connection between crime and the modern intellect as all that?" "You are not sufficiently democratic," answered the policeman, "but you were right when you said just now that our ordinary treatment of the poor criminal was a pretty brutal business. I tell you I am sometimes sick of my trade when I see how perpetually it means merely a war upon the ignorant and the desperate. But this new movement of ours is a very different affair. We deny the snobbish English assumption that the uneducated are the dangerous criminals. We remember the Roman Emperors. We remember the great | hatred of modern lawlessness had been crowned also by an accident. It happened that he was walking in a side street at the instant of a dynamite outrage. He had been blind and deaf for a moment, and then seen, the smoke clearing, the broken windows and the bleeding faces. After that he went about as usual quiet, courteous, rather gentle; but there was a spot on his mind that was not sane. He did not regard anarchists, as most of us do, as a handful of morbid men, combining ignorance with intellectualism. He regarded them as a huge and pitiless peril, like a Chinese invasion. He poured perpetually into newspapers and their waste-paper baskets a torrent of tales, verses and violent articles, warning men of this deluge of barbaric denial. But he seemed to be getting no nearer his enemy, and, what was worse, no nearer a living. As he paced the Thames embankment, bitterly biting a cheap cigar and brooding on the advance of Anarchy, there was no anarchist with a bomb in his pocket so savage or so solitary as he. Indeed, he always felt that Government stood alone and desperate, with its back to the wall. He was too quixotic to have cared for it otherwise. He walked on the Embankment once under a dark red sunset. The red river reflected the red sky, and they both reflected his anger. The sky, indeed, was so swarthy, and the light on the river relatively so lurid, that the water almost seemed of fiercer flame than the sunset it mirrored. It looked like a stream of literal fire winding under the vast caverns of a subterranean country. Syme was shabby in those days. He wore an old-fashioned black chimney-pot hat; he was wrapped in a yet more old-fashioned cloak, black and ragged; and the combination gave him the look of the early villains in Dickens and Bulwer Lytton. Also his yellow beard and hair were more unkempt and leonine than when they appeared long afterwards, cut and pointed, on the lawns of Saffron Park. A long, lean, black cigar, bought in Soho for twopence, stood out from between his tightened teeth, and altogether he looked a very satisfactory specimen of the anarchists upon whom he had vowed a holy war. Perhaps this was why a policeman on the Embankment spoke to him, and said "Good evening." Syme, at a crisis of his morbid fears for humanity, seemed stung by the mere stolidity of the automatic official, a mere bulk of blue in the twilight. "A good evening is it?" he said sharply. "You fellows would call the end of the world a good evening. Look at that bloody red sun and that bloody river! I tell you that if that were literally human blood, spilt and shining, you would still be standing here as solid as ever, looking out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on. You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm." "If we are calm," replied the policeman, "it is the calm of organised resistance." "Eh?" said Syme, staring. "The soldier must be calm in the thick of the battle," pursued the policeman. "The composure of an army is the anger of a nation." "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said, "you oughtn't to be a policeman!" The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear." "If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?" "You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other.<|quote|>"I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us."</|quote|>"Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation. He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense. I am a democrat myself, and I am fully aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue. But it would obviously be undesirable to employ the common policeman in an investigation which is also a heresy hunt." Syme's eyes were bright with a sympathetic curiosity. "What do you do, then?" he said. "The work of the philosophical policeman," replied the man in blue, "is at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea-parties to detect pessimists. The ordinary detective discovers from a ledger or a diary that a crime has been committed. We discover from a book of sonnets that a crime will be committed. We have to trace the origin of those dreadful thoughts that drive men on at last to intellectual fanaticism and intellectual crime. We were only just in time to prevent the assassination at Hartlepool, and that was entirely due to the fact that our Mr. Wilks (a smart young fellow) thoroughly understood a triolet." "Do you mean," asked Syme, "that there is really as much connection between crime and the modern intellect as all that?" "You are not sufficiently democratic," answered the policeman, "but you were right when you said just now that our ordinary treatment of the poor criminal was a pretty brutal business. I tell you I am sometimes sick of my trade when I see how perpetually it means merely a war upon the ignorant and the desperate. But this new movement of ours is a very different affair. We deny the snobbish English assumption that the uneducated are the dangerous criminals. We remember the Roman Emperors. We remember the great poisoning princes of the Renaissance. We say that the dangerous criminal is the educated criminal. We say that the most dangerous criminal now is the entirely lawless modern philosopher. Compared to him, burglars and bigamists are essentially moral men; my heart goes out to them. They accept the essential ideal of man; they merely seek it wrongly. Thieves respect property. They merely wish the property to become their property that they may more perfectly respect it. But philosophers dislike property as property; they wish to destroy the very idea of personal possession. Bigamists respect marriage, or they would not go through the highly ceremonial and even ritualistic formality of bigamy. But philosophers despise marriage as marriage. Murderers respect human life; they merely wish to attain a greater fulness of human life in themselves by the sacrifice of what seems to them to be lesser lives. But philosophers hate life itself, their own as much as other people's." Syme struck his hands together. "How true that is," he cried. "I have felt it from my boyhood, but never could state the verbal antithesis. The common criminal is a bad man, but at least he is, as it were, a conditional good man. He says that if only a certain obstacle be removed say a wealthy uncle he is then prepared to accept the universe and to praise God. He is a reformer, but not an anarchist. He wishes to cleanse the edifice, but not to destroy it. But the evil philosopher is not trying to alter things, but to annihilate them. Yes, the modern world has retained all those parts of police work which are really oppressive and ignominious, the harrying of the poor, the spying upon the unfortunate. It has given up its more dignified work, the punishment of powerful traitors in the State and powerful heresiarchs in the Church. The moderns say we must not punish heretics. My only doubt is whether we have a right to punish anybody else." "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 | said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said, "you oughtn't to be a policeman!" The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear." "If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?" "You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other.<|quote|>"I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us."</|quote|>"Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation. He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense. I am a democrat myself, and I am fully aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue. But it would obviously be undesirable to employ the common policeman in an investigation which is also a heresy hunt." Syme's eyes were bright with a sympathetic curiosity. "What do you do, then?" he said. "The work of the philosophical policeman," replied the man in blue, "is at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea-parties to detect pessimists. The ordinary detective discovers from a ledger or a diary that a crime has been committed. We discover from a book of sonnets that a crime will be committed. We have to trace the origin of those dreadful thoughts that drive men on at last to intellectual fanaticism and intellectual crime. We were only just in time to prevent the assassination at Hartlepool, and that was entirely due to the fact that our Mr. Wilks (a smart young fellow) thoroughly understood a triolet." "Do you mean," asked Syme, "that there is really as much connection between crime and the modern intellect as all that?" "You are not sufficiently democratic," | The Man Who Was Thursday |
"It is legible and regular," | Dr. Watson | of this fellow s scribble?"<|quote|>"It is legible and regular,"</|quote|>I answered. "A man of | handwriting? What do you make of this fellow s scribble?"<|quote|>"It is legible and regular,"</|quote|>I answered. "A man of business habits and some force | my acquaintance is a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the London poor." "In this case, however" "I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule. Have you ever had occasion to study character in handwriting? What do you make of this fellow s scribble?"<|quote|>"It is legible and regular,"</|quote|>I answered. "A man of business habits and some force of character." Holmes shook his head. "Look at his long letters," he said. "They hardly rise above the common herd. That _d_ might be an _a_, and that _l_ an _e_. Men of character always differentiate their long letters, however | personal qualities. A client is to me a mere unit, a factor in a problem. The emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning. I assure you that the most winning woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little children for their insurance-money, and the most repellant man of my acquaintance is a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the London poor." "In this case, however" "I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule. Have you ever had occasion to study character in handwriting? What do you make of this fellow s scribble?"<|quote|>"It is legible and regular,"</|quote|>I answered. "A man of business habits and some force of character." Holmes shook his head. "Look at his long letters," he said. "They hardly rise above the common herd. That _d_ might be an _a_, and that _l_ an _e_. Men of character always differentiate their long letters, however illegibly they may write. There is vacillation in his _k_ s and self-esteem in his capitals. I am going out now. I have some few references to make. Let me recommend this book, one of the most remarkable ever penned. It is Winwood Reade s Martyrdom of Man. I shall | hurried away. Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly down the street, until the grey turban and white feather were but a speck in the sombre crowd. "What a very attractive woman!" I exclaimed, turning to my companion. He had lit his pipe again, and was leaning back with drooping eyelids. "Is she?" he said, languidly. "I did not observe." "You really are an automaton, a calculating-machine!" I cried. "There is something positively inhuman in you at times." He smiled gently. "It is of the first importance," he said, "not to allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities. A client is to me a mere unit, a factor in a problem. The emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning. I assure you that the most winning woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little children for their insurance-money, and the most repellant man of my acquaintance is a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the London poor." "In this case, however" "I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule. Have you ever had occasion to study character in handwriting? What do you make of this fellow s scribble?"<|quote|>"It is legible and regular,"</|quote|>I answered. "A man of business habits and some force of character." Holmes shook his head. "Look at his long letters," he said. "They hardly rise above the common herd. That _d_ might be an _a_, and that _l_ an _e_. Men of character always differentiate their long letters, however illegibly they may write. There is vacillation in his _k_ s and self-esteem in his capitals. I am going out now. I have some few references to make. Let me recommend this book, one of the most remarkable ever penned. It is Winwood Reade s Martyrdom of Man. I shall be back in an hour." I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but my thoughts were far from the daring speculations of the writer. My mind ran upon our late visitor, her smiles, the deep rich tones of her voice, the strange mystery which overhung her life. If she were seventeen at the time of her father s disappearance she must be seven-and-twenty now, a sweet age, when youth has lost its self-consciousness and become a little sobered by experience. So I sat and mused, until such dangerous thoughts came into my head that I hurried | "There is one other point, however. Is this handwriting the same as that upon the pearl-box addresses?" "I have them here," she answered, producing half a dozen pieces of paper. "You are certainly a model client. You have the correct intuition. Let us see, now." He spread out the papers upon the table, and gave little darting glances from one to the other. "They are disguised hands, except the letter," he said, presently, "but there can be no question as to the authorship. See how the irrepressible Greek _e_ will break out, and see the twirl of the final _s_. They are undoubtedly by the same person. I should not like to suggest false hopes, Miss Morstan, but is there any resemblance between this hand and that of your father?" "Nothing could be more unlike." "I expected to hear you say so. We shall look out for you, then, at six. Pray allow me to keep the papers. I may look into the matter before then. It is only half-past three. _Au revoir_, then." "_Au revoir_," said our visitor, and, with a bright, kindly glance from one to the other of us, she replaced her pearl-box in her bosom and hurried away. Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly down the street, until the grey turban and white feather were but a speck in the sombre crowd. "What a very attractive woman!" I exclaimed, turning to my companion. He had lit his pipe again, and was leaning back with drooping eyelids. "Is she?" he said, languidly. "I did not observe." "You really are an automaton, a calculating-machine!" I cried. "There is something positively inhuman in you at times." He smiled gently. "It is of the first importance," he said, "not to allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities. A client is to me a mere unit, a factor in a problem. The emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning. I assure you that the most winning woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little children for their insurance-money, and the most repellant man of my acquaintance is a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the London poor." "In this case, however" "I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule. Have you ever had occasion to study character in handwriting? What do you make of this fellow s scribble?"<|quote|>"It is legible and regular,"</|quote|>I answered. "A man of business habits and some force of character." Holmes shook his head. "Look at his long letters," he said. "They hardly rise above the common herd. That _d_ might be an _a_, and that _l_ an _e_. Men of character always differentiate their long letters, however illegibly they may write. There is vacillation in his _k_ s and self-esteem in his capitals. I am going out now. I have some few references to make. Let me recommend this book, one of the most remarkable ever penned. It is Winwood Reade s Martyrdom of Man. I shall be back in an hour." I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but my thoughts were far from the daring speculations of the writer. My mind ran upon our late visitor, her smiles, the deep rich tones of her voice, the strange mystery which overhung her life. If she were seventeen at the time of her father s disappearance she must be seven-and-twenty now, a sweet age, when youth has lost its self-consciousness and become a little sobered by experience. So I sat and mused, until such dangerous thoughts came into my head that I hurried away to my desk and plunged furiously into the latest treatise upon pathology. What was I, an army surgeon with a weak leg and a weaker banking-account, that I should dare to think of such things? She was a unit, a factor, nothing more. If my future were black, it was better surely to face it like a man than to attempt to brighten it by mere will-o -the-wisps of the imagination. Chapter III In Quest of a Solution It was half-past five before Holmes returned. He was bright, eager, and in excellent spirits, a mood which in his case alternated with fits of the blackest depression. "There is no great mystery in this matter," he said, taking the cup of tea which I had poured out for him. "The facts appear to admit of only one explanation." "What! you have solved it already?" "Well, that would be too much to say. I have discovered a suggestive fact, that is all. It is, however, _very_ suggestive. The details are still to be added. I have just found, on consulting the back files of the _Times_, that Major Sholto, of Upper Norword, late of the 34th Bombay Infantry, died upon the | to her advantage to come forward. There was no name or address appended. I had at that time just entered the family of Mrs. Cecil Forrester in the capacity of governess. By her advice I published my address in the advertisement column. The same day there arrived through the post a small card-board box addressed to me, which I found to contain a very large and lustrous pearl. No word of writing was enclosed. Since then every year upon the same date there has always appeared a similar box, containing a similar pearl, without any clue as to the sender. They have been pronounced by an expert to be of a rare variety and of considerable value. You can see for yourselves that they are very handsome." She opened a flat box as she spoke, and showed me six of the finest pearls that I had ever seen. "Your statement is most interesting," said Sherlock Holmes. "Has anything else occurred to you?" "Yes, and no later than to-day. That is why I have come to you. This morning I received this letter, which you will perhaps read for yourself." "Thank you," said Holmes. "The envelope too, please. Postmark, London, S.W. Date, July 7. Hum! Man s thumb-mark on corner, probably postman. Best quality paper. Envelopes at sixpence a packet. Particular man in his stationery. No address." Be at the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre to-night at seven o clock. If you are distrustful, bring two friends. You are a wronged woman, and shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all will be in vain. Your unknown friend. "Well, really, this is a very pretty little mystery. What do you intend to do, Miss Morstan?" "That is exactly what I want to ask you." "Then we shall most certainly go. You and I and yes, why, Dr. Watson is the very man. Your correspondent says two friends. He and I have worked together before." "But would he come?" she asked, with something appealing in her voice and expression. "I should be proud and happy," said I, fervently, "if I can be of any service." "You are both very kind," she answered. "I have led a retired life, and have no friends whom I could appeal to. If I am here at six it will do, I suppose?" "You must not be later," said Holmes. "There is one other point, however. Is this handwriting the same as that upon the pearl-box addresses?" "I have them here," she answered, producing half a dozen pieces of paper. "You are certainly a model client. You have the correct intuition. Let us see, now." He spread out the papers upon the table, and gave little darting glances from one to the other. "They are disguised hands, except the letter," he said, presently, "but there can be no question as to the authorship. See how the irrepressible Greek _e_ will break out, and see the twirl of the final _s_. They are undoubtedly by the same person. I should not like to suggest false hopes, Miss Morstan, but is there any resemblance between this hand and that of your father?" "Nothing could be more unlike." "I expected to hear you say so. We shall look out for you, then, at six. Pray allow me to keep the papers. I may look into the matter before then. It is only half-past three. _Au revoir_, then." "_Au revoir_," said our visitor, and, with a bright, kindly glance from one to the other of us, she replaced her pearl-box in her bosom and hurried away. Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly down the street, until the grey turban and white feather were but a speck in the sombre crowd. "What a very attractive woman!" I exclaimed, turning to my companion. He had lit his pipe again, and was leaning back with drooping eyelids. "Is she?" he said, languidly. "I did not observe." "You really are an automaton, a calculating-machine!" I cried. "There is something positively inhuman in you at times." He smiled gently. "It is of the first importance," he said, "not to allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities. A client is to me a mere unit, a factor in a problem. The emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning. I assure you that the most winning woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little children for their insurance-money, and the most repellant man of my acquaintance is a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the London poor." "In this case, however" "I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule. Have you ever had occasion to study character in handwriting? What do you make of this fellow s scribble?"<|quote|>"It is legible and regular,"</|quote|>I answered. "A man of business habits and some force of character." Holmes shook his head. "Look at his long letters," he said. "They hardly rise above the common herd. That _d_ might be an _a_, and that _l_ an _e_. Men of character always differentiate their long letters, however illegibly they may write. There is vacillation in his _k_ s and self-esteem in his capitals. I am going out now. I have some few references to make. Let me recommend this book, one of the most remarkable ever penned. It is Winwood Reade s Martyrdom of Man. I shall be back in an hour." I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but my thoughts were far from the daring speculations of the writer. My mind ran upon our late visitor, her smiles, the deep rich tones of her voice, the strange mystery which overhung her life. If she were seventeen at the time of her father s disappearance she must be seven-and-twenty now, a sweet age, when youth has lost its self-consciousness and become a little sobered by experience. So I sat and mused, until such dangerous thoughts came into my head that I hurried away to my desk and plunged furiously into the latest treatise upon pathology. What was I, an army surgeon with a weak leg and a weaker banking-account, that I should dare to think of such things? She was a unit, a factor, nothing more. If my future were black, it was better surely to face it like a man than to attempt to brighten it by mere will-o -the-wisps of the imagination. Chapter III In Quest of a Solution It was half-past five before Holmes returned. He was bright, eager, and in excellent spirits, a mood which in his case alternated with fits of the blackest depression. "There is no great mystery in this matter," he said, taking the cup of tea which I had poured out for him. "The facts appear to admit of only one explanation." "What! you have solved it already?" "Well, that would be too much to say. I have discovered a suggestive fact, that is all. It is, however, _very_ suggestive. The details are still to be added. I have just found, on consulting the back files of the _Times_, that Major Sholto, of Upper Norword, late of the 34th Bombay Infantry, died upon the 28th of April, 1882." "I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see what this suggests." "No? You surprise me. Look at it in this way, then. Captain Morstan disappears. The only person in London whom he could have visited is Major Sholto. Major Sholto denies having heard that he was in London. Four years later Sholto dies. _Within a week of his death_ Captain Morstan s daughter receives a valuable present, which is repeated from year to year, and now culminates in a letter which describes her as a wronged woman. What wrong can it refer to except this deprivation of her father? And why should the presents begin immediately after Sholto s death, unless it is that Sholto s heir knows something of the mystery and desires to make compensation? Have you any alternative theory which will meet the facts?" "But what a strange compensation! And how strangely made! Why, too, should he write a letter now, rather than six years ago? Again, the letter speaks of giving her justice. What justice can she have? It is too much to suppose that her father is still alive. There is no other injustice in her case that you know of." "There are difficulties; there are certainly difficulties," said Sherlock Holmes, pensively. "But our expedition of to-night will solve them all. Ah, here is a four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan is inside. Are you all ready? Then we had better go down, for it is a little past the hour." I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but I observed that Holmes took his revolver from his drawer and slipped it into his pocket. It was clear that he thought that our night s work might be a serious one. Miss Morstan was muffled in a dark cloak, and her sensitive face was composed, but pale. She must have been more than woman if she did not feel some uneasiness at the strange enterprise upon which we were embarking, yet her self-control was perfect, and she readily answered the few additional questions which Sherlock Holmes put to her. "Major Sholto was a very particular friend of papa s," she said. "His letters were full of allusions to the major. He and papa were in command of the troops at the Andaman Islands, so they were thrown a great deal together. By the way, a curious paper was | only half-past three. _Au revoir_, then." "_Au revoir_," said our visitor, and, with a bright, kindly glance from one to the other of us, she replaced her pearl-box in her bosom and hurried away. Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly down the street, until the grey turban and white feather were but a speck in the sombre crowd. "What a very attractive woman!" I exclaimed, turning to my companion. He had lit his pipe again, and was leaning back with drooping eyelids. "Is she?" he said, languidly. "I did not observe." "You really are an automaton, a calculating-machine!" I cried. "There is something positively inhuman in you at times." He smiled gently. "It is of the first importance," he said, "not to allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities. A client is to me a mere unit, a factor in a problem. The emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning. I assure you that the most winning woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little children for their insurance-money, and the most repellant man of my acquaintance is a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the London poor." "In this case, however" "I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule. Have you ever had occasion to study character in handwriting? What do you make of this fellow s scribble?"<|quote|>"It is legible and regular,"</|quote|>I answered. "A man of business habits and some force of character." Holmes shook his head. "Look at his long letters," he said. "They hardly rise above the common herd. That _d_ might be an _a_, and that _l_ an _e_. Men of character always differentiate their long letters, however illegibly they may write. There is vacillation in his _k_ s and self-esteem in his capitals. I am going out now. I have some few references to make. Let me recommend this book, one of the most remarkable ever penned. It is Winwood Reade s Martyrdom of Man. I shall be back in an hour." I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but my thoughts were far from the daring speculations of the writer. My mind ran upon our late visitor, her smiles, the deep rich tones of her voice, the strange mystery which overhung her life. If she were seventeen at the time of her father s disappearance she must be seven-and-twenty now, a sweet age, when youth has lost its self-consciousness and become a little sobered by experience. So I sat and mused, until such dangerous thoughts came into my head that I hurried away to my desk and plunged furiously into the latest treatise upon pathology. What was I, an army surgeon with a weak leg and a weaker banking-account, that I should dare to think of such things? She was a unit, a factor, nothing more. If my future were black, it was better surely to face it like a man than to attempt to brighten it by mere will-o -the-wisps of the imagination. Chapter III In Quest of a Solution It was half-past five before Holmes returned. He was bright, eager, and in excellent spirits, a mood which in his case alternated with fits of the blackest depression. "There is no great mystery in this matter," he said, taking the cup of tea which I had poured out for him. "The facts appear to admit of only one explanation." "What! you have solved it already?" "Well, that would be too much to say. I | The Sign Of The Four |
pursued my friend imperturbably, | No speaker | at him startled. "Or, rather,"<|quote|>pursued my friend imperturbably,</|quote|>"there _was_ one." "What do | John and the lawyer looked at him startled. "Or, rather,"<|quote|>pursued my friend imperturbably,</|quote|>"there _was_ one." "What do you mean there was one? | purple despatch-case, which we must look through carefully." "Yes," said the lawyer, "it is quite possible that there may be a later will than the one in my possession." "There _is_ a later will." It was Poirot who spoke. "What?" John and the lawyer looked at him startled. "Or, rather,"<|quote|>pursued my friend imperturbably,</|quote|>"there _was_ one." "What do you mean there was one? Where is it now?" "Burnt!" "Burnt?" "Yes. See here." He took out the charred fragment we had found in the grate in Mrs. Inglethorp's room, and handed it to the lawyer with a brief explanation of when and where he | and myself." "Which simplifies matters very much," murmured the lawyer. "As technically, of course, he was entitled" He did not finish the sentence. "We will look through the desk in the boudoir first," explained John, "and go up to her bedroom afterwards. She kept her most important papers in a purple despatch-case, which we must look through carefully." "Yes," said the lawyer, "it is quite possible that there may be a later will than the one in my possession." "There _is_ a later will." It was Poirot who spoke. "What?" John and the lawyer looked at him startled. "Or, rather,"<|quote|>pursued my friend imperturbably,</|quote|>"there _was_ one." "What do you mean there was one? Where is it now?" "Burnt!" "Burnt?" "Yes. See here." He took out the charred fragment we had found in the grate in Mrs. Inglethorp's room, and handed it to the lawyer with a brief explanation of when and where he had found it. "But possibly this is an old will?" "I do not think so. In fact I am almost certain that it was made no earlier than yesterday afternoon." "What?" "Impossible!" broke simultaneously from both men. Poirot turned to John. "If you will allow me to send for your | you be surprised?" "Not in the least." "Ah!" Poirot seemed to have exhausted his questions. I drew close to him, while John and the lawyer were debating the question of going through Mrs. Inglethorp's papers. "Do you think Mrs. Inglethorp made a will leaving all her money to Miss Howard?" I asked in a low voice, with some curiosity. Poirot smiled. "No." "Then why did you ask?" "Hush!" John Cavendish had turned to Poirot. "Will you come with us, Monsieur Poirot? We are going through my mother's papers. Mr. Inglethorp is quite willing to leave it entirely to Mr. Wells and myself." "Which simplifies matters very much," murmured the lawyer. "As technically, of course, he was entitled" He did not finish the sentence. "We will look through the desk in the boudoir first," explained John, "and go up to her bedroom afterwards. She kept her most important papers in a purple despatch-case, which we must look through carefully." "Yes," said the lawyer, "it is quite possible that there may be a later will than the one in my possession." "There _is_ a later will." It was Poirot who spoke. "What?" John and the lawyer looked at him startled. "Or, rather,"<|quote|>pursued my friend imperturbably,</|quote|>"there _was_ one." "What do you mean there was one? Where is it now?" "Burnt!" "Burnt?" "Yes. See here." He took out the charred fragment we had found in the grate in Mrs. Inglethorp's room, and handed it to the lawyer with a brief explanation of when and where he had found it. "But possibly this is an old will?" "I do not think so. In fact I am almost certain that it was made no earlier than yesterday afternoon." "What?" "Impossible!" broke simultaneously from both men. Poirot turned to John. "If you will allow me to send for your gardener, I will prove it to you." "Oh, of course but I don't see" Poirot raised his hand. "Do as I ask you. Afterwards you shall question as much as you please." "Very well." He rang the bell. Dorcas answered it in due course. "Dorcas, will you tell Manning to come round and speak to me here." "Yes, sir." Dorcas withdrew. We waited in a tense silence. Poirot alone seemed perfectly at his ease, and dusted a forgotten corner of the bookcase. The clumping of hobnailed boots on the gravel outside proclaimed the approach of Manning. John looked questioningly at | It was, to my mind, a very fair and equitable distribution." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "I see. But I am right in saying, am I not, that by your English law that will was automatically revoked when Mrs. Inglethorp remarried?" Mr. Wells bowed his head. "As I was about to proceed, Monsieur Poirot, that document is now null and void." "_Hein!_" said Poirot. He reflected for a moment, and then asked: "Was Mrs. Inglethorp herself aware of that fact?" "I do not know. She may have been." "She was," said John unexpectedly. "We were discussing the matter of wills being revoked by marriage only yesterday." "Ah! One more question, Mr. Wells. You say" her last will.' "Had Mrs. Inglethorp, then, made several former wills?" "On an average, she made a new will at least once a year," said Mr. Wells imperturbably. "She was given to changing her mind as to her testamentary dispositions, now benefiting one, now another member of her family." "Suppose," suggested Poirot, "that, unknown to you, she had made a new will in favour of someone who was not, in any sense of the word, a member of the family we will say Miss Howard, for instance would you be surprised?" "Not in the least." "Ah!" Poirot seemed to have exhausted his questions. I drew close to him, while John and the lawyer were debating the question of going through Mrs. Inglethorp's papers. "Do you think Mrs. Inglethorp made a will leaving all her money to Miss Howard?" I asked in a low voice, with some curiosity. Poirot smiled. "No." "Then why did you ask?" "Hush!" John Cavendish had turned to Poirot. "Will you come with us, Monsieur Poirot? We are going through my mother's papers. Mr. Inglethorp is quite willing to leave it entirely to Mr. Wells and myself." "Which simplifies matters very much," murmured the lawyer. "As technically, of course, he was entitled" He did not finish the sentence. "We will look through the desk in the boudoir first," explained John, "and go up to her bedroom afterwards. She kept her most important papers in a purple despatch-case, which we must look through carefully." "Yes," said the lawyer, "it is quite possible that there may be a later will than the one in my possession." "There _is_ a later will." It was Poirot who spoke. "What?" John and the lawyer looked at him startled. "Or, rather,"<|quote|>pursued my friend imperturbably,</|quote|>"there _was_ one." "What do you mean there was one? Where is it now?" "Burnt!" "Burnt?" "Yes. See here." He took out the charred fragment we had found in the grate in Mrs. Inglethorp's room, and handed it to the lawyer with a brief explanation of when and where he had found it. "But possibly this is an old will?" "I do not think so. In fact I am almost certain that it was made no earlier than yesterday afternoon." "What?" "Impossible!" broke simultaneously from both men. Poirot turned to John. "If you will allow me to send for your gardener, I will prove it to you." "Oh, of course but I don't see" Poirot raised his hand. "Do as I ask you. Afterwards you shall question as much as you please." "Very well." He rang the bell. Dorcas answered it in due course. "Dorcas, will you tell Manning to come round and speak to me here." "Yes, sir." Dorcas withdrew. We waited in a tense silence. Poirot alone seemed perfectly at his ease, and dusted a forgotten corner of the bookcase. The clumping of hobnailed boots on the gravel outside proclaimed the approach of Manning. John looked questioningly at Poirot. The latter nodded. "Come inside, Manning," said John, "I want to speak to you." Manning came slowly and hesitatingly through the French window, and stood as near it as he could. He held his cap in his hands, twisting it very carefully round and round. His back was much bent, though he was probably not as old as he looked, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent, and belied his slow and rather cautious speech. "Manning," said John, "this gentleman will put some questions to you which I want you to answer." "Yessir," mumbled Manning. Poirot stepped forward briskly. Manning's eye swept over him with a faint contempt. "You were planting a bed of begonias round by the south side of the house yesterday afternoon, were you not, Manning?" "Yes, sir, me and Willum." "And Mrs. Inglethorp came to the window and called you, did she not?" "Yes, sir, she did." "Tell me in your own words exactly what happened after that." "Well, sir, nothing much. She just told Willum to go on his bicycle down to the village, and bring back a form of will, or such-like I don't know what exactly she wrote it down for him." | ah er Mr. er Inglethorp." A slight pause ensued before the lawyer went on in his soothing manner: "Any other evidence will be simply confirmatory, a mere matter of form." "I see." A faint expression of relief swept over John's face. It puzzled me, for I saw no occasion for it. "If you know of nothing to the contrary," pursued Mr. Wells, "I had thought of Friday. That will give us plenty of time for the doctor's report. The post-mortem is to take place to-night, I believe?" "Yes." "Then that arrangement will suit you?" "Perfectly." "I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am at this most tragic affair." "Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?" interposed Poirot, speaking for the first time since we had entered the room. "I?" "Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have received the letter this morning." "I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a note asking me to call upon her this morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of great importance." "She gave you no hint as to what that matter might be?" "Unfortunately, no." "That is a pity," said John. "A great pity," agreed Poirot gravely. There was silence. Poirot remained lost in thought for a few minutes. Finally he turned to the lawyer again. "Mr. Wells, there is one thing I should like to ask you that is, if it is not against professional etiquette. In the event of Mrs. Inglethorp's death, who would inherit her money?" The lawyer hesitated a moment, and then replied: "The knowledge will be public property very soon, so if Mr. Cavendish does not object" "Not at all," interpolated John. "I do not see any reason why I should not answer your question. By her last will, dated August of last year, after various unimportant legacies to servants, etc., she gave her entire fortune to her stepson, Mr. John Cavendish." "Was not that pardon the question, Mr. Cavendish rather unfair to her other stepson, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish?" "No, I do not think so. You see, under the terms of their father's will, while John inherited the property, Lawrence, at his stepmother's death, would come into a considerable sum of money. Mrs. Inglethorp left her money to her elder stepson, knowing that he would have to keep up Styles. It was, to my mind, a very fair and equitable distribution." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "I see. But I am right in saying, am I not, that by your English law that will was automatically revoked when Mrs. Inglethorp remarried?" Mr. Wells bowed his head. "As I was about to proceed, Monsieur Poirot, that document is now null and void." "_Hein!_" said Poirot. He reflected for a moment, and then asked: "Was Mrs. Inglethorp herself aware of that fact?" "I do not know. She may have been." "She was," said John unexpectedly. "We were discussing the matter of wills being revoked by marriage only yesterday." "Ah! One more question, Mr. Wells. You say" her last will.' "Had Mrs. Inglethorp, then, made several former wills?" "On an average, she made a new will at least once a year," said Mr. Wells imperturbably. "She was given to changing her mind as to her testamentary dispositions, now benefiting one, now another member of her family." "Suppose," suggested Poirot, "that, unknown to you, she had made a new will in favour of someone who was not, in any sense of the word, a member of the family we will say Miss Howard, for instance would you be surprised?" "Not in the least." "Ah!" Poirot seemed to have exhausted his questions. I drew close to him, while John and the lawyer were debating the question of going through Mrs. Inglethorp's papers. "Do you think Mrs. Inglethorp made a will leaving all her money to Miss Howard?" I asked in a low voice, with some curiosity. Poirot smiled. "No." "Then why did you ask?" "Hush!" John Cavendish had turned to Poirot. "Will you come with us, Monsieur Poirot? We are going through my mother's papers. Mr. Inglethorp is quite willing to leave it entirely to Mr. Wells and myself." "Which simplifies matters very much," murmured the lawyer. "As technically, of course, he was entitled" He did not finish the sentence. "We will look through the desk in the boudoir first," explained John, "and go up to her bedroom afterwards. She kept her most important papers in a purple despatch-case, which we must look through carefully." "Yes," said the lawyer, "it is quite possible that there may be a later will than the one in my possession." "There _is_ a later will." It was Poirot who spoke. "What?" John and the lawyer looked at him startled. "Or, rather,"<|quote|>pursued my friend imperturbably,</|quote|>"there _was_ one." "What do you mean there was one? Where is it now?" "Burnt!" "Burnt?" "Yes. See here." He took out the charred fragment we had found in the grate in Mrs. Inglethorp's room, and handed it to the lawyer with a brief explanation of when and where he had found it. "But possibly this is an old will?" "I do not think so. In fact I am almost certain that it was made no earlier than yesterday afternoon." "What?" "Impossible!" broke simultaneously from both men. Poirot turned to John. "If you will allow me to send for your gardener, I will prove it to you." "Oh, of course but I don't see" Poirot raised his hand. "Do as I ask you. Afterwards you shall question as much as you please." "Very well." He rang the bell. Dorcas answered it in due course. "Dorcas, will you tell Manning to come round and speak to me here." "Yes, sir." Dorcas withdrew. We waited in a tense silence. Poirot alone seemed perfectly at his ease, and dusted a forgotten corner of the bookcase. The clumping of hobnailed boots on the gravel outside proclaimed the approach of Manning. John looked questioningly at Poirot. The latter nodded. "Come inside, Manning," said John, "I want to speak to you." Manning came slowly and hesitatingly through the French window, and stood as near it as he could. He held his cap in his hands, twisting it very carefully round and round. His back was much bent, though he was probably not as old as he looked, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent, and belied his slow and rather cautious speech. "Manning," said John, "this gentleman will put some questions to you which I want you to answer." "Yessir," mumbled Manning. Poirot stepped forward briskly. Manning's eye swept over him with a faint contempt. "You were planting a bed of begonias round by the south side of the house yesterday afternoon, were you not, Manning?" "Yes, sir, me and Willum." "And Mrs. Inglethorp came to the window and called you, did she not?" "Yes, sir, she did." "Tell me in your own words exactly what happened after that." "Well, sir, nothing much. She just told Willum to go on his bicycle down to the village, and bring back a form of will, or such-like I don't know what exactly she wrote it down for him." "Well?" "Well, he did, sir." "And what happened next?" "We went on with the begonias, sir." "Did not Mrs. Inglethorp call you again?" "Yes, sir, both me and Willum, she called." "And then?" "She made us come right in, and sign our names at the bottom of a long paper under where she'd signed." "Did you see anything of what was written above her signature?" asked Poirot sharply. "No, sir, there was a bit of blotting paper over that part." "And you signed where she told you?" "Yes, sir, first me and then Willum." "What did she do with it afterwards?" "Well, sir, she slipped it into a long envelope, and put it inside a sort of purple box that was standing on the desk." "What time was it when she first called you?" "About four, I should say, sir." "Not earlier? Couldn't it have been about half-past three?" "No, I shouldn't say so, sir. It would be more likely to be a bit after four not before it." "Thank you, Manning, that will do," said Poirot pleasantly. The gardener glanced at his master, who nodded, whereupon Manning lifted a finger to his forehead with a low mumble, and backed cautiously out of the window. We all looked at each other. "Good heavens!" murmured John. "What an extraordinary coincidence." "How a coincidence?" "That my mother should have made a will on the very day of her death!" Mr. Wells cleared his throat and remarked drily: "Are you so sure it is a coincidence, Cavendish?" "What do you mean?" "Your mother, you tell me, had a violent quarrel with someone yesterday afternoon" "What do you mean?" cried John again. There was a tremor in his voice, and he had gone very pale. "In consequence of that quarrel, your mother very suddenly and hurriedly makes a new will. The contents of that will we shall never know. She told no one of its provisions. This morning, no doubt, she would have consulted me on the subject but she had no chance. The will disappears, and she takes its secret with her to her grave. Cavendish, I much fear there is no coincidence there. Monsieur Poirot, I am sure you agree with me that the facts are very suggestive." "Suggestive, or not," interrupted John, "we are most grateful to Monsieur Poirot for elucidating the matter. But for him, we should never have known | Mr. Cavendish rather unfair to her other stepson, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish?" "No, I do not think so. You see, under the terms of their father's will, while John inherited the property, Lawrence, at his stepmother's death, would come into a considerable sum of money. Mrs. Inglethorp left her money to her elder stepson, knowing that he would have to keep up Styles. It was, to my mind, a very fair and equitable distribution." