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"and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!" | Mr. Sowerberry | of course," replied the undertaker;<|quote|>"and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!"</|quote|>"Just so," said Mr. Bumble. | of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker;<|quote|>"and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!"</|quote|>"Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued | be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham." "Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker;<|quote|>"and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!"</|quote|>"Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: "though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The | tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham." "Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker;<|quote|>"and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!"</|quote|>"Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: "though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has | forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane. "Think so?" said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble." "So are the coffins," replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham." "Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker;<|quote|>"and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!"</|quote|>"Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: "though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir." As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye," said Mr. Bumble, "you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal | to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay. Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand. "I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble," said the undertaker. "You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane. "Think so?" said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble." "So are the coffins," replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham." "Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker;<|quote|>"and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!"</|quote|>"Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: "though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir." As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye," said Mr. Bumble, "you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?" As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words "five pounds": which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size. "Gadso!" said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; "that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before." "Yes, I think it rather pretty," said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. "The die is the same as the porochial seal the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on Newyear's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight." "I recollect," said the undertaker. "The jury brought it in, Died from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life,' didn't they?" Mr. Bumble nodded. "And they made it a special verdict, I think," said the undertaker, "by adding some words to | beg your worship's pardon," said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of having heard aright. "Did your worship speak to me?" "Yes. Hold your tongue." Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold his tongue! A moral revolution! The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his companion, he nodded significantly. "We refuse to sanction these indentures," said the old gentleman: tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke. "I hope," stammered Mr. Limbkins: "I hope the magistrates will not form the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any improper conduct, on the unsupported testimony of a child." "The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the matter," said the second old gentleman sharply. "Take the boy back to the workhouse, and treat him kindly. He seems to want it." That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally opposite description. The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was again To Let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him. CHAPTER IV. OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay. Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand. "I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble," said the undertaker. "You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane. "Think so?" said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble." "So are the coffins," replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham." "Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker;<|quote|>"and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!"</|quote|>"Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: "though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir." As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye," said Mr. Bumble, "you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?" As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words "five pounds": which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size. "Gadso!" said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; "that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before." "Yes, I think it rather pretty," said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. "The die is the same as the porochial seal the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on Newyear's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight." "I recollect," said the undertaker. "The jury brought it in, Died from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life,' didn't they?" Mr. Bumble nodded. "And they made it a special verdict, I think," said the undertaker, "by adding some words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had" "Tush! Foolery!" interposed the beadle. "If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd have enough to do." "Very true," said the undertaker; "they would indeed." "Juries," said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into a passion: "juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches." "So they are," said the undertaker. "They haven't no more philosophy nor political economy about 'em than that," said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously. "No more they have," acquiesced the undertaker. "I despise 'em," said the beadle, growing very red in the face. "So do I," rejoined the undertaker. "And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort, in the house for a week or two," said the beadle; "the rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for 'em." "Let 'em alone for that," replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer. Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered; fixed the cocked hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice: "Well; what about the boy?" "Oh!" replied the undertaker; "why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a good deal towards the poor's rates." "Hem!" said Mr. Bumble. "Well?" "Well," replied the undertaker, "I was thinking that if I pay so much towards 'em, I've a right to get as much out of 'em as I can, Mr. Bumble; and so I think I'll take the boy myself." Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him into the building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five minutes; and it was arranged that Oliver should go to him that evening "upon liking" a phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon a short trial, that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too much food into him, he shall have him for a term of years, to do what he likes with. When little Oliver was taken before "the gentlemen" that evening; and informed that he was to go, that night, as general house-lad to a coffin-maker's; and that if he | remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay. Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand. "I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble," said the undertaker. "You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane. "Think so?" said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble." "So are the coffins," replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham." "Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker;<|quote|>"and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!"</|quote|>"Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: "though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir." As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye," said Mr. Bumble, "you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?" As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words "five pounds": which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size. "Gadso!" said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; "that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know dear me, what | Oliver Twist |
and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a | No speaker | of the room calling “Ewing!”<|quote|>and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a</|quote|>“sport shirt,” open at the | the piano.” He went out of the room calling “Ewing!”<|quote|>and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a</|quote|>“sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck trousers | and put you in it and push you around.” I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone. “I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the piano.” He went out of the room calling “Ewing!”<|quote|>and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a</|quote|>“sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck trousers of a nebulous hue. “Did we interrupt your exercise?” inquired Daisy politely. “I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment. “That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up …” “Klipspringer plays the piano,” said Gatsby, cutting | at the window. The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west, and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea. “Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I’d like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.” I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone. “I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the piano.” He went out of the room calling “Ewing!”<|quote|>and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a</|quote|>“sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck trousers of a nebulous hue. “Did we interrupt your exercise?” inquired Daisy politely. “I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment. “That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up …” “Klipspringer plays the piano,” said Gatsby, cutting him off. “Don’t you, Ewing, old sport?” “I don’t play well. I don’t—hardly play at all. I’m all out of prac—” “We’ll go downstairs,” interrupted Gatsby. He flipped a switch. The grey windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light. In the music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp | told me you had a pompadour—or a yacht.” “Look at this,” said Gatsby quickly. “Here’s a lot of clippings—about you.” They stood side by side examining it. I was going to ask to see the rubies when the phone rang, and Gatsby took up the receiver. “Yes … Well, I can’t talk now … I can’t talk now, old sport … I said a small town … He must know what a small town is … Well, he’s no use to us if Detroit is his idea of a small town …” He rang off. “Come here quick!” cried Daisy at the window. The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west, and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea. “Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I’d like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.” I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone. “I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the piano.” He went out of the room calling “Ewing!”<|quote|>and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a</|quote|>“sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck trousers of a nebulous hue. “Did we interrupt your exercise?” inquired Daisy politely. “I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment. “That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up …” “Klipspringer plays the piano,” said Gatsby, cutting him off. “Don’t you, Ewing, old sport?” “I don’t play well. I don’t—hardly play at all. I’m all out of prac—” “We’ll go downstairs,” interrupted Gatsby. He flipped a switch. The grey windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light. In the music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the piano. He lit Daisy’s cigarette from a trembling match, and sat down with her on a couch far across the room, where there was no light save what the gleaming floor bounced in from the hall. When Klipspringer had played “The Love Nest” he turned around on the bench and searched unhappily for Gatsby in the gloom. “I’m all out of practice, you see. I told you I couldn’t play. I’m all out of prac—” “Don’t talk so much, old sport,” commanded Gatsby. “Play!” “In the morning, In the evening, Ain’t we got fun—” Outside the wind was | the bay,” said Gatsby. “You always have a green light that burns all night at the end of your dock.” Daisy put her arm through his abruptly, but he seemed absorbed in what he had just said. Possibly it had occurred to him that the colossal significance of that light had now vanished forever. Compared to the great distance that had separated him from Daisy it had seemed very near to her, almost touching her. It had seemed as close as a star to the moon. Now it was again a green light on a dock. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one. I began to walk about the room, examining various indefinite objects in the half darkness. A large photograph of an elderly man in yachting costume attracted me, hung on the wall over his desk. “Who’s this?” “That? That’s Mr. Dan Cody, old sport.” The name sounded faintly familiar. “He’s dead now. He used to be my best friend years ago.” There was a small picture of Gatsby, also in yachting costume, on the bureau—Gatsby with his head thrown back defiantly—taken apparently when he was about eighteen. “I adore it,” exclaimed Daisy. “The pompadour! You never told me you had a pompadour—or a yacht.” “Look at this,” said Gatsby quickly. “Here’s a lot of clippings—about you.” They stood side by side examining it. I was going to ask to see the rubies when the phone rang, and Gatsby took up the receiver. “Yes … Well, I can’t talk now … I can’t talk now, old sport … I said a small town … He must know what a small town is … Well, he’s no use to us if Detroit is his idea of a small town …” He rang off. “Come here quick!” cried Daisy at the window. The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west, and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea. “Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I’d like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.” I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone. “I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the piano.” He went out of the room calling “Ewing!”<|quote|>and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a</|quote|>“sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck trousers of a nebulous hue. “Did we interrupt your exercise?” inquired Daisy politely. “I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment. “That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up …” “Klipspringer plays the piano,” said Gatsby, cutting him off. “Don’t you, Ewing, old sport?” “I don’t play well. I don’t—hardly play at all. I’m all out of prac—” “We’ll go downstairs,” interrupted Gatsby. He flipped a switch. The grey windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light. In the music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the piano. He lit Daisy’s cigarette from a trembling match, and sat down with her on a couch far across the room, where there was no light save what the gleaming floor bounced in from the hall. When Klipspringer had played “The Love Nest” he turned around on the bench and searched unhappily for Gatsby in the gloom. “I’m all out of practice, you see. I told you I couldn’t play. I’m all out of prac—” “Don’t talk so much, old sport,” commanded Gatsby. “Play!” “In the morning, In the evening, Ain’t we got fun—” Outside the wind was loud and there was a faint flow of thunder along the Sound. All the lights were going on in West Egg now; the electric trains, men-carrying, were plunging home through the rain from New York. It was the hour of a profound human change, and excitement was generating on the air. “One thing’s sure and nothing’s surer The rich get richer and the poor get—children. In the meantime, In between time—” As I went over to say goodbye I saw that the expression of bewilderment had come back into Gatsby’s face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man can store up in his ghostly heart. As I watched him he adjusted himself a little, | of response it drew from her well-loved eyes. Sometimes too, he stared around at his possessions in a dazed way, as though in her actual and astounding presence none of it was any longer real. Once he nearly toppled down a flight of stairs. His bedroom was the simplest room of all—except where the dresser was garnished with a toilet set of pure dull gold. Daisy took the brush with delight, and smoothed her hair, whereupon Gatsby sat down and shaded his eyes and began to laugh. “It’s the funniest thing, old sport,” he said hilariously. “I can’t—When I try to—” He had passed visibly through two states and was entering upon a third. After his embarrassment and his unreasoning joy he was consumed with wonder at her presence. He had been full of the idea so long, dreamed it right through to the end, waited with his teeth set, so to speak, at an inconceivable pitch of intensity. Now, in the reaction, he was running down like an over-wound clock. Recovering himself in a minute he opened for us two hulking patent cabinets which held his massed suits and dressing-gowns and ties, and his shirts, piled like bricks in stacks a dozen high. “I’ve got a man in England who buys me clothes. He sends over a selection of things at the beginning of each season, spring and fall.” He took out a pile of shirts and began throwing them, one by one, before us, shirts of sheer linen and thick silk and fine flannel, which lost their folds as they fell and covered the table in many-coloured disarray. While we admired he brought more and the soft rich heap mounted higher—shirts with stripes and scrolls and plaids in coral and apple-green and lavender and faint orange, with monograms of indian blue. Suddenly, with a strained sound, Daisy bent her head into the shirts and began to cry stormily. “They’re such beautiful shirts,” she sobbed, her voice muffled in the thick folds. “It makes me sad because I’ve never seen such—such beautiful shirts before.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ After the house, we were to see the grounds and the swimming pool, and the hydroplane, and the midsummer flowers—but outside Gatsby’s window it began to rain again, so we stood in a row looking at the corrugated surface of the Sound. “If it wasn’t for the mist we could see your home across the bay,” said Gatsby. “You always have a green light that burns all night at the end of your dock.” Daisy put her arm through his abruptly, but he seemed absorbed in what he had just said. Possibly it had occurred to him that the colossal significance of that light had now vanished forever. Compared to the great distance that had separated him from Daisy it had seemed very near to her, almost touching her. It had seemed as close as a star to the moon. Now it was again a green light on a dock. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one. I began to walk about the room, examining various indefinite objects in the half darkness. A large photograph of an elderly man in yachting costume attracted me, hung on the wall over his desk. “Who’s this?” “That? That’s Mr. Dan Cody, old sport.” The name sounded faintly familiar. “He’s dead now. He used to be my best friend years ago.” There was a small picture of Gatsby, also in yachting costume, on the bureau—Gatsby with his head thrown back defiantly—taken apparently when he was about eighteen. “I adore it,” exclaimed Daisy. “The pompadour! You never told me you had a pompadour—or a yacht.” “Look at this,” said Gatsby quickly. “Here’s a lot of clippings—about you.” They stood side by side examining it. I was going to ask to see the rubies when the phone rang, and Gatsby took up the receiver. “Yes … Well, I can’t talk now … I can’t talk now, old sport … I said a small town … He must know what a small town is … Well, he’s no use to us if Detroit is his idea of a small town …” He rang off. “Come here quick!” cried Daisy at the window. The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west, and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea. “Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I’d like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.” I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone. “I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the piano.” He went out of the room calling “Ewing!”<|quote|>and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a</|quote|>“sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck trousers of a nebulous hue. “Did we interrupt your exercise?” inquired Daisy politely. “I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment. “That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up …” “Klipspringer plays the piano,” said Gatsby, cutting him off. “Don’t you, Ewing, old sport?” “I don’t play well. I don’t—hardly play at all. I’m all out of prac—” “We’ll go downstairs,” interrupted Gatsby. He flipped a switch. The grey windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light. In the music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the piano. He lit Daisy’s cigarette from a trembling match, and sat down with her on a couch far across the room, where there was no light save what the gleaming floor bounced in from the hall. When Klipspringer had played “The Love Nest” he turned around on the bench and searched unhappily for Gatsby in the gloom. “I’m all out of practice, you see. I told you I couldn’t play. I’m all out of prac—” “Don’t talk so much, old sport,” commanded Gatsby. “Play!” “In the morning, In the evening, Ain’t we got fun—” Outside the wind was loud and there was a faint flow of thunder along the Sound. All the lights were going on in West Egg now; the electric trains, men-carrying, were plunging home through the rain from New York. It was the hour of a profound human change, and excitement was generating on the air. “One thing’s sure and nothing’s surer The rich get richer and the poor get—children. In the meantime, In between time—” As I went over to say goodbye I saw that the expression of bewilderment had come back into Gatsby’s face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man can store up in his ghostly heart. As I watched him he adjusted himself a little, visibly. His hand took hold of hers, and as she said something low in his ear he turned toward her with a rush of emotion. I think that voice held him most, with its fluctuating, feverish warmth, because it couldn’t be over-dreamed—that voice was a deathless song. They had forgotten me, but Daisy glanced up and held out her hand; Gatsby didn’t know me now at all. I looked once more at them and they looked back at me, remotely, possessed by intense life. Then I went out of the room and down the marble steps into the rain, leaving them there together. VI About this time an ambitious young reporter from New York arrived one morning at Gatsby’s door and asked him if he had anything to say. “Anything to say about what?” inquired Gatsby politely. “Why—any statement to give out.” It transpired after a confused five minutes that the man had heard Gatsby’s name around his office in a connection which he either wouldn’t reveal or didn’t fully understand. This was his day off and with laudable initiative he had hurried out “to see.” It was a random shot, and yet the reporter’s instinct was right. Gatsby’s notoriety, spread about by the hundreds who had accepted his hospitality and so become authorities upon his past, had increased all summer until he fell just short of being news. Contemporary legends such as the “underground pipeline to Canada” attached themselves to him, and there was one persistent story that he didn’t live in a house at all, but in a boat that looked like a house and was moved secretly up and down the Long Island shore. Just why these inventions were a source of satisfaction to James Gatz of North Dakota, isn’t easy to say. James Gatz—that was really, or at least legally, his name. He had changed it at the age of seventeen and at the specific moment that witnessed the beginning of his career—when he saw Dan Cody’s yacht drop anchor over the most insidious flat on Lake Superior. It was James Gatz who had been loafing along the beach that afternoon in a torn green jersey and a pair of canvas pants, but it was already Jay Gatsby who borrowed a rowboat, pulled out to the Tuolomee, and informed Cody that a wind might catch him and break him up in half an hour. I suppose | yachting costume, on the bureau—Gatsby with his head thrown back defiantly—taken apparently when he was about eighteen. “I adore it,” exclaimed Daisy. “The pompadour! You never told me you had a pompadour—or a yacht.” “Look at this,” said Gatsby quickly. “Here’s a lot of clippings—about you.” They stood side by side examining it. I was going to ask to see the rubies when the phone rang, and Gatsby took up the receiver. “Yes … Well, I can’t talk now … I can’t talk now, old sport … I said a small town … He must know what a small town is … Well, he’s no use to us if Detroit is his idea of a small town …” He rang off. “Come here quick!” cried Daisy at the window. The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west, and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea. “Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I’d like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.” I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone. “I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the piano.” He went out of the room calling “Ewing!”<|quote|>and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a</|quote|>“sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck trousers of a nebulous hue. “Did we interrupt your exercise?” inquired Daisy politely. “I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment. “That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up …” “Klipspringer plays the piano,” said Gatsby, cutting him off. “Don’t you, Ewing, old sport?” “I don’t play well. I don’t—hardly play at all. I’m all out of prac—” “We’ll go downstairs,” interrupted Gatsby. He flipped a switch. The grey windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light. In the music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the piano. He lit Daisy’s cigarette from a trembling match, and sat down with her on a couch far across the room, where there was no light save what the gleaming floor bounced in from the hall. When Klipspringer had played “The Love Nest” he turned around on the bench and searched unhappily for Gatsby in the gloom. “I’m all out of practice, you see. I told you I couldn’t play. I’m all out of prac—” “Don’t talk so much, old sport,” commanded Gatsby. “Play!” “In the morning, In the evening, Ain’t we got fun—” Outside the wind was loud and there was a faint flow of thunder along the Sound. All the lights were going on in West Egg now; the electric trains, men-carrying, were plunging home through the rain from New York. It was the hour of a profound human change, and excitement was generating on the air. “One thing’s sure and nothing’s surer The rich get richer and the poor get—children. In the meantime, In between time—” As I went over to say goodbye I saw that the expression of bewilderment had come back into Gatsby’s face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man can store up in his ghostly heart. As I watched him he adjusted himself a little, visibly. His hand took hold of hers, and as she said something low in his ear he turned toward her with a rush of emotion. I think that voice held him most, with its fluctuating, feverish warmth, because it couldn’t be over-dreamed—that voice was a deathless song. They had forgotten me, but Daisy glanced up and held out her hand; Gatsby didn’t know me now at all. I looked once more | The Great Gatsby |
But as he drove off, something depressed him a dull pain of body or mind, waiting to rise to the surface. When he reached the bungalow he wanted to return and say something very affectionate; instead, he gave the sais a heavy tip, and sat down gloomily on the bed, and Hassan massaged him incompetently. The eye-flies had colonized the top of an almeira; the red stains on the durry were thicker, for Mohammed Latif had slept here during his imprisonment and spat a good deal; the table drawer was scarred where the police had forced it open; everything in Chandrapore was used up, including the air. The trouble rose to the surface now: he was suspicious; he suspected his friend of intending to marry Miss Quested for the sake of her money, and of going to England for that purpose. | No speaker | slips are of no consequence."<|quote|>But as he drove off, something depressed him a dull pain of body or mind, waiting to rise to the surface. When he reached the bungalow he wanted to return and say something very affectionate; instead, he gave the sais a heavy tip, and sat down gloomily on the bed, and Hassan massaged him incompetently. The eye-flies had colonized the top of an almeira; the red stains on the durry were thicker, for Mohammed Latif had slept here during his imprisonment and spat a good deal; the table drawer was scarred where the police had forced it open; everything in Chandrapore was used up, including the air. The trouble rose to the surface now: he was suspicious; he suspected his friend of intending to marry Miss Quested for the sake of her money, and of going to England for that purpose.</|quote|>"Huzoor?" for he had muttered. | such as ours a few slips are of no consequence."<|quote|>But as he drove off, something depressed him a dull pain of body or mind, waiting to rise to the surface. When he reached the bungalow he wanted to return and say something very affectionate; instead, he gave the sais a heavy tip, and sat down gloomily on the bed, and Hassan massaged him incompetently. The eye-flies had colonized the top of an almeira; the red stains on the durry were thicker, for Mohammed Latif had slept here during his imprisonment and spat a good deal; the table drawer was scarred where the police had forced it open; everything in Chandrapore was used up, including the air. The trouble rose to the surface now: he was suspicious; he suspected his friend of intending to marry Miss Quested for the sake of her money, and of going to England for that purpose.</|quote|>"Huzoor?" for he had muttered. "Look at those flies on | stupid remark I made this morning?" "When you called me a little rotter?" "Yes, to my eternal confusion. You know how fond I am of you." "That is nothing, of course, we all of us make mistakes. In a friendship such as ours a few slips are of no consequence."<|quote|>But as he drove off, something depressed him a dull pain of body or mind, waiting to rise to the surface. When he reached the bungalow he wanted to return and say something very affectionate; instead, he gave the sais a heavy tip, and sat down gloomily on the bed, and Hassan massaged him incompetently. The eye-flies had colonized the top of an almeira; the red stains on the durry were thicker, for Mohammed Latif had slept here during his imprisonment and spat a good deal; the table drawer was scarred where the police had forced it open; everything in Chandrapore was used up, including the air. The trouble rose to the surface now: he was suspicious; he suspected his friend of intending to marry Miss Quested for the sake of her money, and of going to England for that purpose.</|quote|>"Huzoor?" for he had muttered. "Look at those flies on the ceiling. Why have you not drowned them?" "Huzoor, they return." "Like all evil things." To divert the conversation, Hassan related how the kitchen-boy had killed a snake, good, but killed it by cutting it in two, bad, because it | often in your carriage. I am thought to take advantage of your generosity by Mr. Ram Chand." He was out of sorts and uneasy. The conversation jumped from topic to topic in a broken-backed fashion. They were affectionate and intimate, but nothing clicked tight. "Aziz, you have forgiven me the stupid remark I made this morning?" "When you called me a little rotter?" "Yes, to my eternal confusion. You know how fond I am of you." "That is nothing, of course, we all of us make mistakes. In a friendship such as ours a few slips are of no consequence."<|quote|>But as he drove off, something depressed him a dull pain of body or mind, waiting to rise to the surface. When he reached the bungalow he wanted to return and say something very affectionate; instead, he gave the sais a heavy tip, and sat down gloomily on the bed, and Hassan massaged him incompetently. The eye-flies had colonized the top of an almeira; the red stains on the durry were thicker, for Mohammed Latif had slept here during his imprisonment and spat a good deal; the table drawer was scarred where the police had forced it open; everything in Chandrapore was used up, including the air. The trouble rose to the surface now: he was suspicious; he suspected his friend of intending to marry Miss Quested for the sake of her money, and of going to England for that purpose.