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "I see. But I am right in saying, am I not, that by your English law that will was automatically revoked when Mrs. Inglethorp remarried?" Mr. Wells bowed his head. "As I was about to proceed, Monsieur Poirot, that document is now null and void." "_Hein!_" said Poirot. He reflected for a moment, and then asked: "Was Mrs. Inglethorp herself aware of that fact?" "I do not know. She may have been." "She was," said John unexpectedly. "We were discussing the matter of wills being revoked by marriage only yesterday." "Ah! One more question, Mr. Wells. You say" her last will.' "Had Mrs. Inglethorp, then, made several former wills?" "On an average, she made a new will at least once a year," said Mr. Wells imperturbably. "She was given to changing her mind as to her testamentary dispositions, now benefiting one, now another member of her family." "Suppose," suggested Poirot, "that, unknown to you, she had made a new will in favour of someone who was not, in any sense of the word, a member of the family we will say Miss Howard, for instance would you be surprised?" "Not in the least." "Ah!" Poirot seemed to have exhausted his questions. I drew close to him, while John and the lawyer were debating the question of going through Mrs. Inglethorp's papers. "Do you think Mrs. Inglethorp made a will leaving all her money to Miss Howard?" I asked in a low voice, with some curiosity. Poirot smiled. "No." "Then why did you ask?" "Hush!" John Cavendish had turned to Poirot. "Will you come with us, Monsieur Poirot? We are going through my mother's papers. Mr. Inglethorp is quite willing to leave it entirely to Mr. Wells and myself." "Which simplifies matters very much," murmured the lawyer. "As technically, of course, he was entitled" He did not finish the sentence. "We will look through the desk in the boudoir first," explained John, "and go up to her bedroom afterwards. She kept her most important papers in a purple despatch-case, which we must look through carefully." "Yes," said the lawyer, "it is quite possible that there may be a later will than the one in my possession." "There _is_ a later will." It was Poirot who spoke. "What?" John and the lawyer looked at him startled. "Or, rather,"<|quote|>pursued my friend imperturbably,</|quote|>"there _was_ one." "What do you mean there was one? Where is it now?" "Burnt!" "Burnt?" "Yes. See here." He took out the charred fragment we had found in the grate in Mrs. Inglethorp's room, and handed it to the lawyer with a brief explanation of when and where he had found it. "But possibly this is an old will?" "I do not think so. In fact I am almost certain that it was made no earlier than yesterday afternoon." "What?" "Impossible!" broke simultaneously from both men. Poirot turned to John. "If you will allow me to send for your gardener, I will prove it to you." "Oh, of course but I don't see" Poirot raised his hand. "Do as I ask you. Afterwards you shall question as much as you please." "Very well." He rang the bell. Dorcas answered it in due course. "Dorcas, will you tell Manning to come round and speak to me here." "Yes, sir." Dorcas withdrew. We waited in a tense silence. Poirot alone seemed perfectly at his ease, and dusted a forgotten corner of the bookcase. The clumping of hobnailed boots on the gravel outside proclaimed the approach of Manning. John looked questioningly at Poirot. The latter nodded. "Come inside, Manning," said John, "I want to speak to you." Manning came slowly and hesitatingly through the French window, and stood as near it as he could. He held his cap in his hands, twisting it very carefully round and round. His back was much bent, though he was probably not as old as he looked, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent, and belied his slow and rather cautious speech. "Manning," said John, "this gentleman will put some questions to you which I want you to answer." "Yessir," mumbled Manning. Poirot stepped forward briskly. Manning's eye swept over him with a faint contempt. "You were planting a bed of begonias round by the south side of the house yesterday afternoon, were you not, Manning?" "Yes, sir, me and Willum." "And Mrs. Inglethorp came to the window and called you, did she not?" "Yes, sir, she did." "Tell me in your own words exactly what happened after that." "Well, sir, nothing much. She just told Willum to go on his bicycle down to the village, and bring back a form of will, or such-like I don't know what exactly she wrote it down for him." "Well?" "Well, he did, sir." "And what happened next?" "We went on with the begonias, sir." "Did not Mrs. Inglethorp call you again?" "Yes, sir, both me and Willum, she called." "And then?" "She made us come right in, and sign our names at the bottom of a long paper under where she'd signed." "Did you see anything of what was written above her signature?" asked Poirot sharply. "No, sir, there was a bit of blotting paper over that part." "And you signed where she told you?" "Yes, sir, first me and then Willum." "What did she do with it afterwards?" "Well, sir, she slipped it into a long envelope, and put it inside a sort of purple box that was standing on the desk." "What time was it when she first called you?" "About four, I should say, sir." | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
"Oh, yes; and I answered a lot of questions. Miss Rogerson asked ever so many. I don't think it was fair for her to do all the asking. There were lots I wanted to ask her, but I didn't like to because I didn't think she was a kindred spirit. Then all the other little girls recited a paraphrase. She asked me if I knew any. I told her I didn't, but I could recite, ?The Dog at His Master's Grave' if she liked. That's in the Third Royal Reader. It isn't a really truly religious piece of poetry, but it's so sad and melancholy that it might as well be. She said it wouldn't do and she told me to learn the nineteenth paraphrase for next Sunday. I read it over in church afterwards and it's splendid. There are two lines in particular that just thrill me." | Anne Shirley | I hope you knew it."<|quote|>"Oh, yes; and I answered a lot of questions. Miss Rogerson asked ever so many. I don't think it was fair for her to do all the asking. There were lots I wanted to ask her, but I didn't like to because I didn't think she was a kindred spirit. Then all the other little girls recited a paraphrase. She asked me if I knew any. I told her I didn't, but I could recite, ?The Dog at His Master's Grave' if she liked. That's in the Third Royal Reader. It isn't a really truly religious piece of poetry, but it's so sad and melancholy that it might as well be. She said it wouldn't do and she told me to learn the nineteenth paraphrase for next Sunday. I read it over in church afterwards and it's splendid. There are two lines in particular that just thrill me."</|quote|>"?Quick as the slaughtered squadrons | been attending to the lesson. I hope you knew it."<|quote|>"Oh, yes; and I answered a lot of questions. Miss Rogerson asked ever so many. I don't think it was fair for her to do all the asking. There were lots I wanted to ask her, but I didn't like to because I didn't think she was a kindred spirit. Then all the other little girls recited a paraphrase. She asked me if I knew any. I told her I didn't, but I could recite, ?The Dog at His Master's Grave' if she liked. That's in the Third Royal Reader. It isn't a really truly religious piece of poetry, but it's so sad and melancholy that it might as well be. She said it wouldn't do and she told me to learn the nineteenth paraphrase for next Sunday. I read it over in church afterwards and it's splendid. There are two lines in particular that just thrill me."</|quote|>"?Quick as the slaughtered squadrons fell In Midian's evil day.' | imagine they were puffed when I was alone in the east gable, but it was awfully hard there among the others who had really truly puffs." "You shouldn't have been thinking about your sleeves in Sunday school. You should have been attending to the lesson. I hope you knew it."<|quote|>"Oh, yes; and I answered a lot of questions. Miss Rogerson asked ever so many. I don't think it was fair for her to do all the asking. There were lots I wanted to ask her, but I didn't like to because I didn't think she was a kindred spirit. Then all the other little girls recited a paraphrase. She asked me if I knew any. I told her I didn't, but I could recite, ?The Dog at His Master's Grave' if she liked. That's in the Third Royal Reader. It isn't a really truly religious piece of poetry, but it's so sad and melancholy that it might as well be. She said it wouldn't do and she told me to learn the nineteenth paraphrase for next Sunday. I read it over in church afterwards and it's splendid. There are two lines in particular that just thrill me."</|quote|>"?Quick as the slaughtered squadrons fell In Midian's evil day.' "I don't know what ?squadrons' means nor ?Midian,' either, but it sounds _so_ tragical. I can hardly wait until next Sunday to recite it. I'll practice it all the week. After Sunday school I asked Miss Rogerson--because Mrs. Lynde was | through at last and they told me to go into the classroom with Miss Rogerson's class. There were nine other girls in it. They all had puffed sleeves. I tried to imagine mine were puffed, too, but I couldn't. Why couldn't I? It was as easy as could be to imagine they were puffed when I was alone in the east gable, but it was awfully hard there among the others who had really truly puffs." "You shouldn't have been thinking about your sleeves in Sunday school. You should have been attending to the lesson. I hope you knew it."<|quote|>"Oh, yes; and I answered a lot of questions. Miss Rogerson asked ever so many. I don't think it was fair for her to do all the asking. There were lots I wanted to ask her, but I didn't like to because I didn't think she was a kindred spirit. Then all the other little girls recited a paraphrase. She asked me if I knew any. I told her I didn't, but I could recite, ?The Dog at His Master's Grave' if she liked. That's in the Third Royal Reader. It isn't a really truly religious piece of poetry, but it's so sad and melancholy that it might as well be. She said it wouldn't do and she told me to learn the nineteenth paraphrase for next Sunday. I read it over in church afterwards and it's splendid. There are two lines in particular that just thrill me."</|quote|>"?Quick as the slaughtered squadrons fell In Midian's evil day.' "I don't know what ?squadrons' means nor ?Midian,' either, but it sounds _so_ tragical. I can hardly wait until next Sunday to recite it. I'll practice it all the week. After Sunday school I asked Miss Rogerson--because Mrs. Lynde was too far away--to show me your pew. I sat just as still as I could and the text was Revelations, third chapter, second and third verses. It was a very long text. If I was a minister I'd pick the short, snappy ones. The sermon was awfully long, too. I | protested Anne. "He was talking to God and he didn't seem to be very much inter-ested in it, either. I think he thought God was too far off though. There was a long row of white birches hanging over the lake and the sunshine fell down through them, ?way, ?way down, deep into the water. Oh, Marilla, it was like a beautiful dream! It gave me a thrill and I just said," ?Thank you for it, God,' two or three times." "Not out loud, I hope," said Marilla anxiously. "Oh, no, just under my breath. Well, Mr. Bell did get through at last and they told me to go into the classroom with Miss Rogerson's class. There were nine other girls in it. They all had puffed sleeves. I tried to imagine mine were puffed, too, but I couldn't. Why couldn't I? It was as easy as could be to imagine they were puffed when I was alone in the east gable, but it was awfully hard there among the others who had really truly puffs." "You shouldn't have been thinking about your sleeves in Sunday school. You should have been attending to the lesson. I hope you knew it."<|quote|>"Oh, yes; and I answered a lot of questions. Miss Rogerson asked ever so many. I don't think it was fair for her to do all the asking. There were lots I wanted to ask her, but I didn't like to because I didn't think she was a kindred spirit. Then all the other little girls recited a paraphrase. She asked me if I knew any. I told her I didn't, but I could recite, ?The Dog at His Master's Grave' if she liked. That's in the Third Royal Reader. It isn't a really truly religious piece of poetry, but it's so sad and melancholy that it might as well be. She said it wouldn't do and she told me to learn the nineteenth paraphrase for next Sunday. I read it over in church afterwards and it's splendid. There are two lines in particular that just thrill me."</|quote|>"?Quick as the slaughtered squadrons fell In Midian's evil day.' "I don't know what ?squadrons' means nor ?Midian,' either, but it sounds _so_ tragical. I can hardly wait until next Sunday to recite it. I'll practice it all the week. After Sunday school I asked Miss Rogerson--because Mrs. Lynde was too far away--to show me your pew. I sat just as still as I could and the text was Revelations, third chapter, second and third verses. It was a very long text. If I was a minister I'd pick the short, snappy ones. The sermon was awfully long, too. I suppose the minister had to match it to the text. I didn't think he was a bit interesting. The trouble with him seems to be that he hasn't enough imagination. I didn't listen to him very much. I just let my thoughts run and I thought of the most surprising things." Marilla felt helplessly that all this should be sternly reproved, but she was hampered by the undeniable fact that some of the things Anne had said, especially about the minister's sermons and Mr. Bell's prayers, were what she herself had really thought deep down in her heart for years, | to know when Anne came home. Her wreath having faded, Anne had discarded it in the lane, so Marilla was spared the knowledge of that for a time. "I didn't like it a bit. It was horrid." "Anne Shirley!" said Marilla rebukingly. Anne sat down on the rocker with a long sigh, kissed one of Bonny's leaves, and waved her hand to a blossoming fuchsia. "They might have been lonesome while I was away," she explained. "And now about the Sunday school. I behaved well, just as you told me. Mrs. Lynde was gone, but I went right on myself. I went into the church, with a lot of other little girls, and I sat in the corner of a pew by the window while the opening exercises went on. Mr. Bell made an awfully long prayer. I would have been dreadfully tired before he got through if I hadn't been sitting by that window. But it looked right out on the Lake of Shining Waters, so I just gazed at that and imagined all sorts of splendid things." "You shouldn't have done anything of the sort. You should have listened to Mr. Bell." "But he wasn't talking to me," protested Anne. "He was talking to God and he didn't seem to be very much inter-ested in it, either. I think he thought God was too far off though. There was a long row of white birches hanging over the lake and the sunshine fell down through them, ?way, ?way down, deep into the water. Oh, Marilla, it was like a beautiful dream! It gave me a thrill and I just said," ?Thank you for it, God,' two or three times." "Not out loud, I hope," said Marilla anxiously. "Oh, no, just under my breath. Well, Mr. Bell did get through at last and they told me to go into the classroom with Miss Rogerson's class. There were nine other girls in it. They all had puffed sleeves. I tried to imagine mine were puffed, too, but I couldn't. Why couldn't I? It was as easy as could be to imagine they were puffed when I was alone in the east gable, but it was awfully hard there among the others who had really truly puffs." "You shouldn't have been thinking about your sleeves in Sunday school. You should have been attending to the lesson. I hope you knew it."<|quote|>"Oh, yes; and I answered a lot of questions. Miss Rogerson asked ever so many. I don't think it was fair for her to do all the asking. There were lots I wanted to ask her, but I didn't like to because I didn't think she was a kindred spirit. Then all the other little girls recited a paraphrase. She asked me if I knew any. I told her I didn't, but I could recite, ?The Dog at His Master's Grave' if she liked. That's in the Third Royal Reader. It isn't a really truly religious piece of poetry, but it's so sad and melancholy that it might as well be. She said it wouldn't do and she told me to learn the nineteenth paraphrase for next Sunday. I read it over in church afterwards and it's splendid. There are two lines in particular that just thrill me."</|quote|>"?Quick as the slaughtered squadrons fell In Midian's evil day.' "I don't know what ?squadrons' means nor ?Midian,' either, but it sounds _so_ tragical. I can hardly wait until next Sunday to recite it. I'll practice it all the week. After Sunday school I asked Miss Rogerson--because Mrs. Lynde was too far away--to show me your pew. I sat just as still as I could and the text was Revelations, third chapter, second and third verses. It was a very long text. If I was a minister I'd pick the short, snappy ones. The sermon was awfully long, too. I suppose the minister had to match it to the text. I didn't think he was a bit interesting. The trouble with him seems to be that he hasn't enough imagination. I didn't listen to him very much. I just let my thoughts run and I thought of the most surprising things." Marilla felt helplessly that all this should be sternly reproved, but she was hampered by the undeniable fact that some of the things Anne had said, especially about the minister's sermons and Mr. Bell's prayers, were what she herself had really thought deep down in her heart for years, but had never given expression to. It almost seemed to her that those secret, unuttered, critical thoughts had suddenly taken visible and accusing shape and form in the person of this outspoken morsel of neglected humanity. CHAPTER XII. A Solemn Vow and Promise |IT was not until the next Friday that Marilla heard the story of the flower-wreathed hat. She came home from Mrs. Lynde's and called Anne to account. "Anne, Mrs. Rachel says you went to church last Sunday with your hat rigged out ridiculous with roses and buttercups. What on earth put you up to such a caper? A pretty-looking object you must have been!" "Oh. I know pink and yellow aren't becoming to me," began Anne. "Becoming fiddlesticks! It was putting flowers on your hat at all, no matter what color they were, that was ridiculous. You are the most aggravating child!" "I don't see why it's any more ridiculous to wear flowers on your hat than on your dress," protested Anne. "Lots of little girls there had bouquets pinned on their dresses. What's the difference?" Marilla was not to be drawn from the safe concrete into dubious paths of the abstract. "Don't answer me back like | home." Anne started off irreproachable, arrayed in the stiff black-and-white sateen, which, while decent as regards length and certainly not open to the charge of skimpiness, contrived to emphasize every corner and angle of her thin figure. Her hat was a little, flat, glossy, new sailor, the extreme plainness of which had likewise much disappointed Anne, who had permitted herself secret visions of ribbon and flowers. The latter, however, were supplied before Anne reached the main road, for being confronted halfway down the lane with a golden frenzy of wind-stirred buttercups and a glory of wild roses, Anne promptly and liberally garlanded her hat with a heavy wreath of them. Whatever other people might have thought of the result it satisfied Anne, and she tripped gaily down the road, holding her ruddy head with its decoration of pink and yellow very proudly. When she had reached Mrs. Lynde's house she found that lady gone. Nothing daunted, Anne proceeded onward to the church alone. In the porch she found a crowd of little girls, all more or less gaily attired in whites and blues and pinks, and all staring with curious eyes at this stranger in their midst, with her extraordinary head adornment. Avonlea little girls had already heard queer stories about Anne. Mrs. Lynde said she had an awful temper; Jerry Buote, the hired boy at Green Gables, said she talked all the time to herself or to the trees and flowers like a crazy girl. They looked at her and whispered to each other behind their quarterlies. Nobody made any friendly advances, then or later on when the opening exercises were over and Anne found herself in Miss Rogerson's class. Miss Rogerson was a middle-aged lady who had taught a Sunday-school class for twenty years. Her method of teaching was to ask the printed questions from the quarterly and look sternly over its edge at the particular little girl she thought ought to answer the question. She looked very often at Anne, and Anne, thanks to Marilla's drilling, answered promptly; but it may be questioned if she understood very much about either question or answer. She did not think she liked Miss Rogerson, and she felt very miserable; every other little girl in the class had puffed sleeves. Anne felt that life was really not worth living without puffed sleeves. "Well, how did you like Sunday school?" Marilla wanted to know when Anne came home. Her wreath having faded, Anne had discarded it in the lane, so Marilla was spared the knowledge of that for a time. "I didn't like it a bit. It was horrid." "Anne Shirley!" said Marilla rebukingly. Anne sat down on the rocker with a long sigh, kissed one of Bonny's leaves, and waved her hand to a blossoming fuchsia. "They might have been lonesome while I was away," she explained. "And now about the Sunday school. I behaved well, just as you told me. Mrs. Lynde was gone, but I went right on myself. I went into the church, with a lot of other little girls, and I sat in the corner of a pew by the window while the opening exercises went on. Mr. Bell made an awfully long prayer. I would have been dreadfully tired before he got through if I hadn't been sitting by that window. But it looked right out on the Lake of Shining Waters, so I just gazed at that and imagined all sorts of splendid things." "You shouldn't have done anything of the sort. You should have listened to Mr. Bell." "But he wasn't talking to me," protested Anne. "He was talking to God and he didn't seem to be very much inter-ested in it, either. I think he thought God was too far off though. There was a long row of white birches hanging over the lake and the sunshine fell down through them, ?way, ?way down, deep into the water. Oh, Marilla, it was like a beautiful dream! It gave me a thrill and I just said," ?Thank you for it, God,' two or three times." "Not out loud, I hope," said Marilla anxiously. "Oh, no, just under my breath. Well, Mr. Bell did get through at last and they told me to go into the classroom with Miss Rogerson's class. There were nine other girls in it. They all had puffed sleeves. I tried to imagine mine were puffed, too, but I couldn't. Why couldn't I? It was as easy as could be to imagine they were puffed when I was alone in the east gable, but it was awfully hard there among the others who had really truly puffs." "You shouldn't have been thinking about your sleeves in Sunday school. You should have been attending to the lesson. I hope you knew it."<|quote|>"Oh, yes; and I answered a lot of questions. Miss Rogerson asked ever so many. I don't think it was fair for her to do all the asking. There were lots I wanted to ask her, but I didn't like to because I didn't think she was a kindred spirit. Then all the other little girls recited a paraphrase. She asked me if I knew any. I told her I didn't, but I could recite, ?The Dog at His Master's Grave' if she liked. That's in the Third Royal Reader. It isn't a really truly religious piece of poetry, but it's so sad and melancholy that it might as well be. She said it wouldn't do and she told me to learn the nineteenth paraphrase for next Sunday. I read it over in church afterwards and it's splendid. There are two lines in particular that just thrill me."</|quote|>"?Quick as the slaughtered squadrons fell In Midian's evil day.' "I don't know what ?squadrons' means nor ?Midian,' either, but it sounds _so_ tragical. I can hardly wait until next Sunday to recite it. I'll practice it all the week. After Sunday school I asked Miss Rogerson--because Mrs. Lynde was too far away--to show me your pew. I sat just as still as I could and the text was Revelations, third chapter, second and third verses. It was a very long text. If I was a minister I'd pick the short, snappy ones. The sermon was awfully long, too. I suppose the minister had to match it to the text. I didn't think he was a bit interesting. The trouble with him seems to be that he hasn't enough imagination. I didn't listen to him very much. I just let my thoughts run and I thought of the most surprising things." Marilla felt helplessly that all this should be sternly reproved, but she was hampered by the undeniable fact that some of the things Anne had said, especially about the minister's sermons and Mr. Bell's prayers, were what she herself had really thought deep down in her heart for years, but had never given expression to. It almost seemed to her that those secret, unuttered, critical thoughts had suddenly taken visible and accusing shape and form in the person of this outspoken morsel of neglected humanity. CHAPTER XII. A Solemn Vow and Promise |IT was not until the next Friday that Marilla heard the story of the flower-wreathed hat. She came home from Mrs. Lynde's and called Anne to account. "Anne, Mrs. Rachel says you went to church last Sunday with your hat rigged out ridiculous with roses and buttercups. What on earth put you up to such a caper? A pretty-looking object you must have been!" "Oh. I know pink and yellow aren't becoming to me," began Anne. "Becoming fiddlesticks! It was putting flowers on your hat at all, no matter what color they were, that was ridiculous. You are the most aggravating child!" "I don't see why it's any more ridiculous to wear flowers on your hat than on your dress," protested Anne. "Lots of little girls there had bouquets pinned on their dresses. What's the difference?" Marilla was not to be drawn from the safe concrete into dubious paths of the abstract. "Don't answer me back like that, Anne. It was very silly of you to do such a thing. Never let me catch you at such a trick again. Mrs. Rachel says she thought she would sink through the floor when she saw you come in all rigged out like that. She couldn't get near enough to tell you to take them off till it was too late. She says people talked about it something dreadful. Of course they would think I had no better sense than to let you go decked out like that." "Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne, tears welling into her eyes. "I never thought you'd mind. The roses and buttercups were so sweet and pretty I thought they'd look lovely on my hat. Lots of the little girls had artificial flowers on their hats. I'm afraid I'm going to be a dreadful trial to you. Maybe you'd better send me back to the asylum. That would be terrible; I don't think I could endure it; most likely I would go into consumption; I'm so thin as it is, you see. But that would be better than being a trial to you." "Nonsense," said Marilla, vexed at herself for having made the child cry. "I don't want to send you back to the asylum, I'm sure. All I want is that you should behave like other little girls and not make yourself ridiculous. Don't cry any more. I've got some news for you. Diana Barry came home this afternoon. I'm going up to see if I can borrow a skirt pattern from Mrs. Barry, and if you like you can come with me and get acquainted with Diana." Anne rose to her feet, with clasped hands, the tears still glistening on her cheeks; the dish towel she had been hemming slipped unheeded to the floor. "Oh, Marilla, I'm frightened--now that it has come I'm actually frightened. What if she shouldn't like me! It would be the most tragical disappointment of my life." "Now, don't get into a fluster. And I do wish you wouldn't use such long words. It sounds so funny in a little girl. I guess Diana ?ll like you well enough. It's her mother you've got to reckon with. If she doesn't like you it won't matter how much Diana does. If she has heard about your outburst to Mrs. Lynde and going to church with buttercups round your | heard queer stories about Anne. Mrs. Lynde said she had an awful temper; Jerry Buote, the hired boy at Green Gables, said she talked all the time to herself or to the trees and flowers like a crazy girl. They looked at her and whispered to each other behind their quarterlies. Nobody made any friendly advances, then or later on when the opening exercises were over and Anne found herself in Miss Rogerson's class. Miss Rogerson was a middle-aged lady who had taught a Sunday-school class for twenty years. Her method of teaching was to ask the printed questions from the quarterly and look sternly over its edge at the particular little girl she thought ought to answer the question. She looked very often at Anne, and Anne, thanks to Marilla's drilling, answered promptly; but it may be questioned if she understood very much about either question or answer. She did not think she liked Miss Rogerson, and she felt very miserable; every other little girl in the class had puffed sleeves. Anne felt that life was really not worth living without puffed sleeves. "Well, how did you like Sunday school?" Marilla wanted to know when Anne came home. Her wreath having faded, Anne had discarded it in the lane, so Marilla was spared the knowledge of that for a time. "I didn't like it a bit. It was horrid." "Anne Shirley!" said Marilla rebukingly. Anne sat down on the rocker with a long sigh, kissed one of Bonny's leaves, and waved her hand to a blossoming fuchsia. "They might have been lonesome while I was away," she explained. "And now about the Sunday school. I behaved well, just as you told me. Mrs. Lynde was gone, but I went right on myself. I went into the church, with a lot of other little girls, and I sat in the corner of a pew by the window while the opening exercises went on. Mr. Bell made an awfully long prayer. I would have been dreadfully tired before he got through if I hadn't been sitting by that window. But it looked right out on the Lake of Shining Waters, so I just gazed at that and imagined all sorts of splendid things." "You shouldn't have done anything of the sort. You should have listened to Mr. Bell." "But he wasn't talking to me," protested Anne. "He was talking to God and he didn't seem to be very much inter-ested in it, either. I think he thought God was too far off though. There was a long row of white birches hanging over the lake and the sunshine fell down through them, ?way, ?way down, deep into the water. Oh, Marilla, it was like a beautiful dream! It gave me a thrill and I just said," ?Thank you for it, God,' two or three times." "Not out loud, I hope," said Marilla anxiously. "Oh, no, just under my breath. Well, Mr. Bell did get through at last and they told me to go into the classroom with Miss Rogerson's class. There were nine other girls in it. They all had puffed sleeves. I tried to imagine mine were puffed, too, but I couldn't. Why couldn't I? It was as easy as could be to imagine they were puffed when I was alone in the east gable, but it was awfully hard there among the others who had really truly puffs." "You shouldn't have been thinking about your sleeves in Sunday school. You should have been attending to the lesson. I hope you knew it."<|quote|>"Oh, yes; and I answered a lot of questions. Miss Rogerson asked ever so many. I don't think it was fair for her to do all the asking. There were lots I wanted to ask her, but I didn't like to because I didn't think she was a kindred spirit. Then all the other little girls recited a paraphrase. She asked me if I knew any. I told her I didn't, but I could recite, ?The Dog at His Master's Grave' if she liked. That's in the Third Royal Reader. It isn't a really truly religious piece of poetry, but it's so sad and melancholy that it might as well be. She said it wouldn't do and she told me to learn the nineteenth paraphrase for next Sunday. I read it over in church afterwards and it's splendid. There are two lines in particular that just thrill me."</|quote|>"?Quick as the slaughtered squadrons fell In Midian's evil day.' "I don't know what ?squadrons' means nor ?Midian,' either, but it sounds _so_ tragical. I can hardly wait until next Sunday to recite it. I'll practice it all the week. After Sunday school I asked Miss Rogerson--because Mrs. Lynde was too far away--to show me your pew. I sat just as still as I could and the text was Revelations, third chapter, second and third verses. It was a very long text. If I was a minister I'd pick the short, snappy ones. The sermon was awfully long, too. I suppose the minister had to match it to the text. I didn't think he was a bit interesting. The trouble with him seems to be that he hasn't enough imagination. I didn't listen to him very much. I just let my thoughts run and I thought of the most surprising things." Marilla felt helplessly that all this should be sternly reproved, but she was hampered by the undeniable fact that some of the things Anne had said, especially about the minister's sermons and Mr. Bell's prayers, were what she herself had really thought deep down in her heart for years, but had never given expression to. It almost seemed to her that those secret, unuttered, critical thoughts had suddenly taken visible and accusing shape and form in the person of this outspoken morsel of neglected humanity. CHAPTER XII. A Solemn Vow and Promise |IT was not until the next | Anne Of Green Gables |
There was a little hesitation in Emma's answer. | No speaker | her?--Is not she very charming?"<|quote|>There was a little hesitation in Emma's answer.</|quote|>"Oh! yes--very--a very pleasing young | "what do you think of her?--Is not she very charming?"<|quote|>There was a little hesitation in Emma's answer.</|quote|>"Oh! yes--very--a very pleasing young woman." "I think her beautiful, | be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as could be. "Well, Miss Woodhouse," said Harriet, when they had quitted the house, and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; "Well, Miss Woodhouse," (with a gentle sigh,) "what do you think of her?--Is not she very charming?"<|quote|>There was a little hesitation in Emma's answer.</|quote|>"Oh! yes--very--a very pleasing young woman." "I think her beautiful, quite beautiful." "Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown." "I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love." "Oh! no--there is nothing to surprize one at all.--A pretty fortune; and she came in his way." | Mr. Elton was in being in the same room at once with the woman he had just married, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman whom he had been expected to marry, she must allow him to have the right to look as little wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as could be. "Well, Miss Woodhouse," said Harriet, when they had quitted the house, and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; "Well, Miss Woodhouse," (with a gentle sigh,) "what do you think of her?--Is not she very charming?"<|quote|>There was a little hesitation in Emma's answer.</|quote|>"Oh! yes--very--a very pleasing young woman." "I think her beautiful, quite beautiful." "Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown." "I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love." "Oh! no--there is nothing to surprize one at all.--A pretty fortune; and she came in his way." "I dare say," returned Harriet, sighing again, "I dare say she was very 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 | elegant. Emma thought at least it would turn out so. As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear--but no, she would not permit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners. It was an awkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits, and a man had need be all grace to acquit himself well through it. The woman was better off; she might have the assistance of fine clothes, and the privilege of bashfulness, but the man had only his own good sense to depend on; and when she considered how peculiarly unlucky poor Mr. Elton was in being in the same room at once with the woman he had just married, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman whom he had been expected to marry, she must allow him to have the right to look as little wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as could be. "Well, Miss Woodhouse," said Harriet, when they had quitted the house, and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; "Well, Miss Woodhouse," (with a gentle sigh,) "what do you think of her?--Is not she very charming?"<|quote|>There was a little hesitation in Emma's answer.</|quote|>"Oh! yes--very--a very pleasing young woman." "I think her beautiful, quite beautiful." "Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown." "I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love." "Oh! no--there is nothing to surprize one at all.--A pretty fortune; and she came in his way." "I dare say," returned Harriet, sighing again, "I dare say she was very 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 | that the worst of the business might be gone through as soon as possible. She could not enter the house again, could not be in the same room to which she had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago, to lace up her boot, without _recollecting_. A thousand vexatious thoughts would recur. Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders; and it was not to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be recollecting too; but she behaved very well, and was only rather pale and silent. The visit was of course short; and there was so much embarrassment and occupation of mind to shorten it, that Emma would not allow herself entirely to form an opinion of the lady, and on no account to give one, beyond the nothing-meaning terms of being "elegantly dressed, and very pleasing." She did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry to find fault, but she suspected that there was no elegance;--ease, but not elegance.-- She was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there was too much ease. Her person was rather good; her face not unpretty; but neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were elegant. Emma thought at least it would turn out so. As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear--but no, she would not permit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners. It was an awkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits, and a man had need be all grace to acquit himself well through it. The woman was better off; she might have the assistance of fine clothes, and the privilege of bashfulness, but the man had only his own good sense to depend on; and when she considered how peculiarly unlucky poor Mr. Elton was in being in the same room at once with the woman he had just married, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman whom he had been expected to marry, she must allow him to have the right to look as little wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as could be. "Well, Miss Woodhouse," said Harriet, when they had quitted the house, and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; "Well, Miss Woodhouse," (with a gentle sigh,) "what do you think of her?--Is not she very charming?"<|quote|>There was a little hesitation in Emma's answer.</|quote|>"Oh! yes--very--a very pleasing young woman." "I think her beautiful, quite beautiful." "Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown." "I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love." "Oh! no--there is nothing to surprize one at all.--A pretty fortune; and she came in his way." "I dare say," returned Harriet, sighing again, "I dare say she was very 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 | to act upon them. My being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration. I want you to save yourself from greater pain. Perhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet would not forget what was due--or rather what would be kind by me." This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The idea of wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really loved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence of grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt to what was right and support her in it very tolerably. "You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life--Want gratitude to you!--Nobody is equal to you!--I care for nobody as I do for you!--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!" Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and manner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so well, nor valued her affection so highly before. "There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart," said she afterwards to herself. "There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and tenderness of heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all the clearness of head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will. It is tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally beloved--which gives Isabella all her popularity.--I have it not--but I know how to prize and respect it.--Harriet is my superior in all the charm and all the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet!--I would not change you for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging female breathing. Oh! the coldness of a Jane Fairfax!--Harriet is worth a hundred such--And for a wife--a sensible man's wife--it is invaluable. I mention no names; but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet!" CHAPTER XIV Mrs. Elton was first seen at church: but though devotion might be interrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew, and it must be left for the visits in form which were then to be paid, to settle whether she were very pretty indeed, or only rather pretty, or not pretty at all. Emma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or propriety, to make her resolve on not being the last to pay her respects; and she made a point of Harriet's going with her, that the worst of the business might be gone through as soon as possible. She could not enter the house again, could not be in the same room to which she had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago, to lace up her boot, without _recollecting_. A thousand vexatious thoughts would recur. Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders; and it was not to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be recollecting too; but she behaved very well, and was only rather pale and silent. The visit was of course short; and there was so much embarrassment and occupation of mind to shorten it, that Emma would not allow herself entirely to form an opinion of the lady, and on no account to give one, beyond the nothing-meaning terms of being "elegantly dressed, and very pleasing." She did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry to find fault, but she suspected that there was no elegance;--ease, but not elegance.-- She was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there was too much ease. Her person was rather good; her face not unpretty; but neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were elegant. Emma thought at least it would turn out so. As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear--but no, she would not permit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners. It was an awkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits, and a man had need be all grace to acquit himself well through it. The woman was better off; she might have the assistance of fine clothes, and the privilege of bashfulness, but the man had only his own good sense to depend on; and when she considered how peculiarly unlucky poor Mr. Elton was in being in the same room at once with the woman he had just married, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman whom he had been expected to marry, she must allow him to have the right to look as little wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as could be. "Well, Miss Woodhouse," said Harriet, when they had quitted the house, and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; "Well, Miss Woodhouse," (with a gentle sigh,) "what do you think of her?--Is not she very charming?"<|quote|>There was a little hesitation in Emma's answer.</|quote|>"Oh! yes--very--a very pleasing young woman." "I think her beautiful, quite beautiful." "Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown." "I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love." "Oh! no--there is nothing to surprize one at all.--A pretty fortune; and she came in his way." "I dare say," returned Harriet, sighing again, "I dare say she was very 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 though devotion might be interrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew, and it must be left for the visits in form which were then to be paid, to settle whether she were very pretty indeed, or only rather pretty, or not pretty at all. Emma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or propriety, to make her resolve on not being the last to pay her respects; and she made a point of Harriet's going with her, that the worst of the business might be gone through as soon as possible. She could not enter the house again, could not be in the same room to which she had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago, to lace up her boot, without _recollecting_. A thousand vexatious thoughts would recur. Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders; and it was not to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be recollecting too; but she behaved very well, and was only rather pale and silent. The visit was of course short; and there was so much embarrassment and occupation of mind to shorten it, that Emma would not allow herself entirely to form an opinion of the lady, and on no account to give one, beyond the nothing-meaning terms of being "elegantly dressed, and very pleasing." She did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry to find fault, but she suspected that there was no elegance;--ease, but not elegance.-- She was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there was too much ease. Her person was rather good; her face not unpretty; but neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were elegant. Emma thought at least it would turn out so. As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear--but no, she would not permit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners. It was an awkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits, and a man had need be all grace to acquit himself well through it. The woman was better off; she might have the assistance of fine clothes, and the privilege of bashfulness, but the man had only his own good sense to depend on; and when she considered how peculiarly unlucky poor Mr. Elton was in being in the same room at once with the woman he had just married, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman whom he had been expected to marry, she must allow him to have the right to look as little wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as could be. "Well, Miss Woodhouse," said Harriet, when they had quitted the house, and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; "Well, Miss Woodhouse," (with a gentle sigh,) "what do you think of her?--Is not she very charming?"<|quote|>There was a little hesitation in Emma's answer.</|quote|>"Oh! yes--very--a very pleasing young woman." "I think her beautiful, quite beautiful." "Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown." "I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love." "Oh! no--there is nothing to surprize one at all.--A pretty fortune; and she came in his way." "I dare say," returned Harriet, sighing again, "I dare say she was very 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. | Emma |