</|quote|>"Huzoor?" for he had muttered. "Look at those flies on the ceiling. Why have you not drowned them?" "Huzoor, they return." "Like all evil things." To divert the conversation, Hassan related how the kitchen-boy had killed a snake, good, but killed it by cutting it in two, bad, because it becomes two snakes. "When he breaks a plate, does it become two plates?" "Glasses and a new teapot will similarly be required, also for myself a coat." Aziz sighed. Each for himself. One man needs a coat, another a rich wife; each approaches his goal by a clever detour. Fielding | have time. It will be strange seeing her in Hampstead." "What is Hampstead?" "An artistic and thoughtful little suburb of London" "And there she lives in comfort: you will enjoy seeing her. . . . Dear me, I've got a headache this evening. Perhaps I am going to have cholera. With your permission, I'll leave early." "When would you like the carriage?" "Don't trouble I'll bike." "But you haven't got your bicycle. My carriage fetched you let it take you away." "Sound reasoning," he said, trying to be gay. "I have not got my bicycle. But I am seen too often in your carriage. I am thought to take advantage of your generosity by Mr. Ram Chand." He was out of sorts and uneasy. The conversation jumped from topic to topic in a broken-backed fashion. They were affectionate and intimate, but nothing clicked tight. "Aziz, you have forgiven me the stupid remark I made this morning?" "When you called me a little rotter?" "Yes, to my eternal confusion. You know how fond I am of you." "That is nothing, of course, we all of us make mistakes. In a friendship such as ours a few slips are of no consequence."<|quote|>But as he drove off, something depressed him a dull pain of body or mind, waiting to rise to the surface. When he reached the bungalow he wanted to return and say something very affectionate; instead, he gave the sais a heavy tip, and sat down gloomily on the bed, and Hassan massaged him incompetently. The eye-flies had colonized the top of an almeira; the red stains on the durry were thicker, for Mohammed Latif had slept here during his imprisonment and spat a good deal; the table drawer was scarred where the police had forced it open; everything in Chandrapore was used up, including the air. The trouble rose to the surface now: he was suspicious; he suspected his friend of intending to marry Miss Quested for the sake of her money, and of going to England for that purpose.</|quote|>"Huzoor?" for he had muttered. "Look at those flies on the ceiling. Why have you not drowned them?" "Huzoor, they return." "Like all evil things." To divert the conversation, Hassan related how the kitchen-boy had killed a snake, good, but killed it by cutting it in two, bad, because it becomes two snakes. "When he breaks a plate, does it become two plates?" "Glasses and a new teapot will similarly be required, also for myself a coat." Aziz sighed. Each for himself. One man needs a coat, another a rich wife; each approaches his goal by a clever detour. Fielding had saved the girl a fine of twenty thousand rupees, and now followed her to England. If he desired to marry her, all was explained; she would bring him a larger dowry. Aziz did not believe his own suspicions better if he had, for then he would have denounced and cleared the situation up. Suspicion and belief could in his mind exist side by side. They sprang from different sources, and need never intermingle. Suspicion in the Oriental is a sort of malignant tumour, a mental malady, that makes him self-conscious and unfriendly suddenly; he trusts and mistrusts at the | right in thinking that poetry must touch life. When I knew you first, you used it as an incantation." "I was a child when you knew me first. Everyone was my friend then. The Friend: a Persian expression for God. But I do not want to be a religious poet either." "I hoped you would be." "Why, when you yourself are an atheist?" "There is something in religion that may not be true, but has not yet been sung." "Explain in detail." "Something that the Hindus have perhaps found." "Let them sing it." "Hindus are unable to sing." "Cyril, you sometimes make a sensible remark. That will do for poetry for the present. Let us now return to your English visit." "We haven't discussed poetry for two seconds," said the other, smiling. But Aziz was addicted to cameos. He held the tiny conversation in his hand, and felt it epitomized his problem. For an instant he recalled his wife, and, as happens when a memory is intense, the past became the future, and he saw her with him in a quiet Hindu jungle native state, far away from foreigners. He said: "I suppose you will visit Miss Quested." "If I have time. It will be strange seeing her in Hampstead." "What is Hampstead?" "An artistic and thoughtful little suburb of London" "And there she lives in comfort: you will enjoy seeing her. . . . Dear me, I've got a headache this evening. Perhaps I am going to have cholera. With your permission, I'll leave early." "When would you like the carriage?" "Don't trouble I'll bike." "But you haven't got your bicycle. My carriage fetched you let it take you away." "Sound reasoning," he said, trying to be gay. "I have not got my bicycle. But I am seen too often in your carriage. I am thought to take advantage of your generosity by Mr. Ram Chand." He was out of sorts and uneasy. The conversation jumped from topic to topic in a broken-backed fashion. They were affectionate and intimate, but nothing clicked tight. "Aziz, you have forgiven me the stupid remark I made this morning?" "When you called me a little rotter?" "Yes, to my eternal confusion. You know how fond I am of you." "That is nothing, of course, we all of us make mistakes. In a friendship such as ours a few slips are of no consequence."<|quote|>But as he drove off, something depressed him a dull pain of body or mind, waiting to rise to the surface. When he reached the bungalow he wanted to return and say something very affectionate; instead, he gave the sais a heavy tip, and sat down gloomily on the bed, and Hassan massaged him incompetently. The eye-flies had colonized the top of an almeira; the red stains on the durry were thicker, for Mohammed Latif had slept here during his imprisonment and spat a good deal; the table drawer was scarred where the police had forced it open; everything in Chandrapore was used up, including the air. The trouble rose to the surface now: he was suspicious; he suspected his friend of intending to marry Miss Quested for the sake of her money, and of going to England for that purpose.</|quote|>"Huzoor?" for he had muttered. "Look at those flies on the ceiling. Why have you not drowned them?" "Huzoor, they return." "Like all evil things." To divert the conversation, Hassan related how the kitchen-boy had killed a snake, good, but killed it by cutting it in two, bad, because it becomes two snakes. "When he breaks a plate, does it become two plates?" "Glasses and a new teapot will similarly be required, also for myself a coat." Aziz sighed. Each for himself. One man needs a coat, another a rich wife; each approaches his goal by a clever detour. Fielding had saved the girl a fine of twenty thousand rupees, and now followed her to England. If he desired to marry her, all was explained; she would bring him a larger dowry. Aziz did not believe his own suspicions better if he had, for then he would have denounced and cleared the situation up. Suspicion and belief could in his mind exist side by side. They sprang from different sources, and need never intermingle. Suspicion in the Oriental is a sort of malignant tumour, a mental malady, that makes him self-conscious and unfriendly suddenly; he trusts and mistrusts at the same time in a way the Westerner cannot comprehend. It is his demon, as the Westerner's is hypocrisy. Aziz was seized by it, and his fancy built a satanic castle, of which the foundation had been laid when he talked at Dilkusha under the stars. The girl had surely been Cyril's mistress when she stopped in the College Mohammed Latif was right. But was that all? Perhaps it was Cyril who followed her into the cave. . . . No; impossible. Cyril hadn't been on the Kawa Dol at all. Impossible. Ridiculous. Yet the fancy left him trembling with misery. Such treachery if true would have been the worst in Indian history; nothing so vile, not even the murder of Afzul Khan by Sivaji. He was shaken, as though by a truth, and told Hassan to leave him. Next day he decided to take his children back to Mussoorie. They had come down for the trial, that he might bid them farewell, and had stayed on at Hamidullah's for the rejoicings. Major Roberts would give him leave, and during his absence Fielding would go off to England. The idea suited both his beliefs and his suspicions. Events would prove which | be harmless, but the echo is always evil." This reflection about an echo lay at the verge of Fielding's mind. He could never develop it. It belonged to the universe that he had missed or rejected. And the mosque missed it too. Like himself, those shallow arcades provided but a limited asylum. "There is no God but God" doesn't carry us far through the complexities of matter and spirit; it is only a game with words, really, a religious pun, not a religious truth. He found Aziz overtired and dispirited, and he determined not to allude to their misunderstanding until the end of the evening; it would be more acceptable then. He made a clean breast about the club said he had only gone under compulsion, and should never attend again unless the order was renewed. "In other words, probably never; for I am going quite soon to England." "I thought you might end in England," he said very quietly, then changed the conversation. Rather awkwardly they ate their dinner, then went out to sit in the Mogul garden-house. "I am only going for a little time. On official business. My service is anxious to get me away from Chandrapore for a bit. It is obliged to value me highly, but does not care for me. The situation is somewhat humorous." "What is the nature of the business? Will it leave you much spare time?" "Enough to see my friends." "I expected you to make such a reply. You are a faithful friend. Shall we now talk about something else?" "Willingly. What subject?" "Poetry," he said, with tears in his eyes. "Let us discuss why poetry has lost the power of making men brave. My mother's father was also a poet, and fought against you in the Mutiny. I might equal him if there was another mutiny. As it is, I am a doctor, who has won a case and has three children to support, and whose chief subject of conversation is official plans." "Let us talk about poetry." He turned his mind to the innocuous subject. "You people are sadly circumstanced. Whatever are you to write about? You cannot say," The rose is faded,' "for evermore. We know it's faded. Yet you can't have patriotic poetry of the India, my India' type, when it's nobody's India." "I like this conversation. It may lead to something interesting." "You are quite right in thinking that poetry must touch life. When I knew you first, you used it as an incantation." "I was a child when you knew me first. Everyone was my friend then. The Friend: a Persian expression for God. But I do not want to be a religious poet either." "I hoped you would be." "Why, when you yourself are an atheist?" "There is something in religion that may not be true, but has not yet been sung." "Explain in detail." "Something that the Hindus have perhaps found." "Let them sing it." "Hindus are unable to sing." "Cyril, you sometimes make a sensible remark. That will do for poetry for the present. Let us now return to your English visit." "We haven't discussed poetry for two seconds," said the other, smiling. But Aziz was addicted to cameos. He held the tiny conversation in his hand, and felt it epitomized his problem. For an instant he recalled his wife, and, as happens when a memory is intense, the past became the future, and he saw her with him in a quiet Hindu jungle native state, far away from foreigners. He said: "I suppose you will visit Miss Quested." "If I have time. It will be strange seeing her in Hampstead." "What is Hampstead?" "An artistic and thoughtful little suburb of London" "And there she lives in comfort: you will enjoy seeing her. . . . Dear me, I've got a headache this evening. Perhaps I am going to have cholera. With your permission, I'll leave early." "When would you like the carriage?" "Don't trouble I'll bike." "But you haven't got your bicycle. My carriage fetched you let it take you away." "Sound reasoning," he said, trying to be gay. "I have not got my bicycle. But I am seen too often in your carriage. I am thought to take advantage of your generosity by Mr. Ram Chand." He was out of sorts and uneasy. The conversation jumped from topic to topic in a broken-backed fashion. They were affectionate and intimate, but nothing clicked tight. "Aziz, you have forgiven me the stupid remark I made this morning?" "When you called me a little rotter?" "Yes, to my eternal confusion. You know how fond I am of you." "That is nothing, of course, we all of us make mistakes. In a friendship such as ours a few slips are of no consequence."<|quote|>But as he drove off, something depressed him a dull pain of body or mind, waiting to rise to the surface. When he reached the bungalow he wanted to return and say something very affectionate; instead, he gave the sais a heavy tip, and sat down gloomily on the bed, and Hassan massaged him incompetently. The eye-flies had colonized the top of an almeira; the red stains on the durry were thicker, for Mohammed Latif had slept here during his imprisonment and spat a good deal; the table drawer was scarred where the police had forced it open; everything in Chandrapore was used up, including the air. The trouble rose to the surface now: he was suspicious; he suspected his friend of intending to marry Miss Quested for the sake of her money, and of going to England for that purpose.</|quote|>"Huzoor?" for he had muttered. "Look at those flies on the ceiling. Why have you not drowned them?" "Huzoor, they return." "Like all evil things." To divert the conversation, Hassan related how the kitchen-boy had killed a snake, good, but killed it by cutting it in two, bad, because it becomes two snakes. "When he breaks a plate, does it become two plates?" "Glasses and a new teapot will similarly be required, also for myself a coat." Aziz sighed. Each for himself. One man needs a coat, another a rich wife; each approaches his goal by a clever detour. Fielding had saved the girl a fine of twenty thousand rupees, and now followed her to England. If he desired to marry her, all was explained; she would bring him a larger dowry. Aziz did not believe his own suspicions better if he had, for then he would have denounced and cleared the situation up. Suspicion and belief could in his mind exist side by side. They sprang from different sources, and need never intermingle. Suspicion in the Oriental is a sort of malignant tumour, a mental malady, that makes him self-conscious and unfriendly suddenly; he trusts and mistrusts at the same time in a way the Westerner cannot comprehend. It is his demon, as the Westerner's is hypocrisy. Aziz was seized by it, and his fancy built a satanic castle, of which the foundation had been laid when he talked at Dilkusha under the stars. The girl had surely been Cyril's mistress when she stopped in the College Mohammed Latif was right. But was that all? Perhaps it was Cyril who followed her into the cave. . . . No; impossible. Cyril hadn't been on the Kawa Dol at all. Impossible. Ridiculous. Yet the fancy left him trembling with misery. Such treachery if true would have been the worst in Indian history; nothing so vile, not even the murder of Afzul Khan by Sivaji. He was shaken, as though by a truth, and told Hassan to leave him. Next day he decided to take his children back to Mussoorie. They had come down for the trial, that he might bid them farewell, and had stayed on at Hamidullah's for the rejoicings. Major Roberts would give him leave, and during his absence Fielding would go off to England. The idea suited both his beliefs and his suspicions. Events would prove which was right, and preserve, in either case, his dignity. Fielding was conscious of something hostile, and because he was really fond of Aziz his optimism failed him. Travelling light is less easy as soon as affection is involved. Unable to jog forward in the serene hope that all would come right, he wrote an elaborate letter in the rather modern style: "It is on my mind that you think me a prude about women. I had rather you thought anything else of me. If I live impeccably now, it is only because I am well on the forties a period of revision. In the eighties I shall revise again. And before the nineties come I shall be revised! But, alive or dead, I am absolutely devoid of morals. Do kindly grasp this about me." Aziz did not care for the letter at all. It hurt his delicacy. He liked confidences, however gross, but generalizations and comparisons always repelled him. Life is not a scientific manual. He replied coldly, regretting his inability to return from Mussoorie before his friend sailed: "But I must take my poor little holiday while I can. All must be economy henceforward, all hopes of Kashmir have vanished for ever and ever. When you return I shall be slaving far away in some new post." And Fielding went, and in the last gutterings of Chandrapore heaven and earth both looking like toffee the Indian's bad fancies were confirmed. His friends encouraged them, for though they had liked the Principal, they felt uneasy at his getting to know so much about their private affairs. Mahmoud Ali soon declared that treachery was afoot. Hamidullah murmured, "Certainly of late he no longer addressed us with his former frankness," and warned Aziz "not to expect too much he and she are, after all, both members of another race." "Where are my twenty thousand rupees?" he thought. He was absolutely indifferent to money not merely generous with it, but promptly paying his debts when he could remember to do so yet these rupees haunted his mind, because he had been tricked about them, and allowed them to escape overseas, like so much of the wealth of India. Cyril would marry Miss Quested he grew certain of it, all the unexplained residue of the Marabar contributing. It was the natural conclusion of the horrible senseless picnic, and before long he persuaded himself that | a bit. It is obliged to value me highly, but does not care for me. The situation is somewhat humorous." "What is the nature of the business? Will it leave you much spare time?" "Enough to see my friends." "I expected you to make such a reply. You are a faithful friend. Shall we now talk about something else?" "Willingly. What subject?" "Poetry," he said, with tears in his eyes. "Let us discuss why poetry has lost the power of making men brave. My mother's father was also a poet, and fought against you in the Mutiny. I might equal him if there was another mutiny. As it is, I am a doctor, who has won a case and has three children to support, and whose chief subject of conversation is official plans." "Let us talk about poetry." He turned his mind to the innocuous subject. "You people are sadly circumstanced. Whatever are you to write about? You cannot say," The rose is faded,' "for evermore. We know it's faded. Yet you can't have patriotic poetry of the India, my India' type, when it's nobody's India." "I like this conversation. It may lead to something interesting." "You are quite right in thinking that poetry must touch life. When I knew you first, you used it as an incantation." "I was a child when you knew me first. Everyone was my friend then. The Friend: a Persian expression for God. But I do not want to be a religious poet either." "I hoped you would be." "Why, when you yourself are an atheist?" "There is something in religion that may not be true, but has not yet been sung." "Explain in detail." "Something that the Hindus have perhaps found." "Let them sing it." "Hindus are unable to sing." "Cyril, you sometimes make a sensible remark. That will do for poetry for the present. Let us now return to your English visit." "We haven't discussed poetry for two seconds," said the other, smiling. But Aziz was addicted to cameos. He held the tiny conversation in his hand, and felt it epitomized his problem. For an instant he recalled his wife, and, as happens when a memory is intense, the past became the future, and he saw her with him in a quiet Hindu jungle native state, far away from foreigners. He said: "I suppose you will visit Miss Quested." "If I have time. It will be strange seeing her in Hampstead." "What is Hampstead?" "An artistic and thoughtful little suburb of London" "And there she lives in comfort: you will enjoy seeing her. . . . Dear me, I've got a headache this evening. Perhaps I am going to have cholera. With your permission, I'll leave early." "When would you like the carriage?" "Don't trouble I'll bike." "But you haven't got your bicycle. My carriage fetched you let it take you away." "Sound reasoning," he said, trying to be gay. "I have not got my bicycle. But I am seen too often in your carriage. I am thought to take advantage of your generosity by Mr. Ram Chand." He was out of sorts and uneasy. The conversation jumped from topic to topic in a broken-backed fashion. They were affectionate and intimate, but nothing clicked tight. "Aziz, you have forgiven me the stupid remark I made this morning?" "When you called me a little rotter?" "Yes, to my eternal confusion. You know how fond I am of you." "That is nothing, of course, we all of us make mistakes. In a friendship such as ours a few slips are of no consequence."<|quote|>But as he drove off, something depressed him a dull pain of body or mind, waiting to rise to the surface. When he reached the bungalow he wanted to return and say something very affectionate; instead, he gave the sais a heavy tip, and sat down gloomily on the bed, and Hassan massaged him incompetently. The eye-flies had colonized the top of an almeira; the red stains on the durry were thicker, for Mohammed Latif had slept here during his imprisonment and spat a good deal; the table drawer was scarred where the police had forced it open; everything in Chandrapore was used up, including the air. The trouble rose to the surface now: he was suspicious; he suspected his friend of intending to marry Miss Quested for the sake of her money, and of going to England for that purpose.</|quote|>"Huzoor?" for he had muttered. "Look at those flies on the ceiling. Why have you not drowned them?" "Huzoor, they return." "Like all evil things." To divert the conversation, Hassan related how the kitchen-boy had killed a snake, good, but killed it by cutting it in two, bad, because it becomes two snakes. "When he breaks a plate, does it become two plates?" "Glasses and a new teapot will similarly be required, also for myself a coat." Aziz sighed. Each for himself. One man needs a coat, another a rich wife; each approaches his goal by a clever detour. Fielding had saved the girl a fine of twenty thousand rupees, and now followed her to England. If he desired to marry her, all was explained; she would bring him a larger dowry. Aziz did not believe his own suspicions better if he had, for then he would have denounced and cleared the situation up. Suspicion and belief could in his mind exist side by side. They sprang from different sources, and need never intermingle. Suspicion in the Oriental is a sort of malignant tumour, a mental malady, that makes him self-conscious and unfriendly suddenly; he trusts and mistrusts at the same time in a way the Westerner cannot comprehend. It is his demon, as the Westerner's is hypocrisy. Aziz was seized by it, and his fancy built a satanic castle, of which the foundation had been laid when he talked at Dilkusha under the stars. The girl had surely been Cyril's mistress when she stopped in the College Mohammed Latif was right. But was that all? Perhaps it was Cyril who followed her into the cave. . . . No; impossible. Cyril hadn't been on the Kawa Dol at all. Impossible. Ridiculous. Yet the fancy left him trembling with misery. Such treachery if true would have been the worst in Indian history; nothing so vile, not even the murder of Afzul Khan by Sivaji. He was shaken, as though by a truth, and told Hassan to leave him. Next day he decided to take his children back to Mussoorie. They had come down for the trial, that he might bid them farewell, and had stayed on at Hamidullah's for the rejoicings. Major Roberts would give him leave, and during his absence Fielding would go off to England. The idea suited both his beliefs and his suspicions. Events would prove which was right, and preserve, in either case, his dignity. Fielding was conscious of something hostile, and because he was really fond of Aziz his optimism failed him. Travelling light is less easy as soon as affection is involved. Unable to jog | A Passage To India |
said he, | No speaker | more or less to blame,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"every one of us, excepting | palliation. "We have all been more or less to blame,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"every one of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only | as to make his judgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious, while vindicating himself, to say nothing unkind of the others: but there was only one amongst them whose conduct he could mention without some necessity of defence or palliation. "We have all been more or less to blame,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"every one of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only one who has judged rightly throughout; who has been consistent. _Her_ feelings have been steadily against it from first to last. She never ceased to think of what was due to you. You will find Fanny everything you could wish." | father alone, and give him a fair statement of the whole acting scheme, defending his own share in it as far only as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his motives to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that his concession had been attended with such partial good as to make his judgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious, while vindicating himself, to say nothing unkind of the others: but there was only one amongst them whose conduct he could mention without some necessity of defence or palliation. "We have all been more or less to blame,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"every one of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only one who has judged rightly throughout; who has been consistent. _Her_ feelings have been steadily against it from first to last. She never ceased to think of what was due to you. You will find Fanny everything you could wish." Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party, and at such a time, as strongly as his son had ever supposed he must; he felt it too much, indeed, for many words; and having shaken hands with Edmund, meant to try to lose the | aware that he must not expect a genius in Mr. Rushworth; but as a well-judging, steady young man, with better notions than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to value him very highly. It was impossible for many of the others not to smile. Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do with so much meaning; but by looking, as he really felt, most exceedingly pleased with Sir Thomas's good opinion, and saying scarcely anything, he did his best towards preserving that good opinion a little longer. CHAPTER XX Edmund's first object the next morning was to see his father alone, and give him a fair statement of the whole acting scheme, defending his own share in it as far only as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his motives to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that his concession had been attended with such partial good as to make his judgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious, while vindicating himself, to say nothing unkind of the others: but there was only one amongst them whose conduct he could mention without some necessity of defence or palliation. "We have all been more or less to blame,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"every one of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only one who has judged rightly throughout; who has been consistent. _Her_ feelings have been steadily against it from first to last. She never ceased to think of what was due to you. You will find Fanny everything you could wish." Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party, and at such a time, as strongly as his son had ever supposed he must; he felt it too much, indeed, for many words; and having shaken hands with Edmund, meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression, and forget how much he had been forgotten himself as soon as he could, after the house had been cleared of every object enforcing the remembrance, and restored to its proper state. He did not enter into any remonstrance with his other children: he was more willing to believe they felt their error than to run the risk of investigation. The reproof of an immediate conclusion of everything, the sweep of every preparation, would be sufficient. There was one person, however, in the house, whom he could not leave to learn his sentiments merely through his conduct. He | Thomas did not quite understand this, and looked with some surprise at the speaker. "If I must say what I think," continued Mr. Rushworth, "in my opinion it is very disagreeable to be always rehearsing. It is having too much of a good thing. I am not so fond of acting as I was at first. I think we are a great deal better employed, sitting comfortably here among ourselves, and doing nothing." Sir Thomas looked again, and then replied with an approving smile, "I am happy to find our sentiments on this subject so much the same. It gives me sincere satisfaction. That I should be cautious and quick-sighted, and feel many scruples which my children do _not_ feel, is perfectly natural; and equally so that my value for domestic tranquillity, for a home which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much exceed theirs. But at your time of life to feel all this, is a most favourable circumstance for yourself, and for everybody connected with you; and I am sensible of the importance of having an ally of such weight." Sir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth's opinion in better words than he could find himself. He was aware that he must not expect a genius in Mr. Rushworth; but as a well-judging, steady young man, with better notions than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to value him very highly. It was impossible for many of the others not to smile. Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do with so much meaning; but by looking, as he really felt, most exceedingly pleased with Sir Thomas's good opinion, and saying scarcely anything, he did his best towards preserving that good opinion a little longer. CHAPTER XX Edmund's first object the next morning was to see his father alone, and give him a fair statement of the whole acting scheme, defending his own share in it as far only as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his motives to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that his concession had been attended with such partial good as to make his judgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious, while vindicating himself, to say nothing unkind of the others: but there was only one amongst them whose conduct he could mention without some necessity of defence or palliation. "We have all been more or less to blame,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"every one of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only one who has judged rightly throughout; who has been consistent. _Her_ feelings have been steadily against it from first to last. She never ceased to think of what was due to you. You will find Fanny everything you could wish." Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party, and at such a time, as strongly as his son had ever supposed he must; he felt it too much, indeed, for many words; and having shaken hands with Edmund, meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression, and forget how much he had been forgotten himself as soon as he could, after the house had been cleared of every object enforcing the remembrance, and restored to its proper state. He did not enter into any remonstrance with his other children: he was more willing to believe they felt their error than to run the risk of investigation. The reproof of an immediate conclusion of everything, the sweep of every preparation, would be sufficient. There was one person, however, in the house, whom he could not leave to learn his sentiments merely through his conduct. He could not help giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped that her advice might have been interposed to prevent what her judgment must certainly have disapproved. The young people had been very inconsiderate in forming the plan; they ought to have been capable of a better decision themselves; but they were young; and, excepting Edmund, he believed, of unsteady characters; and with greater surprise, therefore, he must regard her acquiescence in their wrong measures, her countenance of their unsafe amusements, than that such measures and such amusements should have been suggested. Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as nearly being silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she was ashamed to confess having never seen any of the impropriety which was so glaring to Sir Thomas, and would not have admitted that her influence was insufficient that she might have talked in vain. Her only resource was to get out of the subject as fast as possible, and turn the current of Sir Thomas's ideas into a happier channel. She had a great deal to insinuate in her own praise as to _general_ attention to the interest and comfort of his family, much exertion | but prevented him even from seeing the expression of the face on which his own eyes were fixed from seeing Sir Thomas's dark brow contract as he looked with inquiring earnestness at his daughters and Edmund, dwelling particularly on the latter, and speaking a language, a remonstrance, a reproof, which _he_ felt at his heart. Not less acutely was it felt by Fanny, who had edged back her chair behind her aunt's end of the sofa, and, screened from notice herself, saw all that was passing before her. Such a look of reproach at Edmund from his father she could never have expected to witness; and to feel that it was in any degree deserved was an aggravation indeed. Sir Thomas's look implied, "On your judgment, Edmund, I depended; what have you been about?" She knelt in spirit to her uncle, and her bosom swelled to utter, "Oh, not to _him_! Look so to all the others, but not to _him_!" Mr. Yates was still talking. "To own the truth, Sir Thomas, we were in the middle of a rehearsal when you arrived this evening. We were going through the three first acts, and not unsuccessfully upon the whole. Our company is now so dispersed, from the Crawfords being gone home, that nothing more can be done to-night; but if you will give us the honour of your company to-morrow evening, I should not be afraid of the result. We bespeak your indulgence, you understand, as young performers; we bespeak your indulgence." "My indulgence shall be given, sir," replied Sir Thomas gravely, "but without any other rehearsal." And with a relenting smile, he added, "I come home to be happy and indulgent." Then turning away towards any or all of the rest, he tranquilly said, "Mr. and Miss Crawford were mentioned in my last letters from Mansfield. Do you find them agreeable acquaintance?" Tom was the only one at all ready with an answer, but he being entirely without particular regard for either, without jealousy either in love or acting, could speak very handsomely of both. "Mr. Crawford was a most pleasant, gentleman-like man; his sister a sweet, pretty, elegant, lively girl." Mr. Rushworth could be silent no longer. "I do not say he is not gentleman-like, considering; but you should tell your father he is not above five feet eight, or he will be expecting a well-looking man." Sir Thomas did not quite understand this, and looked with some surprise at the speaker. "If I must say what I think," continued Mr. Rushworth, "in my opinion it is very disagreeable to be always rehearsing. It is having too much of a good thing. I am not so fond of acting as I was at first. I think we are a great deal better employed, sitting comfortably here among ourselves, and doing nothing." Sir Thomas looked again, and then replied with an approving smile, "I am happy to find our sentiments on this subject so much the same. It gives me sincere satisfaction. That I should be cautious and quick-sighted, and feel many scruples which my children do _not_ feel, is perfectly natural; and equally so that my value for domestic tranquillity, for a home which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much exceed theirs. But at your time of life to feel all this, is a most favourable circumstance for yourself, and for everybody connected with you; and I am sensible of the importance of having an ally of such weight." Sir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth's opinion in better words than he could find himself. He was aware that he must not expect a genius in Mr. Rushworth; but as a well-judging, steady young man, with better notions than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to value him very highly. It was impossible for many of the others not to smile. Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do with so much meaning; but by looking, as he really felt, most exceedingly pleased with Sir Thomas's good opinion, and saying scarcely anything, he did his best towards preserving that good opinion a little longer. CHAPTER XX Edmund's first object the next morning was to see his father alone, and give him a fair statement of the whole acting scheme, defending his own share in it as far only as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his motives to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that his concession had been attended with such partial good as to make his judgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious, while vindicating himself, to say nothing unkind of the others: but there was only one amongst them whose conduct he could mention without some necessity of defence or palliation. "We have all been more or less to blame,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"every one of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only one who has judged rightly throughout; who has been consistent. _Her_ feelings have been steadily against it from first to last. She never ceased to think of what was due to you. You will find Fanny everything you could wish." Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party, and at such a time, as strongly as his son had ever supposed he must; he felt it too much, indeed, for many words; and having shaken hands with Edmund, meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression, and forget how much he had been forgotten himself as soon as he could, after the house had been cleared of every object enforcing the remembrance, and restored to its proper state. He did not enter into any remonstrance with his other children: he was more willing to believe they felt their error than to run the risk of investigation. The reproof of an immediate conclusion of everything, the sweep of every preparation, would be sufficient. There was one person, however, in the house, whom he could not leave to learn his sentiments merely through his conduct. He could not help giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped that her advice might have been interposed to prevent what her judgment must certainly have disapproved. The young people had been very inconsiderate in forming the plan; they ought to have been capable of a better decision themselves; but they were young; and, excepting Edmund, he believed, of unsteady characters; and with greater surprise, therefore, he must regard her acquiescence in their wrong measures, her countenance of their unsafe amusements, than that such measures and such amusements should have been suggested. Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as nearly being silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she was ashamed to confess having never seen any of the impropriety which was so glaring to Sir Thomas, and would not have admitted that her influence was insufficient that she might have talked in vain. Her only resource was to get out of the subject as fast as possible, and turn the current of Sir Thomas's ideas into a happier channel. She had a great deal to insinuate in her own praise as to _general_ attention to the interest and comfort of his family, much exertion and many sacrifices to glance at in the form of hurried walks and sudden removals from her own fireside, and many excellent hints of distrust and economy to Lady Bertram and Edmund to detail, whereby a most considerable saving had always arisen, and more than one bad servant been detected. But her chief strength lay in Sotherton. Her greatest support and glory was in having formed the connexion with the Rushworths. _There_ she was impregnable. She took to herself all the credit of bringing Mr. Rushworth's admiration of Maria to any effect. "If I had not been active," said she, "and made a point of being introduced to his mother, and then prevailed on my sister to pay the first visit, I am as certain as I sit here that nothing would have come of it; for Mr. Rushworth is the sort of amiable modest young man who wants a great deal of encouragement, and there were girls enough on the catch for him if we had been idle. But I left no stone unturned. I was ready to move heaven and earth to persuade my sister, and at last I did persuade her. You know the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter, and the roads almost impassable, but I did persuade her." "I know how great, how justly great, your influence is with Lady Bertram and her children, and am the more concerned that it should not have been" "My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the roads _that_ day! I thought we should never have got through them, though we had the four horses of course; and poor old coachman would attend us, out of his great love and kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box on account of the rheumatism which I had been doctoring him for ever since Michaelmas. I cured him at last; but he was very bad all the winter and this was such a day, I could not help going to him up in his room before we set off to advise him not to venture: he was putting on his wig; so I said, Coachman, you had much better not go; your Lady and I shall be very safe; you know how steady Stephen is, and Charles has been upon the leaders so often now, that I am sure there is | natural; and equally so that my value for domestic tranquillity, for a home which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much exceed theirs. But at your time of life to feel all this, is a most favourable circumstance for yourself, and for everybody connected with you; and I am sensible of the importance of having an ally of such weight." Sir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth's opinion in better words than he could find himself. He was aware that he must not expect a genius in Mr. Rushworth; but as a well-judging, steady young man, with better notions than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to value him very highly. It was impossible for many of the others not to smile. Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do with so much meaning; but by looking, as he really felt, most exceedingly pleased with Sir Thomas's good opinion, and saying scarcely anything, he did his best towards preserving that good opinion a little longer. CHAPTER XX Edmund's first object the next morning was to see his father alone, and give him a fair statement of the whole acting scheme, defending his own share in it as far only as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his motives to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that his concession had been attended with such partial good as to make his judgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious, while vindicating himself, to say nothing unkind of the others: but there was only one amongst them whose conduct he could mention without some necessity of defence or palliation. "We have all been more or less to blame,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"every one of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only one who has judged rightly throughout; who has been consistent. _Her_ feelings have been steadily against it from first to last. She never ceased to think of what was due to you. You will find Fanny everything you could wish." Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party, and at such a time, as strongly as his son had ever supposed he must; he felt it too much, indeed, for many words; and having shaken hands with Edmund, meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression, and forget how much he had been forgotten himself as soon as he could, after the house had been cleared of every object enforcing the remembrance, and restored to its proper state. He did not enter into any remonstrance with his other children: he was more willing to believe they felt their error than to run the risk of investigation. The reproof of an immediate conclusion of everything, the sweep of every preparation, would be sufficient. There was one person, however, in the house, whom he could not leave to learn his sentiments merely through his conduct. He could not help giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped that her advice might have been interposed to prevent what her judgment must certainly have disapproved. The young people had been very inconsiderate in forming the plan; they ought to have been capable of a better decision themselves; but they were young; and, excepting Edmund, he believed, of unsteady characters; and with greater surprise, therefore, he must regard her acquiescence in their wrong measures, her countenance of their unsafe amusements, than that such measures and such amusements should have been suggested. Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as nearly being silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she was ashamed to confess having never seen any of the impropriety which was so glaring to Sir Thomas, and would not have admitted that her influence was insufficient that she might have talked in vain. Her only resource was to get out of the subject as fast as possible, and turn the current of Sir Thomas's ideas into a happier channel. She had a great deal to insinuate in her own praise as to _general_ attention to the interest and comfort of his family, much exertion and many sacrifices to glance at in the form of hurried walks and sudden removals from her own fireside, and many excellent hints of distrust and economy to Lady Bertram and Edmund to detail, whereby a most considerable saving had always arisen, and more than one bad servant been detected. But her chief strength lay in Sotherton. Her greatest support and glory was in having formed the connexion with the Rushworths. _There_ she was impregnable. She took to herself all the credit of bringing Mr. Rushworth's admiration of Maria to any effect. "If I had not been active," said she, "and made a point of being introduced to his mother, and then prevailed on | Mansfield Park |
"To listen to him!" | Antonida Vassilievna Tarassevitcha | instead of the desiderated zero.<|quote|>"To listen to him!"</|quote|>fumed the old lady. "When | the croupier cried out, "Trente-six," instead of the desiderated zero.<|quote|>"To listen to him!"</|quote|>fumed the old lady. "When will that accursed zero ever | leapt through the notches of the ever-revolving wheel. However, the third ten-g lden piece followed the first two. Upon this the Grandmother went perfectly crazy. She could no longer sit still, and actually struck the table with her fist when the croupier cried out, "Trente-six," instead of the desiderated zero.<|quote|>"To listen to him!"</|quote|>fumed the old lady. "When will that accursed zero ever turn up? I cannot breathe until I see it. I believe that that infernal croupier is _purposely_ keeping it from turning up. Alexis Ivanovitch, stake TWO golden pieces this time. The moment we cease to stake, that cursed zero will | Who fears the wolf should never enter the forest. What? We have lost? Then stake again." A second ten-g lden piece did we lose, and then I put down a third. The Grandmother could scarcely remain seated in her chair, so intent was she upon the little ball as it leapt through the notches of the ever-revolving wheel. However, the third ten-g lden piece followed the first two. Upon this the Grandmother went perfectly crazy. She could no longer sit still, and actually struck the table with her fist when the croupier cried out, "Trente-six," instead of the desiderated zero.<|quote|>"To listen to him!"</|quote|>fumed the old lady. "When will that accursed zero ever turn up? I cannot breathe until I see it. I believe that that infernal croupier is _purposely_ keeping it from turning up. Alexis Ivanovitch, stake TWO golden pieces this time. The moment we cease to stake, that cursed zero will come turning up, and we shall get nothing." "My good Madame" "Stake, stake! It is not _your_ money." Accordingly I staked two ten-g lden pieces. The ball went hopping round the wheel until it began to settle through the notches. Meanwhile the Grandmother sat as though petrified, with my hand | Potapitch! Come here, and I will give you some money." The old lady took out of her pocket a tightly-clasped purse, and extracted from its depths a ten-g lden piece. "Go at once, and stake that upon zero." "But, Madame, zero has only this moment turned up," I remonstrated; "wherefore, it may not do so again for ever so long. Wait a little, and you may then have a better chance." "Rubbish! Stake, please." "Pardon me, but zero might not turn up again until, say, tonight, even though you had staked thousands upon it. It often happens so." "Rubbish, rubbish! Who fears the wolf should never enter the forest. What? We have lost? Then stake again." A second ten-g lden piece did we lose, and then I put down a third. The Grandmother could scarcely remain seated in her chair, so intent was she upon the little ball as it leapt through the notches of the ever-revolving wheel. However, the third ten-g lden piece followed the first two. Upon this the Grandmother went perfectly crazy. She could no longer sit still, and actually struck the table with her fist when the croupier cried out, "Trente-six," instead of the desiderated zero.<|quote|>"To listen to him!"</|quote|>fumed the old lady. "When will that accursed zero ever turn up? I cannot breathe until I see it. I believe that that infernal croupier is _purposely_ keeping it from turning up. Alexis Ivanovitch, stake TWO golden pieces this time. The moment we cease to stake, that cursed zero will come turning up, and we shall get nothing." "My good Madame" "Stake, stake! It is not _your_ money." Accordingly I staked two ten-g lden pieces. The ball went hopping round the wheel until it began to settle through the notches. Meanwhile the Grandmother sat as though petrified, with my hand convulsively clutched in hers. "Zero!" called the croupier. "There! You see, you see!" cried the old lady, as she turned and faced me, wreathed in smiles. "I told you so! It was the Lord God himself who suggested to me to stake those two coins. Now, how much ought I to receive? Why do they not pay it out to me? Potapitch! Martha! Where are they? What has become of our party? Potapitch, Potapitch!" "Presently, Madame," I whispered. "Potapitch is outside, and they would decline to admit him to these rooms. See! You are being paid out your money. Pray | listened attentively, took notes, put questions in various forms, and laid the whole thing to heart. Indeed, since an example of each system of stakes kept constantly occurring, a great deal of information could be assimilated with ease and celerity. The Grandmother was vastly pleased. "But what is zero?" she inquired. "Just now I heard the flaxen-haired croupier call out zero! And why does he keep raking in all the money that is on the table? To think that he should grab the whole pile for himself! What does zero mean?" "Zero is what the bank takes for itself. If the wheel stops at that figure, everything lying on the table becomes the absolute property of the bank. Also, whenever the wheel has begun to turn, the bank ceases to pay out anything." "Then I should receive nothing if I were staking?" "No; unless by any chance you had _purposely_ staked on zero; in which case you would receive thirty-five times the value of your stake." "Why thirty-five times, when zero so often turns up? And if so, why do not more of these fools stake upon it?" "Because the number of chances against its occurrence is thirty-six." "Rubbish! Potapitch, Potapitch! Come here, and I will give you some money." The old lady took out of her pocket a tightly-clasped purse, and extracted from its depths a ten-g lden piece. "Go at once, and stake that upon zero." "But, Madame, zero has only this moment turned up," I remonstrated; "wherefore, it may not do so again for ever so long. Wait a little, and you may then have a better chance." "Rubbish! Stake, please." "Pardon me, but zero might not turn up again until, say, tonight, even though you had staked thousands upon it. It often happens so." "Rubbish, rubbish! Who fears the wolf should never enter the forest. What? We have lost? Then stake again." A second ten-g lden piece did we lose, and then I put down a third. The Grandmother could scarcely remain seated in her chair, so intent was she upon the little ball as it leapt through the notches of the ever-revolving wheel. However, the third ten-g lden piece followed the first two. Upon this the Grandmother went perfectly crazy. She could no longer sit still, and actually struck the table with her fist when the croupier cried out, "Trente-six," instead of the desiderated zero.<|quote|>"To listen to him!"</|quote|>fumed the old lady. "When will that accursed zero ever turn up? I cannot breathe until I see it. I believe that that infernal croupier is _purposely_ keeping it from turning up. Alexis Ivanovitch, stake TWO golden pieces this time. The moment we cease to stake, that cursed zero will come turning up, and we shall get nothing." "My good Madame" "Stake, stake! It is not _your_ money." Accordingly I staked two ten-g lden pieces. The ball went hopping round the wheel until it began to settle through the notches. Meanwhile the Grandmother sat as though petrified, with my hand convulsively clutched in hers. "Zero!" called the croupier. "There! You see, you see!" cried the old lady, as she turned and faced me, wreathed in smiles. "I told you so! It was the Lord God himself who suggested to me to stake those two coins. Now, how much ought I to receive? Why do they not pay it out to me? Potapitch! Martha! Where are they? What has become of our party? Potapitch, Potapitch!" "Presently, Madame," I whispered. "Potapitch is outside, and they would decline to admit him to these rooms. See! You are being paid out your money. Pray take it." The croupiers were making up a heavy packet of coins, sealed in blue paper, and containing fifty ten g lden pieces, together with an unsealed packet containing another twenty. I handed the whole to the old lady in a money-shovel. "Faites le jeu, messieurs! Faites le jeu, messieurs! Rien ne va plus," proclaimed the croupier as once more he invited the company to stake, and prepared to turn the wheel. "We shall be too late! He is going to spin again! Stake, stake!" The Grandmother was in a perfect fever. "Do not hang back! Be quick!" She seemed almost beside herself, and nudged me as hard as she could. "Upon what shall I stake, Madame?" "Upon zero, upon zero! Again upon zero! Stake as much as ever you can. How much have we got? Seventy ten-g lden pieces? We shall not miss them, so stake twenty pieces at a time." "Think a moment, Madame. Sometimes zero does not turn up for two hundred rounds in succession. I assure you that you may lose all your capital." "You are wrong utterly wrong. Stake, I tell you! What a chattering tongue you have! I know perfectly well what I am | continued. "Send Potapitch to speak to him. No, _you_ must tell him, _you_ must tell him," here she nudged me again "for I have not the least notion where Potapitch is. Sortez, sortez," she shouted to the young man, until I leant over in her direction and whispered in her ear that no shouting was allowed, nor even loud speaking, since to do so disturbed the calculations of the players, and might lead to our being ejected. "How provoking!" she retorted. "Then the young man is done for! I suppose he _wishes_ to be ruined. Yet I could not bear to see him have to return it all. What a fool the fellow is!" and the old lady turned sharply away. On the left, among the players at the other half of the table, a young lady was playing, with, beside her, a dwarf. Who the dwarf may have been whether a relative or a person whom she took with her to act as a foil I do not know; but I had noticed her there on previous occasions, since, everyday, she entered the Casino at one o clock precisely, and departed at two thus playing for exactly one hour. Being well-known to the attendants, she always had a seat provided for her; and, taking some gold and a few thousand-franc notes out of her pocket would begin quietly, coldly, and after much calculation, to stake, and mark down the figures in pencil on a paper, as though striving to work out a system according to which, at given moments, the odds might group themselves. Always she staked large coins, and either lost or won one, two, or three thousand francs a day, but not more; after which she would depart. The Grandmother took a long look at her. "_That_ woman is not losing," she said. "To whom does she belong? Do you know her? Who is she?" "She is, I believe, a Frenchwoman," I replied. "Ah! A bird of passage, evidently. Besides, I can see that she has her shoes polished. Now, explain to me the meaning of each round in the game, and the way in which one ought to stake." Upon this I set myself to explain the meaning of all the combinations of "rouge et noir," of "pair et impair," of "manque et passe," with, lastly, the different values in the system of numbers. The Grandmother listened attentively, took notes, put questions in various forms, and laid the whole thing to heart. Indeed, since an example of each system of stakes kept constantly occurring, a great deal of information could be assimilated with ease and celerity. The Grandmother was vastly pleased. "But what is zero?" she inquired. "Just now I heard the flaxen-haired croupier call out zero! And why does he keep raking in all the money that is on the table? To think that he should grab the whole pile for himself! What does zero mean?" "Zero is what the bank takes for itself. If the wheel stops at that figure, everything lying on the table becomes the absolute property of the bank. Also, whenever the wheel has begun to turn, the bank ceases to pay out anything." "Then I should receive nothing if I were staking?" "No; unless by any chance you had _purposely_ staked on zero; in which case you would receive thirty-five times the value of your stake." "Why thirty-five times, when zero so often turns up? And if so, why do not more of these fools stake upon it?" "Because the number of chances against its occurrence is thirty-six." "Rubbish! Potapitch, Potapitch! Come here, and I will give you some money." The old lady took out of her pocket a tightly-clasped purse, and extracted from its depths a ten-g lden piece. "Go at once, and stake that upon zero." "But, Madame, zero has only this moment turned up," I remonstrated; "wherefore, it may not do so again for ever so long. Wait a little, and you may then have a better chance." "Rubbish! Stake, please." "Pardon me, but zero might not turn up again until, say, tonight, even though you had staked thousands upon it. It often happens so." "Rubbish, rubbish! Who fears the wolf should never enter the forest. What? We have lost? Then stake again." A second ten-g lden piece did we lose, and then I put down a third. The Grandmother could scarcely remain seated in her chair, so intent was she upon the little ball as it leapt through the notches of the ever-revolving wheel. However, the third ten-g lden piece followed the first two. Upon this the Grandmother went perfectly crazy. She could no longer sit still, and actually struck the table with her fist when the croupier cried out, "Trente-six," instead of the desiderated zero.<|quote|>"To listen to him!"</|quote|>fumed the old lady. "When will that accursed zero ever turn up? I cannot breathe until I see it. I believe that that infernal croupier is _purposely_ keeping it from turning up. Alexis Ivanovitch, stake TWO golden pieces this time. The moment we cease to stake, that cursed zero will come turning up, and we shall get nothing." "My good Madame" "Stake, stake! It is not _your_ money." Accordingly I staked two ten-g lden pieces. The ball went hopping round the wheel until it began to settle through the notches. Meanwhile the Grandmother sat as though petrified, with my hand convulsively clutched in hers. "Zero!" called the croupier. "There! You see, you see!" cried the old lady, as she turned and faced me, wreathed in smiles. "I told you so! It was the Lord God himself who suggested to me to stake those two coins. Now, how much ought I to receive? Why do they not pay it out to me? Potapitch! Martha! Where are they? What has become of our party? Potapitch, Potapitch!" "Presently, Madame," I whispered. "Potapitch is outside, and they would decline to admit him to these rooms. See! You are being paid out your money. Pray take it." The croupiers were making up a heavy packet of coins, sealed in blue paper, and containing fifty ten g lden pieces, together with an unsealed packet containing another twenty. I handed the whole to the old lady in a money-shovel. "Faites le jeu, messieurs! Faites le jeu, messieurs! Rien ne va plus," proclaimed the croupier as once more he invited the company to stake, and prepared to turn the wheel. "We shall be too late! He is going to spin again! Stake, stake!" The Grandmother was in a perfect fever. "Do not hang back! Be quick!" She seemed almost beside herself, and nudged me as hard as she could. "Upon what shall I stake, Madame?" "Upon zero, upon zero! Again upon zero! Stake as much as ever you can. How much have we got? Seventy ten-g lden pieces? We shall not miss them, so stake twenty pieces at a time." "Think a moment, Madame. Sometimes zero does not turn up for two hundred rounds in succession. I assure you that you may lose all your capital." "You are wrong utterly wrong. Stake, I tell you! What a chattering tongue you have! I know perfectly well what I am doing." The old lady was shaking with excitement. "But the rules do not allow of more than 120 g lden being staked upon zero at a time." "How do not allow ? Surely you are wrong? Monsieur, monsieur" here she nudged the croupier who was sitting on her left, and preparing to spin "combien zero? Douze? Douze?" I hastened to translate. "Oui, Madame," was the croupier s polite reply. "No single stake must exceed four thousand florins. That is the regulation." "Then there is nothing else for it. We must risk in g lden." "Le jeu est fait!" the croupier called. The wheel revolved, and stopped at thirty. We had lost! "Again, again, again! Stake again!" shouted the old lady. Without attempting to oppose her further, but merely shrugging my shoulders, I placed twelve more ten-g lden pieces upon the table. The wheel whirled around and around, with the Grandmother simply quaking as she watched its revolutions. "Does she again think that zero is going to be the winning coup?" thought I, as I stared at her in astonishment. Yet an absolute assurance of winning was shining on her face; she looked perfectly convinced that zero was about to be called again. At length the ball dropped off into one of the notches. "Zero!" cried the croupier. "Ah!!!" screamed the old lady as she turned to me in a whirl of triumph. I myself was at heart a gambler. At that moment I became acutely conscious both of that fact and of the fact that my hands and knees were shaking, and that the blood was beating in my brain. Of course this was a rare occasion an occasion on which zero had turned up no less than three times within a dozen rounds; yet in such an event there was nothing so very surprising, seeing that, only three days ago, I myself had been a witness to zero turning up _three times in succession_, so that one of the players who was recording the coups on paper was moved to remark that for several days past zero had never turned up at all! With the Grandmother, as with any one who has won a very large sum, the management settled up with great attention and respect, since she was fortunate to have to receive no less than 4200 g lden. Of these g lden the odd 200 were paid | set myself to explain the meaning of all the combinations of "rouge et noir," of "pair et impair," of "manque et passe," with, lastly, the different values in the system of numbers. The Grandmother listened attentively, took notes, put questions in various forms, and laid the whole thing to heart. Indeed, since an example of each system of stakes kept constantly occurring, a great deal of information could be assimilated with ease and celerity. The Grandmother was vastly pleased. "But what is zero?" she inquired. "Just now I heard the flaxen-haired croupier call out zero! And why does he keep raking in all the money that is on the table? To think that he should grab the whole pile for himself! What does zero mean?" "Zero is what the bank takes for itself. If the wheel stops at that figure, everything lying on the table becomes the absolute property of the bank. Also, whenever the wheel has begun to turn, the bank ceases to pay out anything." "Then I should receive nothing if I were staking?" "No; unless by any chance you had _purposely_ staked on zero; in which case you would receive thirty-five times the value of your stake." "Why thirty-five times, when zero so often turns up? And if so, why do not more of these fools stake upon it?" "Because the number of chances against its occurrence is thirty-six." "Rubbish! Potapitch, Potapitch! Come here, and I will give you some money." The old lady took out of her pocket a tightly-clasped purse, and extracted from its depths a ten-g lden piece. "Go at once, and stake that upon zero." "But, Madame, zero has only this moment turned up," I remonstrated; "wherefore, it may not do so again for ever so long. Wait a little, and you may then have a better chance." "Rubbish! Stake, please." "Pardon me, but zero might not turn up again until, say, tonight, even though you had staked thousands upon it. It often happens so." "Rubbish, rubbish! Who fears the wolf should never enter the forest. What? We have lost? Then stake again." A second ten-g lden piece did we lose, and then I put down a third. The Grandmother could scarcely remain seated in her chair, so intent was she upon the little ball as it leapt through the notches of the ever-revolving wheel. However, the third ten-g lden piece followed the first two. Upon this the Grandmother went perfectly crazy. She could no longer sit still, and actually struck the table with her fist when the croupier cried out, "Trente-six," instead of the desiderated zero.<|quote|>"To listen to him!"</|quote|>fumed the old lady. "When will that accursed zero ever turn up? I cannot breathe until I see it. I believe that that infernal croupier is _purposely_ keeping it from turning up. Alexis Ivanovitch, stake TWO golden pieces this time. The moment we cease to stake, that cursed zero will come turning up, and we shall get nothing." "My good Madame" "Stake, stake! It is not _your_ money." Accordingly I staked two ten-g lden pieces. The ball went hopping round the wheel until it began to settle through the notches. Meanwhile the Grandmother sat as though petrified, with my hand convulsively clutched in hers. "Zero!" called the croupier. "There! You see, you see!" cried the old lady, as she turned and faced me, wreathed in smiles. "I told you so! It was the Lord God himself who suggested to me to stake those two coins. Now, how much ought I to receive? Why do they not pay it out to me? Potapitch! Martha! Where are they? What has become of our party? Potapitch, Potapitch!" "Presently, Madame," I whispered. "Potapitch is outside, and they would decline to admit him to these rooms. See! You are being paid out your money. Pray take it." The croupiers were making up a heavy packet of coins, sealed in blue paper, and containing fifty ten g lden pieces, together with an unsealed packet containing another twenty. I handed the whole to the old lady in a money-shovel. "Faites le jeu, messieurs! Faites le jeu, messieurs! Rien ne va plus," proclaimed the croupier as once more he invited the company to stake, and prepared to turn the wheel. "We shall be too late! He is going to spin again! Stake, stake!" The Grandmother was in a perfect fever. "Do not hang back! Be quick!" She seemed almost beside herself, and nudged me as hard as she could. "Upon what shall I stake, Madame?" | The Gambler |
"in the tower?" | Sultan | all my sons," demanded he,<|quote|>"in the tower?"</|quote|>"They are, sir," answered the | when the vizier returned. "Are all my sons," demanded he,<|quote|>"in the tower?"</|quote|>"They are, sir," answered the vizier; "I have obeyed your | and hastened from the hall to execute his orders. In the meantime the sultan dismissed those who attended for audience, and declared he would not hear of any business for a month to come. He was still in the hall when the vizier returned. "Are all my sons," demanded he,<|quote|>"in the tower?"</|quote|>"They are, sir," answered the vizier; "I have obeyed your orders." "This is not all," replied the sultan, "I have farther commands for you:" and so saying he went out of the hall of audience, and returned to Pirouzè's apartment, the vizier following him. He asked the princess where Codadad's | princes, my sons; shut them up in the tower used as a prison for murderers, and let this be done in a moment." All who were present trembled at this extraordinary command; and the grand vizier, without uttering a word, laid his hand on his head, to express his obedience, and hastened from the hall to execute his orders. In the meantime the sultan dismissed those who attended for audience, and declared he would not hear of any business for a month to come. He was still in the hall when the vizier returned. "Are all my sons," demanded he,<|quote|>"in the tower?"</|quote|>"They are, sir," answered the vizier; "I have obeyed your orders." "This is not all," replied the sultan, "I have farther commands for you:" and so saying he went out of the hall of audience, and returned to Pirouzè's apartment, the vizier following him. He asked the princess where Codadad's widow had taken up her lodging. Pirouzè's women told him, for the surgeon had not forgotten that in his relation. The sultan then turning to his minister, "Go," said he, "to this caravanserai, and conduct a young princess who lodges there, with all the respect due to her quality, to | you to shed these tears, and are the occasion of mortal grief to their father, shall soon feel the punishment due to their guilt." The sultan, having spoken these words, with indignation in his countenance, went directly to the presence-chamber, where all his courtiers attended, and such of the people as had petitions to present to him. They were alarmed to see him in passion, and thought his anger had been kindled against them. He ascended the throne, and causing his grand vizier to approach, "Hassan," said he, "go immediately, take a thousand of my guards, and seize all the princes, my sons; shut them up in the tower used as a prison for murderers, and let this be done in a moment." All who were present trembled at this extraordinary command; and the grand vizier, without uttering a word, laid his hand on his head, to express his obedience, and hastened from the hall to execute his orders. In the meantime the sultan dismissed those who attended for audience, and declared he would not hear of any business for a month to come. He was still in the hall when the vizier returned. "Are all my sons," demanded he,<|quote|>"in the tower?"</|quote|>"They are, sir," answered the vizier; "I have obeyed your orders." "This is not all," replied the sultan, "I have farther commands for you:" and so saying he went out of the hall of audience, and returned to Pirouzè's apartment, the vizier following him. He asked the princess where Codadad's widow had taken up her lodging. Pirouzè's women told him, for the surgeon had not forgotten that in his relation. The sultan then turning to his minister, "Go," said he, "to this caravanserai, and conduct a young princess who lodges there, with all the respect due to her quality, to my palace." The vizier was not long in performing what he was ordered. He mounted on horseback with all the emirs and courtiers, and repaired to the caravanserai, where the princess of Deryabar was lodged, whom he acquainted with his orders; and presented her, from the sultan, with a fine white mule, whose saddle and bridle were adorned with gold, rubies, and diamonds. She mounted, and proceeded to the palace. The surgeon attended her, mounted on a beautiful Tartar horse which the vizier had provided for him. All the people were at their windows, or in the streets, to see | gone, Pirouzè remained on the sofa in such a state of affliction as may easily be imagined; and yielding to her tenderness at the recollection of Codadad, "O my son!" said she, "I must never then expect to see you more! Unfortunate Codadad, why did you leave me?" While she uttered these words, she wept bitterly, and her two attendants, moved by her grief, mingled their tears with hers. Whilst they were all three in this manner vying in affliction, the sultan came into the closet, and seeing them in this condition, asked Pirouzè whether she had received any bad news concerning Codadad. "Alas! sir," said she, "all is over, my son has lost his life, and to add to my sorrow, I cannot pay him the funeral rites; for, in all probability, wild beasts have devoured him." She then told him all she had heard from the surgeon, and did not fail to enlarge on the inhuman manner in which Codadad had been murdered by his brothers. The sultan did not give Pirouzè time to finish her relation, but transported with anger, and giving way to his passion, "Madam," said he to the princess, "those perfidious wretches who cause you to shed these tears, and are the occasion of mortal grief to their father, shall soon feel the punishment due to their guilt." The sultan, having spoken these words, with indignation in his countenance, went directly to the presence-chamber, where all his courtiers attended, and such of the people as had petitions to present to him. They were alarmed to see him in passion, and thought his anger had been kindled against them. He ascended the throne, and causing his grand vizier to approach, "Hassan," said he, "go immediately, take a thousand of my guards, and seize all the princes, my sons; shut them up in the tower used as a prison for murderers, and let this be done in a moment." All who were present trembled at this extraordinary command; and the grand vizier, without uttering a word, laid his hand on his head, to express his obedience, and hastened from the hall to execute his orders. In the meantime the sultan dismissed those who attended for audience, and declared he would not hear of any business for a month to come. He was still in the hall when the vizier returned. "Are all my sons," demanded he,<|quote|>"in the tower?"</|quote|>"They are, sir," answered the vizier; "I have obeyed your orders." "This is not all," replied the sultan, "I have farther commands for you:" and so saying he went out of the hall of audience, and returned to Pirouzè's apartment, the vizier following him. He asked the princess where Codadad's widow had taken up her lodging. Pirouzè's women told him, for the surgeon had not forgotten that in his relation. The sultan then turning to his minister, "Go," said he, "to this caravanserai, and conduct a young princess who lodges there, with all the respect due to her quality, to my palace." The vizier was not long in performing what he was ordered. He mounted on horseback with all the emirs and courtiers, and repaired to the caravanserai, where the princess of Deryabar was lodged, whom he acquainted with his orders; and presented her, from the sultan, with a fine white mule, whose saddle and bridle were adorned with gold, rubies, and diamonds. She mounted, and proceeded to the palace. The surgeon attended her, mounted on a beautiful Tartar horse which the vizier had provided for him. All the people were at their windows, or in the streets, to see the cavalcade; and it being given out that the princess, whom they conducted in such state to court, was Codadad's wife, the city resounded with acclamations, the air rung with shouts of joy, which would have been turned into lamentations had that prince's fatal adventure been known, so much was he beloved by all. The princess of Deryabar found the sultan at the palace gate waiting to receive her: he took her by the hand and led her to Pirouzè's apartment, where a very moving scene took place. Codadad's wife found her affliction redouble at the sight of her husband's father and mother; as, on the other hand, those parents could not look on their son's wife without being much affected. She cast herself at the sultan's feet, and having bathed them with tears, was so overcome with grief that she was not able to speak. Pirouzè was in no better state, and the sultan, moved by these affecting objects, gave way to his own feelings and wept. At length the princess of Deryabar, being somewhat recovered, recounted the adventure of the castle and Codadad's disaster. Then she demanded justice for the treachery of the princes. "Yes, madam," said the | but followed Pirouzè to a mosque, into which she went to distribute alms, and assist at the public prayers which the sultan had ordered to be offered up for the safe return of Codadad. The surgeon broke through the throng and advanced to Pirouzè's guards. He waited the conclusion of the prayers, and when the princess went out, stepped up to one of her slaves, and whispered him in the ear: "Brother, I have a secret of moment to impart to the Princess Pirouzè: may not I be introduced into her apartment?" "If that secret," answered the slave, "relates to Prince Codadad I dare promise you shall have audience of her; but if it concern not him, it is needless for you to be introduced; for her thoughts are all engrossed by her son." "It is only about that dear son," replied the surgeon, "that I wish to speak to her." "If so," said the slave, "you need but follow us to the palace, and you shall soon have the opportunity." Accordingly, as soon as Pirouzè was returned to her apartment, the slave acquainted her that a person unknown had some important information to communicate to her, and that it related to Prince Codadad. No sooner had he uttered these words, than Pirouzè expressed her impatience to see the stranger. The slave immediately conducted him into the princess's closet who ordered all her women to withdraw, except two, from whom she concealed nothing. As soon as she saw the surgeon, she asked him eagerly what news he had to tell her of Codadad. "Madam," answered the surgeon, after having prostrated himself on the ground, "I have a long account to give you, and such as will surprise you." He then related all the particulars of what had passed between Codadad and his brothers, which she listened to with eager attention; but when he came to speak of the murder, the tender mother fainted away on her sofa, as if she had herself been stabbed like her son. Her two women soon brought her to herself and the surgeon continued his relation; and when he had concluded, Pirouzè said to him: "Go back to the princess of Deryabar, and assure her from me that the sultan shall soon own her for his daughter-in-law; and as for yourself, your services shall be rewarded as liberally as they deserve." When the surgeon was gone, Pirouzè remained on the sofa in such a state of affliction as may easily be imagined; and yielding to her tenderness at the recollection of Codadad, "O my son!" said she, "I must never then expect to see you more! Unfortunate Codadad, why did you leave me?" While she uttered these words, she wept bitterly, and her two attendants, moved by her grief, mingled their tears with hers. Whilst they were all three in this manner vying in affliction, the sultan came into the closet, and seeing them in this condition, asked Pirouzè whether she had received any bad news concerning Codadad. "Alas! sir," said she, "all is over, my son has lost his life, and to add to my sorrow, I cannot pay him the funeral rites; for, in all probability, wild beasts have devoured him." She then told him all she had heard from the surgeon, and did not fail to enlarge on the inhuman manner in which Codadad had been murdered by his brothers. The sultan did not give Pirouzè time to finish her relation, but transported with anger, and giving way to his passion, "Madam," said he to the princess, "those perfidious wretches who cause you to shed these tears, and are the occasion of mortal grief to their father, shall soon feel the punishment due to their guilt." The sultan, having spoken these words, with indignation in his countenance, went directly to the presence-chamber, where all his courtiers attended, and such of the people as had petitions to present to him. They were alarmed to see him in passion, and thought his anger had been kindled against them. He ascended the throne, and causing his grand vizier to approach, "Hassan," said he, "go immediately, take a thousand of my guards, and seize all the princes, my sons; shut them up in the tower used as a prison for murderers, and let this be done in a moment." All who were present trembled at this extraordinary command; and the grand vizier, without uttering a word, laid his hand on his head, to express his obedience, and hastened from the hall to execute his orders. In the meantime the sultan dismissed those who attended for audience, and declared he would not hear of any business for a month to come. He was still in the hall when the vizier returned. "Are all my sons," demanded he,<|quote|>"in the tower?"</|quote|>"They are, sir," answered the vizier; "I have obeyed your orders." "This is not all," replied the sultan, "I have farther commands for you:" and so saying he went out of the hall of audience, and returned to Pirouzè's apartment, the vizier following him. He asked the princess where Codadad's widow had taken up her lodging. Pirouzè's women told him, for the surgeon had not forgotten that in his relation. The sultan then turning to his minister, "Go," said he, "to this caravanserai, and conduct a young princess who lodges there, with all the respect due to her quality, to my palace." The vizier was not long in performing what he was ordered. He mounted on horseback with all the emirs and courtiers, and repaired to the caravanserai, where the princess of Deryabar was lodged, whom he acquainted with his orders; and presented her, from the sultan, with a fine white mule, whose saddle and bridle were adorned with gold, rubies, and diamonds. She mounted, and proceeded to the palace. The surgeon attended her, mounted on a beautiful Tartar horse which the vizier had provided for him. All the people were at their windows, or in the streets, to see the cavalcade; and it being given out that the princess, whom they conducted in such state to court, was Codadad's wife, the city resounded with acclamations, the air rung with shouts of joy, which would have been turned into lamentations had that prince's fatal adventure been known, so much was he beloved by all. The princess of Deryabar found the sultan at the palace gate waiting to receive her: he took her by the hand and led her to Pirouzè's apartment, where a very moving scene took place. Codadad's wife found her affliction redouble at the sight of her husband's father and mother; as, on the other hand, those parents could not look on their son's wife without being much affected. She cast herself at the sultan's feet, and having bathed them with tears, was so overcome with grief that she was not able to speak. Pirouzè was in no better state, and the sultan, moved by these affecting objects, gave way to his own feelings and wept. At length the princess of Deryabar, being somewhat recovered, recounted the adventure of the castle and Codadad's disaster. Then she demanded justice for the treachery of the princes. "Yes, madam," said the sultan, "those ungrateful wretches shall perish; but Codadad's death must be first made public, that the punishment of his brothers may not cause my subjects to rebel; and though we have not my son's body, we will not omit paying him the last duties." This said, he directed his discourse to the vizier, and ordered him to cause to be erected a dome of white marble, in a delightful plain, in the midst of which the city of Harran stands. Then he appointed the princess of Deryabar a suitable apartment in his palace, acknowledging her for his daughter-in-law. Hassan caused the work to be carried on with such diligence, and employed so many workmen, that the dome was soon finished. Within it was erected a tomb, which was covered with gold brocade. When all was completed, the sultan ordered prayers to be said, and appointed a day for the obsequies of his son. On that day all the inhabitants of the city went out upon the plain to see the ceremony performed. The gate of the dome was then closed, and all the people returned to the city. Next day there were public prayers in all the mosques, and the same was continued for eight days successively. On the ninth the king resolved to cause the princes his sons to be beheaded. The people, incensed at their cruelty toward Codadad, impatiently expected to see them executed. The scaffolds were erecting, but the execution was respited, because, on a sudden, intelligence was brought that the neighbouring princes who had before made war on the sultan of Harran, were advancing with more numerous forces than on the first invasion, and were then not far from the city. This news gave new cause to lament the loss of Codadad, who had signalised himself in the former war against the same enemies. The sultan, nothing dismayed, formed a considerable army, and being too brave to await the enemies' attack within his walls, marched out to meet them. They, on their side, being informed that the sultan of Harran was marching to engage them, halted in the plain, and formed their army. As soon as the sultan discovered them, he also drew up his forces, and ranged them in order of battle. The signal was given, and he attacked them with extraordinary vigour; nor was the opposition inferior. Much blood was shed on both sides, | her tenderness at the recollection of Codadad, "O my son!" said she, "I must never then expect to see you more! Unfortunate Codadad, why did you leave me?" While she uttered these words, she wept bitterly, and her two attendants, moved by her grief, mingled their tears with hers. Whilst they were all three in this manner vying in affliction, the sultan came into the closet, and seeing them in this condition, asked Pirouzè whether she had received any bad news concerning Codadad. "Alas! sir," said she, "all is over, my son has lost his life, and to add to my sorrow, I cannot pay him the funeral rites; for, in all probability, wild beasts have devoured him." She then told him all she had heard from the surgeon, and did not fail to enlarge on the inhuman manner in which Codadad had been murdered by his brothers. The sultan did not give Pirouzè time to finish her relation, but transported with anger, and giving way to his passion, "Madam," said he to the princess, "those perfidious wretches who cause you to shed these tears, and are the occasion of mortal grief to their father, shall soon feel the punishment due to their guilt." The sultan, having spoken these words, with indignation in his countenance, went directly to the presence-chamber, where all his courtiers attended, and such of the people as had petitions to present to him. They were alarmed to see him in passion, and thought his anger had been kindled against them. He ascended the throne, and causing his grand vizier to approach, "Hassan," said he, "go immediately, take a thousand of my guards, and seize all the princes, my sons; shut them up in the tower used as a prison for murderers, and let this be done in a moment." All who were present trembled at this extraordinary command; and the grand vizier, without uttering a word, laid his hand on his head, to express his obedience, and hastened from the hall to execute his orders. In the meantime the sultan dismissed those who attended for audience, and declared he would not hear of any business for a month to come. He was still in the hall when the vizier returned. "Are all my sons," demanded he,<|quote|>"in the tower?"</|quote|>"They are, sir," answered the vizier; "I have obeyed your orders." "This is not all," replied the sultan, "I have farther commands for you:" and so saying he went out of the hall of audience, and returned to Pirouzè's apartment, the vizier following him. He asked the princess where Codadad's widow had taken up her lodging. Pirouzè's women told him, for the surgeon had not forgotten that in his relation. The sultan then turning to his minister, "Go," said he, "to this caravanserai, and conduct a young princess who lodges there, with all the respect due to her quality, to my palace." The vizier was not long in performing what he was ordered. He mounted on horseback with all the emirs and courtiers, and repaired to the caravanserai, where the princess of Deryabar was lodged, whom he acquainted with his orders; and presented her, from the sultan, with a fine white mule, whose saddle and bridle were adorned with gold, rubies, and diamonds. She mounted, and proceeded to the palace. The surgeon attended her, mounted on a beautiful Tartar horse which the vizier had provided for him. All the people were at their windows, or in the streets, to see the cavalcade; and it being given out that the princess, whom they conducted in such | Arabian Nights (6) |
"I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside." | Brett Ashley | be if I were you."<|quote|>"I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside."</|quote|>"Don't do it." "I can't | him, I think." "I wouldn't be if I were you."<|quote|>"I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside."</|quote|>"Don't do it." "I can't help it. I've never been | over again. In the park it was dark under the trees. "Do you still love me, Jake?" "Yes," I said. "Because I'm a goner," Brett said. "How?" "I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think." "I wouldn't be if I were you."<|quote|>"I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside."</|quote|>"Don't do it." "I can't help it. I've never been able to help anything." "You ought to stop it." "How can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?" Her hand was trembling. "I'm like that all through." "You oughtn't to do it." "I can't help it. I'm a | Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered. "It's cold." "Want to walk back?" "Through the park." We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the park it was dark under the trees. "Do you still love me, Jake?" "Yes," I said. "Because I'm a goner," Brett said. "How?" "I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think." "I wouldn't be if I were you."<|quote|>"I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside."</|quote|>"Don't do it." "I can't help it. I've never been able to help anything." "You ought to stop it." "How can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?" Her hand was trembling. "I'm like that all through." "You oughtn't to do it." "I can't help it. I'm a goner now, anyway. Don't you see the difference?" "No." "I've got to do something. I've got to do something I really want to do. I've lost my self-respect." "You don't have to do that." "Oh, darling, don't be difficult. What do you think it's meant to have that damned Jew | we could see the mountains. The wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon. Below us were the dark pits of the fortifications. Behind were the trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon. "Don't feel bad," I said. "I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk." We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered. "It's cold." "Want to walk back?" "Through the park." We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the park it was dark under the trees. "Do you still love me, Jake?" "Yes," I said. "Because I'm a goner," Brett said. "How?" "I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think." "I wouldn't be if I were you."<|quote|>"I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside."</|quote|>"Don't do it." "I can't help it. I've never been able to help anything." "You ought to stop it." "How can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?" Her hand was trembling. "I'm like that all through." "You oughtn't to do it." "I can't help it. I'm a goner now, anyway. Don't you see the difference?" "No." "I've got to do something. I've got to do something I really want to do. I've lost my self-respect." "You don't have to do that." "Oh, darling, don't be difficult. What do you think it's meant to have that damned Jew about, and Mike the way he's acted?" "Sure." "I can't just stay tight all the time." "No." "Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me through this." "Sure." "I don't say it's right. It is right though for me. God knows, I've never felt such a bitch." "What do you want me to do?" "Come on," Brett said. "Let's go and find him." Together we walked down the gravel path in the park in the dark, under the trees and then out from under the trees and past the gate into the street that led | from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on," said Brett. As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade. "He _was_ there," Brett said. "He can't be away from you." "Poor devil!" "I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself." "I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering." We walked arm in arm down the side street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. "Want to go in?" "No." We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we could see the mountains. The wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon. Below us were the dark pits of the fortifications. Behind were the trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon. "Don't feel bad," I said. "I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk." We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered. "It's cold." "Want to walk back?" "Through the park." We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the park it was dark under the trees. "Do you still love me, Jake?" "Yes," I said. "Because I'm a goner," Brett said. "How?" "I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think." "I wouldn't be if I were you."<|quote|>"I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside."</|quote|>"Don't do it." "I can't help it. I've never been able to help anything." "You ought to stop it." "How can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?" Her hand was trembling. "I'm like that all through." "You oughtn't to do it." "I can't help it. I'm a goner now, anyway. Don't you see the difference?" "No." "I've got to do something. I've got to do something I really want to do. I've lost my self-respect." "You don't have to do that." "Oh, darling, don't be difficult. What do you think it's meant to have that damned Jew about, and Mike the way he's acted?" "Sure." "I can't just stay tight all the time." "No." "Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me through this." "Sure." "I don't say it's right. It is right though for me. God knows, I've never felt such a bitch." "What do you want me to do?" "Come on," Brett said. "Let's go and find him." Together we walked down the gravel path in the park in the dark, under the trees and then out from under the trees and past the gate into the street that led into town. Pedro Romero was in the caf . He was at a table with other bull-fighters and bull-fight critics. They were smoking cigars. When we came in they looked up. Romero smiled and bowed. We sat down at a table half-way down the room. "Ask him to come over and have a drink." "Not yet. He'll come over." "I can't look at him." "He's nice to look at," I said. "I've always done just what I wanted." "I know." "I do feel such a bitch." "Well," I said. "My God!" said Brett, "the things a woman goes through." "Yes?" "Oh, I do feel such a bitch." I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands. "Won't you have a drink?" "You must have a drink with me," he said. He seated himself, asking Brett's permission without saying anything. He had very nice manners. But he kept on smoking his cigar. It went well with his face. "You like cigars?" I asked. "Oh, yes. I always smoke cigars." It was part of his system | here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!" "He doesn't add much to the gayety." "He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike." "Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?" "Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on," said Brett. As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade. "He _was_ there," Brett said. "He can't be away from you." "Poor devil!" "I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself." "I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering." We walked arm in arm down the side street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. "Want to go in?" "No." We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we could see the mountains. The wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon. Below us were the dark pits of the fortifications. Behind were the trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon. "Don't feel bad," I said. "I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk." We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered. "It's cold." "Want to walk back?" "Through the park." We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the park it was dark under the trees. "Do you still love me, Jake?" "Yes," I said. "Because I'm a goner," Brett said. "How?" "I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think." "I wouldn't be if I were you."<|quote|>"I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside."</|quote|>"Don't do it." "I can't help it. I've never been able to help anything." "You ought to stop it." "How can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?" Her hand was trembling. "I'm like that all through." "You oughtn't to do it." "I can't help it. I'm a goner now, anyway. Don't you see the difference?" "No." "I've got to do something. I've got to do something I really want to do. I've lost my self-respect." "You don't have to do that." "Oh, darling, don't be difficult. What do you think it's meant to have that damned Jew about, and Mike the way he's acted?" "Sure." "I can't just stay tight all the time." "No." "Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me through this." "Sure." "I don't say it's right. It is right though for me. God knows, I've never felt such a bitch." "What do you want me to do?" "Come on," Brett said. "Let's go and find him." Together we walked down the gravel path in the park in the dark, under the trees and then out from under the trees and past the gate into the street that led into town. Pedro Romero was in the caf . He was at a table with other bull-fighters and bull-fight critics. They were smoking cigars. When we came in they looked up. Romero smiled and bowed. We sat down at a table half-way down the room. "Ask him to come over and have a drink." "Not yet. He'll come over." "I can't look at him." "He's nice to look at," I said. "I've always done just what I wanted." "I know." "I do feel such a bitch." "Well," I said. "My God!" said Brett, "the things a woman goes through." "Yes?" "Oh, I do feel such a bitch." I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands. "Won't you have a drink?" "You must have a drink with me," he said. He seated himself, asking Brett's permission without saying anything. He had very nice manners. But he kept on smoking his cigar. It went well with his face. "You like cigars?" I asked. "Oh, yes. I always smoke cigars." It was part of his system of authority. It made him seem older. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake. "You fight to-morrow?" I said. "Yes," he said. "Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you hear?" "No," I said. "Badly?" He shook his head. "Nothing. Here," he showed his hand. Brett reached out and spread the fingers apart. "Oh!" he said in English, "you tell fortunes?" "Sometimes. Do you mind?" "No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire." He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look," he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?" He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. "There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand," Brett said. "I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression | and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. "Want to go in?" "No." We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we could see the mountains. The wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon. Below us were the dark pits of the fortifications. Behind were the trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon. "Don't feel bad," I said. "I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk." We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered. "It's cold." "Want to walk back?" "Through the park." We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the park it was dark under the trees. "Do you still love me, Jake?" "Yes," I said. "Because I'm a goner," Brett said. "How?" "I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think." "I wouldn't be if I were you."<|quote|>"I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside."</|quote|>"Don't do it." "I can't help it. I've never been able to help anything." "You ought to stop it." "How can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?" Her hand was trembling. "I'm like that all through." "You oughtn't to do it." "I can't help it. I'm a goner now, anyway. Don't you see the difference?" "No." "I've got to do something. I've got to do something I really want to do. I've lost my self-respect." "You don't have to do that." "Oh, darling, don't be difficult. What do you think it's meant to have that damned Jew about, and Mike the way he's acted?" "Sure." "I can't just stay tight all the time." "No." "Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me through this." "Sure." "I don't say it's right. It is right though for me. God knows, I've never felt such a bitch." "What do you want me to do?" "Come on," Brett said. "Let's go and find him." Together we walked down the gravel path in the park in the dark, under the trees and then out from under the trees and past the gate into the street that led into town. Pedro Romero was in the caf . He was at a table with other bull-fighters and bull-fight critics. They were smoking cigars. When we came in they looked up. Romero smiled and bowed. We sat down at a table half-way down the room. "Ask | The Sun Also Rises |