The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have been asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence; it was impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than her own judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent affection. Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond treatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the more overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides, there was gratitude towards her, for having made their _t te- -t te_ so much less painful than her fears had predicted. It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without detection. Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case, she thought she could resign herself to almost everything. In the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and sat some time with them; and her spirits not being previously in the strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him, because he really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said anything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him, though hoping she might never see him again till he were the husband of some other woman. When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he would not be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she heard, and when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a token of friendship had passed. On the morrow the Crawfords were gone. CHAPTER XXXVII Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was that he should be missed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank in the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or fancied, an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering form; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into nothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched her with this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. He hardly knew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not. She was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond his discrimination. He did not understand her: he felt that he did not; and therefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the present occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she had been. Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father a little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could produce any. What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford's sister, the friend and companion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly regretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so little voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation. Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the chief bane of Fanny's comfort. If she could have believed Mary's future fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother's should be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant as she was much inclined to think his, she would have been light of heart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the more deeply was she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for Miss Crawford's marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. On his side the inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His objections, the scruples of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody could tell how; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were equally got over and equally without apparent reason. It could only be imputed to increasing attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded to love, and such love must unite them. He was to go to town as soon as some business relative to Thornton Lacey were completed perhaps within a fortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when once with her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be as certain as his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still remaining which made the prospect of it most sorrowful to her, independently, she believed, independently of self. In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some amiable sensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss Crawford; still shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any suspicion of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might love, but she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny believed there was scarcely a second feeling in common between them; and she may be forgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford's future improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking that if Edmund's influence in this season of love had already done so little in clearing her judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth would be finally wasted on her even in years of matrimony. Experience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced, and impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford's nature that participation of the general nature of women which would lead her to adopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But as such were Fanny's persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain. Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own observations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human nature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and consequence on his niece's spirits, and the past attentions of the lover producing a craving for their return; and he was soon afterwards able to account for his not yet completely and indubitably seeing all this, by the prospect of another visitor, whose approach he could allow to be quite enough to support the spirits he was watching. William had obtained a ten days' leave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire, and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants, because the latest made, to shew his happiness and describe his uniform. He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there too, had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. So the uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before Fanny had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the freshness of its wearer's feelings must be worn away. It would be sunk into a badge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more worthless, than the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant a year or two, and sees others made commanders before him? So reasoned Edmund, till his father made him the confidant of a scheme which placed Fanny's chance of seeing the second lieutenant of H.M.S. Thrush in all his glory in another light. This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. It had occurred to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and desirable measure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he consulted his son. Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but what was right. The thing was good in itself, and could not be done at a better time; and he had no doubt of it being highly agreeable to Fanny. This was enough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive "then so it shall be" closed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring from it with some feelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and above what he had communicated to his son; for his prime motive in sending her away had very little to do with the propriety of her seeing her parents again, and nothing at all with any idea of making her happy. He certainly wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be heartily sick of home before her visit ended; and that a little abstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park would bring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster estimate of the value of that home of greater permanence, and equal comfort, of which she had the offer. It was a medicinal project upon his niece's understanding, which he must consider as at present diseased. A residence of eight or nine years in the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her powers of comparing and judging. Her father's house would, in all probability, teach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that she would be the wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the experiment he had devised. Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong attack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers, and sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of returning for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with William for the protector and companion of her journey, and the certainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of his remaining on land. Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it must have been then, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker, she was always more inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At the moment she could only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised with the visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more largely to William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were emotions of tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered in being torn from them, came over her with renewed strength, and it seemed as if to be at home again would heal every pain that had since grown out of the separation. To be in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many, and more loved by all than she had ever been before; to feel affection without fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who surrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe from every look which could be fancied a reproach on their account. This was a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that could be but half acknowledged. Edmund, too to be two months from _him_ (and perhaps she might be allowed to make her absence three) must do her good. At a distance, unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual irritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence, she should be able to reason herself into a properer state; she should be able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there, without wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth. The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's being comfortable without her. She was of use to no one else; but _there_ she might be missed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish, and what only _he_ could have accomplished at all. But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on any measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of long talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny's sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go; obtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady Bertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought Fanny ought to go, and therefore that she must. In the calmness of her own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations, unbiassed by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any necessity for Fanny's ever going near a father and mother who had done without her so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as to the not missing her, which under Mrs. Norris's discussion was the point attempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting any such thing. Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be very well spared _she_ being ready to give up all her own time to her as requested and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed. | No speaker | amends for my being gone."<|quote|>The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have been asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence; it was impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than her own judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent affection. Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond treatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the more overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides, there was gratitude towards her, for having made their _t te- -t te_ so much less painful than her fears had predicted. It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without detection. Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case, she thought she could resign herself to almost everything. In the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and sat some time with them; and her spirits not being previously in the strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him, because he really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said anything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him, though hoping she might never see him again till he were the husband of some other woman. When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he would not be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she heard, and when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a token of friendship had passed. On the morrow the Crawfords were gone. CHAPTER XXXVII Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was that he should be missed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank in the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or fancied, an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering form; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into nothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched her with this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. He hardly knew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not. She was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond his discrimination. He did not understand her: he felt that he did not; and therefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the present occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she had been. Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father a little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could produce any. What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford's sister, the friend and companion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly regretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so little voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation. Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the chief bane of Fanny's comfort. If she could have believed Mary's future fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother's should be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant as she was much inclined to think his, she would have been light of heart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the more deeply was she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for Miss Crawford's marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. On his side the inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His objections, the scruples of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody could tell how; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were equally got over and equally without apparent reason. It could only be imputed to increasing attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded to love, and such love must unite them. He was to go to town as soon as some business relative to Thornton Lacey were completed perhaps within a fortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when once with her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be as certain as his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still remaining which made the prospect of it most sorrowful to her, independently, she believed, independently of self. In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some amiable sensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss Crawford; still shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any suspicion of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might love, but she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny believed there was scarcely a second feeling in common between them; and she may be forgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford's future improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking that if Edmund's influence in this season of love had already done so little in clearing her judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth would be finally wasted on her even in years of matrimony. Experience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced, and impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford's nature that participation of the general nature of women which would lead her to adopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But as such were Fanny's persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain. Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own observations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human nature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and consequence on his niece's spirits, and the past attentions of the lover producing a craving for their return; and he was soon afterwards able to account for his not yet completely and indubitably seeing all this, by the prospect of another visitor, whose approach he could allow to be quite enough to support the spirits he was watching. William had obtained a ten days' leave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire, and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants, because the latest made, to shew his happiness and describe his uniform. He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there too, had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. So the uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before Fanny had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the freshness of its wearer's feelings must be worn away. It would be sunk into a badge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more worthless, than the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant a year or two, and sees others made commanders before him? So reasoned Edmund, till his father made him the confidant of a scheme which placed Fanny's chance of seeing the second lieutenant of H.M.S. Thrush in all his glory in another light. This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. It had occurred to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and desirable measure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he consulted his son. Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but what was right. The thing was good in itself, and could not be done at a better time; and he had no doubt of it being highly agreeable to Fanny. This was enough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive "then so it shall be" closed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring from it with some feelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and above what he had communicated to his son; for his prime motive in sending her away had very little to do with the propriety of her seeing her parents again, and nothing at all with any idea of making her happy. He certainly wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be heartily sick of home before her visit ended; and that a little abstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park would bring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster estimate of the value of that home of greater permanence, and equal comfort, of which she had the offer. It was a medicinal project upon his niece's understanding, which he must consider as at present diseased. A residence of eight or nine years in the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her powers of comparing and judging. Her father's house would, in all probability, teach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that she would be the wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the experiment he had devised. Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong attack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers, and sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of returning for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with William for the protector and companion of her journey, and the certainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of his remaining on land. Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it must have been then, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker, she was always more inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At the moment she could only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised with the visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more largely to William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were emotions of tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered in being torn from them, came over her with renewed strength, and it seemed as if to be at home again would heal every pain that had since grown out of the separation. To be in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many, and more loved by all than she had ever been before; to feel affection without fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who surrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe from every look which could be fancied a reproach on their account. This was a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that could be but half acknowledged. Edmund, too to be two months from _him_ (and perhaps she might be allowed to make her absence three) must do her good. At a distance, unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual irritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence, she should be able to reason herself into a properer state; she should be able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there, without wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth. The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's being comfortable without her. She was of use to no one else; but _there_ she might be missed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish, and what only _he_ could have accomplished at all. But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on any measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of long talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny's sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go; obtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady Bertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought Fanny ought to go, and therefore that she must. In the calmness of her own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations, unbiassed by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any necessity for Fanny's ever going near a father and mother who had done without her so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as to the not missing her, which under Mrs. Norris's discussion was the point attempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting any such thing. Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be very well spared _she_ being ready to give up all her own time to her as requested and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed.</|quote|>"That may be, sister," was | Mrs. Grant, and make her amends for my being gone."<|quote|>The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have been asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence; it was impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than her own judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent affection. Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond treatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the more overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides, there was gratitude towards her, for having made their _t te- -t te_ so much less painful than her fears had predicted. It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without detection. Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case, she thought she could resign herself to almost everything. In the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and sat some time with them; and her spirits not being previously in the strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him, because he really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said anything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him, though hoping she might never see him again till he were the husband of some other woman. When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he would not be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she heard, and when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a token of friendship had passed. On the morrow the Crawfords were gone. CHAPTER XXXVII Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was that he should be missed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank in the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or fancied, an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering form; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into nothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched her with this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. He hardly knew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not. She was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond his discrimination. He did not understand her: he felt that he did not; and therefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the present occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she had been. Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father a little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could produce any. What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford's sister, the friend and companion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly regretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so little voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation. Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the chief bane of Fanny's comfort. If she could have believed Mary's future fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother's should be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant as she was much inclined to think his, she would have been light of heart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the more deeply was she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for Miss Crawford's marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. On his side the inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His objections, the scruples of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody could tell how; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were equally got over and equally without apparent reason. It could only be imputed to increasing attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded to love, and such love must unite them. He was to go to town as soon as some business relative to Thornton Lacey were completed perhaps within a fortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when once with her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be as certain as his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still remaining which made the prospect of it most sorrowful to her, independently, she believed, independently of self. In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some amiable sensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss Crawford; still shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any suspicion of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might love, but she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny believed there was scarcely a second feeling in common between them; and she may be forgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford's future improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking that if Edmund's influence in this season of love had already done so little in clearing her judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth would be finally wasted on her even in years of matrimony. Experience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced, and impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford's nature that participation of the general nature of women which would lead her to adopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But as such were Fanny's persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain. Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own observations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human nature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and consequence on his niece's spirits, and the past attentions of the lover producing a craving for their return; and he was soon afterwards able to account for his not yet completely and indubitably seeing all this, by the prospect of another visitor, whose approach he could allow to be quite enough to support the spirits he was watching. William had obtained a ten days' leave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire, and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants, because the latest made, to shew his happiness and describe his uniform. He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there too, had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. So the uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before Fanny had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the freshness of its wearer's feelings must be worn away. It would be sunk into a badge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more worthless, than the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant a year or two, and sees others made commanders before him? So reasoned Edmund, till his father made him the confidant of a scheme which placed Fanny's chance of seeing the second lieutenant of H.M.S. Thrush in all his glory in another light. This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. It had occurred to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and desirable measure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he consulted his son. Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but what was right. The thing was good in itself, and could not be done at a better time; and he had no doubt of it being highly agreeable to Fanny. This was enough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive "then so it shall be" closed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring from it with some feelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and above what he had communicated to his son; for his prime motive in sending her away had very little to do with the propriety of her seeing her parents again, and nothing at all with any idea of making her happy. He certainly wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be heartily sick of home before her visit ended; and that a little abstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park would bring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster estimate of the value of that home of greater permanence, and equal comfort, of which she had the offer. It was a medicinal project upon his niece's understanding, which he must consider as at present diseased. A residence of eight or nine years in the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her powers of comparing and judging. Her father's house would, in all probability, teach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that she would be the wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the experiment he had devised. Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong attack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers, and sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of returning for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with William for the protector and companion of her journey, and the certainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of his remaining on land. Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it must have been then, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker, she was always more inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At the moment she could only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised with the visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more largely to William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were emotions of tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered in being torn from them, came over her with renewed strength, and it seemed as if to be at home again would heal every pain that had since grown out of the separation. To be in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many, and more loved by all than she had ever been before; to feel affection without fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who surrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe from every look which could be fancied a reproach on their account. This was a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that could be but half acknowledged. Edmund, too to be two months from _him_ (and perhaps she might be allowed to make her absence three) must do her good. At a distance, unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual irritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence, she should be able to reason herself into a properer state; she should be able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there, without wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth. The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's being comfortable without her. She was of use to no one else; but _there_ she might be missed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish, and what only _he_ could have accomplished at all. But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on any measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of long talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny's sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go; obtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady Bertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought Fanny ought to go, and therefore that she must. In the calmness of her own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations, unbiassed by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any necessity for Fanny's ever going near a father and mother who had done without her so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as to the not missing her, which under Mrs. Norris's discussion was the point attempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting any such thing. Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be very well spared _she_ being ready to give up all her own time to her as requested and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed.</|quote|>"That may be, sister," was all Lady Bertram's reply. "I | Rushworths, and Julia, I am sure of meeting again and again, and all but you. I have two favours to ask, Fanny: one is your correspondence. You must write to me. And the other, that you will often call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends for my being gone."<|quote|>The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have been asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence; it was impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than her own judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent affection. Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond treatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the more overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides, there was gratitude towards her, for having made their _t te- -t te_ so much less painful than her fears had predicted. It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without detection. Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case, she thought she could resign herself to almost everything. In the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and sat some time with them; and her spirits not being previously in the strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him, because he really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said anything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him, though hoping she might never see him again till he were the husband of some other woman. When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he would not be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she heard, and when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a token of friendship had passed. On the morrow the Crawfords were gone. CHAPTER XXXVII Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was that he should be missed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank in the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or fancied, an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering form; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into nothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched her with this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. He hardly knew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not. She was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond his discrimination. He did not understand her: he felt that he did not; and therefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the present occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she had been. Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father a little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could produce any. What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford's sister, the friend and companion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly regretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so little voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation. Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the chief bane of Fanny's comfort. If she could have believed Mary's future fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother's should be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant as she was much inclined to think his, she would have been light of heart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the more deeply was she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for Miss Crawford's marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. On his side the inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His objections, the scruples of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody could tell how; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were equally got over and equally without apparent reason. It could only be imputed to increasing attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded to love, and such love must unite them. He was to go to town as soon as some business relative to Thornton Lacey were completed perhaps within a fortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when once with her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be as certain as his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still remaining which made the prospect of it most sorrowful to her, independently, she believed, independently of self. In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some amiable sensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss Crawford; still shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any suspicion of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might love, but she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny believed there was scarcely a second feeling in common between them; and she may be forgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford's future improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking that if Edmund's influence in this season of love had already done so little in clearing her judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth would be finally wasted on her even in years of matrimony. Experience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced, and impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford's nature that participation of the general nature of women which would lead her to adopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But as such were Fanny's persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain. Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own observations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human nature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and consequence on his niece's spirits, and the past attentions of the lover producing a craving for their return; and he was soon afterwards able to account for his not yet completely and indubitably seeing all this, by the prospect of another visitor, whose approach he could allow to be quite enough to support the spirits he was watching. William had obtained a ten days' leave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire, and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants, because the latest made, to shew his happiness and describe his uniform. He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there too, had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. So the uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before Fanny had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the freshness of its wearer's feelings must be worn away. It would be sunk into a badge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more worthless, than the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant a year or two, and sees others made commanders before him? So reasoned Edmund, till his father made him the confidant of a scheme which placed Fanny's chance of seeing the second lieutenant of H.M.S. Thrush in all his glory in another light. This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. It had occurred to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and desirable measure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he consulted his son. Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but what was right. The thing was good in itself, and could not be done at a better time; and he had no doubt of it being highly agreeable to Fanny. This was enough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive "then so it shall be" closed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring from it with some feelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and above what he had communicated to his son; for his prime motive in sending her away had very little to do with the propriety of her seeing her parents again, and nothing at all with any idea of making her happy. He certainly wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be heartily sick of home before her visit ended; and that a little abstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park would bring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster estimate of the value of that home of greater permanence, and equal comfort, of which she had the offer. It was a medicinal project upon his niece's understanding, which he must consider as at present diseased. A residence of eight or nine years in the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her powers of comparing and judging. Her father's house would, in all probability, teach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that she would be the wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the experiment he had devised. Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong attack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers, and sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of returning for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with William for the protector and companion of her journey, and the certainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of his remaining on land. Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it must have been then, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker, she was always more inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At the moment she could only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised with the visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more largely to William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were emotions of tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered in being torn from them, came over her with renewed strength, and it seemed as if to be at home again would heal every pain that had since grown out of the separation. To be in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many, and more loved by all than she had ever been before; to feel affection without fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who surrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe from every look which could be fancied a reproach on their account. This was a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that could be but half acknowledged. Edmund, too to be two months from _him_ (and perhaps she might be allowed to make her absence three) must do her good. At a distance, unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual irritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence, she should be able to reason herself into a properer state; she should be able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there, without wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth. The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's being comfortable without her. She was of use to no one else; but _there_ she might be missed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish, and what only _he_ could have accomplished at all. But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on any measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of long talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny's sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go; obtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady Bertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought Fanny ought to go, and therefore that she must. In the calmness of her own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations, unbiassed by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any necessity for Fanny's ever going near a father and mother who had done without her so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as to the not missing her, which under Mrs. Norris's discussion was the point attempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting any such thing. Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be very well spared _she_ being ready to give up all her own time to her as requested and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed.</|quote|>"That may be, sister," was all Lady Bertram's reply. "I dare say you are very right; but I am sure I shall miss her very much." The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to offer herself; and her mother's answer, though short, was so kind a few | or shadow of reserve." A very, very kind embrace, and some agitation of manner, accompanied these words. "I shall see your cousin in town soon: he talks of being there tolerably soon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the course of the spring; and your eldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia, I am sure of meeting again and again, and all but you. I have two favours to ask, Fanny: one is your correspondence. You must write to me. And the other, that you will often call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends for my being gone."<|quote|>The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have been asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence; it was impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than her own judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent affection. Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond treatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the more overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides, there was gratitude towards her, for having made their _t te- -t te_ so much less painful than her fears had predicted. It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without detection. Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case, she thought she could resign herself to almost everything. In the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and sat some time with them; and her spirits not being previously in the strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him, because he really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said anything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him, though hoping she might never see him again till he were the husband of some other woman. When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he would not be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she heard, and when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a token of friendship had passed. On the morrow the Crawfords were gone. CHAPTER XXXVII Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was that he should be missed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank in the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or fancied, an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering form; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into nothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched her with this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. He hardly knew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not. She was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond his discrimination. He did not understand her: he felt that he did not; and therefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the present occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she had been. Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father a little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could produce any. What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford's sister, the friend and companion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly regretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so little voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation. Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the chief bane of Fanny's comfort. If she could have believed Mary's future fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother's should be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant as she was much inclined to think his, she would have been light of heart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the more deeply was she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for Miss Crawford's marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. On his side the inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His objections, the scruples of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody could tell how; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were equally got over and equally without apparent reason. It could only be imputed to increasing attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded to love, and such love must unite them. He was to go to town as soon as some business relative to Thornton Lacey were completed perhaps within a fortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when once with her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be as certain as his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still remaining which made the prospect of it most sorrowful to her, independently, she believed, independently of self. In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some amiable sensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss Crawford; still shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any suspicion of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might love, but she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny believed there was scarcely a second feeling in common between them; and she may be forgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford's future improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking that if Edmund's influence in this season of love had already done so little in clearing her judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth would be finally wasted on her even in years of matrimony. Experience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced, and impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford's nature that participation of the general nature of women which would lead her to adopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But as such were Fanny's persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain. Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own observations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human nature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and consequence on his niece's spirits, and the past attentions of the lover producing a craving for their return; and he was soon afterwards able to account for his not yet completely and indubitably seeing all this, by the prospect of another visitor, whose approach he could allow to be quite enough to support the spirits he was watching. William had obtained a ten days' leave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire, and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants, because the latest made, to shew his happiness and describe his uniform. He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there too, had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. So the uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before Fanny had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the freshness of its wearer's feelings must be worn away. It would be sunk into a badge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more worthless, than the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant a year or two, and sees others made commanders before him? So reasoned Edmund, till his father made him the confidant of a scheme which placed Fanny's chance of seeing the second lieutenant of H.M.S. Thrush in all his glory in another light. This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. It had occurred to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and desirable measure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he consulted his son. Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but what was right. The thing was good in itself, and could not be done at a better time; and he had no doubt of it being highly agreeable to Fanny. This was enough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive "then so it shall be" closed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring from it with some feelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and above what he had communicated to his son; for his prime motive in sending her away had very little to do with the propriety of her seeing her parents again, and nothing at all with any idea of making her happy. He certainly wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be heartily sick of home before her visit ended; and that a little abstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park would bring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster estimate of the value of that home of greater permanence, and equal comfort, of which she had the offer. It was a medicinal project upon his niece's understanding, which he must consider as at present diseased. A residence of eight or nine years in the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her powers of comparing and judging. Her father's house would, in all probability, teach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that she would be the wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the experiment he had devised. Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong attack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers, and sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of returning for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with William for the protector and companion of her journey, and the certainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of his remaining on land. Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it must have been then, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker, she was always more inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At the moment she could only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised with the visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more largely to William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were emotions of tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered in being torn from them, came over her with renewed strength, and it seemed as if to be at home again would heal every pain that had since grown out of the separation. To be in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many, and more loved by all than she had ever been before; to feel affection without fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who surrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe from every look which could be fancied a reproach on their account. This was a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that could be but half acknowledged. Edmund, too to be two months from _him_ (and perhaps she might be allowed to make her absence three) must do her good. At a distance, unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual irritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence, she should be able to reason herself into a properer state; she should be able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there, without wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth. The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's being comfortable without her. She was of use to no one else; but _there_ she might be missed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish, and what only _he_ could have accomplished at all. But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on any measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of long talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny's sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go; obtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady Bertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought Fanny ought to go, and therefore that she must. In the calmness of her own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations, unbiassed by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any necessity for Fanny's ever going near a father and mother who had done without her so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as to the not missing her, which under Mrs. Norris's discussion was the point attempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting any such thing. Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be very well spared _she_ being ready to give up all her own time to her as requested and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed.</|quote|>"That may be, sister," was all Lady Bertram's reply. "I dare say you are very right; but I am sure I shall miss her very much." The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to offer herself; and her mother's answer, though short, was so kind a few simple lines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect of seeing her child again, as to confirm all the daughter's views of happiness in being with her convincing her that she should now find a warm and affectionate friend in the "mama" who had certainly shewn no | it till Mary, who had been first watching her complacently, and then musing on something else, suddenly called her attention by saying: "I should like to sit talking with you here all day, but we must not forget the ladies below, and so good-bye, my dear, my amiable, my excellent Fanny, for though we shall nominally part in the breakfast-parlour, I must take leave of you here. And I do take leave, longing for a happy reunion, and trusting that when we meet again, it will be under circumstances which may open our hearts to each other without any remnant or shadow of reserve." A very, very kind embrace, and some agitation of manner, accompanied these words. "I shall see your cousin in town soon: he talks of being there tolerably soon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the course of the spring; and your eldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia, I am sure of meeting again and again, and all but you. I have two favours to ask, Fanny: one is your correspondence. You must write to me. And the other, that you will often call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends for my being gone."<|quote|>The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have been asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence; it was impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than her own judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent affection. Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond treatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the more overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides, there was gratitude towards her, for having made their _t te- -t te_ so much less painful than her fears had predicted. It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without detection. Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case, she thought she could resign herself to almost everything. In the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and sat some time with them; and her spirits not being previously in the strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him, because he really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said anything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him, though hoping she might never see him again till he were the husband of some other woman. When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he would not be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she heard, and when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a token of friendship had passed. On the morrow the Crawfords were gone. CHAPTER XXXVII Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was that he should be missed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank in the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or fancied, an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering form; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into nothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched her with this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. He hardly knew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not. She was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond his discrimination. He did not understand her: he felt that he did not; and therefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the present occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she had been. Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father a little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could produce any. What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford's sister, the friend and companion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly regretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so little voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation. Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the chief bane of Fanny's comfort. If she could have believed Mary's future fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother's should be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant as she was much inclined to think his, she would have been light of heart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the more deeply was she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for Miss Crawford's marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. On his side the inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His objections, the scruples of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody could tell how; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were equally got over and equally without apparent reason. It could only be imputed to increasing attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded to love, and such love must unite them. He was to go to town as soon as some business relative to Thornton Lacey were completed perhaps within a fortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when once with her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be as certain as his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still remaining which made the prospect of it most sorrowful to her, independently, she believed, independently of self. In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some amiable sensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss Crawford; still shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any suspicion of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might love, but she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny believed there was scarcely a second feeling in common between them; and she may be forgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford's future improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking that if Edmund's influence in this season of love had already done so little in clearing her judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth would be finally wasted on her even in years of matrimony. Experience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced, and impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford's nature that participation of the general nature of women which would lead her to adopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But as such were Fanny's persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain. Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own observations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human nature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and consequence on his niece's spirits, and the past attentions of the lover producing a craving for their return; and he was soon afterwards able to account for his not yet completely and indubitably seeing all this, by the prospect of another visitor, whose approach he could allow to be quite enough to support the spirits he was watching. William had obtained a ten days' leave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire, and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants, because the latest made, to shew his happiness and describe his uniform. He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there too, had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. So the uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before Fanny had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the freshness of its wearer's feelings must be worn away. It would be sunk into a badge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more worthless, than the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant a year or two, and sees others made commanders before him? So reasoned Edmund, till his father made him the confidant of a scheme which placed Fanny's chance of seeing the second lieutenant of H.M.S. Thrush in all his glory in another light. This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. It had occurred to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and desirable measure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he consulted his son. Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but what was right. The thing was good in itself, and could not be done at a better time; and he had no doubt of it being highly agreeable to Fanny. This was enough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive "then so it shall be" closed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring from it with some feelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and above what he had communicated to his son; for his prime motive in sending her away had very little to do with the propriety of her seeing her parents again, and nothing at all with any idea of making her happy. He certainly wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be heartily sick of home before her visit ended; and that a little abstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park would bring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster estimate of the value of that home of greater permanence, and equal comfort, of which she had the offer. It was a medicinal project upon his niece's understanding, which he must consider as at present diseased. A residence of eight or nine years in the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her powers of comparing and judging. Her father's house would, in all probability, teach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that she would be the wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the experiment he had devised. Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong attack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers, and sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of returning for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with William for the protector and companion of her journey, and the certainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of his remaining on land. Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it must have been then, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker, she was always more inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At the moment she could only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised with the visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more largely to William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were emotions of tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered in being torn from them, came over her with renewed strength, and it seemed as if to be at home again would heal every pain that had since grown out of the separation. To be in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many, and more loved by all than she had ever been before; to feel affection without fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who surrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe from every look which could be fancied a reproach on their account. This was a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that could be but half acknowledged. Edmund, too to be two months from _him_ (and perhaps she might be allowed to make her absence three) must do her good. At a distance, unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual irritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence, she should be able to reason herself into a properer state; she should be able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there, without wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth. The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's being comfortable without her. She was of use to no one else; but _there_ she might be missed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish, and what only _he_ could have accomplished at all. But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on any measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of long talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny's sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go; obtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady Bertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought Fanny ought to go, and therefore that she must. In the calmness of her own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations, unbiassed by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any necessity for Fanny's ever going near a father and mother who had done without her so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as to the not missing her, which under Mrs. Norris's discussion was the point attempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting any such thing. Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be very well spared _she_ being ready to give up all her own time to her as requested and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed.</|quote|>"That may be, sister," was all Lady Bertram's reply. "I dare say you are very right; but I am sure I shall miss her very much." The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to offer herself; and her mother's answer, though short, was so kind a few simple lines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect of seeing her child again, as to confirm all the daughter's views of happiness in being with her convincing her that she should now find a warm and affectionate friend in the "mama" who had certainly shewn no remarkable fondness for her formerly; but this she could easily suppose to have been her own fault or her own fancy. She had probably alienated love by the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper, or been unreasonable in wanting a larger share than any one among so many could deserve. Now, when she knew better how to be useful, and how to forbear, and when her mother could be no longer occupied by the incessant demands of a house full of little children, there would be leisure and inclination for every comfort, and they should soon be what mother | was to any woman before; that he loves you with all his heart, and will love you as nearly for ever as possible. If any man ever loved a woman for ever, I think Henry will do as much for you." Fanny could not avoid a faint smile, but had nothing to say. "I cannot imagine Henry ever to have been happier," continued Mary presently, "than when he had succeeded in getting your brother's commission." She had made a sure push at Fanny's feelings here. "Oh! yes. How very, very kind of him." "I know he must have exerted himself very much, for I know the parties he had to move. The Admiral hates trouble, and scorns asking favours; and there are so many young men's claims to be attended to in the same way, that a friendship and energy, not very determined, is easily put by. What a happy creature William must be! I wish we could see him." Poor Fanny's mind was thrown into the most distressing of all its varieties. The recollection of what had been done for William was always the most powerful disturber of every decision against Mr. Crawford; and she sat thinking deeply of it till Mary, who had been first watching her complacently, and then musing on something else, suddenly called her attention by saying: "I should like to sit talking with you here all day, but we must not forget the ladies below, and so good-bye, my dear, my amiable, my excellent Fanny, for though we shall nominally part in the breakfast-parlour, I must take leave of you here. And I do take leave, longing for a happy reunion, and trusting that when we meet again, it will be under circumstances which may open our hearts to each other without any remnant or shadow of reserve." A very, very kind embrace, and some agitation of manner, accompanied these words. "I shall see your cousin in town soon: he talks of being there tolerably soon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the course of the spring; and your eldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia, I am sure of meeting again and again, and all but you. I have two favours to ask, Fanny: one is your correspondence. You must write to me. And the other, that you will often call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends for my being gone."<|quote|>The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have been asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence; it was impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than her own judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent affection. Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond treatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the more overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides, there was gratitude towards her, for having made their _t te- -t te_ so much less painful than her fears had predicted. It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without detection. Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case, she thought she could resign herself to almost everything. In the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and sat some time with them; and her spirits not being previously in the strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him, because he really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said anything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him, though hoping she might never see him again till he were the husband of some other woman. When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he would not be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she heard, and when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a token of friendship had passed. On the morrow the Crawfords were gone. CHAPTER XXXVII Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was that he should be missed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank in the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or fancied, an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering form; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into nothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched her with this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. He hardly knew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not. She was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond his discrimination. He did not understand her: he felt that he did not; and therefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the present occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she had been. Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father a little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could produce any. What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford's sister, the friend and companion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly regretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so little voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation. Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the chief bane of Fanny's comfort. If she could have believed Mary's future fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother's should be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant as she was much inclined to think his, she would have been light of heart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the more deeply was she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for Miss Crawford's marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. On his side the inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His objections, the scruples of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody could tell how; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were equally got over and equally without apparent reason. It could only be imputed to increasing attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded to love, and such love must unite them. He was to go to town as soon as some business relative to Thornton Lacey were completed perhaps within a fortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when once with her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be as certain as his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still remaining which made the prospect of it most sorrowful to her, independently, she believed, independently of self. In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some amiable sensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss Crawford; still shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any suspicion of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might love, but she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny believed there was scarcely a second feeling in common between them; and she may be forgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford's future improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking that if Edmund's influence in this season of love had already done so little in clearing her judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth would be finally wasted on her even in years of matrimony. Experience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced, and impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford's nature that participation of the general nature of women which would lead her to adopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But as such were Fanny's persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain. Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own observations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human nature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and consequence on his niece's spirits, and the past attentions of the lover producing a craving for their return; and he was soon afterwards able to account for his not yet completely and indubitably seeing all this, by the prospect of another visitor, whose approach he could allow to be quite enough to support the spirits he was watching. William had obtained a ten days' leave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire, and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants, because the latest made, to shew his happiness and describe his uniform. He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there too, had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. So the uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before Fanny had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the freshness of its wearer's feelings must be worn away. It would be sunk into a badge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more worthless, than the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant a year or two, and sees others made commanders before him? So reasoned Edmund, till his father made him the confidant of a scheme which placed Fanny's chance of seeing the second lieutenant of H.M.S. Thrush in all his glory in another light. This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. It had occurred to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and desirable measure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he consulted his son. Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but what was right. The thing was good in itself, and could not be done at a better time; and he had no doubt of it being highly agreeable to Fanny. This was enough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive "then so it shall be" closed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring from it with some feelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and above what he had communicated to his son; for his prime motive in sending her away had very little to do with the propriety of her seeing her parents again, and nothing at all with any idea of making her happy. He certainly wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be heartily sick of home before her visit ended; and that a little abstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park would bring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster estimate of the value of that home of greater permanence, and equal comfort, of which she had the offer. It was a medicinal project upon his niece's understanding, which he must consider as at present diseased. A residence of eight or nine years in the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her powers of comparing and judging. Her father's house would, in all probability, teach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that she would be the wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the experiment he had devised. Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong attack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers, and sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of returning for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with William for the protector and companion of her journey, and the certainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of his remaining on land. Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it must have been then, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker, she was always more inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At the moment she could only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised with the visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more largely to William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were emotions of tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered in being torn from them, came over her with renewed strength, and it seemed as if to be at home again would heal every pain that had since grown out of the separation. To be in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many, and more loved by all than she had ever been before; to feel affection without fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who surrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe from every look which could be fancied a reproach on their account. This was a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that could be but half acknowledged. Edmund, too to be two months from _him_ (and perhaps she might be allowed to make her absence three) must do her good. At a distance, unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual irritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence, she should be able to reason herself into a properer state; she should be able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there, without wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth. The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's being comfortable without her. She was of use to no one else; but _there_ she might be missed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish, and what only _he_ could have accomplished at all. But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on any measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of long talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny's sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go; obtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady Bertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought Fanny ought to go, and therefore that she must. In the calmness of her own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations, unbiassed by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any necessity for Fanny's ever going near a father and mother who had done without her so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as to the not missing her, which under Mrs. Norris's discussion was the point attempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting any such thing. Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be very well spared _she_ being ready to give up all her own time to her as requested and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed.</|quote|>"That may be, sister," was all Lady Bertram's reply. "I dare say you are very right; but I am sure I shall miss her very much." The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to offer herself; and her mother's answer, though short, was so kind a few simple lines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect of seeing her child again, as to confirm all the daughter's views of happiness in being with her convincing her that she should now find a warm and affectionate friend in the "mama" who had certainly shewn no remarkable fondness for her formerly; but this she could easily suppose to have been her own fault or her own fancy. She had probably alienated love by the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper, or been unreasonable in wanting a larger share than any one among so many could deserve. Now, when she knew better how to be useful, and how to forbear, and when her mother could be no longer occupied by the incessant demands of a house full of little children, there would be leisure and inclination for every comfort, and they should soon be what mother and daughter ought to be to each other. William was almost as happy in the plan as his sister. It would be the greatest pleasure to him to have her there to the last moment before he sailed, and perhaps find her there still when he came in from his first cruise. And besides, he wanted her so very much to see the Thrush before she went out of harbour the Thrush was certainly the finest sloop in the service and there were several improvements in the dockyard, too, which he quite longed to shew her. He did not scruple to add that her being at home for a while would be a great advantage to everybody. "I do not know how it is," said he; "but we seem to want some of your nice ways and orderliness at my father's. The house is always in confusion. You will set things going in a better way, I am sure. You will tell my mother how it all ought to be, and you will be so useful to Susan, and you will teach Betsey, and make the boys love and mind you. How right and comfortable it will all be!" By | half afraid at the time of its being so, for there was something in your look that frightened me, but not at first; I was as unsuspicious of it at first indeed, indeed I was. It is as true as that I sit here. And had I had an idea of it, nothing should have induced me to accept the necklace. As to your brother's behaviour, certainly I was sensible of a particularity: I had been sensible of it some little time, perhaps two or three weeks; but then I considered it as meaning nothing: I put it down as simply being his way, and was as far from supposing as from wishing him to have any serious thoughts of me. I had not, Miss Crawford, been an inattentive observer of what was passing between him and some part of this family in the summer and autumn. I was quiet, but I was not blind. I could not but see that Mr. Crawford amused himself in gallantries which did mean nothing." "Ah! I cannot deny it. He has now and then been a sad flirt, and cared very little for the havoc he might be making in young ladies' affections. I have often scolded him for it, but it is his only fault; and there is this to be said, that very few young ladies have any affections worth caring for. And then, Fanny, the glory of fixing one who has been shot at by so many; of having it in one's power to pay off the debts of one's sex! Oh! I am sure it is not in woman's nature to refuse such a triumph." Fanny shook her head. "I cannot think well of a man who sports with any woman's feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered than a stander-by can judge of." "I do not defend him. I leave him entirely to your mercy, and when he has got you at Everingham, I do not care how much you lecture him. But this I will say, that his fault, the liking to make girls a little in love with him, is not half so dangerous to a wife's happiness as a tendency to fall in love himself, which he has never been addicted to. And I do seriously and truly believe that he is attached to you in a way that he never was to any woman before; that he loves you with all his heart, and will love you as nearly for ever as possible. If any man ever loved a woman for ever, I think Henry will do as much for you." Fanny could not avoid a faint smile, but had nothing to say. "I cannot imagine Henry ever to have been happier," continued Mary presently, "than when he had succeeded in getting your brother's commission." She had made a sure push at Fanny's feelings here. "Oh! yes. How very, very kind of him." "I know he must have exerted himself very much, for I know the parties he had to move. The Admiral hates trouble, and scorns asking favours; and there are so many young men's claims to be attended to in the same way, that a friendship and energy, not very determined, is easily put by. What a happy creature William must be! I wish we could see him." Poor Fanny's mind was thrown into the most distressing of all its varieties. The recollection of what had been done for William was always the most powerful disturber of every decision against Mr. Crawford; and she sat thinking deeply of it till Mary, who had been first watching her complacently, and then musing on something else, suddenly called her attention by saying: "I should like to sit talking with you here all day, but we must not forget the ladies below, and so good-bye, my dear, my amiable, my excellent Fanny, for though we shall nominally part in the breakfast-parlour, I must take leave of you here. And I do take leave, longing for a happy reunion, and trusting that when we meet again, it will be under circumstances which may open our hearts to each other without any remnant or shadow of reserve." A very, very kind embrace, and some agitation of manner, accompanied these words. "I shall see your cousin in town soon: he talks of being there tolerably soon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the course of the spring; and your eldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia, I am sure of meeting again and again, and all but you. I have two favours to ask, Fanny: one is your correspondence. You must write to me. And the other, that you will often call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends for my being gone."<|quote|>The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have been asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence; it was impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than her own judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent affection. Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond treatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the more overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides, there was gratitude towards her, for having made their _t te- -t te_ so much less painful than her fears had predicted. It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without detection. Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case, she thought she could resign herself to almost everything. In the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and sat some time with them; and her spirits not being previously in the strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him, because he really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said anything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him, though hoping she might never see him again till he were the husband of some other woman. When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he would not be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she heard, and when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a token of friendship had passed. On the morrow the Crawfords were gone. CHAPTER XXXVII Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was that he should be missed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank in the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or fancied, an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering form; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into nothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched her with this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. He hardly knew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not. She was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond his discrimination. He did not understand her: he felt that he did not; and therefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the present occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she had been. Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father a little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could produce any. What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford's sister, the friend and companion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly regretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so little voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation. Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the chief bane of Fanny's comfort. If she could have believed Mary's future fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother's should be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant as she was much inclined to think his, she would have been light of heart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the more deeply was she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for Miss Crawford's marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. On his side the inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His objections, the scruples of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody could tell how; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were equally got over and equally without apparent reason. It could only be imputed to increasing attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded to love, and such love must unite them. He was to go to town as soon as some business relative to Thornton Lacey were completed perhaps within a fortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when once with her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be as certain as his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still remaining which made the prospect of it most sorrowful to her, independently, she believed, independently of self. In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some amiable sensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss Crawford; still shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any suspicion of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might love, but she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny believed there was scarcely a second feeling in common between them; and she may be forgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford's future improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking that if Edmund's influence in this season of love had already done so little in clearing her judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth would be finally wasted on her even in years of matrimony. Experience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced, and impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford's nature that participation of the general nature of women which would lead her to adopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But as such were Fanny's persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain. Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own observations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human nature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and consequence on his niece's spirits, and the past attentions of the lover producing a craving for their return; and he was soon afterwards able to account for his not yet completely and indubitably seeing all this, by the prospect of another visitor, whose approach he could allow to be quite enough to support the spirits he was watching. William had obtained a ten days' leave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire, and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants, because the latest made, to shew his happiness and describe his uniform. He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there too, had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. So the uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before Fanny had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the freshness of its wearer's feelings must be worn away. It would be sunk into a badge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more worthless, than the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant a year or two, and sees others made commanders before him? So reasoned Edmund, till his father made him the confidant of a scheme which placed Fanny's chance of seeing the second lieutenant of H.M.S. Thrush in all his glory in another light. This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. It had occurred to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and desirable measure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he consulted his son. Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but what was right. The thing was good in itself, and could not be done at a better time; and he had no doubt of it being highly agreeable to Fanny. This was enough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive "then so it shall be" closed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring from it with some feelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and above what he had communicated to his son; for his prime motive in sending her away had very little to do with the propriety of her seeing her parents again, and nothing at all with any idea of making her happy. He certainly wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be heartily sick of home before her visit ended; and that a little abstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park would bring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster estimate of the value of that home of greater permanence, and equal comfort, of which she had the offer. It was a medicinal project upon his niece's understanding, which he must consider as at present diseased. A residence of eight or nine years in the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her powers of comparing and judging. Her father's house would, in all probability, teach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that she would be the wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the experiment he had devised. Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong attack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers, and sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of returning for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with William for the protector and companion of her journey, and the certainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of his remaining on land. Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it must have been then, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker, she was always more inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At the moment she could only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised with the visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more largely to William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were emotions of tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered in being torn from them, came over her with renewed strength, and it seemed as if to be at home again would heal every pain that had since grown out of the separation. To be in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many, and more loved by all than she had ever been before; to feel affection without fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who surrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe from every look which could be fancied a reproach on their account. This was a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that could be but half acknowledged. Edmund, too to be two months from _him_ (and perhaps she might be allowed to make her absence three) must do her good. At a distance, unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual irritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence, she should be able to reason herself into a properer state; she should be able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there, without wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth. The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's being comfortable without her. She was of use to no one else; but _there_ she might be missed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish, and what only _he_ could have accomplished at all. But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on any measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of long talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny's sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go; obtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady Bertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought Fanny ought to go, and therefore that she must. In the calmness of her own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations, unbiassed by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any necessity for Fanny's ever going near a father and mother who had done without her so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as to the not missing her, which under Mrs. Norris's discussion was the point attempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting any such thing. Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be very well spared _she_ being ready to give up all her own time to her as requested and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed.</|quote|>"That may be, sister," was all Lady Bertram's reply. "I dare say you are very right; but I am sure I shall miss her very much." The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to offer herself; and her mother's answer, though short, was so kind a few simple lines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect of seeing her child again, as to confirm all the daughter's views of happiness in being with her convincing her that she should now find a warm and affectionate friend in the "mama" who had certainly shewn no remarkable fondness for her formerly; but this she could easily suppose to have been her own fault or her own fancy. She had probably alienated love by the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper, or been unreasonable in wanting a larger share than any one among so many could deserve. Now, when she knew better how to be useful, and how to forbear, and when her mother could be no longer occupied by the incessant demands of a house full of little children, there would be leisure and inclination for every comfort, and they should soon be what mother and daughter ought to be to each other. William was almost as happy in the plan as his sister. It would be the greatest pleasure to him to have her there to the last moment before he sailed, and perhaps find her there still when he came in from his first cruise. And besides, he wanted her so very much to see the Thrush before she went out of harbour the Thrush was certainly the finest sloop in the service and there were several improvements in the dockyard, too, which he quite longed to shew her. He did not scruple to add that her being at home for a while would be a great advantage to everybody. "I do not know how it is," said he; "but we seem to want some of your nice ways and orderliness at my father's. The house is always in confusion. You will set things going in a better way, I am sure. You will tell my mother how it all ought to be, and you will be so useful to Susan, and you will teach Betsey, and make the boys love and mind you. How right and comfortable it will all be!" By the time Mrs. Price's answer arrived, there remained but a very few days more to be spent at Mansfield; and for part of one of those days the young travellers were in a good deal of alarm on the subject of their journey, for when the mode of it came to be talked of, and Mrs. Norris found that all her anxiety to save her brother-in-law's money was vain, and that in spite of her wishes and hints for a less expensive conveyance of Fanny, they were to travel post; when she saw Sir Thomas actually give William notes for the purpose, she was struck with the idea of there being room for a third in the carriage, and suddenly seized with a strong inclination to go with them, to go and see her poor dear sister Price. She proclaimed her thoughts. She must say that she had more than half a mind to go with the young people; it would be such an indulgence to her; she had not seen her poor dear sister Price for more than twenty years; and it would be a help to the young people in their journey to have her older head to manage for them; and she could not help thinking her poor dear sister Price would feel it very unkind of her not to come by such an opportunity. William and Fanny were horror-struck at the idea. All the comfort of their comfortable journey would be destroyed at once. With woeful countenances they looked at each other. Their suspense lasted an hour or two. No one interfered to encourage or dissuade. Mrs. Norris was left to settle the matter by herself; and it ended, to the infinite joy of her nephew and niece, in the recollection that she could not possibly be spared from Mansfield Park at present; that she was a great deal too necessary to Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram for her to be able to answer it to herself to leave them even for a week, and therefore must certainly sacrifice every other pleasure to that of being useful to them. It had, in fact, occurred to her, that though taken to Portsmouth for nothing, it would be hardly possible for her to avoid paying her own expenses back again. So her poor dear sister Price was left to all the disappointment of her missing such an opportunity, | your brother's commission." She had made a sure push at Fanny's feelings here. "Oh! yes. How very, very kind of him." "I know he must have exerted himself very much, for I know the parties he had to move. The Admiral hates trouble, and scorns asking favours; and there are so many young men's claims to be attended to in the same way, that a friendship and energy, not very determined, is easily put by. What a happy creature William must be! I wish we could see him." Poor Fanny's mind was thrown into the most distressing of all its varieties. The recollection of what had been done for William was always the most powerful disturber of every decision against Mr. Crawford; and she sat thinking deeply of it till Mary, who had been first watching her complacently, and then musing on something else, suddenly called her attention by saying: "I should like to sit talking with you here all day, but we must not forget the ladies below, and so good-bye, my dear, my amiable, my excellent Fanny, for though we shall nominally part in the breakfast-parlour, I must take leave of you here. And I do take leave, longing for a happy reunion, and trusting that when we meet again, it will be under circumstances which may open our hearts to each other without any remnant or shadow of reserve." A very, very kind embrace, and some agitation of manner, accompanied these words. "I shall see your cousin in town soon: he talks of being there tolerably soon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the course of the spring; and your eldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia, I am sure of meeting again and again, and all but you. I have two favours to ask, Fanny: one is your correspondence. You must write to me. And the other, that you will often call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends for my being gone."<|quote|>The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have been asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence; it was impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than her own judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent affection. Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond treatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the more overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides, there was gratitude towards her, for having made their _t te- -t te_ so much less painful than her fears had predicted. It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without detection. Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case, she thought she could resign herself to almost everything. In the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and sat some time with them; and her spirits not being previously in the strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him, because he really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said anything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him, though hoping she might never see him again till he were the husband of some other woman. When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he would not be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she heard, and when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a token of friendship had passed. On the morrow the Crawfords were gone. CHAPTER XXXVII Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was that he should be missed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank in the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or fancied, an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering form; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into nothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched her with this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. He hardly knew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not. She was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond his discrimination. He did not understand her: he felt that he did not; and therefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the present occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she had been. Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father a little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could produce any. What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford's sister, the friend and companion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly regretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so little voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation. Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the chief bane of Fanny's comfort. If she could have believed Mary's future fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother's should be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant as she was much inclined to think his, she would have been light of heart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the more deeply was she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for Miss Crawford's marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. On his side the inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His objections, the scruples of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody could tell how; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were equally got over and equally without apparent reason. It could only be imputed to increasing attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded to love, and such love must unite them. He was to go to town as soon as some business relative to Thornton Lacey were completed perhaps within a fortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when once with her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be as certain as his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still remaining which made the prospect of it most sorrowful to her, independently, she believed, independently of self. In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some amiable sensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss Crawford; still shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any suspicion of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might love, but she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny believed there was scarcely a second feeling in common between them; and she may be forgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford's future improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking that if Edmund's influence in this season of love had already done so little in clearing her judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth would be finally wasted on her even in years of matrimony. Experience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced, and impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford's nature that participation of the general nature of women which would lead her to adopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But as such were Fanny's persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain. Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own observations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human nature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and consequence on his niece's spirits, and the past attentions of the lover producing a craving for their return; and he was soon afterwards able to account for his not yet completely and indubitably seeing all this, by the prospect of another visitor, whose approach he could allow to be quite enough to support the spirits he was watching. William had obtained a ten days' leave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire, and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants, because the latest made, to shew his happiness and describe his uniform. He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there too, had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. So the uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before Fanny had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the freshness of its wearer's feelings must be worn away. It would be sunk into a badge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more worthless, than the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant a year or two, and sees others made commanders before him? So reasoned Edmund, till his father made him the confidant of a scheme which placed Fanny's chance of seeing the second lieutenant of H.M.S. Thrush in all his glory in another light. This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. It had occurred to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and desirable measure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he consulted his son. Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but what was right. The thing was good in itself, and could not be done at a better time; and he had no doubt of it being highly agreeable to Fanny. This was enough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive "then so it shall be" closed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring from it with some feelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and above what he had communicated to his son; for his prime motive in sending her away had very little to do with the propriety of her seeing her parents again, and nothing at all with any idea of making her happy. He certainly wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be heartily sick of home before her visit ended; and that a little abstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park would bring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster estimate of the value of that home of greater permanence, and equal comfort, of which she had the offer. It was a medicinal project upon his niece's understanding, which he must consider as at present diseased. A residence of eight or nine years in the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her powers of comparing and judging. Her father's house would, in all probability, teach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that she would be the wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the experiment he had devised. Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong attack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers, and sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of returning for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with William for the protector and companion of her journey, and the certainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of his remaining on land. Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it must have been then, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker, she was always more inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At the moment she could only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised with the visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more largely to William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were emotions of tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered in being torn from them, came over her with renewed strength, and it seemed as if to be at home again would heal every pain that had since grown out of the separation. To be in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many, and more loved by all than she had ever been before; to feel affection without fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who surrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe from every look which could be fancied a reproach on their account. This was a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that could be but half acknowledged. Edmund, too to be two months from _him_ (and perhaps she might be allowed to make her absence three) must do her good. At a distance, unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual irritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence, she should be able to reason herself into a properer state; she should be able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there, without wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth. The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's being comfortable without her. She was of use to no one else; but _there_ she might be missed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish, and what only _he_ could have accomplished at all. But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on any measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of long talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny's sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go; obtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady Bertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought Fanny ought to go, and therefore that she must. In the calmness of her own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations, unbiassed by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any necessity for Fanny's ever going near a father and mother who had done without her so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as to the not missing her, which under Mrs. Norris's discussion was the point attempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting any such thing. Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be very well spared _she_ being ready to give up all her own time to her as requested and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed.</|quote|>"That may be, sister," was all Lady Bertram's reply. "I dare say you are very right; but I am sure I shall miss her very much." The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to offer herself; and her mother's answer, though short, was so kind a few simple lines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect of seeing her child again, as to confirm all the daughter's views of happiness in being with her convincing her that she should now find a warm and affectionate friend in the "mama" who had certainly shewn no remarkable fondness for her formerly; but this she could easily suppose to have been her own fault or her own fancy. She had probably alienated love by the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper, or been unreasonable in wanting a larger share than any one among so many could deserve. Now, when she knew better how to be useful, and how to forbear, and when her mother could be no longer occupied by the incessant demands of a house full of little children, there would be leisure and inclination for every comfort, and they should soon be what mother and daughter ought to be to | Mansfield Park |