"You know very well that I can't get away without your help." | Tony Last | restraint. Go when you like."<|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help."</|quote|>"In that case you must | you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."<|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help."</|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read | civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."<|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help."</|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no | in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."<|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help."</|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. | was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."<|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help."</|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of | host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."<|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help."</|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must | his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."<|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help."</|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay | must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."<|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help."</|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put | A Handful Of Dust |
"You'd have had the whole school peeping in a row, in a week." | Josiah Bounderby | among 'em," observed Mr. Bounderby.<|quote|>"You'd have had the whole school peeping in a row, in a week."</|quote|>"Truly, I think so," returned | to be pretty well known among 'em," observed Mr. Bounderby.<|quote|>"You'd have had the whole school peeping in a row, in a week."</|quote|>"Truly, I think so," returned his friend. "Bitzer, turn you | her again, and she ran away, and I ran after her, sir, that she might know how to answer when she was asked. You wouldn't have thought of saying such mischief if you hadn't been a horse-rider?" "Her calling seems to be pretty well known among 'em," observed Mr. Bounderby.<|quote|>"You'd have had the whole school peeping in a row, in a week."</|quote|>"Truly, I think so," returned his friend. "Bitzer, turn you about and take yourself home. Jupe, stay here a moment. Let me hear of your running in this manner any more, boy, and you will hear of me through the master of the school. You understand what I mean. Go | with this. "He frightened me so," said the girl, "with his cruel faces!" "Oh!" cried Bitzer. "Oh! An't you one of the rest! An't you a horse-rider! I never looked at her, sir. I asked her if she would know how to define a horse to-morrow, and offered to tell her again, and she ran away, and I ran after her, sir, that she might know how to answer when she was asked. You wouldn't have thought of saying such mischief if you hadn't been a horse-rider?" "Her calling seems to be pretty well known among 'em," observed Mr. Bounderby.<|quote|>"You'd have had the whole school peeping in a row, in a week."</|quote|>"Truly, I think so," returned his friend. "Bitzer, turn you about and take yourself home. Jupe, stay here a moment. Let me hear of your running in this manner any more, boy, and you will hear of me through the master of the school. You understand what I mean. Go along." The boy stopped in his rapid blinking, knuckled his forehead again, glanced at Sissy, turned about, and retreated. "Now, girl," said Mr. Gradgrind, "take this gentleman and me to your father's; we are going there. What have you got in that bottle you are carrying?" "Gin," said Mr. Bounderby. | up his cap, which the concussion had knocked off; and backing, and knuckling his forehead, pleaded that it was an accident. "Was this boy running after you, Jupe?" asked Mr. Gradgrind. "Yes, sir," said the girl reluctantly. "No, I wasn't, sir!" cried Bitzer. "Not till she run away from me. But the horse-riders never mind what they say, sir; they're famous for it. You know the horse-riders are famous for never minding what they say," addressing Sissy. "It's as well known in the town as please, sir, as the multiplication table isn't known to the horse-riders." Bitzer tried Mr. Bounderby with this. "He frightened me so," said the girl, "with his cruel faces!" "Oh!" cried Bitzer. "Oh! An't you one of the rest! An't you a horse-rider! I never looked at her, sir. I asked her if she would know how to define a horse to-morrow, and offered to tell her again, and she ran away, and I ran after her, sir, that she might know how to answer when she was asked. You wouldn't have thought of saying such mischief if you hadn't been a horse-rider?" "Her calling seems to be pretty well known among 'em," observed Mr. Bounderby.<|quote|>"You'd have had the whole school peeping in a row, in a week."</|quote|>"Truly, I think so," returned his friend. "Bitzer, turn you about and take yourself home. Jupe, stay here a moment. Let me hear of your running in this manner any more, boy, and you will hear of me through the master of the school. You understand what I mean. Go along." The boy stopped in his rapid blinking, knuckled his forehead again, glanced at Sissy, turned about, and retreated. "Now, girl," said Mr. Gradgrind, "take this gentleman and me to your father's; we are going there. What have you got in that bottle you are carrying?" "Gin," said Mr. Bounderby. "Dear, no, sir! It's the nine oils." "The what?" cried Mr. Bounderby. "The nine oils, sir, to rub father with." "Then," said Mr. Bounderby, with a loud short laugh, "what the devil do you rub your father with nine oils for?" "It's what our people aways use, sir, when they get any hurts in the ring," replied the girl, looking over her shoulder, to assure herself that her pursuer was gone. "They bruise themselves very bad sometimes." "Serve 'em right," said Mr. Bounderby, "for being idle." She glanced up at his face, with mingled astonishment and dread. "By George!" said | "This man lives at Pod's End, and I don't quite know Pod's End," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Which is it, Bounderby?" Mr. Bounderby knew it was somewhere down town, but knew no more respecting it. So they stopped for a moment, looking about. Almost as they did so, there came running round the corner of the street at a quick pace and with a frightened look, a girl whom Mr. Gradgrind recognized. "Halloa!" said he. "Stop! Where are you going! Stop!" Girl number twenty stopped then, palpitating, and made him a curtsey. "Why are you tearing about the streets," said Mr. Gradgrind, "in this improper manner?" "I was I was run after, sir," the girl panted, "and I wanted to get away." "Run after?" repeated Mr. Gradgrind. "Who would run after _you_?" The question was unexpectedly and suddenly answered for her, by the colourless boy, Bitzer, who came round the corner with such blind speed and so little anticipating a stoppage on the pavement, that he brought himself up against Mr. Gradgrind's waistcoat and rebounded into the road. "What do you mean, boy?" said Mr. Gradgrind. "What are you doing? How dare you dash against everybody in this manner?" Bitzer picked up his cap, which the concussion had knocked off; and backing, and knuckling his forehead, pleaded that it was an accident. "Was this boy running after you, Jupe?" asked Mr. Gradgrind. "Yes, sir," said the girl reluctantly. "No, I wasn't, sir!" cried Bitzer. "Not till she run away from me. But the horse-riders never mind what they say, sir; they're famous for it. You know the horse-riders are famous for never minding what they say," addressing Sissy. "It's as well known in the town as please, sir, as the multiplication table isn't known to the horse-riders." Bitzer tried Mr. Bounderby with this. "He frightened me so," said the girl, "with his cruel faces!" "Oh!" cried Bitzer. "Oh! An't you one of the rest! An't you a horse-rider! I never looked at her, sir. I asked her if she would know how to define a horse to-morrow, and offered to tell her again, and she ran away, and I ran after her, sir, that she might know how to answer when she was asked. You wouldn't have thought of saying such mischief if you hadn't been a horse-rider?" "Her calling seems to be pretty well known among 'em," observed Mr. Bounderby.<|quote|>"You'd have had the whole school peeping in a row, in a week."</|quote|>"Truly, I think so," returned his friend. "Bitzer, turn you about and take yourself home. Jupe, stay here a moment. Let me hear of your running in this manner any more, boy, and you will hear of me through the master of the school. You understand what I mean. Go along." The boy stopped in his rapid blinking, knuckled his forehead again, glanced at Sissy, turned about, and retreated. "Now, girl," said Mr. Gradgrind, "take this gentleman and me to your father's; we are going there. What have you got in that bottle you are carrying?" "Gin," said Mr. Bounderby. "Dear, no, sir! It's the nine oils." "The what?" cried Mr. Bounderby. "The nine oils, sir, to rub father with." "Then," said Mr. Bounderby, with a loud short laugh, "what the devil do you rub your father with nine oils for?" "It's what our people aways use, sir, when they get any hurts in the ring," replied the girl, looking over her shoulder, to assure herself that her pursuer was gone. "They bruise themselves very bad sometimes." "Serve 'em right," said Mr. Bounderby, "for being idle." She glanced up at his face, with mingled astonishment and dread. "By George!" said Mr. Bounderby, "when I was four or five years younger than you, I had worse bruises upon me than ten oils, twenty oils, forty oils, would have rubbed off. I didn't get 'em by posture-making, but by being banged about. There was no rope-dancing for me; I danced on the bare ground and was larruped with the rope." Mr. Gradgrind, though hard enough, was by no means so rough a man as Mr. Bounderby. His character was not unkind, all things considered; it might have been a very kind one indeed, if he had only made some round mistake in the arithmetic that balanced it, years ago. He said, in what he meant for a reassuring tone, as they turned down a narrow road, "And this is Pod's End; is it, Jupe?" "This is it, sir, and if you wouldn't mind, sir this is the house." She stopped, at twilight, at the door of a mean little public-house, with dim red lights in it. As haggard and as shabby, as if, for want of custom, it had itself taken to drinking, and had gone the way all drunkards go, and was very near the end of it. "It's only crossing | low dancing, and mayhap joined in it; and where A. B., aged twenty-four next birthday, and committed for eighteen months' solitary, had himself said (not that he had ever shown himself particularly worthy of belief) his ruin began, as he was perfectly sure and confident that otherwise he would have been a tip-top moral specimen. Then came Mr. Gradgrind and Mr. Bounderby, the two gentlemen at this present moment walking through Coketown, and both eminently practical, who could, on occasion, furnish more tabular statements derived from their own personal experience, and illustrated by cases they had known and seen, from which it clearly appeared in short, it was the only clear thing in the case that these same people were a bad lot altogether, gentlemen; that do what you would for them they were never thankful for it, gentlemen; that they were restless, gentlemen; that they never knew what they wanted; that they lived upon the best, and bought fresh butter; and insisted on Mocha coffee, and rejected all but prime parts of meat, and yet were eternally dissatisfied and unmanageable. In short, it was the moral of the old nursery fable: There was an old woman, and what do you think? She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink; Victuals and drink were the whole of her diet, And yet this old woman would NEVER be quiet. Is it possible, I wonder, that there was any analogy between the case of the Coketown population and the case of the little Gradgrinds? Surely, none of us in our sober senses and acquainted with figures, are to be told at this time of day, that one of the foremost elements in the existence of the Coketown working-people had been for scores of years, deliberately set at nought? That there was any Fancy in them demanding to be brought into healthy existence instead of struggling on in convulsions? That exactly in the ratio as they worked long and monotonously, the craving grew within them for some physical relief some relaxation, encouraging good humour and good spirits, and giving them a vent some recognized holiday, though it were but for an honest dance to a stirring band of music some occasional light pie in which even M'Choakumchild had no finger which craving must and would be satisfied aright, or must and would inevitably go wrong, until the laws of the Creation were repealed? "This man lives at Pod's End, and I don't quite know Pod's End," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Which is it, Bounderby?" Mr. Bounderby knew it was somewhere down town, but knew no more respecting it. So they stopped for a moment, looking about. Almost as they did so, there came running round the corner of the street at a quick pace and with a frightened look, a girl whom Mr. Gradgrind recognized. "Halloa!" said he. "Stop! Where are you going! Stop!" Girl number twenty stopped then, palpitating, and made him a curtsey. "Why are you tearing about the streets," said Mr. Gradgrind, "in this improper manner?" "I was I was run after, sir," the girl panted, "and I wanted to get away." "Run after?" repeated Mr. Gradgrind. "Who would run after _you_?" The question was unexpectedly and suddenly answered for her, by the colourless boy, Bitzer, who came round the corner with such blind speed and so little anticipating a stoppage on the pavement, that he brought himself up against Mr. Gradgrind's waistcoat and rebounded into the road. "What do you mean, boy?" said Mr. Gradgrind. "What are you doing? How dare you dash against everybody in this manner?" Bitzer picked up his cap, which the concussion had knocked off; and backing, and knuckling his forehead, pleaded that it was an accident. "Was this boy running after you, Jupe?" asked Mr. Gradgrind. "Yes, sir," said the girl reluctantly. "No, I wasn't, sir!" cried Bitzer. "Not till she run away from me. But the horse-riders never mind what they say, sir; they're famous for it. You know the horse-riders are famous for never minding what they say," addressing Sissy. "It's as well known in the town as please, sir, as the multiplication table isn't known to the horse-riders." Bitzer tried Mr. Bounderby with this. "He frightened me so," said the girl, "with his cruel faces!" "Oh!" cried Bitzer. "Oh! An't you one of the rest! An't you a horse-rider! I never looked at her, sir. I asked her if she would know how to define a horse to-morrow, and offered to tell her again, and she ran away, and I ran after her, sir, that she might know how to answer when she was asked. You wouldn't have thought of saying such mischief if you hadn't been a horse-rider?" "Her calling seems to be pretty well known among 'em," observed Mr. Bounderby.<|quote|>"You'd have had the whole school peeping in a row, in a week."</|quote|>"Truly, I think so," returned his friend. "Bitzer, turn you about and take yourself home. Jupe, stay here a moment. Let me hear of your running in this manner any more, boy, and you will hear of me through the master of the school. You understand what I mean. Go along." The boy stopped in his rapid blinking, knuckled his forehead again, glanced at Sissy, turned about, and retreated. "Now, girl," said Mr. Gradgrind, "take this gentleman and me to your father's; we are going there. What have you got in that bottle you are carrying?" "Gin," said Mr. Bounderby. "Dear, no, sir! It's the nine oils." "The what?" cried Mr. Bounderby. "The nine oils, sir, to rub father with." "Then," said Mr. Bounderby, with a loud short laugh, "what the devil do you rub your father with nine oils for?" "It's what our people aways use, sir, when they get any hurts in the ring," replied the girl, looking over her shoulder, to assure herself that her pursuer was gone. "They bruise themselves very bad sometimes." "Serve 'em right," said Mr. Bounderby, "for being idle." She glanced up at his face, with mingled astonishment and dread. "By George!" said Mr. Bounderby, "when I was four or five years younger than you, I had worse bruises upon me than ten oils, twenty oils, forty oils, would have rubbed off. I didn't get 'em by posture-making, but by being banged about. There was no rope-dancing for me; I danced on the bare ground and was larruped with the rope." Mr. Gradgrind, though hard enough, was by no means so rough a man as Mr. Bounderby. His character was not unkind, all things considered; it might have been a very kind one indeed, if he had only made some round mistake in the arithmetic that balanced it, years ago. He said, in what he meant for a reassuring tone, as they turned down a narrow road, "And this is Pod's End; is it, Jupe?" "This is it, sir, and if you wouldn't mind, sir this is the house." She stopped, at twilight, at the door of a mean little public-house, with dim red lights in it. As haggard and as shabby, as if, for want of custom, it had itself taken to drinking, and had gone the way all drunkards go, and was very near the end of it. "It's only crossing the bar, sir, and up the stairs, if you wouldn't mind, and waiting there for a moment till I get a candle. If you should hear a dog, sir, it's only Merrylegs, and he only barks." "Merrylegs and nine oils, eh!" said Mr. Bounderby, entering last with his metallic laugh. "Pretty well this, for a self-made man!" CHAPTER VI SLEARY'S HORSEMANSHIP THE name of the public-house was the Pegasus's Arms. The Pegasus's legs might have been more to the purpose; but, underneath the winged horse upon the sign-board, the Pegasus's Arms was inscribed in Roman letters. Beneath that inscription again, in a flowing scroll, the painter had touched off the lines: Good malt makes good beer, Walk in, and they'll draw it here; Good wine makes good brandy, Give us a call, and you'll find it handy. Framed and glazed upon the wall behind the dingy little bar, was another Pegasus a theatrical one with real gauze let in for his wings, golden stars stuck on all over him, and his ethereal harness made of red silk. As it had grown too dusky without, to see the sign, and as it had not grown light enough within to see the picture, Mr. Gradgrind and Mr. Bounderby received no offence from these idealities. They followed the girl up some steep corner-stairs without meeting any one, and stopped in the dark while she went on for a candle. They expected every moment to hear Merrylegs give tongue, but the highly trained performing dog had not barked when the girl and the candle appeared together. "Father is not in our room, sir," she said, with a face of great surprise. "If you wouldn't mind walking in, I'll find him directly." They walked in; and Sissy, having set two chairs for them, sped away with a quick light step. It was a mean, shabbily furnished room, with a bed in it. The white night-cap, embellished with two peacock's feathers and a pigtail bolt upright, in which Signor Jupe had that very afternoon enlivened the varied performances with his chaste Shaksperean quips and retorts, hung upon a nail; but no other portion of his wardrobe, or other token of himself or his pursuits, was to be seen anywhere. As to Merrylegs, that respectable ancestor of the highly trained animal who went aboard the ark, might have been accidentally shut out of it, for any sign | Gradgrinds? Surely, none of us in our sober senses and acquainted with figures, are to be told at this time of day, that one of the foremost elements in the existence of the Coketown working-people had been for scores of years, deliberately set at nought? That there was any Fancy in them demanding to be brought into healthy existence instead of struggling on in convulsions? That exactly in the ratio as they worked long and monotonously, the craving grew within them for some physical relief some relaxation, encouraging good humour and good spirits, and giving them a vent some recognized holiday, though it were but for an honest dance to a stirring band of music some occasional light pie in which even M'Choakumchild had no finger which craving must and would be satisfied aright, or must and would inevitably go wrong, until the laws of the Creation were repealed? "This man lives at Pod's End, and I don't quite know Pod's End," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Which is it, Bounderby?" Mr. Bounderby knew it was somewhere down town, but knew no more respecting it. So they stopped for a moment, looking about. Almost as they did so, there came running round the corner of the street at a quick pace and with a frightened look, a girl whom Mr. Gradgrind recognized. "Halloa!" said he. "Stop! Where are you going! Stop!" Girl number twenty stopped then, palpitating, and made him a curtsey. "Why are you tearing about the streets," said Mr. Gradgrind, "in this improper manner?" "I was I was run after, sir," the girl panted, "and I wanted to get away." "Run after?" repeated Mr. Gradgrind. "Who would run after _you_?" The question was unexpectedly and suddenly answered for her, by the colourless boy, Bitzer, who came round the corner with such blind speed and so little anticipating a stoppage on the pavement, that he brought himself up against Mr. Gradgrind's waistcoat and rebounded into the road. "What do you mean, boy?" said Mr. Gradgrind. "What are you doing? How dare you dash against everybody in this manner?" Bitzer picked up his cap, which the concussion had knocked off; and backing, and knuckling his forehead, pleaded that it was an accident. "Was this boy running after you, Jupe?" asked Mr. Gradgrind. "Yes, sir," said the girl reluctantly. "No, I wasn't, sir!" cried Bitzer. "Not till she run away from me. But the horse-riders never mind what they say, sir; they're famous for it. You know the horse-riders are famous for never minding what they say," addressing Sissy. "It's as well known in the town as please, sir, as the multiplication table isn't known to the horse-riders." Bitzer tried Mr. Bounderby with this. "He frightened me so," said the girl, "with his cruel faces!" "Oh!" cried Bitzer. "Oh! An't you one of the rest! An't you a horse-rider! I never looked at her, sir. I asked her if she would know how to define a horse to-morrow, and offered to tell her again, and she ran away, and I ran after her, sir, that she might know how to answer when she was asked. You wouldn't have thought of saying such mischief if you hadn't been a horse-rider?" "Her calling seems to be pretty well known among 'em," observed Mr. Bounderby.<|quote|>"You'd have had the whole school peeping in a row, in a week."</|quote|>"Truly, I think so," returned his friend. "Bitzer, turn you about and take yourself home. Jupe, stay here a moment. Let me hear of your running in this manner any more, boy, and you will hear of me through the master of the school. You understand what I mean. Go along." The boy stopped in his rapid blinking, knuckled his forehead again, glanced at Sissy, turned about, and retreated. "Now, girl," said Mr. Gradgrind, "take this gentleman and me to your father's; we are going there. What have you got in that bottle you are carrying?" "Gin," said Mr. Bounderby. "Dear, no, sir! It's the nine oils." "The what?" cried Mr. Bounderby. "The nine oils, sir, to rub father with." "Then," said Mr. Bounderby, with a loud short laugh, "what the devil do you rub your father with nine oils for?" "It's what our people aways use, sir, when they get any hurts in the ring," replied the girl, looking over her shoulder, to assure herself that her pursuer was gone. "They bruise themselves very bad sometimes." "Serve 'em right," said Mr. Bounderby, "for being idle." She glanced up at his face, with mingled astonishment and dread. "By George!" said Mr. Bounderby, "when I was four or five years younger than you, I had worse bruises upon me than ten oils, twenty oils, forty oils, would have rubbed off. I didn't get 'em by posture-making, but by being banged about. There was no rope-dancing for me; I danced on the bare ground and was larruped with the rope." Mr. Gradgrind, though hard enough, was by no means so rough a man as Mr. Bounderby. His character was not unkind, all things considered; it might have been a very kind one indeed, if he had only made some round mistake in the arithmetic that balanced it, years ago. He said, in what he meant for a reassuring tone, as they turned down a narrow road, "And this is Pod's End; is it, Jupe?" "This is it, sir, and if you wouldn't mind, sir this is the house." She stopped, at twilight, at the door of a mean little public-house, with dim red lights in it. As haggard and as shabby, as if, for want of custom, it had itself taken to drinking, and had gone the way all drunkards go, and was very near the end of it. "It's only crossing the bar, sir, and up the stairs, if you wouldn't mind, and waiting there for a moment till I get a candle. If you should hear a dog, sir, it's only Merrylegs, and he only barks." "Merrylegs and nine oils, eh!" said Mr. Bounderby, entering last with his metallic laugh. "Pretty well this, for a self-made man!" CHAPTER VI SLEARY'S HORSEMANSHIP THE name of the public-house was the Pegasus's Arms. The Pegasus's legs might have been more to the purpose; but, underneath the winged | Hard Times |
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 cannot be that this has vanished in bombardment, in despair, in brothels. Here the trees show gay and golden, the berries of the rowan stand red among the leaves, country roads run white out to the sky line, and the canteens hum like beehives with rumours of peace. I stand up. I am very quiet. Let the months and years come, they bring me nothing more, they can bring me nothing more. I am so alone, and so without hope that I can confront them without fear. The life that has borne me through these years is still in my hands and my eyes. Whether I have subdued it, I know not. But so long as it is there it will seek its own way out, heedless of the will that is within me. He fell in October 1918, on a day that was so quiet and still on the whole front, that the army report confined itself to the single sentence: All quiet on the Western Front. He had fallen forward and lay on the earth as though sleeping. Turning him over one saw that he could not have suffered long; his face had an expression of calm, as though almost glad the end had come. | No speaker | are not related, are you?"<|quote|>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 cannot be that this has vanished in bombardment, in despair, in brothels. Here the trees show gay and golden, the berries of the rowan stand red among the leaves, country roads run white out to the sky line, and the canteens hum like beehives with rumours of peace. I stand up. I am very quiet. Let the months and years come, they bring me nothing more, they can bring me nothing more. I am so alone, and so without hope that I can confront them without fear. The life that has borne me through these years is still in my hands and my eyes. Whether I have subdued it, I know not. But so long as it is there it will seek its own way out, heedless of the will that is within me. He fell in October 1918, on a day that was so quiet and still on the whole front, that the army report confined itself to the single sentence: All quiet on the Western Front. He had fallen forward and lay on the earth as though sleeping. Turning him over one saw that he could not have suffered long; his face had an expression of calm, as though almost glad the end had come.</|quote|> | The orderly is mystified. "You are not related, are you?"<|quote|>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 cannot be that this has vanished in bombardment, in despair, in brothels. Here the trees show gay and golden, the berries of the rowan stand red among the leaves, country roads run white out to the sky line, and the canteens hum like beehives with rumours of peace. I stand up. I am very quiet. Let the months and years come, they bring me nothing more, they can bring me nothing more. I am so alone, and so without hope that I can confront them without fear. The life that has borne me through these years is still in my hands and my eyes. Whether I have subdued it, I know not. But so long as it is there it will seek its own way out, heedless of the will that is within me. He fell in October 1918, on a day that was so quiet and still on the whole front, that the army report confined itself to the single sentence: All quiet on the Western Front. He had fallen forward and lay on the earth as though sleeping. Turning him over one saw that he could not have suffered long; his face had an expression of calm, as though almost glad the end had come.</|quote|> | 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?"<|quote|>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 cannot be that this has vanished in bombardment, in despair, in brothels. Here the trees show gay and golden, the berries of the rowan stand red among the leaves, country roads run white out to the sky line, and the canteens hum like beehives with rumours of peace. I stand up. I am very quiet. Let the months and years come, they bring me nothing more, they can bring me nothing more. I am so alone, and so without hope that I can confront them without fear. The life that has borne me through these years is still in my hands and my eyes. Whether I have subdued it, I know not. But so long as it is there it will seek its own way out, heedless of the will that is within me. He fell in October 1918, on a day that was so quiet and still on the whole front, that the army report confined itself to the single sentence: All quiet on the Western Front. He had fallen forward and lay on the earth as though sleeping. Turning him over one saw that he could not have suffered long; his face had an expression of calm, as though almost glad the end had come.</|quote|> | 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?"<|quote|>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 cannot be that this has vanished in bombardment, in despair, in brothels. Here the trees show gay and golden, the berries of the rowan stand red among the leaves, country roads run white out to the sky line, and the canteens hum like beehives with rumours of peace. I stand up. I am very quiet. Let the months and years come, they bring me nothing more, they can bring me nothing more. I am so alone, and so without hope that I can confront them without fear. The life that has borne me through these years is still in my hands and my eyes. Whether I have subdued it, I know not. But so long as it is there it will seek its own way out, heedless of the will that is within me. He fell in October 1918, on a day that was so quiet and still on the whole front, that the army report confined itself to the single sentence: All quiet on the Western Front. He had fallen forward and lay on the earth as though sleeping. Turning him over one saw that he could not have suffered long; his face had an expression of calm, as though almost glad the end had come.</|quote|> | 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?"<|quote|>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 cannot be that this has vanished in bombardment, in despair, in brothels. Here the trees show gay and golden, the berries of the rowan stand red among the leaves, country roads run white out to the sky line, and the canteens hum like beehives with rumours of peace. I stand up. I am very quiet. Let the months and years come, they bring me nothing more, they can bring me nothing more. I am so alone, and so without hope that I can confront them without fear. The life that has borne me through these years is still in my hands and my eyes. Whether I have subdued it, I know not. But so long as it is there it will seek its own way out, heedless of the will that is within me. He fell in October 1918, on a day that was so quiet and still on the whole front, that the army report confined itself to the single sentence: All quiet on the Western Front. He had fallen forward and lay on the earth as though sleeping. Turning him over one saw that he could not have suffered long; his face had an expression of calm, as though almost glad the end had come.</|quote|> | quickly in the foot so as to be able to go with him. Suddenly Kat gurgles and turns green and yellow. "Let us go on," he stammers. I jump up, eager to help him, I take him up and start off at a run, a slow steady pace, so as not to jolt his leg too much. My throat is parched; everything dances red and black before my eyes, I stagger on doggedly and pitilessly and at last reach the dressing station. There I drop down on my knees, but have still enough strength to fall on to the side where Kat's sound leg is. After a few minutes I straighten myself up again. My legs and my hands tremble. I have trouble in finding my water bottle, to take a pull. My lips tremble as I try to drink. But I smile--Kat is saved. After a while I begin to sort out the confusion of voices that falls on my ears. "You might have spared yourself that," says an orderly. I look at him without comprehending. He points to Kat. "He is stone dead." I do not understand him. "He has been hit in the shin," I say. The orderly stands still. "That as well." I turn round. My eyes are still dulled, the sweat breaks out on me again, it runs over my eyelids. I wipe it away and peer at Kat. He lies still. "Fainted," I say quickly. The orderly whistles softly. "I know better than that. He is dead. I'll lay any money on that." I shake my head: "Not possible. Only ten minutes ago I was talking to him. He has fainted." Kat's hands are warm, I pass my arm under his shoulders in order to rub his temples with some tea. I feel my fingers become moist. As I draw them away from behind his head, they are bloody. "You see----" The orderly whistles once more through his teeth. On the way without my having noticed it, Kat has caught a splinter in the head. There is just one little hole, it must have been a very tiny, stray splinter. But it has sufficed. Kat is dead. Slowly I get up. "Would you like to take his pay book and his things?" the lance-corporal asks me. I nod, and he gives them to me. The orderly is mystified. "You are not related, are you?"<|quote|>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 cannot be that this has vanished in bombardment, in despair, in brothels. Here the trees show gay and golden, the berries of the rowan stand red among the leaves, country roads run white out to the sky line, and the canteens hum like beehives with rumours of peace. I stand up. I am very quiet. Let the months and years come, they bring me nothing more, they can bring me nothing more. I am so alone, and so without hope that I can confront them without fear. The life that has borne me through these years is still in my hands and my eyes. Whether I have subdued it, I know not. But so long as it is there it will seek its own way out, heedless of the will that is within me. He fell in October 1918, on a day that was so quiet and still on the whole front, that the army report confined itself to the single sentence: All quiet on the Western Front. He had fallen forward and lay on the earth as though sleeping. Turning him over one saw that he could not have suffered long; his face had an expression of calm, as though almost glad the end had come.