"A woman of seven and twenty," | Marianne | objection to his marrying _her_."<|quote|>"A woman of seven and twenty,"</|quote|>said Marianne, after pausing a | Brandon s being thirty-five any objection to his marrying _her_."<|quote|>"A woman of seven and twenty,"</|quote|>said Marianne, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to | said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon s being thirty-five any objection to his marrying _her_."<|quote|>"A woman of seven and twenty,"</|quote|>said Marianne, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of | age of forty." "Mama, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony." "Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon s being thirty-five any objection to his marrying _her_."<|quote|>"A woman of seven and twenty,"</|quote|>said Marianne, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial | will not protect him?" "Infirmity!" said Elinor, "do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of his limbs!" "Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the commonest infirmity of declining life?" "My dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate you must be in continual terror of _my_ decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty." "Mama, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony." "Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon s being thirty-five any objection to his marrying _her_."<|quote|>"A woman of seven and twenty,"</|quote|>said Marianne, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other." "It would be impossible, I know," replied Elinor, "to convince you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders." "But he talked of flannel waistcoats," | both. At the park she laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne. To the former her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence, for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel s advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor. Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of wishing to throw ridicule on his age. "But at least, Mama, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation, though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be _my_ father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous! When is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not protect him?" "Infirmity!" said Elinor, "do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of his limbs!" "Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the commonest infirmity of declining life?" "My dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate you must be in continual terror of _my_ decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty." "Mama, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony." "Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon s being thirty-five any objection to his marrying _her_."<|quote|>"A woman of seven and twenty,"</|quote|>said Marianne, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other." "It would be impossible, I know," replied Elinor, "to convince you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders." "But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble." "Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?" Soon after this, upon Elinor s leaving the room, "Mama," said Marianne, "I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. What else can detain him at Norland?" "Had you any idea of his coming so soon?" said Mrs. Dashwood. "_I_ had none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his coming to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?" "I have never mentioned it to her, but | and asked Marianne to sing a particular song which Marianne had just finished. Colonel Brandon alone, of all the party, heard her without being in raptures. He paid her only the compliment of attention; and she felt a respect for him on the occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless want of taste. His pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that ecstatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own, was estimable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of the others; and she was reasonable enough to allow that a man of five and thirty might well have outlived all acuteness of feeling and every exquisite power of enjoyment. She was perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the colonel s advanced state of life which humanity required. CHAPTER VIII. Mrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure. She had only two daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the world. In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as far as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. She was remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively to pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne Dashwood. She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening of their being together, from his listening so attentively while she sang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons dining at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again. It must be so. She was perfectly convinced of it. It would be an excellent match, for _he_ was rich, and _she_ was handsome. Mrs. Jennings had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever since her connection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge; and she was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl. The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for it supplied her with endless jokes against them both. At the park she laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne. To the former her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence, for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel s advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor. Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of wishing to throw ridicule on his age. "But at least, Mama, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation, though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be _my_ father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous! When is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not protect him?" "Infirmity!" said Elinor, "do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of his limbs!" "Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the commonest infirmity of declining life?" "My dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate you must be in continual terror of _my_ decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty." "Mama, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony." "Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon s being thirty-five any objection to his marrying _her_."<|quote|>"A woman of seven and twenty,"</|quote|>said Marianne, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other." "It would be impossible, I know," replied Elinor, "to convince you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders." "But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble." "Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?" Soon after this, upon Elinor s leaving the room, "Mama," said Marianne, "I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. What else can detain him at Norland?" "Had you any idea of his coming so soon?" said Mrs. Dashwood. "_I_ had none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his coming to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?" "I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must." "I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted for some time." "How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! But the whole of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how composed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the last evening of their being together! In Edward s farewell there was no distinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an affectionate brother to both. Twice did I leave them purposely together in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most unaccountably follow me out of the room. And Elinor, in quitting Norland and Edward, cried not as I did. Even now her self-command is invariable. When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?" CHAPTER IX. The Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to themselves. The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding them, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had given to Norland half its charms were engaged in again with far greater enjoyment than Norland had been able to afford, since the loss of their father. Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day for the first fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much occupation at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always employed. Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for, in spite of Sir John s urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at their service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood s spirit overcame the wish of society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to visit any family beyond the distance of a walk. There were but few who could be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable. About a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding valley of Allenham, which issued from that of Barton, as formerly described, the girls had, in one of their earliest | him to her knowledge; and she was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl. The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for it supplied her with endless jokes against them both. At the park she laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne. To the former her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence, for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel s advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor. Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of wishing to throw ridicule on his age. "But at least, Mama, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation, though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be _my_ father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous! When is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not protect him?" "Infirmity!" said Elinor, "do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of his limbs!" "Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the commonest infirmity of declining life?" "My dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate you must be in continual terror of _my_ decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty." "Mama, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony." "Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon s being thirty-five any objection to his marrying _her_."<|quote|>"A woman of seven and twenty,"</|quote|>said Marianne, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other." "It would be impossible, I know," replied Elinor, "to convince you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders." "But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble." "Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?" Soon after this, upon Elinor s leaving the room, "Mama," said Marianne, "I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. What else can detain him at Norland?" "Had you any idea of his coming so soon?" said Mrs. Dashwood. "_I_ had none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his coming to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?" "I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must." "I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted for some time." "How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! But the whole of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how composed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the last evening of their being together! In Edward s farewell there was no distinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an affectionate brother to both. Twice did I | Sense And Sensibility |
"Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we would rag just then!" | Evie | in her equipment. Evie gasped:<|quote|>"Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we would rag just then!"</|quote|>Then Margaret went down to | funny. Perhaps something was missing in her equipment. Evie gasped:<|quote|>"Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we would rag just then!"</|quote|>Then Margaret went down to breakfast. Henry was already installed; | of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the other was adoring yards of white satin. They screamed, they laughed, they sang, and the dog barked. Margaret screamed a little too, but without conviction. She could not feel that a wedding was so funny. Perhaps something was missing in her equipment. Evie gasped:<|quote|>"Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we would rag just then!"</|quote|>Then Margaret went down to breakfast. Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke little, and was, in Margaret s eyes, the only member of their party who dodged emotion successfully. She could not suppose him indifferent either to the loss of his daughter or to the presence of | and then became unintelligible. "What is that?" it sounded like, "--cut-yoke--sack-back--" "I can t hear." "--On the bed--tissue-paper--" Gathering that the wedding-dress was on view, and that a visit would be seemly, she went to Evie s room. All was hilarity here. Evie, in a petticoat, was dancing with one of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the other was adoring yards of white satin. They screamed, they laughed, they sang, and the dog barked. Margaret screamed a little too, but without conviction. She could not feel that a wedding was so funny. Perhaps something was missing in her equipment. Evie gasped:<|quote|>"Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we would rag just then!"</|quote|>Then Margaret went down to breakfast. Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke little, and was, in Margaret s eyes, the only member of their party who dodged emotion successfully. She could not suppose him indifferent either to the loss of his daughter or to the presence of his future wife. Yet he dwelt intact, only issuing orders occasionally--orders that promoted the comfort of his guests. He inquired after her hand; he set her to pour out the coffee and Mrs. Warrington to pour out the tea. When Evie came down there was a moment s awkwardness, and | all? Could not the men whom they despised as milksops beat them, even on their own ground? She thought of the bathing arrangements as they should be in her day--no worrying of servants, no appliances, beyond good sense. Her reflections were disturbed by the quiet child, who had come out to speak to the cat, but was now watching her watch the men. She called, "Good-morning, dear," a little sharply. Her voice spread consternation. Charles looked round, and though completely attired in indigo blue, vanished into the shed, and was seen no more. "Miss Wilcox is up--" the child whispered, and then became unintelligible. "What is that?" it sounded like, "--cut-yoke--sack-back--" "I can t hear." "--On the bed--tissue-paper--" Gathering that the wedding-dress was on view, and that a visit would be seemly, she went to Evie s room. All was hilarity here. Evie, in a petticoat, was dancing with one of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the other was adoring yards of white satin. They screamed, they laughed, they sang, and the dog barked. Margaret screamed a little too, but without conviction. She could not feel that a wedding was so funny. Perhaps something was missing in her equipment. Evie gasped:<|quote|>"Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we would rag just then!"</|quote|>Then Margaret went down to breakfast. Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke little, and was, in Margaret s eyes, the only member of their party who dodged emotion successfully. She could not suppose him indifferent either to the loss of his daughter or to the presence of his future wife. Yet he dwelt intact, only issuing orders occasionally--orders that promoted the comfort of his guests. He inquired after her hand; he set her to pour out the coffee and Mrs. Warrington to pour out the tea. When Evie came down there was a moment s awkwardness, and both ladies rose to vacate their places. "Burton," called Henry, "serve tea and coffee from the sideboard!" It wasn t genuine tact, but it was tact, of a sort--the sort that is as useful as the genuine, and saves even more situations at Board meetings. Henry treated a marriage like a funeral, item by item, never raising his eyes to the whole, and "Death, where is thy sting? Love, where is thy victory?" one would exclaim at the close. After breakfast Margaret claimed a few words with him. It was always best to approach him formally. She asked for the | so long as Henry mistook them for the county families when they did call, she was content. Charles Wilcox and Albert Fussell now crossed the lawn. They were going for a morning dip, and a servant followed them with their bathing-suits. She had meant to take a stroll herself before breakfast, but saw that the day was still sacred to men, and amused herself by watching their contretemps. In the first place the key of the bathing-shed could not be found. Charles stood by the riverside with folded hands, tragical, while the servant shouted, and was misunderstood by another servant in the garden. Then came a difficulty about a springboard, and soon three people were running backwards and forwards over the meadow, with orders and counter orders and recriminations and apologies. If Margaret wanted to jump from a motor-car, she jumped; if Tibby thought paddling would benefit his ankles, he paddled; if a clerk desired adventure, he took a walk in the dark. But these athletes seemed paralysed. They could not bathe without their appliances, though the morning sun was calling and the last mists were rising from the dimpling stream. Had they found the life of the body after all? Could not the men whom they despised as milksops beat them, even on their own ground? She thought of the bathing arrangements as they should be in her day--no worrying of servants, no appliances, beyond good sense. Her reflections were disturbed by the quiet child, who had come out to speak to the cat, but was now watching her watch the men. She called, "Good-morning, dear," a little sharply. Her voice spread consternation. Charles looked round, and though completely attired in indigo blue, vanished into the shed, and was seen no more. "Miss Wilcox is up--" the child whispered, and then became unintelligible. "What is that?" it sounded like, "--cut-yoke--sack-back--" "I can t hear." "--On the bed--tissue-paper--" Gathering that the wedding-dress was on view, and that a visit would be seemly, she went to Evie s room. All was hilarity here. Evie, in a petticoat, was dancing with one of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the other was adoring yards of white satin. They screamed, they laughed, they sang, and the dog barked. Margaret screamed a little too, but without conviction. She could not feel that a wedding was so funny. Perhaps something was missing in her equipment. Evie gasped:<|quote|>"Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we would rag just then!"</|quote|>Then Margaret went down to breakfast. Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke little, and was, in Margaret s eyes, the only member of their party who dodged emotion successfully. She could not suppose him indifferent either to the loss of his daughter or to the presence of his future wife. Yet he dwelt intact, only issuing orders occasionally--orders that promoted the comfort of his guests. He inquired after her hand; he set her to pour out the coffee and Mrs. Warrington to pour out the tea. When Evie came down there was a moment s awkwardness, and both ladies rose to vacate their places. "Burton," called Henry, "serve tea and coffee from the sideboard!" It wasn t genuine tact, but it was tact, of a sort--the sort that is as useful as the genuine, and saves even more situations at Board meetings. Henry treated a marriage like a funeral, item by item, never raising his eyes to the whole, and "Death, where is thy sting? Love, where is thy victory?" one would exclaim at the close. After breakfast Margaret claimed a few words with him. It was always best to approach him formally. She asked for the interview, because he was going on to shoot grouse to-morrow, and she was returning to Helen in town. "Certainly, dear," said he. "Of course, I have the time. What do you want?" "Nothing." "I was afraid something had gone wrong." "No; I have nothing to say, but you may talk." Glancing at his watch, he talked of the nasty curve at the lych-gate. She heard him with interest. Her surface could always respond to his without contempt, though all her deeper being might be yearning to help him. She had abandoned any plan of action. Love is the best, and the more she let herself love him, the more chance was there that he would set his soul in order. Such a moment as this, when they sat under fair weather by the walks of their future home, was so sweet to her that its sweetness would surely pierce to him. Each lift of his eyes, each parting of the thatched lip from the clean-shaven, must prelude the tenderness that kills the Monk and the Beast at a single blow. Disappointed a hundred times, she still hoped. She loved him with too clear a vision to fear his cloudiness. Whether | "Hullo! Who s that?" Charles made no answer. "Saxon or Celt?" she continued, laughing in the darkness. "But it doesn t matter. Whichever you are, you will have to listen to me. I love this place. I love Shropshire. I hate London. I am glad that this will be my home. Ah, dear" "--she was now moving back towards the house--" "what a comfort to have arrived!" "That woman means mischief," thought Charles, and compressed his lips. In a few minutes he followed her indoors, as the ground was getting damp. Mists were rising from the river, and presently it became invisible, though it whispered more loudly. There had been a heavy downpour in the Welsh hills. CHAPTER XXVI Next morning a fine mist covered the peninsula. The weather promised well, and the outline of the castle mound grew clearer each moment that Margaret watched it. Presently she saw the keep, and the sun painted the rubble gold, and charged the white sky with blue. The shadow of the house gathered itself together, and fell over the garden. A cat looked up at her window and mewed. Lastly the river appeared, still holding the mists between its banks and its overhanging alders, and only visible as far as a hill, which cut off its upper reaches. Margaret was fascinated by Oniton. She had said that she loved it, but it was rather its romantic tension that held her. The rounded Druids of whom she had caught glimpses in her drive, the rivers hurrying down from them to England, the carelessly modelled masses of the lower hills, thrilled her with poetry. The house was insignificant, but the prospect from it would be an eternal joy, and she thought of all the friends she would have to stop in it, and of the conversion of Henry himself to a rural life. Society, too, promised favourably. The rector of the parish had dined with them last night, and she found that he was a friend of her father s, and so knew what to find in her. She liked him. He would introduce her to the town. While, on her other side, Sir James Bidder sat, repeating that she only had to give the word, and he would whip up the county families for twenty miles round. Whether Sir James, who was Garden Seeds, had promised what he could perform, she doubted, but so long as Henry mistook them for the county families when they did call, she was content. Charles Wilcox and Albert Fussell now crossed the lawn. They were going for a morning dip, and a servant followed them with their bathing-suits. She had meant to take a stroll herself before breakfast, but saw that the day was still sacred to men, and amused herself by watching their contretemps. In the first place the key of the bathing-shed could not be found. Charles stood by the riverside with folded hands, tragical, while the servant shouted, and was misunderstood by another servant in the garden. Then came a difficulty about a springboard, and soon three people were running backwards and forwards over the meadow, with orders and counter orders and recriminations and apologies. If Margaret wanted to jump from a motor-car, she jumped; if Tibby thought paddling would benefit his ankles, he paddled; if a clerk desired adventure, he took a walk in the dark. But these athletes seemed paralysed. They could not bathe without their appliances, though the morning sun was calling and the last mists were rising from the dimpling stream. Had they found the life of the body after all? Could not the men whom they despised as milksops beat them, even on their own ground? She thought of the bathing arrangements as they should be in her day--no worrying of servants, no appliances, beyond good sense. Her reflections were disturbed by the quiet child, who had come out to speak to the cat, but was now watching her watch the men. She called, "Good-morning, dear," a little sharply. Her voice spread consternation. Charles looked round, and though completely attired in indigo blue, vanished into the shed, and was seen no more. "Miss Wilcox is up--" the child whispered, and then became unintelligible. "What is that?" it sounded like, "--cut-yoke--sack-back--" "I can t hear." "--On the bed--tissue-paper--" Gathering that the wedding-dress was on view, and that a visit would be seemly, she went to Evie s room. All was hilarity here. Evie, in a petticoat, was dancing with one of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the other was adoring yards of white satin. They screamed, they laughed, they sang, and the dog barked. Margaret screamed a little too, but without conviction. She could not feel that a wedding was so funny. Perhaps something was missing in her equipment. Evie gasped:<|quote|>"Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we would rag just then!"</|quote|>Then Margaret went down to breakfast. Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke little, and was, in Margaret s eyes, the only member of their party who dodged emotion successfully. She could not suppose him indifferent either to the loss of his daughter or to the presence of his future wife. Yet he dwelt intact, only issuing orders occasionally--orders that promoted the comfort of his guests. He inquired after her hand; he set her to pour out the coffee and Mrs. Warrington to pour out the tea. When Evie came down there was a moment s awkwardness, and both ladies rose to vacate their places. "Burton," called Henry, "serve tea and coffee from the sideboard!" It wasn t genuine tact, but it was tact, of a sort--the sort that is as useful as the genuine, and saves even more situations at Board meetings. Henry treated a marriage like a funeral, item by item, never raising his eyes to the whole, and "Death, where is thy sting? Love, where is thy victory?" one would exclaim at the close. After breakfast Margaret claimed a few words with him. It was always best to approach him formally. She asked for the interview, because he was going on to shoot grouse to-morrow, and she was returning to Helen in town. "Certainly, dear," said he. "Of course, I have the time. What do you want?" "Nothing." "I was afraid something had gone wrong." "No; I have nothing to say, but you may talk." Glancing at his watch, he talked of the nasty curve at the lych-gate. She heard him with interest. Her surface could always respond to his without contempt, though all her deeper being might be yearning to help him. She had abandoned any plan of action. Love is the best, and the more she let herself love him, the more chance was there that he would set his soul in order. Such a moment as this, when they sat under fair weather by the walks of their future home, was so sweet to her that its sweetness would surely pierce to him. Each lift of his eyes, each parting of the thatched lip from the clean-shaven, must prelude the tenderness that kills the Monk and the Beast at a single blow. Disappointed a hundred times, she still hoped. She loved him with too clear a vision to fear his cloudiness. Whether he droned trivialities, as to-day, or sprang kisses on her in the twilight, she could pardon him, she could respond. "If there is this nasty curve," she suggested, "couldn t we walk to the church? Not, of course, you and Evie; but the rest of us might very well go on first, and that would mean fewer carriages." "One can t have ladies walking through the Market Square. The Fussells wouldn t like it; they were awfully particular at Charles s wedding. My--she--our party was anxious to walk, and certainly the church was just round the corner, and I shouldn t have minded; but the Colonel made a great point of it." "You men shouldn t be so chivalrous," said Margaret thoughtfully. "Why not?" She knew why not, but said that she did not know. He then announced that, unless she had anything special to say, he must visit the wine-cellar, and they went off together in search of Burton. Though clumsy and a little inconvenient, Oniton was a genuine country-house. They clattered down flagged passages, looking into room after room, and scaring unknown maids from the performance of obscure duties. The wedding-breakfast must be in readiness when they come back from church, and tea would be served in the garden. The sight of so many agitated and serious people made Margaret smile, but she reflected that they were paid to be serious, and enjoyed being agitated. Here were the lower wheels of the machine that was tossing Evie up into nuptial glory. A little boy blocked their way with pig-pails. His mind could not grasp their greatness, and he said: "By your leave; let me pass, please." Henry asked him where Burton was. But the servants were so new that they did not know one another s names. In the still-room sat the band, who had stipulated for champagne as part of their fee, and who were already drinking beer. Scents of Araby came from the kitchen, mingled with cries. Margaret knew what had happened there, for it happened at Wickham Place. One of the wedding dishes had boiled over, and the cook was throwing cedar-shavings to hide the smell. At last they came upon the butler. Henry gave him the keys, and handed Margaret down the cellar-stairs. Two doors were unlocked. She, who kept all her wine at the bottom of the linen-cupboard, was astonished at the sight. | what to find in her. She liked him. He would introduce her to the town. While, on her other side, Sir James Bidder sat, repeating that she only had to give the word, and he would whip up the county families for twenty miles round. Whether Sir James, who was Garden Seeds, had promised what he could perform, she doubted, but so long as Henry mistook them for the county families when they did call, she was content. Charles Wilcox and Albert Fussell now crossed the lawn. They were going for a morning dip, and a servant followed them with their bathing-suits. She had meant to take a stroll herself before breakfast, but saw that the day was still sacred to men, and amused herself by watching their contretemps. In the first place the key of the bathing-shed could not be found. Charles stood by the riverside with folded hands, tragical, while the servant shouted, and was misunderstood by another servant in the garden. Then came a difficulty about a springboard, and soon three people were running backwards and forwards over the meadow, with orders and counter orders and recriminations and apologies. If Margaret wanted to jump from a motor-car, she jumped; if Tibby thought paddling would benefit his ankles, he paddled; if a clerk desired adventure, he took a walk in the dark. But these athletes seemed paralysed. They could not bathe without their appliances, though the morning sun was calling and the last mists were rising from the dimpling stream. Had they found the life of the body after all? Could not the men whom they despised as milksops beat them, even on their own ground? She thought of the bathing arrangements as they should be in her day--no worrying of servants, no appliances, beyond good sense. Her reflections were disturbed by the quiet child, who had come out to speak to the cat, but was now watching her watch the men. She called, "Good-morning, dear," a little sharply. Her voice spread consternation. Charles looked round, and though completely attired in indigo blue, vanished into the shed, and was seen no more. "Miss Wilcox is up--" the child whispered, and then became unintelligible. "What is that?" it sounded like, "--cut-yoke--sack-back--" "I can t hear." "--On the bed--tissue-paper--" Gathering that the wedding-dress was on view, and that a visit would be seemly, she went to Evie s room. All was hilarity here. Evie, in a petticoat, was dancing with one of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the other was adoring yards of white satin. They screamed, they laughed, they sang, and the dog barked. Margaret screamed a little too, but without conviction. She could not feel that a wedding was so funny. Perhaps something was missing in her equipment. Evie gasped:<|quote|>"Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we would rag just then!"</|quote|>Then Margaret went down to breakfast. Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke little, and was, in Margaret s eyes, the only member of their party who dodged emotion successfully. She could not suppose him indifferent either to the loss of his daughter or to the presence of his future wife. Yet he dwelt intact, only issuing orders occasionally--orders that promoted the comfort of his guests. He inquired after her hand; he set her to pour out the coffee and Mrs. Warrington to pour out the tea. When Evie came down there was a moment s awkwardness, and both ladies rose to vacate their places. "Burton," called Henry, "serve tea and coffee from the sideboard!" It wasn t genuine tact, but it was tact, of a sort--the sort that is as useful as the genuine, and saves even more situations at Board meetings. Henry treated a marriage like a funeral, item by item, never raising his eyes to the whole, and "Death, where is thy sting? Love, where is thy victory?" one would exclaim at the close. After breakfast Margaret claimed a few words with him. It was always best to approach him formally. She asked for the interview, because he was going on to shoot grouse to-morrow, and she was returning to Helen in town. "Certainly, dear," said he. "Of course, I have the time. What do you want?" "Nothing." "I was afraid something had gone wrong." "No; I have nothing to say, but you may talk." Glancing at his watch, he talked of the nasty curve at the lych-gate. She heard him with | Howards End |
“It’s full of—” | Nick | an indiscreet voice,” I remarked.<|quote|>“It’s full of—”</|quote|>I hesitated. “Her voice is | house, old sport.” “She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked.<|quote|>“It’s full of—”</|quote|>I hesitated. “Her voice is full of money,” he said | savagely. “Women get these notions in their heads—” “Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window. “I’ll get some whisky,” answered Tom. He went inside. Gatsby turned to me rigidly: “I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.” “She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked.<|quote|>“It’s full of—”</|quote|>I hesitated. “Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly. That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money—that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it … High in a white palace the king’s | started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly. “Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort. “About a quarter of a mile down the road.” “Oh.” A pause. “I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely. “Women get these notions in their heads—” “Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window. “I’ll get some whisky,” answered Tom. He went inside. Gatsby turned to me rigidly: “I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.” “She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked.<|quote|>“It’s full of—”</|quote|>I hesitated. “Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly. That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money—that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it … High in a white palace the king’s daughter, the golden girl … Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed by Daisy and Jordan wearing small tight hats of metallic cloth and carrying light capes over their arms. “Shall we all go in my car?” suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot, | glass of ale. Daisy’s voice got us to our feet and out on to the blazing gravel drive. “Are we just going to go?” she objected. “Like this? Aren’t we going to let anyone smoke a cigarette first?” “Everybody smoked all through lunch.” “Oh, let’s have fun,” she begged him. “It’s too hot to fuss.” He didn’t answer. “Have it your own way,” she said. “Come on, Jordan.” They went upstairs to get ready while we three men stood there shuffling the hot pebbles with our feet. A silver curve of the moon hovered already in the western sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly. “Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort. “About a quarter of a mile down the road.” “Oh.” A pause. “I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely. “Women get these notions in their heads—” “Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window. “I’ll get some whisky,” answered Tom. He went inside. Gatsby turned to me rigidly: “I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.” “She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked.<|quote|>“It’s full of—”</|quote|>I hesitated. “Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly. That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money—that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it … High in a white palace the king’s daughter, the golden girl … Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed by Daisy and Jordan wearing small tight hats of metallic cloth and carrying light capes over their arms. “Shall we all go in my car?” suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot, green leather of the seat. “I ought to have left it in the shade.” “Is it standard shift?” demanded Tom. “Yes.” “Well, you take my coupé and let me drive your car to town.” The suggestion was distasteful to Gatsby. “I don’t think there’s much gas,” he objected. “Plenty of gas,” said Tom boisterously. He looked at the gauge. “And if it runs out I can stop at a drugstore. You can buy anything at a drugstore nowadays.” A pause followed this apparently pointless remark. Daisy looked at Tom frowning, and an indefinable expression, at once definitely unfamiliar and vaguely | Tom was saying to Gatsby, “but I’m the first man who ever made a stable out of a garage.” “Who wants to go to town?” demanded Daisy insistently. Gatsby’s eyes floated toward her. “Ah,” she cried, “you look so cool.” Their eyes met, and they stared together at each other, alone in space. With an effort she glanced down at the table. “You always look so cool,” she repeated. She had told him that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw. He was astounded. His mouth opened a little, and he looked at Gatsby, and then back at Daisy as if he had just recognized her as someone he knew a long time ago. “You resemble the advertisement of the man,” she went on innocently. “You know the advertisement of the man—” “All right,” broke in Tom quickly, “I’m perfectly willing to go to town. Come on—we’re all going to town.” He got up, his eyes still flashing between Gatsby and his wife. No one moved. “Come on!” His temper cracked a little. “What’s the matter, anyhow? If we’re going to town, let’s start.” His hand, trembling with his effort at self-control, bore to his lips the last of his glass of ale. Daisy’s voice got us to our feet and out on to the blazing gravel drive. “Are we just going to go?” she objected. “Like this? Aren’t we going to let anyone smoke a cigarette first?” “Everybody smoked all through lunch.” “Oh, let’s have fun,” she begged him. “It’s too hot to fuss.” He didn’t answer. “Have it your own way,” she said. “Come on, Jordan.” They went upstairs to get ready while we three men stood there shuffling the hot pebbles with our feet. A silver curve of the moon hovered already in the western sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly. “Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort. “About a quarter of a mile down the road.” “Oh.” A pause. “I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely. “Women get these notions in their heads—” “Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window. “I’ll get some whisky,” answered Tom. He went inside. Gatsby turned to me rigidly: “I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.” “She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked.<|quote|>“It’s full of—”</|quote|>I hesitated. “Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly. That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money—that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it … High in a white palace the king’s daughter, the golden girl … Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed by Daisy and Jordan wearing small tight hats of metallic cloth and carrying light capes over their arms. “Shall we all go in my car?” suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot, green leather of the seat. “I ought to have left it in the shade.” “Is it standard shift?” demanded Tom. “Yes.” “Well, you take my coupé and let me drive your car to town.” The suggestion was distasteful to Gatsby. “I don’t think there’s much gas,” he objected. “Plenty of gas,” said Tom boisterously. He looked at the gauge. “And if it runs out I can stop at a drugstore. You can buy anything at a drugstore nowadays.” A pause followed this apparently pointless remark. Daisy looked at Tom frowning, and an indefinable expression, at once definitely unfamiliar and vaguely recognizable, as if I had only heard it described in words, passed over Gatsby’s face. “Come on, Daisy,” said Tom, pressing her with his hand toward Gatsby’s car. “I’ll take you in this circus wagon.” He opened the door, but she moved out from the circle of his arm. “You take Nick and Jordan. We’ll follow you in the coupé.” She walked close to Gatsby, touching his coat with her hand. Jordan and Tom and I got into the front seat of Gatsby’s car, Tom pushed the unfamiliar gears tentatively, and we shot off into the oppressive heat, leaving them out of sight behind. “Did you see that?” demanded Tom. “See what?” He looked at me keenly, realizing that Jordan and I must have known all along. “You think I’m pretty dumb, don’t you?” he suggested. “Perhaps I am, but I have a—almost a second sight, sometimes, that tells me what to do. Maybe you don’t believe that, but science—” He paused. The immediate contingency overtook him, pulled him back from the edge of theoretical abyss. “I’ve made a small investigation of this fellow,” he continued. “I could have gone deeper if I’d known—” “Do you mean you’ve been to | dream, you. You absolute little dream.” “Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.” “How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?” “Where’s Daddy?” “She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.” Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her hand. “Come, Pammy.” “Goodbye, sweetheart!” With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back, preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice. Gatsby took up his drink. “They certainly look cool,” he said, with visible tension. We drank in long, greedy swallows. “I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,” said Tom genially. “It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into the sun—or wait a minute—it’s just the opposite—the sun’s getting colder every year. “Come outside,” he suggested to Gatsby, “I’d like you to have a look at the place.” I went with them out to the veranda. On the green Sound, stagnant in the heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea. Gatsby’s eyes followed it momentarily; he raised his hand and pointed across the bay. “I’m right across from you.” “So you are.” Our eyes lifted over the rose-beds and the hot lawn and the weedy refuse of the dog-days alongshore. Slowly the white wings of the boat moved against the blue cool limit of the sky. Ahead lay the scalloped ocean and the abounding blessed isles. “There’s sport for you,” said Tom, nodding. “I’d like to be out there with him for about an hour.” We had luncheon in the dining-room, darkened too against the heat, and drank down nervous gaiety with the cold ale. “What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon?” cried Daisy, “and the day after that, and the next thirty years?” “Don’t be morbid,” Jordan said. “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.” “But it’s so hot,” insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, “and everything’s so confused. Let’s all go to town!” Her voice struggled on through the heat, beating against it, moulding its senselessness into forms. “I’ve heard of making a garage out of a stable,” Tom was saying to Gatsby, “but I’m the first man who ever made a stable out of a garage.” “Who wants to go to town?” demanded Daisy insistently. Gatsby’s eyes floated toward her. “Ah,” she cried, “you look so cool.” Their eyes met, and they stared together at each other, alone in space. With an effort she glanced down at the table. “You always look so cool,” she repeated. She had told him that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw. He was astounded. His mouth opened a little, and he looked at Gatsby, and then back at Daisy as if he had just recognized her as someone he knew a long time ago. “You resemble the advertisement of the man,” she went on innocently. “You know the advertisement of the man—” “All right,” broke in Tom quickly, “I’m perfectly willing to go to town. Come on—we’re all going to town.” He got up, his eyes still flashing between Gatsby and his wife. No one moved. “Come on!” His temper cracked a little. “What’s the matter, anyhow? If we’re going to town, let’s start.” His hand, trembling with his effort at self-control, bore to his lips the last of his glass of ale. Daisy’s voice got us to our feet and out on to the blazing gravel drive. “Are we just going to go?” she objected. “Like this? Aren’t we going to let anyone smoke a cigarette first?” “Everybody smoked all through lunch.” “Oh, let’s have fun,” she begged him. “It’s too hot to fuss.” He didn’t answer. “Have it your own way,” she said. “Come on, Jordan.” They went upstairs to get ready while we three men stood there shuffling the hot pebbles with our feet. A silver curve of the moon hovered already in the western sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly. “Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort. “About a quarter of a mile down the road.” “Oh.” A pause. “I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely. “Women get these notions in their heads—” “Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window. “I’ll get some whisky,” answered Tom. He went inside. Gatsby turned to me rigidly: “I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.” “She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked.<|quote|>“It’s full of—”</|quote|>I hesitated. “Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly. That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money—that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it … High in a white palace the king’s daughter, the golden girl … Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed by Daisy and Jordan wearing small tight hats of metallic cloth and carrying light capes over their arms. “Shall we all go in my car?” suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot, green leather of the seat. “I ought to have left it in the shade.” “Is it standard shift?” demanded Tom. “Yes.” “Well, you take my coupé and let me drive your car to town.” The suggestion was distasteful to Gatsby. “I don’t think there’s much gas,” he objected. “Plenty of gas,” said Tom boisterously. He looked at the gauge. “And if it runs out I can stop at a drugstore. You can buy anything at a drugstore nowadays.” A pause followed this apparently pointless remark. Daisy looked at Tom frowning, and an indefinable expression, at once definitely unfamiliar and vaguely recognizable, as if I had only heard it described in words, passed over Gatsby’s face. “Come on, Daisy,” said Tom, pressing her with his hand toward Gatsby’s car. “I’ll take you in this circus wagon.” He opened the door, but she moved out from the circle of his arm. “You take Nick and Jordan. We’ll follow you in the coupé.” She walked close to Gatsby, touching his coat with her hand. Jordan and Tom and I got into the front seat of Gatsby’s car, Tom pushed the unfamiliar gears tentatively, and we shot off into the oppressive heat, leaving them out of sight behind. “Did you see that?” demanded Tom. “See what?” He looked at me keenly, realizing that Jordan and I must have known all along. “You think I’m pretty dumb, don’t you?” he suggested. “Perhaps I am, but I have a—almost a second sight, sometimes, that tells me what to do. Maybe you don’t believe that, but science—” He paused. The immediate contingency overtook him, pulled him back from the edge of theoretical abyss. “I’ve made a small investigation of this fellow,” he continued. “I could have gone deeper if I’d known—” “Do you mean you’ve been to a medium?” inquired Jordan humorously. “What?” Confused, he stared at us as we laughed. “A medium?” “About Gatsby.” “About Gatsby! No, I haven’t. I said I’d been making a small investigation of his past.” “And you found he was an Oxford man,” said Jordan helpfully. “An Oxford man!” He was incredulous. “Like hell he is! He wears a pink suit.” “Nevertheless he’s an Oxford man.” “Oxford, New Mexico,” snorted Tom contemptuously, “or something like that.” “Listen, Tom. If you’re such a snob, why did you invite him to lunch?” demanded Jordan crossly. “Daisy invited him; she knew him before we were married—God knows where!” We were all irritable now with the fading ale, and aware of it we drove for a while in silence. Then as Doctor T. J. Eckleburg’s faded eyes came into sight down the road, I remembered Gatsby’s caution about gasoline. “We’ve got enough to get us to town,” said Tom. “But there’s a garage right here,” objected Jordan. “I don’t want to get stalled in this baking heat.” Tom threw on both brakes impatiently, and we slid to an abrupt dusty stop under Wilson’s sign. After a moment the proprietor emerged from the interior of his establishment and gazed hollow-eyed at the car. “Let’s have some gas!” cried Tom roughly. “What do you think we stopped for—to admire the view?” “I’m sick,” said Wilson without moving. “Been sick all day.” “What’s the matter?” “I’m all run down.” “Well, shall I help myself?” Tom demanded. “You sounded well enough on the phone.” With an effort Wilson left the shade and support of the doorway and, breathing hard, unscrewed the cap of the tank. In the sunlight his face was green. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch,” he said. “But I need money pretty bad, and I was wondering what you were going to do with your old car.” “How do you like this one?” inquired Tom. “I bought it last week.” “It’s a nice yellow one,” said Wilson, as he strained at the handle. “Like to buy it?” “Big chance,” Wilson smiled faintly. “No, but I could make some money on the other.” “What do you want money for, all of a sudden?” “I’ve been here too long. I want to get away. My wife and I want to go West.” “Your wife does,” exclaimed Tom, startled. “She’s been talking about it for ten years.” He | isles. “There’s sport for you,” said Tom, nodding. “I’d like to be out there with him for about an hour.” We had luncheon in the dining-room, darkened too against the heat, and drank down nervous gaiety with the cold ale. “What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon?” cried Daisy, “and the day after that, and the next thirty years?” “Don’t be morbid,” Jordan said. “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.” “But it’s so hot,” insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, “and everything’s so confused. Let’s all go to town!” Her voice struggled on through the heat, beating against it, moulding its senselessness into forms. “I’ve heard of making a garage out of a stable,” Tom was saying to Gatsby, “but I’m the first man who ever made a stable out of a garage.” “Who wants to go to town?” demanded Daisy insistently. Gatsby’s eyes floated toward her. “Ah,” she cried, “you look so cool.” Their eyes met, and they stared together at each other, alone in space. With an effort she glanced down at the table. “You always look so cool,” she repeated. She had told him that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw. He was astounded. His mouth opened a little, and he looked at Gatsby, and then back at Daisy as if he had just recognized her as someone he knew a long time ago. “You resemble the advertisement of the man,” she went on innocently. “You know the advertisement of the man—” “All right,” broke in Tom quickly, “I’m perfectly willing to go to town. Come on—we’re all going to town.” He got up, his eyes still flashing between Gatsby and his wife. No one moved. “Come on!” His temper cracked a little. “What’s the matter, anyhow? If we’re going to town, let’s start.” His hand, trembling with his effort at self-control, bore to his lips the last of his glass of ale. Daisy’s voice got us to our feet and out on to the blazing gravel drive. “Are we just going to go?” she objected. “Like this? Aren’t we going to let anyone smoke a cigarette first?” “Everybody smoked all through lunch.” “Oh, let’s have fun,” she begged him. “It’s too hot to fuss.” He didn’t answer. “Have it your own way,” she said. “Come on, Jordan.” They went upstairs to get ready while we three men stood there shuffling the hot pebbles with our feet. A silver curve of the moon hovered already in the western sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly. “Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort. “About a quarter of a mile down the road.” “Oh.” A pause. “I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely. “Women get these notions in their heads—” “Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window. “I’ll get some whisky,” answered Tom. He went inside. Gatsby turned to me rigidly: “I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.” “She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked.<|quote|>“It’s full of—”</|quote|>I hesitated. “Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly. That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money—that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it … High in a white palace the king’s daughter, the golden girl … Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed by Daisy and Jordan wearing small tight hats of metallic cloth and carrying light capes over their arms. “Shall we all go in my car?” suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot, green leather of the seat. “I ought to have left it in the shade.” “Is it standard shift?” demanded Tom. “Yes.” “Well, you take my coupé and let me drive your car to town.” The suggestion was distasteful to Gatsby. “I don’t think there’s much gas,” he objected. “Plenty of gas,” said Tom boisterously. He looked at the gauge. “And if it runs out I can stop at a drugstore. You can buy anything at a drugstore nowadays.” A pause followed this apparently pointless remark. Daisy looked at Tom frowning, and an indefinable expression, at once definitely unfamiliar and vaguely recognizable, as if I had only heard it described in words, passed over Gatsby’s face. “Come on, Daisy,” said Tom, pressing her with his hand toward Gatsby’s car. “I’ll take you in this circus wagon.” He opened the door, but she moved out from the circle of his arm. “You take Nick and Jordan. We’ll follow you in the coupé.” She walked close to Gatsby, touching his coat with her hand. Jordan and Tom and I got into the front seat of Gatsby’s car, Tom pushed the unfamiliar gears tentatively, and we shot off into the oppressive heat, leaving them out of sight behind. “Did you see that?” demanded Tom. “See what?” He looked at me keenly, realizing that Jordan and I must have known all along. “You think I’m pretty dumb, don’t you?” he suggested. “Perhaps I am, but I have a—almost a second sight, sometimes, that tells me what to do. Maybe you don’t believe that, but science—” He paused. The immediate | The Great Gatsby |
"My God! look at that!" | Bill Gorton | the village idiot," Bill said.<|quote|>"My God! look at that!"</|quote|>Down the street came dancers. | at him. "He must be the village idiot," Bill said.<|quote|>"My God! look at that!"</|quote|>Down the street came dancers. The street was solid with | He came out of the square, the children following him, and piped them past the caf and down a side street. We saw his blank pockmarked face as he went by, piping, the children close behind him shouting and pulling at him. "He must be the village idiot," Bill said.<|quote|>"My God! look at that!"</|quote|>Down the street came dancers. The street was solid with dancers, all men. They were all dancing in time behind their own fifers and drummers. They were a club of some sort, and all wore workmen's blue smocks, and red handkerchiefs around their necks, and carried a great banner on | all went up in the air dancing. In the crowd you saw only the heads and shoulders of the dancers going up and down. In the square a man, bent over, was playing on a reed-pipe, and a crowd of children were following him shouting, and pulling at his clothes. He came out of the square, the children following him, and piped them past the caf and down a side street. We saw his blank pockmarked face as he went by, piping, the children close behind him shouting and pulling at him. "He must be the village idiot," Bill said.<|quote|>"My God! look at that!"</|quote|>Down the street came dancers. The street was solid with dancers, all men. They were all dancing in time behind their own fifers and drummers. They were a club of some sort, and all wore workmen's blue smocks, and red handkerchiefs around their necks, and carried a great banner on two poles. The banner danced up and down with them as they came down surrounded by the crowd. "Hurray for Wine! Hurray for the Foreigners!" was painted on the banner. "Where are the foreigners?" Robert Cohn asked. "We're the foreigners," Bill said. All the time rockets were going up. The | empty a minute before, that the waiter, holding the bottle high up over his head, could hardly get through the crowd to our table. People were coming into the square from all sides, and down the street we heard the pipes and the fifes and the drums coming. They were playing the _riau-riau_ music, the pipes shrill and the drums pounding, and behind them came the men and boys dancing. When the fifers stopped they all crouched down in the street, and when the reed-pipes and the fifes shrilled, and the flat, dry, hollow drums tapped it out again, they all went up in the air dancing. In the crowd you saw only the heads and shoulders of the dancers going up and down. In the square a man, bent over, was playing on a reed-pipe, and a crowd of children were following him shouting, and pulling at his clothes. He came out of the square, the children following him, and piped them past the caf and down a side street. We saw his blank pockmarked face as he went by, piping, the children close behind him shouting and pulling at him. "He must be the village idiot," Bill said.<|quote|>"My God! look at that!"</|quote|>Down the street came dancers. The street was solid with dancers, all men. They were all dancing in time behind their own fifers and drummers. They were a club of some sort, and all wore workmen's blue smocks, and red handkerchiefs around their necks, and carried a great banner on two poles. The banner danced up and down with them as they came down surrounded by the crowd. "Hurray for Wine! Hurray for the Foreigners!" was painted on the banner. "Where are the foreigners?" Robert Cohn asked. "We're the foreigners," Bill said. All the time rockets were going up. The caf tables were all full now. The square was emptying of people and the crowd was filling the caf s. "Where's Brett and Mike?" Bill asked. "I'll go and get them," Cohn said. "Bring them here." The fiesta was really started. It kept up day and night for seven days. The dancing kept up, the drinking kept up, the noise went on. The things that happened could only have happened during a fiesta. Everything became quite unreal finally and it seemed as though nothing could have any consequences. It seemed out of place to think of consequences during the fiesta. | on the square. It was a little before noon. Robert Cohn and Bill were sitting at one of the tables. The marble-topped tables and the white wicker chairs were gone. They were replaced by cast-iron tables and severe folding chairs. The caf was like a battleship stripped for action. To-day the waiters did not leave you alone all morning to read without asking if you wanted to order something. A waiter came up as soon as I sat down. "What are you drinking?" I asked Bill and Robert. "Sherry," Cohn said. "Jerez," I said to the waiter. Before the waiter brought the sherry the rocket that announced the fiesta went up in the square. It burst and there was a gray ball of smoke high up above the Theatre Gayarre, across on the other side of the plaza. The ball of smoke hung in the sky like a shrapnel burst, and as I watched, another rocket came up to it, trickling smoke in the bright sunlight. I saw the bright flash as it burst and another little cloud of smoke appeared. By the time the second rocket had burst there were so many people in the arcade, that had been empty a minute before, that the waiter, holding the bottle high up over his head, could hardly get through the crowd to our table. People were coming into the square from all sides, and down the street we heard the pipes and the fifes and the drums coming. They were playing the _riau-riau_ music, the pipes shrill and the drums pounding, and behind them came the men and boys dancing. When the fifers stopped they all crouched down in the street, and when the reed-pipes and the fifes shrilled, and the flat, dry, hollow drums tapped it out again, they all went up in the air dancing. In the crowd you saw only the heads and shoulders of the dancers going up and down. In the square a man, bent over, was playing on a reed-pipe, and a crowd of children were following him shouting, and pulling at his clothes. He came out of the square, the children following him, and piped them past the caf and down a side street. We saw his blank pockmarked face as he went by, piping, the children close behind him shouting and pulling at him. "He must be the village idiot," Bill said.<|quote|>"My God! look at that!"</|quote|>Down the street came dancers. The street was solid with dancers, all men. They were all dancing in time behind their own fifers and drummers. They were a club of some sort, and all wore workmen's blue smocks, and red handkerchiefs around their necks, and carried a great banner on two poles. The banner danced up and down with them as they came down surrounded by the crowd. "Hurray for Wine! Hurray for the Foreigners!" was painted on the banner. "Where are the foreigners?" Robert Cohn asked. "We're the foreigners," Bill said. All the time rockets were going up. The caf tables were all full now. The square was emptying of people and the crowd was filling the caf s. "Where's Brett and Mike?" Bill asked. "I'll go and get them," Cohn said. "Bring them here." The fiesta was really started. It kept up day and night for seven days. The dancing kept up, the drinking kept up, the noise went on. The things that happened could only have happened during a fiesta. Everything became quite unreal finally and it seemed as though nothing could have any consequences. It seemed out of place to think of consequences during the fiesta. All during the fiesta you had the feeling, even when it was quiet, that you had to shout any remark to make it heard. It was the same feeling about any action. It was a fiesta and it went on for seven days. That afternoon was the big religious procession. San Fermin was translated from one church to another. In the procession were all the dignitaries, civil and religious. We could not see them because the crowd was too great. Ahead of the formal procession and behind it danced the _riau-riau_ dancers. There was one mass of yellow shirts dancing up and down in the crowd. All we could see of the procession through the closely pressed people that crowded all the side streets and curbs were the great giants, cigar-store Indians, thirty feet high, Moors, a King and Queen, whirling and waltzing solemnly to the _riau-riau_. They were all standing outside the chapel where San Fermin and the dignitaries had passed in, leaving a guard of soldiers, the giants, with the men who danced in them standing beside their resting frames, and the dwarfs moving with their whacking bladders through the crowd. We started inside and there was a | I went to church a couple of times, once with Brett. She said she wanted to hear me go to confession, but I told her that not only was it impossible but it was not as interesting as it sounded, and, besides, it would be in a language she did not know. We met Cohn as we came out of church, and although it was obvious he had followed us, yet he was very pleasant and nice, and we all three went for a walk out to the gypsy camp, and Brett had her fortune told. It was a good morning, there were high white clouds above the mountains. It had rained a little in the night and it was fresh and cool on the plateau, and there was a wonderful view. We all felt good and we felt healthy, and I felt quite friendly to Cohn. You could not be upset about anything on a day like that. That was the last day before the fiesta. CHAPTER 15 At noon of Sunday, the 6th of July, the fiesta exploded. There is no other way to describe it. People had been coming in all day from the country, but they were assimilated in the town and you did not notice them. The square was as quiet in the hot sun as on any other day. The peasants were in the outlying wine-shops. There they were drinking, getting ready for the fiesta. They had come in so recently from the plains and the hills that it was necessary that they make their shifting in values gradually. They could not start in paying caf prices. They got their money's worth in the wine-shops. Money still had a definite value in hours worked and bushels of grain sold. Late in the fiesta it would not matter what they paid, nor where they bought. Now on the day of the starting of the fiesta of San Fermin they had been in the wine-shops of the narrow streets of the town since early morning. Going down the streets in the morning on the way to mass in the cathedral, I heard them singing through the open doors of the shops. They were warming up. There were many people at the eleven o'clock mass. San Fermin is also a religious festival. I walked down the hill from the cathedral and up the street to the caf on the square. It was a little before noon. Robert Cohn and Bill were sitting at one of the tables. The marble-topped tables and the white wicker chairs were gone. They were replaced by cast-iron tables and severe folding chairs. The caf was like a battleship stripped for action. To-day the waiters did not leave you alone all morning to read without asking if you wanted to order something. A waiter came up as soon as I sat down. "What are you drinking?" I asked Bill and Robert. "Sherry," Cohn said. "Jerez," I said to the waiter. Before the waiter brought the sherry the rocket that announced the fiesta went up in the square. It burst and there was a gray ball of smoke high up above the Theatre Gayarre, across on the other side of the plaza. The ball of smoke hung in the sky like a shrapnel burst, and as I watched, another rocket came up to it, trickling smoke in the bright sunlight. I saw the bright flash as it burst and another little cloud of smoke appeared. By the time the second rocket had burst there were so many people in the arcade, that had been empty a minute before, that the waiter, holding the bottle high up over his head, could hardly get through the crowd to our table. People were coming into the square from all sides, and down the street we heard the pipes and the fifes and the drums coming. They were playing the _riau-riau_ music, the pipes shrill and the drums pounding, and behind them came the men and boys dancing. When the fifers stopped they all crouched down in the street, and when the reed-pipes and the fifes shrilled, and the flat, dry, hollow drums tapped it out again, they all went up in the air dancing. In the crowd you saw only the heads and shoulders of the dancers going up and down. In the square a man, bent over, was playing on a reed-pipe, and a crowd of children were following him shouting, and pulling at his clothes. He came out of the square, the children following him, and piped them past the caf and down a side street. We saw his blank pockmarked face as he went by, piping, the children close behind him shouting and pulling at him. "He must be the village idiot," Bill said.<|quote|>"My God! look at that!"</|quote|>Down the street came dancers. The street was solid with dancers, all men. They were all dancing in time behind their own fifers and drummers. They were a club of some sort, and all wore workmen's blue smocks, and red handkerchiefs around their necks, and carried a great banner on two poles. The banner danced up and down with them as they came down surrounded by the crowd. "Hurray for Wine! Hurray for the Foreigners!" was painted on the banner. "Where are the foreigners?" Robert Cohn asked. "We're the foreigners," Bill said. All the time rockets were going up. The caf tables were all full now. The square was emptying of people and the crowd was filling the caf s. "Where's Brett and Mike?" Bill asked. "I'll go and get them," Cohn said. "Bring them here." The fiesta was really started. It kept up day and night for seven days. The dancing kept up, the drinking kept up, the noise went on. The things that happened could only have happened during a fiesta. Everything became quite unreal finally and it seemed as though nothing could have any consequences. It seemed out of place to think of consequences during the fiesta. All during the fiesta you had the feeling, even when it was quiet, that you had to shout any remark to make it heard. It was the same feeling about any action. It was a fiesta and it went on for seven days. That afternoon was the big religious procession. San Fermin was translated from one church to another. In the procession were all the dignitaries, civil and religious. We could not see them because the crowd was too great. Ahead of the formal procession and behind it danced the _riau-riau_ dancers. There was one mass of yellow shirts dancing up and down in the crowd. All we could see of the procession through the closely pressed people that crowded all the side streets and curbs were the great giants, cigar-store Indians, thirty feet high, Moors, a King and Queen, whirling and waltzing solemnly to the _riau-riau_. They were all standing outside the chapel where San Fermin and the dignitaries had passed in, leaving a guard of soldiers, the giants, with the men who danced in them standing beside their resting frames, and the dwarfs moving with their whacking bladders through the crowd. We started inside and there was a smell of incense and people filing back into the church, but Brett was stopped just inside the door because she had no hat, so we went out again and along the street that ran back from the chapel into town. The street was lined on both sides with people keeping their place at the curb for the return of the procession. Some dancers formed a circle around Brett and started to dance. They wore big wreaths of white garlics around their necks. They took Bill and me by the arms and put us in the circle. Bill started to dance, too. They were all chanting. Brett wanted to dance but they did not want her to. They wanted her as an image to dance around. When the song ended with the sharp _riau-riau!_ they rushed us into a wine-shop. We stood at the counter. They had Brett seated on a wine-cask. It was dark in the wine-shop and full of men singing, hard-voiced singing. Back of the counter they drew the wine from casks. I put down money for the wine, but one of the men picked it up and put it back in my pocket. "I want a leather wine-bottle," Bill said. "There's a place down the street," I said. "I'll go get a couple." The dancers did not want me to go out. Three of them were sitting on the high wine-cask beside Brett, teaching her to drink out of the wine-skins. They had hung a wreath of garlics around her neck. Some one insisted on giving her a glass. Somebody was teaching Bill a song. Singing it into his ear. Beating time on Bill's back. I explained to them that I would be back. Outside in the street I went down the street looking for the shop that made leather wine-bottles. The crowd was packed on the sidewalks and many of the shops were shuttered, and I could not find it. I walked as far as the church, looking on both sides of the street. Then I asked a man and he took me by the arm and led me to it. The shutters were up but the door was open. Inside it smelled of fresh tanned leather and hot tar. A man was stencilling completed wine-skins. They hung from the roof in bunches. He took one down, blew it up, screwed the nozzle tight, and then | as I watched, another rocket came up to it, trickling smoke in the bright sunlight. I saw the bright flash as it burst and another little cloud of smoke appeared. By the time the second rocket had burst there were so many people in the arcade, that had been empty a minute before, that the waiter, holding the bottle high up over his head, could hardly get through the crowd to our table. People were coming into the square from all sides, and down the street we heard the pipes and the fifes and the drums coming. They were playing the _riau-riau_ music, the pipes shrill and the drums pounding, and behind them came the men and boys dancing. When the fifers stopped they all crouched down in the street, and when the reed-pipes and the fifes shrilled, and the flat, dry, hollow drums tapped it out again, they all went up in the air dancing. In the crowd you saw only the heads and shoulders of the dancers going up and down. In the square a man, bent over, was playing on a reed-pipe, and a crowd of children were following him shouting, and pulling at his clothes. He came out of the square, the children following him, and piped them past the caf and down a side street. We saw his blank pockmarked face as he went by, piping, the children close behind him shouting and pulling at him. "He must be the village idiot," Bill said.<|quote|>"My God! look at that!"</|quote|>Down the street came dancers. The street was solid with dancers, all men. They were all dancing in time behind their own fifers and drummers. They were a club of some sort, and all wore workmen's blue smocks, and red handkerchiefs around their necks, and carried a great banner on two poles. The banner danced up and down with them as they came down surrounded by the crowd. "Hurray for Wine! Hurray for the Foreigners!" was painted on the banner. "Where are the foreigners?" Robert Cohn asked. "We're the foreigners," Bill said. All the time rockets were going up. The caf tables were all full now. The square was emptying of people and the crowd was filling the caf s. "Where's Brett and Mike?" Bill asked. "I'll go and get them," Cohn said. "Bring them here." The fiesta was really started. It kept up day and night for seven days. The dancing kept up, the drinking kept up, the noise went on. The things that happened could only have happened during a fiesta. Everything became quite unreal finally and it seemed as though nothing could have any consequences. It seemed out of place to think of consequences during the fiesta. All during the fiesta you had the feeling, even when it was quiet, that you had to shout any remark to make | The Sun Also Rises |
"I nearly fainted myself," | George Emerson | think what came over me."<|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself,"</|quote|>he said; but she felt | in my life; I cannot think what came over me."<|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself,"</|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. | identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me."<|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself,"</|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it | her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me."<|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself,"</|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he | to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me."<|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself,"</|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and | was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me."<|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself,"</|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials | what have I done?" "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me."<|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself,"</|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been | Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me."<|quote|>"I nearly fainted myself,"</|quote|>he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him. "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who | A Room With A View |
cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, | No speaker | sitting down." "Did he indeed?"<|quote|>cried Marianne with sparkling eyes,</|quote|>"and with elegance, with spirit?" | clock till four, without once sitting down." "Did he indeed?"<|quote|>cried Marianne with sparkling eyes,</|quote|>"and with elegance, with spirit?" "Yes; and he was up | and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible." "He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated Sir John. "I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o clock till four, without once sitting down." "Did he indeed?"<|quote|>cried Marianne with sparkling eyes,</|quote|>"and with elegance, with spirit?" "Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert." "That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue." | of _my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him_. It is not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible." "He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated Sir John. "I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o clock till four, without once sitting down." "Did he indeed?"<|quote|>cried Marianne with sparkling eyes,</|quote|>"and with elegance, with spirit?" "Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert." "That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue." "Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor Brandon." "That is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, "which I particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase | possessions he was to inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care." "I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile, "that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of _my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him_. It is not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible." "He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated Sir John. "I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o clock till four, without once sitting down." "Did he indeed?"<|quote|>cried Marianne with sparkling eyes,</|quote|>"and with elegance, with spirit?" "Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert." "That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue." "Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor Brandon." "That is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, "which I particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is intended; and setting one s cap at a man, or making a conquest, are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity." Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if he did, and then replied, "Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other. Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, I can tell you, | of a young man is he?" "As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England." "And is _that_ all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly. "But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his pursuits, his talents, and genius?" Sir John was rather puzzled. "Upon my soul," said he, "I do not know much about him as to all _that_. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him today?" But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Willoughby s pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his mind. "But who is he?" said Elinor. "Where does he come from? Has he a house at Allenham?" On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care." "I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile, "that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of _my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him_. It is not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible." "He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated Sir John. "I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o clock till four, without once sitting down." "Did he indeed?"<|quote|>cried Marianne with sparkling eyes,</|quote|>"and with elegance, with spirit?" "Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert." "That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue." "Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor Brandon." "That is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, "which I particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is intended; and setting one s cap at a man, or making a conquest, are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity." Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if he did, and then replied, "Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other. Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles." CHAPTER X. Marianne s preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision, styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more than politeness; with a kindness which Sir John s account of him and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced him. Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview to be convinced. Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form, though not so correct as her sister s, in having the advantage of height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown, but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her | youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the action which came home to her feelings. She thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address which always attended her, invited him to be seated. But this he declined, as he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know to whom she was obliged. His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his present home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood. The honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain. His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the theme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised against Marianne received particular spirit from his exterior attractions. Marianne herself had seen less of his person than the rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their entering the house. But she had seen enough of him to join in all the admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her praise. His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the house with so little previous formality, there was a rapidity of thought which particularly recommended the action to her. Every circumstance belonging to him was interesting. His name was good, his residence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming. Her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ankle was disregarded. Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne s accident being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any gentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham. "Willoughby!" cried Sir John; "what, is _he_ in the country? That is good news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on Thursday." "You know him then," said Mrs. Dashwood. "Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year." "And what sort of a young man is he?" "As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England." "And is _that_ all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly. "But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his pursuits, his talents, and genius?" Sir John was rather puzzled. "Upon my soul," said he, "I do not know much about him as to all _that_. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him today?" But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Willoughby s pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his mind. "But who is he?" said Elinor. "Where does he come from? Has he a house at Allenham?" On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care." "I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile, "that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of _my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him_. It is not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible." "He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated Sir John. "I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o clock till four, without once sitting down." "Did he indeed?"<|quote|>cried Marianne with sparkling eyes,</|quote|>"and with elegance, with spirit?" "Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert." "That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue." "Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor Brandon." "That is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, "which I particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is intended; and setting one s cap at a man, or making a conquest, are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity." Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if he did, and then replied, "Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other. Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles." CHAPTER X. Marianne s preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision, styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more than politeness; with a kindness which Sir John s account of him and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced him. Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview to be convinced. Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form, though not so correct as her sister s, in having the advantage of height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown, but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which could hardly be seen without delight. From Willoughby their expression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance of his assistance created. But when this passed away, when her spirits became collected, when she saw that to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, he united frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she heard him declare, that of music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him such a look of approbation as secured the largest share of his discourse to herself for the rest of his stay. It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her to talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related to either. Encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have been insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence of such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was strikingly alike. The same books, the same passages were idolized by each or if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance. "Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for _one_ morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained Mr. Willoughby s opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to explain | soon as the next interval of fair weather that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne s accident being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any gentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham. "Willoughby!" cried Sir John; "what, is _he_ in the country? That is good news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on Thursday." "You know him then," said Mrs. Dashwood. "Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year." "And what sort of a young man is he?" "As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England." "And is _that_ all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly. "But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his pursuits, his talents, and genius?" Sir John was rather puzzled. "Upon my soul," said he, "I do not know much about him as to all _that_. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him today?" But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Willoughby s pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his mind. "But who is he?" said Elinor. "Where does he come from? Has he a house at Allenham?" On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care." "I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile, "that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of _my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him_. It is not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible." "He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated Sir John. "I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o clock till four, without once sitting down." "Did he indeed?"<|quote|>cried Marianne with sparkling eyes,</|quote|>"and with elegance, with spirit?" "Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert." "That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue." "Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor Brandon." "That is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, "which I particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is intended; and setting one s cap at a man, or making a conquest, are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity." Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if he did, and then replied, "Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other. Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles." CHAPTER X. Marianne s preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision, styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more than politeness; with a kindness which Sir John s account of him and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced him. Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview to be convinced. Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form, though not so correct as her sister s, in having the advantage of height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown, but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which could hardly be seen without delight. From Willoughby their expression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance of his assistance created. But when this passed away, when her spirits became collected, when she saw that to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, he united frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she heard him declare, that of music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him such a look of approbation as secured the largest share of his discourse to herself for the rest of his stay. It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her to talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They | Sense And Sensibility |