</|quote|> | opened the collar of my tunic and breathe heavily, I sweat and my face is swollen with the strain of carrying. All the same I urge him to let us go on, for the place is dangerous. "Shall we go on again, Kat?" "Must, Paul." "Then come." I raise him up, he stands on the uninjured leg and supports himself against a tree. I take up the wounded leg carefully, then he gives a jump and I take the knee of the sound leg also under my arm. The going is more difficult. Often a shell whistles across. I go as quickly as I can, for the blood from Kat's wound drips to the ground. We cannot shelter ourselves properly from the explosions; before we can take cover the danger is all over. We lie down in a small shell hole to rest. I give Kat some tea from my water bottle. We smoke a cigarette. "Well, Kat," I say gloomily, "We are going to be separated at last." He is silent and looks at me. "Do you remember, Kat, how we commandeered the goose? And how you brought me out of the barrage when I was still a young recruit and was wounded for the first time? I cried then. Kat, that is almost three years ago." He nods. The anguish of solitude rises up in me. When Kat is taken away I will not have one friend left. "Kat, in any case we must see one another again, if it is peace time before you come back." "Do you think that I will be marked A1 again with this leg?" he asks bitterly. "With rest it will get better. The joint is all right. It may limp a bit." "Give me another cigarette," he says. "Perhaps we could do something together later on, Kat." I am very miserable, it is impossible that Kat--Kat my friend, Kat with the drooping shoulders and the poor, thin moustache, Kat, whom I know as I know no other man, Kat with whom I have shared these years--it is impossible that perhaps I shall not see Kat again. "In any case give me your address at home, Kat. And here is mine, I will write it down for you." I write his address in my pocket book. How forlorn I am already, though he still sits here beside me. Couldn't I shoot myself quickly in the foot so as to be able to go with him. Suddenly Kat gurgles and turns green and yellow. "Let us go on," he stammers. I jump up, eager to help him, I take him up and start off at a run, a slow steady pace, so as not to jolt his leg too much. My throat is parched; everything dances red and black before my eyes, I stagger on doggedly and pitilessly and at last reach the dressing station. There I drop down on my knees, but have still enough strength to fall on to the side where Kat's sound leg is. After a few minutes I straighten myself up again. My legs and my hands tremble. I have trouble in finding my water bottle, to take a pull. My lips tremble as I try to drink. But I smile--Kat is saved. After a while I begin to sort out the confusion of voices that falls on my ears. "You might have spared yourself that," says an orderly. I look at him without comprehending. He points to Kat. "He is stone dead." I do not understand him. "He has been hit in the shin," I say. The orderly stands still. "That as well." I turn round. My eyes are still dulled, the sweat breaks out on me again, it runs over my eyelids. I wipe it away and peer at Kat. He lies still. "Fainted," I say quickly. The orderly whistles softly. "I know better than that. He is dead. I'll lay any money on that." I shake my head: "Not possible. Only ten minutes ago I was talking to him. He has fainted." Kat's hands are warm, I pass my arm under his shoulders in order to rub his temples with some tea. I feel my fingers become moist. As I draw them away from behind his head, they are bloody. "You see----" The orderly whistles once more through his teeth. On the way without my having noticed 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?"<|quote|>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 cannot be that this has vanished in bombardment, in despair, in brothels. Here the trees show gay and golden, the berries of the rowan stand red among the leaves, country roads run white out to the sky line, and the canteens hum like beehives with rumours of peace. I stand up. I am very quiet. Let the months and years come, they bring me nothing more, they can bring me nothing more. I am so alone, and so without hope that I can confront them without fear. The life that has borne me through these years is still in my hands and my eyes. Whether I have subdued it, I know not. But so long as it is there it will seek its own way out, heedless of the will that is within me. He fell in October 1918, on a day that was so quiet and still on the whole front, that the army report confined itself to the single sentence: All quiet on the Western Front. He had fallen forward and lay on the earth as though sleeping. Turning him over one saw that he could not have suffered long; his face had an expression of calm, as though almost glad the end had come.</|quote|> | 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?"<|quote|>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 cannot be that this has vanished in bombardment, in despair, in brothels. Here the trees show gay and golden, the berries of the rowan stand red among the leaves, country roads run white out to the sky line, and the canteens hum like beehives with rumours of peace. I stand up. I am very quiet. Let the months and years come, they bring me nothing more, they can bring me nothing more. I am so alone, and so without hope that I can confront them without fear. The life that has borne me through these years is still in my hands and my eyes. Whether I have subdued it, I know not. But so long as it is there it will seek its own way out, heedless of the will that is within me. He fell in October 1918, on a day that was so quiet and still on the whole front, that the army report confined itself to the single sentence: All quiet on the Western Front. He had fallen forward and lay on the earth as though sleeping. Turning him over one saw that he could not have suffered long; his face had an expression of calm, as though almost glad the end had come.</|quote|> | All Quiet on the Western Front |
"The only thing," | Rabbit | "Yes, that's what I thought."<|quote|>"The only thing,"</|quote|>said Rabbit, "is, _where is | nowhere else to stick it." "Yes, that's what I thought."<|quote|>"The only thing,"</|quote|>said Rabbit, "is, _where is it sticking_?" "That's what we're | a pole stuck in the ground?" "Sure to be a pole," said Rabbit, "because of calling it a pole, and if it's a pole, well, I should think it would be sticking in the ground, shouldn't you, because there'd be nowhere else to stick it." "Yes, that's what I thought."<|quote|>"The only thing,"</|quote|>said Rabbit, "is, _where is it sticking_?" "That's what we're looking for," said Christopher Robin. They went back to the others. Piglet was lying on his back, sleeping peacefully. Roo was washing his face and paws in the stream, while Kanga explained to everybody proudly that this was the first | does the North Pole _look_ like?" "Well," said Rabbit, stroking his whiskers. "Now you're asking me." "I did know once, only I've sort of forgotten," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "It's a funny thing," said Rabbit, "but I've sort of forgotten too, although I did know _once_." "I suppose it's just a pole stuck in the ground?" "Sure to be a pole," said Rabbit, "because of calling it a pole, and if it's a pole, well, I should think it would be sticking in the ground, shouldn't you, because there'd be nowhere else to stick it." "Yes, that's what I thought."<|quote|>"The only thing,"</|quote|>said Rabbit, "is, _where is it sticking_?" "That's what we're looking for," said Christopher Robin. They went back to the others. Piglet was lying on his back, sleeping peacefully. Roo was washing his face and paws in the stream, while Kanga explained to everybody proudly that this was the first time he had ever washed his face himself, and Owl was telling Kanga an Interesting Anecdote full of long words like Encyclop dia and Rhododendron to which Kanga wasn't listening. "I don't hold with all this washing," grumbled Eeyore. "This modern Behind-the-ears nonsense. What do _you_ think, Pooh?" "Well," said | "It don't do them any Good, you know, sitting on them," he went on, as he looked up munching. "Takes all the Life out of them. Remember that another time, all of you. A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference." As soon as he had finished his lunch Christopher Robin whispered to Rabbit, and Rabbit said "Yes, yes, of course," and they walked a little way up the stream together. "I didn't want the others to hear," said Christopher Robin. "Quite so," said Rabbit, looking important. "It's--I wondered--It's only--Rabbit, I suppose _you_ don't know, What does the North Pole _look_ like?" "Well," said Rabbit, stroking his whiskers. "Now you're asking me." "I did know once, only I've sort of forgotten," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "It's a funny thing," said Rabbit, "but I've sort of forgotten too, although I did know _once_." "I suppose it's just a pole stuck in the ground?" "Sure to be a pole," said Rabbit, "because of calling it a pole, and if it's a pole, well, I should think it would be sticking in the ground, shouldn't you, because there'd be nowhere else to stick it." "Yes, that's what I thought."<|quote|>"The only thing,"</|quote|>said Rabbit, "is, _where is it sticking_?" "That's what we're looking for," said Christopher Robin. They went back to the others. Piglet was lying on his back, sleeping peacefully. Roo was washing his face and paws in the stream, while Kanga explained to everybody proudly that this was the first time he had ever washed his face himself, and Owl was telling Kanga an Interesting Anecdote full of long words like Encyclop dia and Rhododendron to which Kanga wasn't listening. "I don't hold with all this washing," grumbled Eeyore. "This modern Behind-the-ears nonsense. What do _you_ think, Pooh?" "Well," said Pooh, "_I_ think----" But we shall never know what Pooh thought, for there came a sudden squeak from Roo, a splash, and a loud cry of alarm from Kanga. "So much for _washing_," said Eeyore. "Roo's fallen in!" cried Rabbit, and he and Christopher Robin came rushing down to the rescue. "Look at me swimming!" squeaked Roo from the middle of his pool, and was hurried down a waterfall into the next pool. "Are you all right, Roo dear?" called Kanga anxiously. "Yes!" said Roo. "Look at me sw----" and down he went over the next waterfall into another pool. | up the stream now, going from rock to rock, and after they had gone a little way they came to a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested. "I think," said Christopher Robin, "that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry." "Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at them in his melancholy way. "I suppose none of you are sitting on a thistle by any chance?" "I believe I am," said Pooh. "Ow!" He got up, and looked behind him. "Yes, I was. I thought so." "Thank you, Pooh. If you've quite finished with it." He moved across to Pooh's place, and began to eat. "It don't do them any Good, you know, sitting on them," he went on, as he looked up munching. "Takes all the Life out of them. Remember that another time, all of you. A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference." As soon as he had finished his lunch Christopher Robin whispered to Rabbit, and Rabbit said "Yes, yes, of course," and they walked a little way up the stream together. "I didn't want the others to hear," said Christopher Robin. "Quite so," said Rabbit, looking important. "It's--I wondered--It's only--Rabbit, I suppose _you_ don't know, What does the North Pole _look_ like?" "Well," said Rabbit, stroking his whiskers. "Now you're asking me." "I did know once, only I've sort of forgotten," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "It's a funny thing," said Rabbit, "but I've sort of forgotten too, although I did know _once_." "I suppose it's just a pole stuck in the ground?" "Sure to be a pole," said Rabbit, "because of calling it a pole, and if it's a pole, well, I should think it would be sticking in the ground, shouldn't you, because there'd be nowhere else to stick it." "Yes, that's what I thought."<|quote|>"The only thing,"</|quote|>said Rabbit, "is, _where is it sticking_?" "That's what we're looking for," said Christopher Robin. They went back to the others. Piglet was lying on his back, sleeping peacefully. Roo was washing his face and paws in the stream, while Kanga explained to everybody proudly that this was the first time he had ever washed his face himself, and Owl was telling Kanga an Interesting Anecdote full of long words like Encyclop dia and Rhododendron to which Kanga wasn't listening. "I don't hold with all this washing," grumbled Eeyore. "This modern Behind-the-ears nonsense. What do _you_ think, Pooh?" "Well," said Pooh, "_I_ think----" But we shall never know what Pooh thought, for there came a sudden squeak from Roo, a splash, and a loud cry of alarm from Kanga. "So much for _washing_," said Eeyore. "Roo's fallen in!" cried Rabbit, and he and Christopher Robin came rushing down to the rescue. "Look at me swimming!" squeaked Roo from the middle of his pool, and was hurried down a waterfall into the next pool. "Are you all right, Roo dear?" called Kanga anxiously. "Yes!" said Roo. "Look at me sw----" and down he went over the next waterfall into another pool. Everybody was doing something to help. Piglet, wide awake suddenly, was jumping up and down and making "Oo, I say" noises; Owl was explaining that in a case of Sudden and Temporary Immersion the Important Thing was to keep the Head Above Water; Kanga was jumping along the bank, saying "Are you _sure_ you're all right, Roo dear?" to which Roo, from whatever pool he was in at the moment, was answering "Look at me swimming!" Eeyore had turned round and hung his tail over the first pool into which Roo fell, and with his back to the accident was grumbling quietly to himself, and saying, "All this washing; but catch on to my tail, little Roo, and you'll be all right" "; and, Christopher Robin and Rabbit came hurrying past Eeyore, and were calling out to the others in front of them. "All right, Roo, I'm coming," called Christopher Robin. "Get something across the stream lower down, some of you fellows," called Rabbit. But Pooh was getting something. Two pools below Roo he was standing with a long pole in his paws, and Kanga came up and took one end of it, and between them they held it across | to sing. "They all went off to discover the Pole, Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all; It's a Thing you Discover, as I've been tole By Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all. Eeyore, Christopher Robin and Pooh And Rabbit's relations all went too-- And where the Pole was none of them knew.... Sing Hey! for Owl and Rabbit and all!" "Hush!" said Christopher Robin turning round to Pooh, "we're just coming to a Dangerous Place." "Hush!" said Pooh turning round quickly to Piglet. "Hush!" said Piglet to Kanga. "Hush!" said Kanga to Owl, while Roo said "Hush!" several times to himself very quietly. "Hush!" said Owl to Eeyore. "_Hush!_" said Eeyore in a terrible voice to all Rabbit's friends-and-relations, and "Hush!" they said hastily to each other all down the line, until it got to the last one of all. And the last and smallest friend-and-relation was so upset to find that the whole Expotition was saying "Hush!" to _him_, that he buried himself head downwards in a crack in the ground, and stayed there for two days until the danger was over, and then went home in a great hurry, and lived quietly with his Aunt ever-afterwards. His name was Alexander Beetle. They had come to a stream which twisted and tumbled between high rocky banks, and Christopher Robin saw at once how dangerous it was. "It's just the place," he explained, "for an Ambush." "What sort of bush?" whispered Pooh to Piglet. "A gorse-bush?" "My dear Pooh," said Owl in his superior way, "don't you know what an Ambush is?" "Owl," said Piglet, looking round at him severely, "Pooh's whisper was a perfectly private whisper, and there was no need----" "An Ambush," said Owl, "is a sort of Surprise." "So is a gorse-bush sometimes," said Pooh. "An Ambush, as I was about to explain to Pooh," said Piglet, "is a sort of Surprise." "If people jump out at you suddenly, that's an Ambush," said Owl. "It's an Ambush, Pooh, when people jump at you suddenly," explained Piglet. Pooh, who now knew what an Ambush was, said that a gorse-bush had sprung at him suddenly one day when he fell off a tree, and he had taken six days to get all the prickles out of himself. "We are not _talking_ about gorse-bushes," said Owl a little crossly. "I am," said Pooh. They were climbing very cautiously up the stream now, going from rock to rock, and after they had gone a little way they came to a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested. "I think," said Christopher Robin, "that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry." "Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at them in his melancholy way. "I suppose none of you are sitting on a thistle by any chance?" "I believe I am," said Pooh. "Ow!" He got up, and looked behind him. "Yes, I was. I thought so." "Thank you, Pooh. If you've quite finished with it." He moved across to Pooh's place, and began to eat. "It don't do them any Good, you know, sitting on them," he went on, as he looked up munching. "Takes all the Life out of them. Remember that another time, all of you. A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference." As soon as he had finished his lunch Christopher Robin whispered to Rabbit, and Rabbit said "Yes, yes, of course," and they walked a little way up the stream together. "I didn't want the others to hear," said Christopher Robin. "Quite so," said Rabbit, looking important. "It's--I wondered--It's only--Rabbit, I suppose _you_ don't know, What does the North Pole _look_ like?" "Well," said Rabbit, stroking his whiskers. "Now you're asking me." "I did know once, only I've sort of forgotten," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "It's a funny thing," said Rabbit, "but I've sort of forgotten too, although I did know _once_." "I suppose it's just a pole stuck in the ground?" "Sure to be a pole," said Rabbit, "because of calling it a pole, and if it's a pole, well, I should think it would be sticking in the ground, shouldn't you, because there'd be nowhere else to stick it." "Yes, that's what I thought."<|quote|>"The only thing,"</|quote|>said Rabbit, "is, _where is it sticking_?" "That's what we're looking for," said Christopher Robin. They went back to the others. Piglet was lying on his back, sleeping peacefully. Roo was washing his face and paws in the stream, while Kanga explained to everybody proudly that this was the first time he had ever washed his face himself, and Owl was telling Kanga an Interesting Anecdote full of long words like Encyclop dia and Rhododendron to which Kanga wasn't listening. "I don't hold with all this washing," grumbled Eeyore. "This modern Behind-the-ears nonsense. What do _you_ think, Pooh?" "Well," said Pooh, "_I_ think----" But we shall never know what Pooh thought, for there came a sudden squeak from Roo, a splash, and a loud cry of alarm from Kanga. "So much for _washing_," said Eeyore. "Roo's fallen in!" cried Rabbit, and he and Christopher Robin came rushing down to the rescue. "Look at me swimming!" squeaked Roo from the middle of his pool, and was hurried down a waterfall into the next pool. "Are you all right, Roo dear?" called Kanga anxiously. "Yes!" said Roo. "Look at me sw----" and down he went over the next waterfall into another pool. Everybody was doing something to help. Piglet, wide awake suddenly, was jumping up and down and making "Oo, I say" noises; Owl was explaining that in a case of Sudden and Temporary Immersion the Important Thing was to keep the Head Above Water; Kanga was jumping along the bank, saying "Are you _sure_ you're all right, Roo dear?" to which Roo, from whatever pool he was in at the moment, was answering "Look at me swimming!" Eeyore had turned round and hung his tail over the first pool into which Roo fell, and with his back to the accident was grumbling quietly to himself, and saying, "All this washing; but catch on to my tail, little Roo, and you'll be all right" "; and, Christopher Robin and Rabbit came hurrying past Eeyore, and were calling out to the others in front of them. "All right, Roo, I'm coming," called Christopher Robin. "Get something across the stream lower down, some of you fellows," called Rabbit. But Pooh was getting something. Two pools below Roo he was standing with a long pole in his paws, and Kanga came up and took one end of it, and between them they held it across the lower part of the pool; and Roo, still bubbling proudly, "Look at me swimming," drifted up against it, and climbed out. "Did you see me swimming?" squeaked Roo excitedly, while Kanga scolded him and rubbed him down. "Pooh, did you see me swimming? That's called swimming, what I was doing. Rabbit, did you see what I was doing? Swimming. Hallo, Piglet! I say, Piglet! What do you think I was doing! Swimming! Christopher Robin, did you see me----" But Christopher Robin wasn't listening. He was looking at Pooh. "Pooh," he said, "where did you find that pole?" Pooh looked at the pole in his hands. "I just found it," he said. "I thought it ought to be useful. I just picked it up." "Pooh," said Christopher Robin solemnly, "the Expedition is over. You have found the North Pole!" "Oh!" said Pooh. Eeyore was sitting with his tail in the water when they all got back to him. "Tell Roo to be quick, somebody," he said. "My tail's getting cold. I don't want to mention it, but I just mention it. I don't want to complain but there it is. My tail's cold." "Here I am!" squeaked Roo. "Oh, there you are." "Did you see me swimming?" Eeyore took his tail out of the water, and swished it from side to side. "As I expected," he said. "Lost all feeling. Numbed it. That's what it's done. Numbed it. Well, as long as nobody minds, I suppose it's all right." "Poor old Eeyore. I'll dry it for you," said Christopher Robin, and he took out his handkerchief and rubbed it up. "Thank you, Christopher Robin. You're the only one who seems to understand about tails. They don't think--that's what the matter with some of these others. They've no imagination. A tail isn't a tail to _them_, it's just a Little Bit Extra at the back." "Never mind, Eeyore," said Christopher Robin, rubbing his hardest. "Is _that_ better?" "It's feeling more like a tail perhaps. It Belongs again, if you know what I mean." "Hullo, Eeyore," said Pooh, coming up to them with his pole. "Hullo, Pooh. Thank you for asking, but I shall be able to use it again in a day or two." "Use what?" said Pooh. "What we are talking about." "I wasn't talking about anything," said Pooh, looking puzzled. "My mistake again. I thought you were saying how | saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested. "I think," said Christopher Robin, "that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry." "Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at them in his melancholy way. "I suppose none of you are sitting on a thistle by any chance?" "I believe I am," said Pooh. "Ow!" He got up, and looked behind him. "Yes, I was. I thought so." "Thank you, Pooh. If you've quite finished with it." He moved across to Pooh's place, and began to eat. "It don't do them any Good, you know, sitting on them," he went on, as he looked up munching. "Takes all the Life out of them. Remember that another time, all of you. A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference." As soon as he had finished his lunch Christopher Robin whispered to Rabbit, and Rabbit said "Yes, yes, of course," and they walked a little way up the stream together. "I didn't want the others to hear," said Christopher Robin. "Quite so," said Rabbit, looking important. "It's--I wondered--It's only--Rabbit, I suppose _you_ don't know, What does the North Pole _look_ like?" "Well," said Rabbit, stroking his whiskers. "Now you're asking me." "I did know once, only I've sort of forgotten," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "It's a funny thing," said Rabbit, "but I've sort of forgotten too, although I did know _once_." "I suppose it's just a pole stuck in the ground?" "Sure to be a pole," said Rabbit, "because of calling it a pole, and if it's a pole, well, I should think it would be sticking in the ground, shouldn't you, because there'd be nowhere else to stick it." "Yes, that's what I thought."<|quote|>"The only thing,"</|quote|>said Rabbit, "is, _where is it sticking_?" "That's what we're looking for," said Christopher Robin. They went back to the others. Piglet was lying on his back, sleeping peacefully. Roo was washing his face and paws in the stream, while Kanga explained to everybody proudly that this was the first time he had ever washed his face himself, and Owl was telling Kanga an Interesting Anecdote full of long words like Encyclop dia and Rhododendron to which Kanga wasn't listening. "I don't hold with all this washing," grumbled Eeyore. "This modern Behind-the-ears nonsense. What do _you_ think, Pooh?" "Well," said Pooh, "_I_ think----" But we shall never know what Pooh thought, for there came a sudden squeak from Roo, a splash, and a loud cry of alarm from Kanga. "So much for _washing_," said Eeyore. "Roo's fallen in!" cried Rabbit, and he and Christopher Robin came rushing down to the rescue. "Look at me swimming!" squeaked Roo from the middle of his pool, and was hurried down a waterfall into the next pool. "Are you all right, Roo dear?" called Kanga anxiously. "Yes!" said Roo. "Look at me sw----" and down he went over the next waterfall into another pool. Everybody was doing something to help. Piglet, wide awake suddenly, was jumping up and down and making "Oo, I say" noises; Owl was explaining that in a case of Sudden and Temporary Immersion the Important Thing was to keep the Head Above Water; Kanga was jumping along the bank, saying "Are you _sure_ you're all right, Roo dear?" to which Roo, from whatever pool he was in at the moment, was answering "Look at me swimming!" Eeyore had turned round and hung his tail over the first pool into which Roo fell, and with his back to the accident was grumbling quietly to himself, and saying, "All this washing; but catch on to my tail, little Roo, and you'll be all right" "; and, Christopher Robin and Rabbit came hurrying past Eeyore, and were calling out to the others in front of them. "All right, Roo, I'm coming," called Christopher Robin. "Get something across the stream lower down, some of you fellows," called Rabbit. But Pooh was getting something. Two pools below Roo he was standing with a long pole in his paws, and Kanga came up and took one end of it, and between them they held it across the lower part of the pool; and Roo, still bubbling proudly, "Look at me swimming," drifted up against it, and climbed out. "Did you see me swimming?" squeaked Roo excitedly, while Kanga scolded him and rubbed him down. "Pooh, did you see me swimming? That's called swimming, what I was doing. Rabbit, did you see what I was doing? | Winnie The Pooh |
"Do you think he believes Lawrence guilty?" | Mr. Hastings | clever man, that Sir Ernest."<|quote|>"Do you think he believes Lawrence guilty?"</|quote|>"I do not think he | Poirot appreciatively. "He is a clever man, that Sir Ernest."<|quote|>"Do you think he believes Lawrence guilty?"</|quote|>"I do not think he believes or cares anything! No, | surely it could not have been Lawrence Oh, no, that could not be!" But I myself was puzzled, and as soon as I was alone with Poirot I asked him what he thought Sir Ernest was driving at. "Ah!" said Poirot appreciatively. "He is a clever man, that Sir Ernest."<|quote|>"Do you think he believes Lawrence guilty?"</|quote|>"I do not think he believes or cares anything! No, what he is trying for is to create such confusion in the minds of the jury that they are divided in their opinion as to which brother did it. He is endeavouring to make out that there is quite as | a net he has drawn around my poor John! How he twisted every little fact until he made it seem what it wasn't!" "Well," I said consolingly, "it will be the other way about to-morrow." "Yes," she said meditatively; then suddenly dropped her voice. "Mr. Hastings, you do not think surely it could not have been Lawrence Oh, no, that could not be!" But I myself was puzzled, and as soon as I was alone with Poirot I asked him what he thought Sir Ernest was driving at. "Ah!" said Poirot appreciatively. "He is a clever man, that Sir Ernest."<|quote|>"Do you think he believes Lawrence guilty?"</|quote|>"I do not think he believes or cares anything! No, what he is trying for is to create such confusion in the minds of the jury that they are divided in their opinion as to which brother did it. He is endeavouring to make out that there is quite as much evidence against Lawrence as against John and I am not at all sure that he will not succeed." Detective-inspector Japp was the first witness called when the trial was reopened, and gave his evidence succinctly and briefly. After relating the earlier events, he proceeded: "Acting on information received, Superintendent | in the West wing, she had peeped along the passage, and had seen Mr. John Cavendish knocking at Mrs. Inglethorp's door. Sir Ernest Heavywether made short work of her, and under his unmerciful bullying she contradicted herself hopelessly, and Sir Ernest sat down again with a satisfied smile on his face. With the evidence of Annie, as to the candle grease on the floor, and as to seeing the prisoner take the coffee into the boudoir, the proceedings were adjourned until the following day. As we went home, Mary Cavendish spoke bitterly against the prosecuting counsel. "That hateful man! What a net he has drawn around my poor John! How he twisted every little fact until he made it seem what it wasn't!" "Well," I said consolingly, "it will be the other way about to-morrow." "Yes," she said meditatively; then suddenly dropped her voice. "Mr. Hastings, you do not think surely it could not have been Lawrence Oh, no, that could not be!" But I myself was puzzled, and as soon as I was alone with Poirot I asked him what he thought Sir Ernest was driving at. "Ah!" said Poirot appreciatively. "He is a clever man, that Sir Ernest."<|quote|>"Do you think he believes Lawrence guilty?"</|quote|>"I do not think he believes or cares anything! No, what he is trying for is to create such confusion in the minds of the jury that they are divided in their opinion as to which brother did it. He is endeavouring to make out that there is quite as much evidence against Lawrence as against John and I am not at all sure that he will not succeed." Detective-inspector Japp was the first witness called when the trial was reopened, and gave his evidence succinctly and briefly. After relating the earlier events, he proceeded: "Acting on information received, Superintendent Summerhaye and myself searched the prisoner's room, during his temporary absence from the house. In his chest of drawers, hidden beneath some underclothing, we found: first, a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez similar to those worn by Mr. Inglethorp" these were exhibited "secondly, this phial." The phial was that already recognized by the chemist's assistant, a tiny bottle of blue glass, containing a few grains of a white crystalline powder, and labelled: "Strychnine Hydro-chloride. POISON." A fresh piece of evidence discovered by the detectives since the police court proceedings was a long, almost new piece of blotting-paper. It had been found | kept the letter. All transactions were entered in their books. They had sent the beard, as directed, to "L. Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court." Sir Ernest Heavywether rose ponderously. "Where was the letter written from?" "From Styles Court." "The same address to which you sent the parcel?" "Yes." "And the letter came from there?" "Yes." Like a beast of prey, Heavywether fell upon him: "How do you know?" "I I don't understand." "How do you know that letter came from Styles? Did you notice the postmark?" "No but" "Ah, you did _not_ notice the postmark! And yet you affirm so confidently that it came from Styles. It might, in fact, have been any postmark?" "Y es." "In fact, the letter, though written on stamped notepaper, might have been posted from anywhere? From Wales, for instance?" The witness admitted that such might be the case, and Sir Ernest signified that he was satisfied. Elizabeth Wells, second housemaid at Styles, stated that after she had gone to bed she remembered that she had bolted the front door, instead of leaving it on the latch as Mr. Inglethorp had requested. She had accordingly gone downstairs again to rectify her error. Hearing a slight noise in the West wing, she had peeped along the passage, and had seen Mr. John Cavendish knocking at Mrs. Inglethorp's door. Sir Ernest Heavywether made short work of her, and under his unmerciful bullying she contradicted herself hopelessly, and Sir Ernest sat down again with a satisfied smile on his face. With the evidence of Annie, as to the candle grease on the floor, and as to seeing the prisoner take the coffee into the boudoir, the proceedings were adjourned until the following day. As we went home, Mary Cavendish spoke bitterly against the prosecuting counsel. "That hateful man! What a net he has drawn around my poor John! How he twisted every little fact until he made it seem what it wasn't!" "Well," I said consolingly, "it will be the other way about to-morrow." "Yes," she said meditatively; then suddenly dropped her voice. "Mr. Hastings, you do not think surely it could not have been Lawrence Oh, no, that could not be!" But I myself was puzzled, and as soon as I was alone with Poirot I asked him what he thought Sir Ernest was driving at. "Ah!" said Poirot appreciatively. "He is a clever man, that Sir Ernest."<|quote|>"Do you think he believes Lawrence guilty?"