"Bounderby has the advantage in point of weight; and if anything of a British nature is to come off between us, it may be as well to be in training." | Mr. James Harthouse | dine," said Mr. James Harthouse.<|quote|>"Bounderby has the advantage in point of weight; and if anything of a British nature is to come off between us, it may be as well to be in training."</|quote|>Therefore he rang the bell, | present state of affairs I'll dine," said Mr. James Harthouse.<|quote|>"Bounderby has the advantage in point of weight; and if anything of a British nature is to come off between us, it may be as well to be in training."</|quote|>Therefore he rang the bell, and tossing himself negligently on | will be. "So, whether I am waiting for a hostile message, or an assignation, or a penitent remonstrance, or an impromptu wrestle with my friend Bounderby in the Lancashire manner which would seem as likely as anything else in the present state of affairs I'll dine," said Mr. James Harthouse.<|quote|>"Bounderby has the advantage in point of weight; and if anything of a British nature is to come off between us, it may be as well to be in training."</|quote|>Therefore he rang the bell, and tossing himself negligently on a sofa, ordered "Some dinner at six with a beefsteak in it," and got through the intervening time as well as he could. That was not particularly well; for he remained in the greatest perplexity, and, as the hours went | some mischance or mistake, at present incomprehensible, had occurred, he must remain to confront his fortune, whatever it was. The hotel where he was known to live when condemned to that region of blackness, was the stake to which he was tied. As to all the rest What will be, will be. "So, whether I am waiting for a hostile message, or an assignation, or a penitent remonstrance, or an impromptu wrestle with my friend Bounderby in the Lancashire manner which would seem as likely as anything else in the present state of affairs I'll dine," said Mr. James Harthouse.<|quote|>"Bounderby has the advantage in point of weight; and if anything of a British nature is to come off between us, it may be as well to be in training."</|quote|>Therefore he rang the bell, and tossing himself negligently on a sofa, ordered "Some dinner at six with a beefsteak in it," and got through the intervening time as well as he could. That was not particularly well; for he remained in the greatest perplexity, and, as the hours went on, and no kind of explanation offered itself, his perplexity augmented at compound interest. However, he took affairs as coolly as it was in human nature to do, and entertained himself with the facetious idea of the training more than once. "It wouldn't be bad," he yawned at one time, | sister?" "How the deuce," returned Tom, staring, "could I see my sister when she was fifteen miles off?" Cursing these quick retorts of the young gentleman to whom he was so true a friend, Mr. Harthouse disembarrassed himself of that interview with the smallest conceivable amount of ceremony, and debated for the hundredth time what all this could mean? He made only one thing clear. It was, that whether she was in town or out of town, whether he had been premature with her who was so hard to comprehend, or she had lost courage, or they were discovered, or some mischance or mistake, at present incomprehensible, had occurred, he must remain to confront his fortune, whatever it was. The hotel where he was known to live when condemned to that region of blackness, was the stake to which he was tied. As to all the rest What will be, will be. "So, whether I am waiting for a hostile message, or an assignation, or a penitent remonstrance, or an impromptu wrestle with my friend Bounderby in the Lancashire manner which would seem as likely as anything else in the present state of affairs I'll dine," said Mr. James Harthouse.<|quote|>"Bounderby has the advantage in point of weight; and if anything of a British nature is to come off between us, it may be as well to be in training."</|quote|>Therefore he rang the bell, and tossing himself negligently on a sofa, ordered "Some dinner at six with a beefsteak in it," and got through the intervening time as well as he could. That was not particularly well; for he remained in the greatest perplexity, and, as the hours went on, and no kind of explanation offered itself, his perplexity augmented at compound interest. However, he took affairs as coolly as it was in human nature to do, and entertained himself with the facetious idea of the training more than once. "It wouldn't be bad," he yawned at one time, "to give the waiter five shillings, and throw him." At another time it occurred to him, "Or a fellow of about thirteen or fourteen stone might be hired by the hour." But these jests did not tell materially on the afternoon, or his suspense; and, sooth to say, they both lagged fearfully. It was impossible, even before dinner, to avoid often walking about in the pattern of the carpet, looking out of the window, listening at the door for footsteps, and occasionally becoming rather hot when any steps approached that room. But, after dinner, when the day turned to twilight, | Mrs. Bounderby not there. He looked in at the Bank. Mr. Bounderby away and Mrs. Sparsit away. Mrs. Sparsit away? Who could have been reduced to sudden extremity for the company of that griffin! "Well! I don't know," said Tom, who had his own reasons for being uneasy about it. "She was off somewhere at daybreak this morning. She's always full of mystery; I hate her. So I do that white chap; he's always got his blinking eyes upon a fellow." "Where were you last night, Tom?" "Where was I last night!" said Tom. "Come! I like that. I was waiting for you, Mr. Harthouse, till it came down as _I_ never saw it come down before. Where was I too! Where were you, you mean." "I was prevented from coming detained." "Detained!" murmured Tom. "Two of us were detained. I was detained looking for you, till I lost every train but the mail. It would have been a pleasant job to go down by that on such a night, and have to walk home through a pond. I was obliged to sleep in town after all." "Where?" "Where? Why, in my own bed at Bounderby's." "Did you see your sister?" "How the deuce," returned Tom, staring, "could I see my sister when she was fifteen miles off?" Cursing these quick retorts of the young gentleman to whom he was so true a friend, Mr. Harthouse disembarrassed himself of that interview with the smallest conceivable amount of ceremony, and debated for the hundredth time what all this could mean? He made only one thing clear. It was, that whether she was in town or out of town, whether he had been premature with her who was so hard to comprehend, or she had lost courage, or they were discovered, or some mischance or mistake, at present incomprehensible, had occurred, he must remain to confront his fortune, whatever it was. The hotel where he was known to live when condemned to that region of blackness, was the stake to which he was tied. As to all the rest What will be, will be. "So, whether I am waiting for a hostile message, or an assignation, or a penitent remonstrance, or an impromptu wrestle with my friend Bounderby in the Lancashire manner which would seem as likely as anything else in the present state of affairs I'll dine," said Mr. James Harthouse.<|quote|>"Bounderby has the advantage in point of weight; and if anything of a British nature is to come off between us, it may be as well to be in training."</|quote|>Therefore he rang the bell, and tossing himself negligently on a sofa, ordered "Some dinner at six with a beefsteak in it," and got through the intervening time as well as he could. That was not particularly well; for he remained in the greatest perplexity, and, as the hours went on, and no kind of explanation offered itself, his perplexity augmented at compound interest. However, he took affairs as coolly as it was in human nature to do, and entertained himself with the facetious idea of the training more than once. "It wouldn't be bad," he yawned at one time, "to give the waiter five shillings, and throw him." At another time it occurred to him, "Or a fellow of about thirteen or fourteen stone might be hired by the hour." But these jests did not tell materially on the afternoon, or his suspense; and, sooth to say, they both lagged fearfully. It was impossible, even before dinner, to avoid often walking about in the pattern of the carpet, looking out of the window, listening at the door for footsteps, and occasionally becoming rather hot when any steps approached that room. But, after dinner, when the day turned to twilight, and the twilight turned to night, and still no communication was made to him, it began to be as he expressed it, "like the Holy Office and slow torture." However, still true to his conviction that indifference was the genuine high-breeding (the only conviction he had), he seized this crisis as the opportunity for ordering candles and a newspaper. He had been trying in vain, for half an hour, to read this newspaper, when the waiter appeared and said, at once mysteriously and apologetically: "Beg your pardon, sir. You're wanted, sir, if you please." A general recollection that this was the kind of thing the Police said to the swell mob, caused Mr. Harthouse to ask the waiter in return, with bristling indignation, what the Devil he meant by "wanted'? "Beg your pardon, sir. Young lady outside, sir, wishes to see you." "Outside? Where?" "Outside this door, sir." Giving the waiter to the personage before mentioned, as a block-head duly qualified for that consignment, Mr. Harthouse hurried into the gallery. A young woman whom he had never seen stood there. Plainly dressed, very quiet, very pretty. As he conducted her into the room and placed a chair for her, he | as you think me, had to begin to acquire the simplest truths, I could not want a guide to peace, contentment, honour, all the good of which I am quite devoid, more abjectly than I do. Does not that repel you?" "No!" In the innocence of her brave affection, and the brimming up of her old devoted spirit, the once deserted girl shone like a beautiful light upon the darkness of the other. Louisa raised the hand that it might clasp her neck and join its fellow there. She fell upon her knees, and clinging to this stroller's child looked up at her almost with veneration. "Forgive me, pity me, help me! Have compassion on my great need, and let me lay this head of mine upon a loving heart!" "O lay it here!" cried Sissy. "Lay it here, my dear." CHAPTER II VERY RIDICULOUS MR. JAMES HARTHOUSE passed a whole night and a day in a state of so much hurry, that the World, with its best glass in his eye, would scarcely have recognized him during that insane interval, as the brother Jem of the honourable and jocular member. He was positively agitated. He several times spoke with an emphasis, similar to the vulgar manner. He went in and went out in an unaccountable way, like a man without an object. He rode like a highwayman. In a word, he was so horribly bored by existing circumstances, that he forgot to go in for boredom in the manner prescribed by the authorities. After putting his horse at Coketown through the storm, as if it were a leap, he waited up all night: from time to time ringing his bell with the greatest fury, charging the porter who kept watch with delinquency in withholding letters or messages that could not fail to have been entrusted to him, and demanding restitution on the spot. The dawn coming, the morning coming, and the day coming, and neither message nor letter coming with either, he went down to the country house. There, the report was, Mr. Bounderby away, and Mrs. Bounderby in town. Left for town suddenly last evening. Not even known to be gone until receipt of message, importing that her return was not to be expected for the present. In these circumstances he had nothing for it but to follow her to town. He went to the house in town. Mrs. Bounderby not there. He looked in at the Bank. Mr. Bounderby away and Mrs. Sparsit away. Mrs. Sparsit away? Who could have been reduced to sudden extremity for the company of that griffin! "Well! I don't know," said Tom, who had his own reasons for being uneasy about it. "She was off somewhere at daybreak this morning. She's always full of mystery; I hate her. So I do that white chap; he's always got his blinking eyes upon a fellow." "Where were you last night, Tom?" "Where was I last night!" said Tom. "Come! I like that. I was waiting for you, Mr. Harthouse, till it came down as _I_ never saw it come down before. Where was I too! Where were you, you mean." "I was prevented from coming detained." "Detained!" murmured Tom. "Two of us were detained. I was detained looking for you, till I lost every train but the mail. It would have been a pleasant job to go down by that on such a night, and have to walk home through a pond. I was obliged to sleep in town after all." "Where?" "Where? Why, in my own bed at Bounderby's." "Did you see your sister?" "How the deuce," returned Tom, staring, "could I see my sister when she was fifteen miles off?" Cursing these quick retorts of the young gentleman to whom he was so true a friend, Mr. Harthouse disembarrassed himself of that interview with the smallest conceivable amount of ceremony, and debated for the hundredth time what all this could mean? He made only one thing clear. It was, that whether she was in town or out of town, whether he had been premature with her who was so hard to comprehend, or she had lost courage, or they were discovered, or some mischance or mistake, at present incomprehensible, had occurred, he must remain to confront his fortune, whatever it was. The hotel where he was known to live when condemned to that region of blackness, was the stake to which he was tied. As to all the rest What will be, will be. "So, whether I am waiting for a hostile message, or an assignation, or a penitent remonstrance, or an impromptu wrestle with my friend Bounderby in the Lancashire manner which would seem as likely as anything else in the present state of affairs I'll dine," said Mr. James Harthouse.<|quote|>"Bounderby has the advantage in point of weight; and if anything of a British nature is to come off between us, it may be as well to be in training."</|quote|>Therefore he rang the bell, and tossing himself negligently on a sofa, ordered "Some dinner at six with a beefsteak in it," and got through the intervening time as well as he could. That was not particularly well; for he remained in the greatest perplexity, and, as the hours went on, and no kind of explanation offered itself, his perplexity augmented at compound interest. However, he took affairs as coolly as it was in human nature to do, and entertained himself with the facetious idea of the training more than once. "It wouldn't be bad," he yawned at one time, "to give the waiter five shillings, and throw him." At another time it occurred to him, "Or a fellow of about thirteen or fourteen stone might be hired by the hour." But these jests did not tell materially on the afternoon, or his suspense; and, sooth to say, they both lagged fearfully. It was impossible, even before dinner, to avoid often walking about in the pattern of the carpet, looking out of the window, listening at the door for footsteps, and occasionally becoming rather hot when any steps approached that room. But, after dinner, when the day turned to twilight, and the twilight turned to night, and still no communication was made to him, it began to be as he expressed it, "like the Holy Office and slow torture." However, still true to his conviction that indifference was the genuine high-breeding (the only conviction he had), he seized this crisis as the opportunity for ordering candles and a newspaper. He had been trying in vain, for half an hour, to read this newspaper, when the waiter appeared and said, at once mysteriously and apologetically: "Beg your pardon, sir. You're wanted, sir, if you please." A general recollection that this was the kind of thing the Police said to the swell mob, caused Mr. Harthouse to ask the waiter in return, with bristling indignation, what the Devil he meant by "wanted'? "Beg your pardon, sir. Young lady outside, sir, wishes to see you." "Outside? Where?" "Outside this door, sir." Giving the waiter to the personage before mentioned, as a block-head duly qualified for that consignment, Mr. Harthouse hurried into the gallery. A young woman whom he had never seen stood there. Plainly dressed, very quiet, very pretty. As he conducted her into the room and placed a chair for her, he observed, by the light of the candles, that she was even prettier than he had at first believed. Her face was innocent and youthful, and its expression remarkably pleasant. She was not afraid of him, or in any way disconcerted; she seemed to have her mind entirely preoccupied with the occasion of her visit, and to have substituted that consideration for herself. "I speak to Mr. Harthouse?" she said, when they were alone. "To Mr. Harthouse." He added in his mind, "And you speak to him with the most confiding eyes I ever saw, and the most earnest voice (though so quiet) I ever heard." "If I do not understand and I do not, sir'" said Sissy, "what your honour as a gentleman binds you to, in other matters:" the blood really rose in his face as she began in these words: "I am sure I may rely upon it to keep my visit secret, and to keep secret what I am going to say. I will rely upon it, if you will tell me I may so far trust" "You may, I assure you." "I am young, as you see; I am alone, as you see. In coming to you, sir, I have no advice or encouragement beyond my own hope." He thought, "But that is very strong," as he followed the momentary upward glance of her eyes. He thought besides, "This is a very odd beginning. I don't see where we are going." "I think," said Sissy, "you have already guessed whom I left just now!" "I have been in the greatest concern and uneasiness during the last four-and-twenty hours (which have appeared as many years)," he returned, "on a lady's account. The hopes I have been encouraged to form that you come from that lady, do not deceive me, I trust." "I left her within an hour." "At !" "At her father's." Mr. Harthouse's face lengthened in spite of his coolness, and his perplexity increased. "Then I certainly," he thought, "do _not_ see where we are going." "She hurried there last night. She arrived there in great agitation, and was insensible all through the night. I live at her father's, and was with her. You may be sure, sir, you will never see her again as long as you live." Mr. Harthouse drew a long breath; and, if ever man found himself in the position of not | said Tom, who had his own reasons for being uneasy about it. "She was off somewhere at daybreak this morning. She's always full of mystery; I hate her. So I do that white chap; he's always got his blinking eyes upon a fellow." "Where were you last night, Tom?" "Where was I last night!" said Tom. "Come! I like that. I was waiting for you, Mr. Harthouse, till it came down as _I_ never saw it come down before. Where was I too! Where were you, you mean." "I was prevented from coming detained." "Detained!" murmured Tom. "Two of us were detained. I was detained looking for you, till I lost every train but the mail. It would have been a pleasant job to go down by that on such a night, and have to walk home through a pond. I was obliged to sleep in town after all." "Where?" "Where? Why, in my own bed at Bounderby's." "Did you see your sister?" "How the deuce," returned Tom, staring, "could I see my sister when she was fifteen miles off?" Cursing these quick retorts of the young gentleman to whom he was so true a friend, Mr. Harthouse disembarrassed himself of that interview with the smallest conceivable amount of ceremony, and debated for the hundredth time what all this could mean? He made only one thing clear. It was, that whether she was in town or out of town, whether he had been premature with her who was so hard to comprehend, or she had lost courage, or they were discovered, or some mischance or mistake, at present incomprehensible, had occurred, he must remain to confront his fortune, whatever it was. The hotel where he was known to live when condemned to that region of blackness, was the stake to which he was tied. As to all the rest What will be, will be. "So, whether I am waiting for a hostile message, or an assignation, or a penitent remonstrance, or an impromptu wrestle with my friend Bounderby in the Lancashire manner which would seem as likely as anything else in the present state of affairs I'll dine," said Mr. James Harthouse.<|quote|>"Bounderby has the advantage in point of weight; and if anything of a British nature is to come off between us, it may be as well to be in training."</|quote|>Therefore he rang the bell, and tossing himself negligently on a sofa, ordered "Some dinner at six with a beefsteak in it," and got through the intervening time as well as he could. That was not particularly well; for he remained in the greatest perplexity, and, as the hours went on, and no kind of explanation offered itself, his perplexity augmented at compound interest. However, he took affairs as coolly as it was in human nature to do, and entertained himself with the facetious idea of the training more than once. "It wouldn't be bad," he yawned at one time, "to give the waiter five shillings, and throw him." At another time it occurred to him, "Or a fellow of about thirteen or fourteen stone might be hired by the hour." But these jests did not tell materially on the afternoon, or his suspense; and, sooth to say, they both lagged fearfully. It was impossible, even before dinner, to avoid often walking about in the pattern of the carpet, looking out of the window, listening at the door for footsteps, and occasionally becoming rather hot when any steps approached that room. But, after dinner, when the day turned to twilight, and the twilight turned to night, and still no communication was made to him, it began to be as he expressed it, "like the Holy Office and slow torture." However, still true to his conviction that indifference was the genuine high-breeding (the only conviction he had), he seized this crisis as the opportunity for ordering candles and a newspaper. He had been trying in vain, for half an hour, to read this newspaper, when the waiter appeared and said, at once mysteriously and apologetically: "Beg your pardon, sir. You're wanted, sir, if you please." A general recollection that this was the kind of thing the Police said to the swell mob, caused Mr. Harthouse to ask the waiter in return, with bristling indignation, what the Devil he meant by "wanted'? "Beg your pardon, sir. Young lady outside, sir, wishes to see you." "Outside? Where?" "Outside this door, sir." Giving the waiter to the personage before mentioned, as a block-head duly qualified for that consignment, Mr. Harthouse hurried into the gallery. A young woman whom he had never seen stood there. Plainly dressed, very quiet, very pretty. As he conducted her into the room and placed a chair for her, he observed, by the light of the candles, that she was even prettier than he had at first believed. Her face was innocent and youthful, and its expression remarkably pleasant. She was not afraid of him, or in any way disconcerted; she seemed to have her mind entirely preoccupied with the | Hard Times |
and | No speaker | got beyond the words "delightful,"<|quote|>and</|quote|>"charming," when some unlucky recollections | place; but she had not got beyond the words "delightful,"<|quote|>and</|quote|>"charming," when some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that | their view; the turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance she saw, that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place; but she had not got beyond the words "delightful,"<|quote|>and</|quote|>"charming," when some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her, might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said no more. Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked her, if she would do him the honour of introducing | prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. This idea lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance she saw, that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place; but she had not got beyond the words "delightful,"<|quote|>and</|quote|>"charming," when some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her, might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said no more. Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked her, if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile, at his being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people, against whom his pride had revolted, in his offer to herself. "What will be | to indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment was quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. This idea lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance she saw, that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place; but she had not got beyond the words "delightful,"<|quote|>and</|quote|>"charming," when some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her, might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said no more. Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked her, if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile, at his being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people, against whom his pride had revolted, in his offer to herself. "What will be his surprise," thought she, "when he knows who they are! He takes them now for people of fashion." The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore it; and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the connexion was evident; he sustained it however with fortitude, and so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be | Gardiner expressed a wish of going round the whole Park, but feared it might be beyond a walk. With a triumphant smile, they were told, that it was ten miles round. It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods, to the edge of the water, in one of its narrowest parts. They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed the bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only of returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was, therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment was quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. This idea lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance she saw, that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place; but she had not got beyond the words "delightful,"<|quote|>and</|quote|>"charming," when some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her, might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said no more. Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked her, if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile, at his being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people, against whom his pride had revolted, in his offer to herself. "What will be his surprise," thought she, "when he knows who they are! He takes them now for people of fashion." The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore it; and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the connexion was evident; he sustained it however with fortitude, and so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but triumph. It was consoling, that he should know she had some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners. The conversation soon turned upon fishing, and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he chose, while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of her wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme; and continually was she repeating, "Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_, it cannot be for _my_ sake that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love | ten minutes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his discrimination, for it was plain that he was that moment arrived, that moment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and again over the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly altered,--what could it mean? That he should even speak to her was amazing!--but to speak with such civility, to enquire after her family! Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified, never had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosing's Park, when he put his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, nor how to account for it. They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered mechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she distinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then was. She longed to know what at that moment was passing in his mind; in what manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of every thing, she was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil, only because he felt himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice, which was not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in seeing her, she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with composure. At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind roused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself. They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while, ascended some of the higher grounds; whence, in spots where the opening of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of the valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods overspreading many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish of going round the whole Park, but feared it might be beyond a walk. With a triumphant smile, they were told, that it was ten miles round. It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods, to the edge of the water, in one of its narrowest parts. They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed the bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only of returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was, therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment was quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. This idea lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance she saw, that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place; but she had not got beyond the words "delightful,"<|quote|>and</|quote|>"charming," when some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her, might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said no more. Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked her, if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile, at his being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people, against whom his pride had revolted, in his offer to herself. "What will be his surprise," thought she, "when he knows who they are! He takes them now for people of fashion." The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore it; and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the connexion was evident; he sustained it however with fortitude, and so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but triumph. It was consoling, that he should know she had some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners. The conversation soon turned upon fishing, and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he chose, while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of her wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme; and continually was she repeating, "Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_, it cannot be for _my_ sake that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me." After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected--" "for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country." He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. "They will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr. Bingley and his sisters." Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been last mentioned between them; and if she might judge from his complexion, _his_ mind was not very differently engaged. "There is also one other person in the party," he continued after a pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you,--Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?" The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her, must be the work of her brother, and without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of her. They now walked on in silence; each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her, | a wish of going round the whole Park, but feared it might be beyond a walk. With a triumphant smile, they were told, that it was ten miles round. It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods, to the edge of the water, in one of its narrowest parts. They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed the bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only of returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was, therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment was quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. This idea lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance she saw, that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place; but she had not got beyond the words "delightful,"<|quote|>and</|quote|>"charming," when some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her, might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said no more. Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked her, if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile, at his being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people, against whom his pride had revolted, in his offer to herself. "What will be his surprise," thought she, "when he knows who they are! He takes them now for people of fashion." The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore it; and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the connexion was evident; he sustained it however with fortitude, and so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but triumph. It was consoling, that he should know she had some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners. The conversation soon turned upon fishing, and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he chose, while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking | Pride And Prejudice |
"What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more." | Mike Bannock | who continued reproachfully to Don,--<|quote|>"What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more."</|quote|>"Uncle, you won't believe what | and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,--<|quote|>"What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more."</|quote|>"Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. | as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss it." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a sound resembling a disgusted grunt, and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,--<|quote|>"What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more."</|quote|>"Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. Uncle Josiah did not reply, only looked at him searchingly. "He can't help believing it, my lad," said Mike sadly. "It's werry shocking in one so young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but | constable in a confidential tone, and that functionary responded with a solemn wink. "It is not true, uncle!" cried Don again. "Oh, come now," said Mike, shaking his head with half tipsy reproach, "I wouldn't make worse on it, my lad, by telling a lot o' lies. You did wrong, as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss it." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a sound resembling a disgusted grunt, and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,--<|quote|>"What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more."</|quote|>"Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. Uncle Josiah did not reply, only looked at him searchingly. "He can't help believing it, my lad," said Mike sadly. "It's werry shocking in one so young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a | like to come and tell you, and get the poor lad into trouble. He's so young, you see." "Uncle, it is not true!" cried Lindon, excitedly. "But you had one of the guineas in your pocket, sir." "Yes, uncle, but--" "Course he had," interrupted Mike sharply. "I told you it wouldn't do, Master Don. I begged you not to." "You villain!" cried Don, grinding his teeth, while his uncle watched him with a sidelong look. "Calling names won't mend it, my lad. I knowed it was wrong. I telled him not to, sir, but he would." This was to the constable in a confidential tone, and that functionary responded with a solemn wink. "It is not true, uncle!" cried Don again. "Oh, come now," said Mike, shaking his head with half tipsy reproach, "I wouldn't make worse on it, my lad, by telling a lot o' lies. You did wrong, as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss it." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a sound resembling a disgusted grunt, and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,--<|quote|>"What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more."</|quote|>"Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. Uncle Josiah did not reply, only looked at him searchingly. "He can't help believing it, my lad," said Mike sadly. "It's werry shocking in one so young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?" "That will do," said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call | Josiah. Don thought of the guinea he had picked up, of his uncle's curious look when he gave it to him, and as he turned red and white with terror and dismay, mingled with confusion, he tried to speak, but try how he would, no words would come. CHAPTER FOUR. MIKE BANNOCK HAS A RIDE. "You wretch!" Those two words were a long time coming, but when they did escape from Lindon's lips, they made up in emphasis and force for their brevity. "Steady, Master Don, steady," said Jem, throwing his arms round the boy's waist, and holding him back. "You arn't strong enough to fight him." "Wretch? Oh! Well, I like that. Why, some men would ha' gone straight to your uncle here, and told him all about it; but I didn't, and I'd made up my mind to send him the money back, only I met two or three mates, and I had to change one of 'em to give the poor lads a drink o' ale." "You own, then, that you had my money, sir?" cried the old merchant. "Well--some on it, master. He give it me. S'pose I oughtn't to have took it, but I didn't like to come and tell you, and get the poor lad into trouble. He's so young, you see." "Uncle, it is not true!" cried Lindon, excitedly. "But you had one of the guineas in your pocket, sir." "Yes, uncle, but--" "Course he had," interrupted Mike sharply. "I told you it wouldn't do, Master Don. I begged you not to." "You villain!" cried Don, grinding his teeth, while his uncle watched him with a sidelong look. "Calling names won't mend it, my lad. I knowed it was wrong. I telled him not to, sir, but he would." This was to the constable in a confidential tone, and that functionary responded with a solemn wink. "It is not true, uncle!" cried Don again. "Oh, come now," said Mike, shaking his head with half tipsy reproach, "I wouldn't make worse on it, my lad, by telling a lot o' lies. You did wrong, as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss it." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a sound resembling a disgusted grunt, and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,--<|quote|>"What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more."</|quote|>"Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. Uncle Josiah did not reply, only looked at him searchingly. "He can't help believing it, my lad," said Mike sadly. "It's werry shocking in one so young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?" "That will do," said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash. Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel. "You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see | th' yard?" "Silence, sir!" cried Uncle Josiah, turning round, and glaring magisterially at the culprit. "Take yer hat off, can't yer?" cried Jem, knocking it off for him, and then picking it up and handing it. "Give man time, Jem Wimble," said Mike, with a grimace. "Want to pay me what you owes me, master?" "Hold your tongue, sir! And listen. Constable, a sum of money has been abstracted from my desk, and this man, who I believe was penniless two days ago, is now staying away from his work treating his friends." "Steady, master; on'y having a glass." "He was paying for ale with a guinea when I fetched him out, sir," said the constable. "Now, Mike, you're wanted for another ugly job, so you may as well clear yourself of this if you can." "What yer mean with your ugly job?" said the man, laughing. "You'll know soon enough; you and four more are in trouble. Now then, what money have you got on you?" "None 'tall." "Out with it." "Well, only two o' these. I did have three," grumbled the man, reluctantly taking out a couple of guineas from his pocket. "Looks bad, sir," said the constable. "Now then, where did you get them?" "What's that to you?" "Enough for Mr Christmas to charge you with robbing his desk, my lad; and this and what I've got against you will send you to Botany Bay." "What, me? Rob a good master? Not a penny." "What have you done with the rest?" continued the constable. "Never had no more, and wouldn't have had that if I'd knowed." "This will do, sir," said the constable. "You charge him here with stealing money from your desk?" "I am afraid I must," said Uncle Josiah. "What, me? Charge me?" cried the man, angrily. "Yes, Bannock, reluctantly; but it seems that you are the thief." "No: not me!" cried the man, fiercely. "It warn't me. It was him." Don started and turned pale, as the man stood pointing at him. "What do you mean?" cried Uncle Josiah. "Mean? Why, I ketched him a-helping hisself to the money, and he give me three guineas to hold my tongue." "What?" "And when I wouldn't take 'em he said if I didn't he'd say it was me; and that's the whole truth, and nothing else." "Lindon, what have you to say to this?" cried Uncle Josiah. Don thought of the guinea he had picked up, of his uncle's curious look when he gave it to him, and as he turned red and white with terror and dismay, mingled with confusion, he tried to speak, but try how he would, no words would come. CHAPTER FOUR. MIKE BANNOCK HAS A RIDE. "You wretch!" Those two words were a long time coming, but when they did escape from Lindon's lips, they made up in emphasis and force for their brevity. "Steady, Master Don, steady," said Jem, throwing his arms round the boy's waist, and holding him back. "You arn't strong enough to fight him." "Wretch? Oh! Well, I like that. Why, some men would ha' gone straight to your uncle here, and told him all about it; but I didn't, and I'd made up my mind to send him the money back, only I met two or three mates, and I had to change one of 'em to give the poor lads a drink o' ale." "You own, then, that you had my money, sir?" cried the old merchant. "Well--some on it, master. He give it me. S'pose I oughtn't to have took it, but I didn't like to come and tell you, and get the poor lad into trouble. He's so young, you see." "Uncle, it is not true!" cried Lindon, excitedly. "But you had one of the guineas in your pocket, sir." "Yes, uncle, but--" "Course he had," interrupted Mike sharply. "I told you it wouldn't do, Master Don. I begged you not to." "You villain!" cried Don, grinding his teeth, while his uncle watched him with a sidelong look. "Calling names won't mend it, my lad. I knowed it was wrong. I telled him not to, sir, but he would." This was to the constable in a confidential tone, and that functionary responded with a solemn wink. "It is not true, uncle!" cried Don again. "Oh, come now," said Mike, shaking his head with half tipsy reproach, "I wouldn't make worse on it, my lad, by telling a lot o' lies. You did wrong, as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss it." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a sound resembling a disgusted grunt, and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,--<|quote|>"What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more."</|quote|>"Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. Uncle Josiah did not reply, only looked at him searchingly. "He can't help believing it, my lad," said Mike sadly. "It's werry shocking in one so young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?" "That will do," said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash. Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel. "You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you too, Mike," said the constable, jocularly. "Don't you forget to tell that to the magistrates." "Magistrits? What magistrits? Master arn't going to give me in custody, I know." "Indeed, but I am, you scoundrel," cried Uncle Josiah, wrathfully. "You are one of the worst kind of thieves--" "Here, take that back, master." "Worst kind of scoundrels--dogs who bite the hand that has fed them." "I tell yer it was him," said Mike, with a ferocious glare at Don. "All right, Mike, you tell the magistrates that," said the constable, "and don't forget." "I arn't going 'fore no magistrits," grumbled Mike. "Yes, you are," said the constable, taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "Now then, is it to be quietly?" Mike made a furious gesture. "Just as you like," said the constable. "Jem Wimble, I call you in the King's name to help." "Which I just will," cried Jem, with alacrity; and he made at Mike, while Don felt a strange desire tingling in his veins as he longed to help as well. "I gives in," growled Mike. "I could chuck the whole lot on you outer winder, but I won't. It would only make it seem as if I was guilty, and it's not guilty, and so I tell you. Master says I took the money, and I says it was that young Don Lavington as is the thief. Come on, youngster. I'll talk to you when we're in the lock-up." Don looked wildly from Mike to his uncle, whose eyes were fixed on the constable. "Do you charge the boy too, sir?" Uncle Josiah was silent for some moments. "No! Not now!" Lindon's heart leapt at that word "_no_!" But it sank again at the "_not now_." "But the case is awkward, sir," said the constable. "After what this man has said we shall be obliged to take some notice of the matter." "'Bliged to? Course you will. Here, bring 'im along. Come on, mate. I can tell you stories all night now about my bygones. Keep up yer sperrits, and I daresay the magistrits 'll let you off | lads a drink o' ale." "You own, then, that you had my money, sir?" cried the old merchant. "Well--some on it, master. He give it me. S'pose I oughtn't to have took it, but I didn't like to come and tell you, and get the poor lad into trouble. He's so young, you see." "Uncle, it is not true!" cried Lindon, excitedly. "But you had one of the guineas in your pocket, sir." "Yes, uncle, but--" "Course he had," interrupted Mike sharply. "I told you it wouldn't do, Master Don. I begged you not to." "You villain!" cried Don, grinding his teeth, while his uncle watched him with a sidelong look. "Calling names won't mend it, my lad. I knowed it was wrong. I telled him not to, sir, but he would." This was to the constable in a confidential tone, and that functionary responded with a solemn wink. "It is not true, uncle!" cried Don again. "Oh, come now," said Mike, shaking his head with half tipsy reproach, "I wouldn't make worse on it, my lad, by telling a lot o' lies. You did wrong, as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss it." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a sound resembling a disgusted grunt, and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,--<|quote|>"What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more."</|quote|>"Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. Uncle Josiah did not reply, only looked at him searchingly. "He can't help believing it, my lad," said Mike sadly. "It's werry shocking in one so young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?" "That will do," said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash. Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel. "You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you too, Mike," said the constable, jocularly. "Don't you forget to tell that to the magistrates." "Magistrits? What magistrits? Master arn't going to give me in custody, I know." "Indeed, but I am, you scoundrel," cried Uncle Josiah, wrathfully. "You are one of the worst kind of thieves--" "Here, take that back, master." "Worst kind of scoundrels--dogs who bite the hand that has fed them." "I tell yer it was him," said Mike, with a ferocious glare at Don. "All right, Mike, you tell | Don Lavington |
Subsets and Splits
No community queries yet
The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.