</|quote|>"I do not think he believes or cares anything! No, what he is trying for is to create such confusion in the minds of the jury that they are divided in their opinion as to which brother did it. He is endeavouring to make out that there is quite as much evidence against Lawrence as against John and I am not at all sure that he will not succeed." Detective-inspector Japp was the first witness called when the trial was reopened, and gave his evidence succinctly and briefly. After relating the earlier events, he proceeded: "Acting on information received, Superintendent Summerhaye and myself searched the prisoner's room, during his temporary absence from the house. In his chest of drawers, hidden beneath some underclothing, we found: first, a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez similar to those worn by Mr. Inglethorp" these were exhibited "secondly, this phial." The phial was that already recognized by the chemist's assistant, a tiny bottle of blue glass, containing a few grains of a white crystalline powder, and labelled: "Strychnine Hydro-chloride. POISON." A fresh piece of evidence discovered by the detectives since the police court proceedings was a long, almost new piece of blotting-paper. It had been found in Mrs. Inglethorp's cheque book, and on being reversed at a mirror, showed clearly the words: ". . . erything of which I die possessed I leave to my beloved husband Alfred Ing..." This placed beyond question the fact that the destroyed will had been in favour of the deceased lady's husband. Japp then produced the charred fragment of paper recovered from the grate, and this, with the discovery of the beard in the attic, completed his evidence. But Sir Ernest's cross-examination was yet to come. "What day was it when you searched the prisoner's room?" "Tuesday, the 24th of July." "Exactly a week after the tragedy?" "Yes." "You found these two objects, you say, in the chest of drawers. Was the drawer unlocked?" "Yes." "Does it not strike you as unlikely that a man who had committed a crime should keep the evidence of it in an unlocked drawer for anyone to find?" "He might have stowed them there in a hurry." "But you have just said it was a whole week since the crime. He would have had ample time to remove them and destroy them." "Perhaps." "There is no perhaps about it. Would he, or would he | her mistress. A rather wistful smile passed across the face of the prisoner in the dock. He knew only too well how useless her gallant defiance was, since it was not the object of the defence to deny this point. Mrs. Cavendish, of course, could not be called upon to give evidence against her husband. After various questions on other matters, Mr. Philips asked: "In the month of June last, do you remember a parcel arriving for Mr. Lawrence Cavendish from Parkson's?" Dorcas shook her head. "I don't remember, sir. It may have done, but Mr. Lawrence was away from home part of June." "In the event of a parcel arriving for him whilst he was away, what would be done with it?" "It would either be put in his room or sent on after him." "By you?" "No, sir, I should leave it on the hall table. It would be Miss Howard who would attend to anything like that." Evelyn Howard was called and, after being examined on other points, was questioned as to the parcel. "Don't remember. Lots of parcels come. Can't remember one special one." "You do not know if it was sent after Mr. Lawrence Cavendish to Wales, or whether it was put in his room?" "Don't think it was sent after him. Should have remembered it if it was." "Supposing a parcel arrived addressed to Mr. Lawrence Cavendish, and afterwards it disappeared, should you remark its absence?" "No, don't think so. I should think someone had taken charge of it." "I believe, Miss Howard, that it was you who found this sheet of brown paper?" He held up the same dusty piece which Poirot and I had examined in the morning-room at Styles. "Yes, I did." "How did you come to look for it?" "The Belgian detective who was employed on the case asked me to search for it." "Where did you eventually discover it?" "On the top of of a wardrobe." "On top of the prisoner's wardrobe?" "I I believe so." "Did you not find it yourself?" "Yes." "Then you must know where you found it?" "Yes, it was on the prisoner's wardrobe." "That is better." An assistant from Parkson's, Theatrical Costumiers, testified that on June 29th, they had supplied a black beard to Mr. L. Cavendish, as requested. It was ordered by letter, and a postal order was enclosed. No, they had not kept the letter. All transactions were entered in their books. They had sent the beard, as directed, to "L. Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court." Sir Ernest Heavywether rose ponderously. "Where was the letter written from?" "From Styles Court." "The same address to which you sent the parcel?" "Yes." "And the letter came from there?" "Yes." Like a beast of prey, Heavywether fell upon him: "How do you know?" "I I don't understand." "How do you know that letter came from Styles? Did you notice the postmark?" "No but" "Ah, you did _not_ notice the postmark! And yet you affirm so confidently that it came from Styles. It might, in fact, have been any postmark?" "Y es." "In fact, the letter, though written on stamped notepaper, might have been posted from anywhere? From Wales, for instance?" The witness admitted that such might be the case, and Sir Ernest signified that he was satisfied. Elizabeth Wells, second housemaid at Styles, stated that after she had gone to bed she remembered that she had bolted the front door, instead of leaving it on the latch as Mr. Inglethorp had requested. She had accordingly gone downstairs again to rectify her error. Hearing a slight noise in the West wing, she had peeped along the passage, and had seen Mr. John Cavendish knocking at Mrs. Inglethorp's door. Sir Ernest Heavywether made short work of her, and under his unmerciful bullying she contradicted herself hopelessly, and Sir Ernest sat down again with a satisfied smile on his face. With the evidence of Annie, as to the candle grease on the floor, and as to seeing the prisoner take the coffee into the boudoir, the proceedings were adjourned until the following day. As we went home, Mary Cavendish spoke bitterly against the prosecuting counsel. "That hateful man! What a net he has drawn around my poor John! How he twisted every little fact until he made it seem what it wasn't!" "Well," I said consolingly, "it will be the other way about to-morrow." "Yes," she said meditatively; then suddenly dropped her voice. "Mr. Hastings, you do not think surely it could not have been Lawrence Oh, no, that could not be!" But I myself was puzzled, and as soon as I was alone with Poirot I asked him what he thought Sir Ernest was driving at. "Ah!" said Poirot appreciatively. "He is a clever man, that Sir Ernest."<|quote|>"Do you think he believes Lawrence guilty?"</|quote|>"I do not think he believes or cares anything! No, what he is trying for is to create such confusion in the minds of the jury that they are divided in their opinion as to which brother did it. He is endeavouring to make out that there is quite as much evidence against Lawrence as against John and I am not at all sure that he will not succeed." Detective-inspector Japp was the first witness called when the trial was reopened, and gave his evidence succinctly and briefly. After relating the earlier events, he proceeded: "Acting on information received, Superintendent Summerhaye and myself searched the prisoner's room, during his temporary absence from the house. In his chest of drawers, hidden beneath some underclothing, we found: first, a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez similar to those worn by Mr. Inglethorp" these were exhibited "secondly, this phial." The phial was that already recognized by the chemist's assistant, a tiny bottle of blue glass, containing a few grains of a white crystalline powder, and labelled: "Strychnine Hydro-chloride. POISON." A fresh piece of evidence discovered by the detectives since the police court proceedings was a long, almost new piece of blotting-paper. It had been found in Mrs. Inglethorp's cheque book, and on being reversed at a mirror, showed clearly the words: ". . . erything of which I die possessed I leave to my beloved husband Alfred Ing..." This placed beyond question the fact that the destroyed will had been in favour of the deceased lady's husband. Japp then produced the charred fragment of paper recovered from the grate, and this, with the discovery of the beard in the attic, completed his evidence. But Sir Ernest's cross-examination was yet to come. "What day was it when you searched the prisoner's room?" "Tuesday, the 24th of July." "Exactly a week after the tragedy?" "Yes." "You found these two objects, you say, in the chest of drawers. Was the drawer unlocked?" "Yes." "Does it not strike you as unlikely that a man who had committed a crime should keep the evidence of it in an unlocked drawer for anyone to find?" "He might have stowed them there in a hurry." "But you have just said it was a whole week since the crime. He would have had ample time to remove them and destroy them." "Perhaps." "There is no perhaps about it. Would he, or would he not have had plenty of time to remove and destroy them?" "Yes." "Was the pile of underclothes under which the things were hidden heavy or light?" "Heavyish." "In other words, it was winter underclothing. Obviously, the prisoner would not be likely to go to that drawer?" "Perhaps not." "Kindly answer my question. Would the prisoner, in the hottest week of a hot summer, be likely to go to a drawer containing winter underclothing. Yes, or no?" "No." "In that case, is it not possible that the articles in question might have been put there by a third person, and that the prisoner was quite unaware of their presence?" "I should not think it likely." "But it is possible?" "Yes." "That is all." More evidence followed. Evidence as to the financial difficulties in which the prisoner had found himself at the end of July. Evidence as to his intrigue with Mrs. Raikes poor Mary, that must have been bitter hearing for a woman of her pride. Evelyn Howard had been right in her facts, though her animosity against Alfred Inglethorp had caused her to jump to the conclusion that he was the person concerned. Lawrence Cavendish was then put into the box. In a low voice, in answer to Mr. Philips' questions, he denied having ordered anything from Parkson's in June. In fact, on June 29th, he had been staying away, in Wales. Instantly, Sir Ernest's chin was shooting pugnaciously forward. "You deny having ordered a black beard from Parkson's on June 29th?" "I do." "Ah! In the event of anything happening to your brother, who will inherit Styles Court?" The brutality of the question called a flush to Lawrence's pale face. The judge gave vent to a faint murmur of disapprobation, and the prisoner in the dock leant forward angrily. Heavywether cared nothing for his client's anger. "Answer my question, if you please." "I suppose," said Lawrence quietly, "that I should." "What do you mean by you suppose'? Your brother has no children. You _would_ inherit it, wouldn't you?" "Yes." "Ah, that's better," said Heavywether, with ferocious geniality. "And you'd inherit a good slice of money too, wouldn't you?" "Really, Sir Ernest," protested the judge, "these questions are not relevant." Sir Ernest bowed, and having shot his arrow proceeded. "On Tuesday, the 17th July, you went, I believe, with another guest, to visit the dispensary at the Red Cross Hospital | held up the same dusty piece which Poirot and I had examined in the morning-room at Styles. "Yes, I did." "How did you come to look for it?" "The Belgian detective who was employed on the case asked me to search for it." "Where did you eventually discover it?" "On the top of of a wardrobe." "On top of the prisoner's wardrobe?" "I I believe so." "Did you not find it yourself?" "Yes." "Then you must know where you found it?" "Yes, it was on the prisoner's wardrobe." "That is better." An assistant from Parkson's, Theatrical Costumiers, testified that on June 29th, they had supplied a black beard to Mr. L. Cavendish, as requested. It was ordered by letter, and a postal order was enclosed. No, they had not kept the letter. All transactions were entered in their books. They had sent the beard, as directed, to "L. Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court." Sir Ernest Heavywether rose ponderously. "Where was the letter written from?" "From Styles Court." "The same address to which you sent the parcel?" "Yes." "And the letter came from there?" "Yes." Like a beast of prey, Heavywether fell upon him: "How do you know?" "I I don't understand." "How do you know that letter came from Styles? Did you notice the postmark?" "No but" "Ah, you did _not_ notice the postmark! And yet you affirm so confidently that it came from Styles. It might, in fact, have been any postmark?" "Y es." "In fact, the letter, though written on stamped notepaper, might have been posted from anywhere? From Wales, for instance?" The witness admitted that such might be the case, and Sir Ernest signified that he was satisfied. Elizabeth Wells, second housemaid at Styles, stated that after she had gone to bed she remembered that she had bolted the front door, instead of leaving it on the latch as Mr. Inglethorp had requested. She had accordingly gone downstairs again to rectify her error. Hearing a slight noise in the West wing, she had peeped along the passage, and had seen Mr. John Cavendish knocking at Mrs. Inglethorp's door. Sir Ernest Heavywether made short work of her, and under his unmerciful bullying she contradicted herself hopelessly, and Sir Ernest sat down again with a satisfied smile on his face. With the evidence of Annie, as to the candle grease on the floor, and as to seeing the prisoner take the coffee into the boudoir, the proceedings were adjourned until the following day. As we went home, Mary Cavendish spoke bitterly against the prosecuting counsel. "That hateful man! What a net he has drawn around my poor John! How he twisted every little fact until he made it seem what it wasn't!" "Well," I said consolingly, "it will be the other way about to-morrow." "Yes," she said meditatively; then suddenly dropped her voice. "Mr. Hastings, you do not think surely it could not have been Lawrence Oh, no, that could not be!" But I myself was puzzled, and as soon as I was alone with Poirot I asked him what he thought Sir Ernest was driving at. "Ah!" said Poirot appreciatively. "He is a clever man, that Sir Ernest."<|quote|>"Do you think he believes Lawrence guilty?"</|quote|>"I do not think he believes or cares anything! No, what he is trying for is to create such confusion in the minds of the jury that they are divided in their opinion as to which brother did it. He is endeavouring to make out that there is quite as much evidence against Lawrence as against John and I am not at all sure that he will not succeed." Detective-inspector Japp was the first witness called when the trial was reopened, and gave his evidence succinctly and briefly. After relating the earlier events, he proceeded: "Acting on information received, Superintendent Summerhaye and myself searched the prisoner's room, during his temporary absence from the house. In his chest of drawers, hidden beneath some underclothing, we found: first, a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez similar to those worn by Mr. Inglethorp" these were exhibited "secondly, this phial." The phial was that already recognized by the chemist's assistant, a tiny bottle of blue glass, containing a few grains of a white crystalline powder, and labelled: "Strychnine Hydro-chloride. POISON." A fresh piece of evidence discovered by the detectives since the police court proceedings was a long, almost new piece of blotting-paper. It had been found in Mrs. Inglethorp's cheque book, and on being reversed at a mirror, showed clearly the words: ". . . erything of which I die possessed I leave to my beloved husband Alfred Ing..." This placed beyond question the fact that the destroyed will had been in favour of the deceased lady's husband. Japp then produced the charred fragment of paper recovered from the grate, and this, with the discovery of the beard in the attic, completed his evidence. But Sir Ernest's cross-examination was yet to come. "What day was it when you searched the prisoner's room?" "Tuesday, the 24th of | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
"If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from? Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in a country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?" | Henry Tilney | would have been very shocking!"<|quote|>"If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from? Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in a country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?"</|quote|>They had reached the end | of it," said Catherine; "it would have been very shocking!"<|quote|>"If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from? Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in a country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?"</|quote|>They had reached the end of the gallery, and with | she might not often have had much to bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment never did. His value of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her death." "I am very glad of it," said Catherine; "it would have been very shocking!"<|quote|>"If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from? Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in a country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?"</|quote|>They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame she ran off to her own room. CHAPTER 25 The visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened. Henry s address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her eyes to the extravagance of | time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached to her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for him to we have not all, you know, the same tenderness of disposition and I will not pretend to say that while she lived, she might not often have had much to bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment never did. His value of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her death." "I am very glad of it," said Catherine; "it would have been very shocking!"<|quote|>"If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from? Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in a country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?"</|quote|>They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame she ran off to her own room. CHAPTER 25 The visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened. Henry s address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her eyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several disappointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled. Most bitterly did she cry. It was not only with herself that she was sunk but with Henry. Her folly, which now seemed even criminal, was all exposed to him, and he must despise her | the next day, and remained in almost constant attendance for four and twenty hours. On the fifth day she died. During the progress of her disorder, Frederick and I (_we_ were both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our own observation can bear witness to her having received every possible attention which could spring from the affection of those about her, or which her situation in life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a distance as to return only to see her mother in her coffin." "But your father," said Catherine, "was _he_ afflicted?" "For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached to her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for him to we have not all, you know, the same tenderness of disposition and I will not pretend to say that while she lived, she might not often have had much to bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment never did. His value of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her death." "I am very glad of it," said Catherine; "it would have been very shocking!"<|quote|>"If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from? Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in a country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?"</|quote|>They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame she ran off to her own room. CHAPTER 25 The visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened. Henry s address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her eyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several disappointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled. Most bitterly did she cry. It was not only with herself that she was sunk but with Henry. Her folly, which now seemed even criminal, was all exposed to him, and he must despise her forever. The liberty which her imagination had dared to take with the character of his father could he ever forgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears could they ever be forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express. He had she thought he had, once or twice before this fatal morning, shown something like affection for her. But now in short, she made herself as miserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when the clock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give an intelligible answer to Eleanor s inquiry if | do not often create that kind of fervent, venerating tenderness which would prompt a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose, has talked of her a great deal?" "Yes, a great deal. That is no, not much, but what she did say was very interesting. Her dying so suddenly" (slowly, and with hesitation it was spoken), "and you none of you being at home and your father, I thought perhaps had not been very fond of her." "And from these circumstances," he replied (his quick eye fixed on hers), "you infer perhaps the probability of some negligence some" (involuntarily she shook her head) "or it may be of something still less pardonable." She raised her eyes towards him more fully than she had ever done before. "My mother s illness," he continued, "the seizure which ended in her death, _was_ sudden. The malady itself, one from which she had often suffered, a bilious fever its cause therefore constitutional. On the third day, in short, as soon as she could be prevailed on, a physician attended her, a very respectable man, and one in whom she had always placed great confidence. Upon his opinion of her danger, two others were called in the next day, and remained in almost constant attendance for four and twenty hours. On the fifth day she died. During the progress of her disorder, Frederick and I (_we_ were both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our own observation can bear witness to her having received every possible attention which could spring from the affection of those about her, or which her situation in life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a distance as to return only to see her mother in her coffin." "But your father," said Catherine, "was _he_ afflicted?" "For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached to her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for him to we have not all, you know, the same tenderness of disposition and I will not pretend to say that while she lived, she might not often have had much to bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment never did. His value of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her death." "I am very glad of it," said Catherine; "it would have been very shocking!"<|quote|>"If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from? Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in a country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?"</|quote|>They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame she ran off to her own room. CHAPTER 25 The visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened. Henry s address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her eyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several disappointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled. Most bitterly did she cry. It was not only with herself that she was sunk but with Henry. Her folly, which now seemed even criminal, was all exposed to him, and he must despise her forever. The liberty which her imagination had dared to take with the character of his father could he ever forgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears could they ever be forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express. He had she thought he had, once or twice before this fatal morning, shown something like affection for her. But now in short, she made herself as miserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when the clock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give an intelligible answer to Eleanor s inquiry if she was well. The formidable Henry soon followed her into the room, and the only difference in his behaviour to her was that he paid her rather more attention than usual. Catherine had never wanted comfort more, and he looked as if he was aware of it. The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness; and her spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. She did not learn either to forget or defend the past; but she learned to hope that it would never transpire farther, and that it might not cost her Henry s entire regard. Her thoughts being still chiefly fixed on what she had with such causeless terror felt and done, nothing could shortly be clearer than that it had been all a voluntary, self-created delusion, each trifling circumstance receiving importance from an imagination resolved on alarm, and everything forced to bend to one purpose by a mind which, before she entered the abbey, had been craving to be frightened. She remembered with what feelings she had prepared for a knowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation had been created, the mischief settled, long before her quitting Bath, and it seemed as | by running so fast up those stairs. Perhaps you did not know you were not aware of their leading from the offices in common use?" "No, I was not. You have had a very fine day for your ride." "Very; and does Eleanor leave you to find your way into all the rooms in the house by yourself?" "Oh! No; she showed me over the greatest part on Saturday and we were coming here to these rooms but only" dropping her voice "your father was with us." "And that prevented you," said Henry, earnestly regarding her. "Have you looked into all the rooms in that passage?" "No, I only wanted to see Is not it very late? I must go and dress." "It is only a quarter past four" showing his watch "and you are not now in Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for. Half an hour at Northanger must be enough." She could not contradict it, and therefore suffered herself to be detained, though her dread of further questions made her, for the first time in their acquaintance, wish to leave him. They walked slowly up the gallery. "Have you had any letter from Bath since I saw you?" "No, and I am very much surprised. Isabella promised so faithfully to write directly." "Promised so faithfully! A faithful promise! That puzzles me. I have heard of a faithful performance. But a faithful promise the fidelity of promising! It is a power little worth knowing, however, since it can deceive and pain you. My mother s room is very commodious, is it not? Large and cheerful-looking, and the dressing-closets so well disposed! It always strikes me as the most comfortable apartment in the house, and I rather wonder that Eleanor should not take it for her own. She sent you to look at it, I suppose?" "No." "It has been your own doing entirely?" Catherine said nothing. After a short silence, during which he had closely observed her, he added, "As there is nothing in the room in itself to raise curiosity, this must have proceeded from a sentiment of respect for my mother s character, as described by Eleanor, which does honour to her memory. The world, I believe, never saw a better woman. But it is not often that virtue can boast an interest such as this. The domestic, unpretending merits of a person never known do not often create that kind of fervent, venerating tenderness which would prompt a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose, has talked of her a great deal?" "Yes, a great deal. That is no, not much, but what she did say was very interesting. Her dying so suddenly" (slowly, and with hesitation it was spoken), "and you none of you being at home and your father, I thought perhaps had not been very fond of her." "And from these circumstances," he replied (his quick eye fixed on hers), "you infer perhaps the probability of some negligence some" (involuntarily she shook her head) "or it may be of something still less pardonable." She raised her eyes towards him more fully than she had ever done before. "My mother s illness," he continued, "the seizure which ended in her death, _was_ sudden. The malady itself, one from which she had often suffered, a bilious fever its cause therefore constitutional. On the third day, in short, as soon as she could be prevailed on, a physician attended her, a very respectable man, and one in whom she had always placed great confidence. Upon his opinion of her danger, two others were called in the next day, and remained in almost constant attendance for four and twenty hours. On the fifth day she died. During the progress of her disorder, Frederick and I (_we_ were both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our own observation can bear witness to her having received every possible attention which could spring from the affection of those about her, or which her situation in life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a distance as to return only to see her mother in her coffin." "But your father," said Catherine, "was _he_ afflicted?" "For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached to her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for him to we have not all, you know, the same tenderness of disposition and I will not pretend to say that while she lived, she might not often have had much to bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment never did. His value of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her death." "I am very glad of it," said Catherine; "it would have been very shocking!"<|quote|>"If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from? Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in a country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?"</|quote|>They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame she ran off to her own room. CHAPTER 25 The visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened. Henry s address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her eyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several disappointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled. Most bitterly did she cry. It was not only with herself that she was sunk but with Henry. Her folly, which now seemed even criminal, was all exposed to him, and he must despise her forever. The liberty which her imagination had dared to take with the character of his father could he ever forgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears could they ever be forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express. He had she thought he had, once or twice before this fatal morning, shown something like affection for her. But now in short, she made herself as miserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when the clock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give an intelligible answer to Eleanor s inquiry if she was well. The formidable Henry soon followed her into the room, and the only difference in his behaviour to her was that he paid her rather more attention than usual. Catherine had never wanted comfort more, and he looked as if he was aware of it. The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness; and her spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. She did not learn either to forget or defend the past; but she learned to hope that it would never transpire farther, and that it might not cost her Henry s entire regard. Her thoughts being still chiefly fixed on what she had with such causeless terror felt and done, nothing could shortly be clearer than that it had been all a voluntary, self-created delusion, each trifling circumstance receiving importance from an imagination resolved on alarm, and everything forced to bend to one purpose by a mind which, before she entered the abbey, had been craving to be frightened. She remembered with what feelings she had prepared for a knowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation had been created, the mischief settled, long before her quitting Bath, and it seemed as if the whole might be traced to the influence of that sort of reading which she had there indulged. Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe s works, and charming even as were the works of all her imitators, it was not in them perhaps that human nature, at least in the Midland counties of England, was to be looked for. Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests and their vices, they might give a faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, and the south of France might be as fruitful in horrors as they were there represented. Catherine dared not doubt beyond her own country, and even of that, if hard pressed, would have yielded the northern and western extremities. But in the central part of England there was surely some security for the existence even of a wife not beloved, in the laws of the land, and the manners of the age. Murder was not tolerated, servants were not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping potions to be procured, like rhubarb, from every druggist. Among the Alps and Pyrenees, perhaps, there were no mixed characters. There, such as were not as spotless as an angel might have the dispositions of a fiend. But in England it was not so; among the English, she believed, in their hearts and habits, there was a general though unequal mixture of good and bad. Upon this conviction, she would not be surprised if even in Henry and Eleanor Tilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter appear; and upon this conviction she need not fear to acknowledge some actual specks in the character of their father, who, though cleared from the grossly injurious suspicions which she must ever blush to have entertained, she did believe, upon serious consideration, to be not perfectly amiable. Her mind made up on these several points, and her resolution formed, of always judging and acting in future with the greatest good sense, she had nothing to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever; and the lenient hand of time did much for her by insensible gradations in the course of another day. Henry s astonishing generosity and nobleness of conduct, in never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed, was of the greatest assistance to her; and sooner than she could have supposed it possible in the beginning of her distress, her spirits became absolutely | father, I thought perhaps had not been very fond of her." "And from these circumstances," he replied (his quick eye fixed on hers), "you infer perhaps the probability of some negligence some" (involuntarily she shook her head) "or it may be of something still less pardonable." She raised her eyes towards him more fully than she had ever done before. "My mother s illness," he continued, "the seizure which ended in her death, _was_ sudden. The malady itself, one from which she had often suffered, a bilious fever its cause therefore constitutional. On the third day, in short, as soon as she could be prevailed on, a physician attended her, a very respectable man, and one in whom she had always placed great confidence. Upon his opinion of her danger, two others were called in the next day, and remained in almost constant attendance for four and twenty hours. On the fifth day she died. During the progress of her disorder, Frederick and I (_we_ were both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our own observation can bear witness to her having received every possible attention which could spring from the affection of those about her, or which her situation in life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a distance as to return only to see her mother in her coffin." "But your father," said Catherine, "was _he_ afflicted?" "For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached to her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for him to we have not all, you know, the same tenderness of disposition and I will not pretend to say that while she lived, she might not often have had much to bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment never did. His value of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her death." "I am very glad of it," said Catherine; "it would have been very shocking!"<|quote|>"If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from? Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in a country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?"</|quote|>They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame she ran off to her own room. CHAPTER 25 The visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened. Henry s address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her eyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several disappointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled. Most bitterly did she cry. It was not only with herself that she was sunk but with Henry. Her folly, which now seemed even criminal, was all exposed to him, and he must despise her forever. The liberty which her imagination had dared to take with the character of his father could he ever forgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears could they ever be forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express. He had she thought he had, once or twice before this fatal morning, shown something like affection for her. But now in short, she made herself as miserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when the clock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give an intelligible answer to Eleanor s inquiry if she was well. The formidable Henry soon followed her into the room, and the only difference in his behaviour to her was that he paid her rather more attention than usual. Catherine had never wanted comfort more, and he looked as if he was aware of it. The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness; and her spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. She did not learn either to forget or defend the past; but she learned to hope that it would never transpire farther, and that it might not cost her Henry s entire regard. Her thoughts being still | Northanger Abbey |
Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity, | No speaker | a pretty woman can bestow."<|quote|>Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity,</|quote|>"Miss Elizabeth Bennet." "Miss Elizabeth | eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow."<|quote|>Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity,</|quote|>"Miss Elizabeth Bennet." "Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" repeated Miss Bingley. "I | all these people!--What would I give to hear your strictures on them!" "Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow."<|quote|>Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity,</|quote|>"Miss Elizabeth Bennet." "Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" repeated Miss Bingley. "I am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite?--and pray when am I to wish you joy?" "That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration | 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!" "Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow."<|quote|>Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity,</|quote|>"Miss Elizabeth Bennet." "Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" repeated Miss Bingley. "I am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite?--and pray when am I to wish you joy?" "That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy." "Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as absolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law, indeed, and of course she will be always at Pemberley with | 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!" "Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow."<|quote|>Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity,</|quote|>"Miss Elizabeth Bennet." "Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" repeated Miss Bingley. "I am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite?--and pray when am I to wish you joy?" "That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy." "Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as absolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law, indeed, and of course she will be always at Pemberley with you." He listened to her with perfect indifference, while she chose to entertain herself in this manner, and as his composure convinced her that all was safe, her wit flowed long. CHAPTER VII. Mr. Bennet's property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother's fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds. She had a | 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!" "Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow."<|quote|>Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity,</|quote|>"Miss Elizabeth Bennet." "Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" repeated Miss Bingley. "I am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite?--and pray when am I to wish you joy?" "That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy." "Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as absolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law, indeed, and of course she will be always at Pemberley with you." He listened to her with perfect indifference, while she chose to entertain herself in this manner, and as his composure convinced her that all was safe, her wit flowed long. CHAPTER VII. Mr. Bennet's property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother's fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds. She had a sister married to a Mr. Philips, who had been a clerk to their father, and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in London in a respectable line of trade. The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt and to a milliner's shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions; their minds were more vacant than their sisters', and when nothing better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and however bare of news the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the head quarters. Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the | 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!" "Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow."<|quote|>Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity,</|quote|>"Miss Elizabeth Bennet." "Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" repeated Miss Bingley. "I am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite?--and pray when am I to wish you joy?" "That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy." "Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as absolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law, indeed, and of course she will be always at Pemberley with you." He listened to her with perfect indifference, while she chose to entertain herself in this manner, and as his composure convinced her that all was safe, her wit flowed long. CHAPTER VII. Mr. Bennet's property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother's fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds. She had a sister married to a Mr. Philips, who had been a clerk to their father, and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in London in a respectable line of trade. The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt and to a milliner's shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions; their minds were more vacant than their sisters', and when nothing better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and however bare of news the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the head quarters. Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the officers' names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a secret, and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Philips visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a source of felicity unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. Bingley's large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an ensign. After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr. Bennet coolly observed, "From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but I am now convinced." Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect indifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter, and her hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the next morning to London. "I am astonished, my dear," said Mrs. Bennet, "that you should be so ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly of any body's children, it should not be of my own however." "If my children are silly I must hope to be always sensible of it." "Yes--but as it happens, they are all of them very clever." "This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must so far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly foolish." "My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of their father and mother.--When they get to our age I dare say they will not think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when I liked a red coat myself very well--and indeed so I do still at my heart; and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year, should want one of my girls, I shall not say nay to him; and I thought Colonel Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William's in his regimentals." "Mama," cried Lydia, "my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson's as they did when they first came; she sees them now very often standing | 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!" "Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow."<|quote|>Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity,</|quote|>"Miss Elizabeth Bennet." "Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" repeated Miss Bingley. "I am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite?--and pray when am I to wish you joy?" "That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy." "Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as absolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law, indeed, and of course she will be always at Pemberley with you." He listened to her with perfect indifference, while she chose to entertain herself in this manner, and as his composure convinced her that all was safe, her wit flowed long. CHAPTER VII. Mr. Bennet's property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother's fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds. She had a sister married to a Mr. Philips, who had been a clerk to their father, and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in London in a respectable line of trade. The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt and to a milliner's shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions; their minds were more vacant than their sisters', and when nothing better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and however bare of news the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the head quarters. Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the officers' names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a secret, and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Philips visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a source of felicity unknown before. | Pride And Prejudice |
"Poor little boy. Poor little boy," | Brenda | to be there," said nanny.<|quote|>"Poor little boy. Poor little boy,"</|quote|>said Brenda to herself, when | "Can't think how it came to be there," said nanny.<|quote|>"Poor little boy. Poor little boy,"</|quote|>said Brenda to herself, when nanny had left her, and | you please, my lady, I've been going through John's things. There's this handkerchief doesn't belong to him." The heavy scent and crowned cipher at the corner proclaimed its origin. "I know whose it is. I'll send it back to her." "Can't think how it came to be there," said nanny.<|quote|>"Poor little boy. Poor little boy,"</|quote|>said Brenda to herself, when nanny had left her, and gazed out across the troubled landscape. * * * * * "I was thinking about the pony, sir." "Oh yes, Ben?" "Will you want to be keeping her now?" "I hadn't thought... no, I suppose not." "Mr Westmacott over at | naked tossing trees, the church towers, the maelstroms of dust and leaf which eddied about the terrace below; she still held her hat and fidgeted with her fingers on the brooch which was clipped to one side of it. Nanny knocked at the door and came in, red eyed. "If you please, my lady, I've been going through John's things. There's this handkerchief doesn't belong to him." The heavy scent and crowned cipher at the corner proclaimed its origin. "I know whose it is. I'll send it back to her." "Can't think how it came to be there," said nanny.<|quote|>"Poor little boy. Poor little boy,"</|quote|>said Brenda to herself, when nanny had left her, and gazed out across the troubled landscape. * * * * * "I was thinking about the pony, sir." "Oh yes, Ben?" "Will you want to be keeping her now?" "I hadn't thought... no, I suppose not." "Mr Westmacott over at Restall was asking about her. He thought she might do for his little girl." "Yes." "How much shall we be asking?" "Oh, I don't know... whatever you think is right." "She's a good little pony and she's always been treated well. I don't think she ought to go under twenty-five | down into one of the armchairs in the centre of the hall, which nobody ever used. She sat there doing nothing. Tony put his hand on her shoulder but she said "Don't" ", not impatiently or nervously but without any expression. Tony said, "I'll go and finish those letters." "Yes." "See you at luncheon." "Yes." She rose, looked round listlessly for her hat, found it and went very slowly upstairs, the sunlight through the stained-glass windows glowing and sparkling all about her. In her room she sat on the window seat, looking out across the meadows and dun ploughland, the naked tossing trees, the church towers, the maelstroms of dust and leaf which eddied about the terrace below; she still held her hat and fidgeted with her fingers on the brooch which was clipped to one side of it. Nanny knocked at the door and came in, red eyed. "If you please, my lady, I've been going through John's things. There's this handkerchief doesn't belong to him." The heavy scent and crowned cipher at the corner proclaimed its origin. "I know whose it is. I'll send it back to her." "Can't think how it came to be there," said nanny.<|quote|>"Poor little boy. Poor little boy,"</|quote|>said Brenda to herself, when nanny had left her, and gazed out across the troubled landscape. * * * * * "I was thinking about the pony, sir." "Oh yes, Ben?" "Will you want to be keeping her now?" "I hadn't thought... no, I suppose not." "Mr Westmacott over at Restall was asking about her. He thought she might do for his little girl." "Yes." "How much shall we be asking?" "Oh, I don't know... whatever you think is right." "She's a good little pony and she's always been treated well. I don't think she ought to go under twenty-five quid, sir." "All right, Ben, you see about it." "I'll ask thirty, shall I, sir, and come down a bit?" "Do just what you think best." "Very good, sir." * * * * * At luncheon Tony said, "Jock rang up. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do." "How sweet of him. Why don't you have him down for the week-end?" "Would you like that?" "I shan't be here. I'm going to Veronica's." "You're going to Veronica's?" "Yes, don't you remember?" There were servants in the room so that they said nothing more until later, when | other since Brenda's arrival. Tony had driven to the station to meet her; by the time they reached the house Mrs Rattery had gone to bed; that morning she left in her aeroplane without seeing either of them. They heard the machine pass over the house, Brenda in her bath, Tony downstairs in his study attending to the correspondence that had become necessary. A day of fitful sunshine and blustering wind; white and grey clouds were scarcely moving, high overhead, but the bare trees round the house swayed and shook and there were swift whirlpools of straw in the stable yard. Ben changed from the Sunday suit he had worn at the inquest and went about his duties. Thunderclap, too, had been kicked yesterday and was very slightly lame in the off fore. Brenda took off her hat and threw it down on a chair in the hall. "Nothing to say, is there?" "There's no need to talk." "No. I suppose there'll have to be a funeral." "Well, of course." "Yes: to-morrow?" She looked into the morning-room. "They've done quite a lot, haven't they?" All Brenda's movements were slower than usual and her voice was flat and expressionless. She sank down into one of the armchairs in the centre of the hall, which nobody ever used. She sat there doing nothing. Tony put his hand on her shoulder but she said "Don't" ", not impatiently or nervously but without any expression. Tony said, "I'll go and finish those letters." "Yes." "See you at luncheon." "Yes." She rose, looked round listlessly for her hat, found it and went very slowly upstairs, the sunlight through the stained-glass windows glowing and sparkling all about her. In her room she sat on the window seat, looking out across the meadows and dun ploughland, the naked tossing trees, the church towers, the maelstroms of dust and leaf which eddied about the terrace below; she still held her hat and fidgeted with her fingers on the brooch which was clipped to one side of it. Nanny knocked at the door and came in, red eyed. "If you please, my lady, I've been going through John's things. There's this handkerchief doesn't belong to him." The heavy scent and crowned cipher at the corner proclaimed its origin. "I know whose it is. I'll send it back to her." "Can't think how it came to be there," said nanny.<|quote|>"Poor little boy. Poor little boy,"</|quote|>said Brenda to herself, when nanny had left her, and gazed out across the troubled landscape. * * * * * "I was thinking about the pony, sir." "Oh yes, Ben?" "Will you want to be keeping her now?" "I hadn't thought... no, I suppose not." "Mr Westmacott over at Restall was asking about her. He thought she might do for his little girl." "Yes." "How much shall we be asking?" "Oh, I don't know... whatever you think is right." "She's a good little pony and she's always been treated well. I don't think she ought to go under twenty-five quid, sir." "All right, Ben, you see about it." "I'll ask thirty, shall I, sir, and come down a bit?" "Do just what you think best." "Very good, sir." * * * * * At luncheon Tony said, "Jock rang up. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do." "How sweet of him. Why don't you have him down for the week-end?" "Would you like that?" "I shan't be here. I'm going to Veronica's." "You're going to Veronica's?" "Yes, don't you remember?" There were servants in the room so that they said nothing more until later, when they were alone in the library. Then, "Are you really going away?" "Yes. I can't stay here. You understand that, don't you?" "Yes, of course. I was thinking we might both go away, abroad somewhere." Brenda did not answer him but continued in her own line. "I couldn't stay here. It's all over, don't you see, our life down here." "Darling, what _do_ you mean?" "Don't ask me to explain... not just now." "But, Brenda, sweet, I don't understand. We're both young. Of course, we can never forget John. He'll always be our eldest son, but..." "Don't go on, Tony, please don't go on." So Tony stopped and after a time said, "So you're going to Veronica's to-morrow?" "Mmmm." "I think I will ask Jock to come." "Yes, I should." "And we can think about plans later when we've got more used to things." "Yes, later." Next morning. "A sweet letter from mother," said Brenda, handing it across. Lady St Cloud had written: ...I shall not come down to Hetton for the funeral, but I shall be thinking of you both all the time and of my dear grandson. I shall think of you as I saw you all three, | the carriage, laden with light parcels. * * * * * When the news became known, Marjorie said to Allan, "Well, anyway, this will mean the end of Mr Beaver." But Polly Cockpurse said to Veronica, "That's the end of Tony so far as Brenda is concerned." The impoverished Lasts were stunned by the telegram. They lived on an extensive but unprofitable chicken farm near Princes Risborough. It did not enter the heads of any of them that now, if anything happened, they were the heirs to Hetton. Had it done so, their grief would have been just as keen. Jock drove from Paddington to Bratt's. One of the men by the bar said, "Ghastly thing about Tony Last's boy." "Yes, I was there." "No, were you? What a ghastly thing." Later a telephone message came: "Princess Abdul Akbar wishes to know whether you are in the club." "No, no, tell her I'm not here," said Jock. [VIII] The inquest was held at eleven o'clock next morning; it was soon over. The doctor, the bus-driver, Ben and Miss Ripon gave evidence. Miss Ripon was allowed to remain seated. She was very white and spoke in a trembling voice; her father glared at her from a nearby seat; under her hat was a small bare patch, where they had shaved off her hair to clean her cut. In his summary the coroner remarked that it was clear from the evidence that nobody was in any way to blame for the misadventure; it only remained to express the deep sympathy of the court to Mr Last and Lady Brenda in their terrible loss. The people fell back to allow Tony and Brenda to leave the room. Colonel Inch and the hunt secretary were both present. Everything was done with delicacy and to show respect for their sorrow. Brenda said, "Wait a minute. I must just speak to that poor Ripon girl." She did it charmingly. When everyone had gone. Tony said, "I wish you had been here yesterday. There were so many people about and I didn't know what to say to them." "What did you do all day?" "There was the Shameless Blonde... we played animal snap some of the time." "Animal snap? Was that any good?" "Not much... It's odd to think that yesterday this time it hadn't happened." "Poor little boy," said Brenda. They had scarcely spoken to each other since Brenda's arrival. Tony had driven to the station to meet her; by the time they reached the house Mrs Rattery had gone to bed; that morning she left in her aeroplane without seeing either of them. They heard the machine pass over the house, Brenda in her bath, Tony downstairs in his study attending to the correspondence that had become necessary. A day of fitful sunshine and blustering wind; white and grey clouds were scarcely moving, high overhead, but the bare trees round the house swayed and shook and there were swift whirlpools of straw in the stable yard. Ben changed from the Sunday suit he had worn at the inquest and went about his duties. Thunderclap, too, had been kicked yesterday and was very slightly lame in the off fore. Brenda took off her hat and threw it down on a chair in the hall. "Nothing to say, is there?" "There's no need to talk." "No. I suppose there'll have to be a funeral." "Well, of course." "Yes: to-morrow?" She looked into the morning-room. "They've done quite a lot, haven't they?" All Brenda's movements were slower than usual and her voice was flat and expressionless. She sank down into one of the armchairs in the centre of the hall, which nobody ever used. She sat there doing nothing. Tony put his hand on her shoulder but she said "Don't" ", not impatiently or nervously but without any expression. Tony said, "I'll go and finish those letters." "Yes." "See you at luncheon." "Yes." She rose, looked round listlessly for her hat, found it and went very slowly upstairs, the sunlight through the stained-glass windows glowing and sparkling all about her. In her room she sat on the window seat, looking out across the meadows and dun ploughland, the naked tossing trees, the church towers, the maelstroms of dust and leaf which eddied about the terrace below; she still held her hat and fidgeted with her fingers on the brooch which was clipped to one side of it. Nanny knocked at the door and came in, red eyed. "If you please, my lady, I've been going through John's things. There's this handkerchief doesn't belong to him." The heavy scent and crowned cipher at the corner proclaimed its origin. "I know whose it is. I'll send it back to her." "Can't think how it came to be there," said nanny.<|quote|>"Poor little boy. Poor little boy,"</|quote|>said Brenda to herself, when nanny had left her, and gazed out across the troubled landscape. * * * * * "I was thinking about the pony, sir." "Oh yes, Ben?" "Will you want to be keeping her now?" "I hadn't thought... no, I suppose not." "Mr Westmacott over at Restall was asking about her. He thought she might do for his little girl." "Yes." "How much shall we be asking?" "Oh, I don't know... whatever you think is right." "She's a good little pony and she's always been treated well. I don't think she ought to go under twenty-five quid, sir." "All right, Ben, you see about it." "I'll ask thirty, shall I, sir, and come down a bit?" "Do just what you think best." "Very good, sir." * * * * * At luncheon Tony said, "Jock rang up. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do." "How sweet of him. Why don't you have him down for the week-end?" "Would you like that?" "I shan't be here. I'm going to Veronica's." "You're going to Veronica's?" "Yes, don't you remember?" There were servants in the room so that they said nothing more until later, when they were alone in the library. Then, "Are you really going away?" "Yes. I can't stay here. You understand that, don't you?" "Yes, of course. I was thinking we might both go away, abroad somewhere." Brenda did not answer him but continued in her own line. "I couldn't stay here. It's all over, don't you see, our life down here." "Darling, what _do_ you mean?" "Don't ask me to explain... not just now." "But, Brenda, sweet, I don't understand. We're both young. Of course, we can never forget John. He'll always be our eldest son, but..." "Don't go on, Tony, please don't go on." So Tony stopped and after a time said, "So you're going to Veronica's to-morrow?" "Mmmm." "I think I will ask Jock to come." "Yes, I should." "And we can think about plans later when we've got more used to things." "Yes, later." Next morning. "A sweet letter from mother," said Brenda, handing it across. Lady St Cloud had written: ...I shall not come down to Hetton for the funeral, but I shall be thinking of you both all the time and of my dear grandson. I shall think of you as I saw you all three, together, at Christmas. Dear children, at a time like this only yourselves can be any help to each other. Love is the only thing that is stronger than sorrow... "I got a telegram from Jock," said Tony, "he _can_ come." "It's really rather embarrassing for us all, Brenda coming," said Veronica. "I do think she might have chucked. I shan't in the least know what to say to her." * * * * * Tony said to Jock, as they sat alone after dinner, "I've been trying to understand, and I think I do now. It's not how I feel myself, but Brenda and I are quite different in lots of ways. It's _because_ they were strangers and didn't know John, and were never in our life here, that she wants to be with them. That's it, don't you think? She wants to be absolutely alone and away from everything that reminds her of what has happened... all the same I feel awful about letting her go. I can't tell you what she was like here... quite mechanical. It's so much worse for her than it is for me, I see that. It's so terrible not being able to do anything to help." Jock did not answer. * * * * * Beaver was staying at Veronica's. Brenda said to him, "Until Wednesday, when I thought something had happened to you, I had no idea that I loved you." "Well you've said it often enough." "I'm going to make you understand," said Brenda. "You clod." * * * * * On Monday morning Tony found this letter on his breakfast tray. Darling Tony, I am not coming back to Hetton. Grimshawe can pack everything and bring it to the flat. Then I shan't want her any more. You must have realized for some time that things were going wrong. I am in love with John Beaver and I want to have a divorce and marry him. If John Andrew had not died things might not have happened like this. I can't tell. As it is, I simply can't begin over again. Please do not mind too much. I suppose we shan't be allowed to meet while the case is on but I hope afterwards we shall be great friends. Anyway, I shall always look on you as one whatever you think of me. Best love from Brenda. When Tony read | Rattery had gone to bed; that morning she left in her aeroplane without seeing either of them. They heard the machine pass over the house, Brenda in her bath, Tony downstairs in his study attending to the correspondence that had become necessary. A day of fitful sunshine and blustering wind; white and grey clouds were scarcely moving, high overhead, but the bare trees round the house swayed and shook and there were swift whirlpools of straw in the stable yard. Ben changed from the Sunday suit he had worn at the inquest and went about his duties. Thunderclap, too, had been kicked yesterday and was very slightly lame in the off fore. Brenda took off her hat and threw it down on a chair in the hall. "Nothing to say, is there?" "There's no need to talk." "No. I suppose there'll have to be a funeral." "Well, of course." "Yes: to-morrow?" She looked into the morning-room. "They've done quite a lot, haven't they?" All Brenda's movements were slower than usual and her voice was flat and expressionless. She sank down into one of the armchairs in the centre of the hall, which nobody ever used. She sat there doing nothing. Tony put his hand on her shoulder but she said "Don't" ", not impatiently or nervously but without any expression. Tony said, "I'll go and finish those letters." "Yes." "See you at luncheon." "Yes." She rose, looked round listlessly for her hat, found it and went very slowly upstairs, the sunlight through the stained-glass windows glowing and sparkling all about her. In her room she sat on the window seat, looking out across the meadows and dun ploughland, the naked tossing trees, the church towers, the maelstroms of dust and leaf which eddied about the terrace below; she still held her hat and fidgeted with her fingers on the brooch which was clipped to one side of it. Nanny knocked at the door and came in, red eyed. "If you please, my lady, I've been going through John's things. There's this handkerchief doesn't belong to him." The heavy scent and crowned cipher at the corner proclaimed its origin. "I know whose it is. I'll send it back to her." "Can't think how it came to be there," said nanny.<|quote|>"Poor little boy. Poor little boy,"</|quote|>said Brenda to herself, when nanny had left her, and gazed out across the troubled landscape. * * * * * "I was thinking about the pony, sir." "Oh yes, Ben?" "Will you want to be keeping her now?" "I hadn't thought... no, I suppose not." "Mr Westmacott over at Restall was asking about her. He thought she might do for his little girl." "Yes." "How much shall we be asking?" "Oh, I don't know... whatever you think is right." "She's a good little pony and she's always been treated well. I don't think she ought to go under twenty-five quid, sir." "All right, Ben, you see about it." "I'll ask thirty, shall I, sir, and come down a bit?" "Do just what you think best." "Very good, sir." * * * * * At luncheon Tony said, "Jock rang up. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do." "How sweet of him. Why don't you have him down for the week-end?" "Would you like that?" "I shan't be here. I'm going to Veronica's." "You're going to Veronica's?" "Yes, don't you remember?" There were servants in the room so that they said nothing more until later, when they were alone in the library. Then, "Are you really going away?" "Yes. I can't stay here. You understand that, don't you?" "Yes, of course. I was thinking we might both go away, abroad somewhere." Brenda did not answer him but continued in her own line. "I couldn't stay here. It's all over, don't you see, our life down here." "Darling, what _do_ you mean?" "Don't ask me to explain... not just now." "But, Brenda, sweet, I don't understand. We're both young. Of | A Handful Of Dust |
"My mother wants me to tell you," | Katharine Hilbery | a ruby on her finger.<|quote|>"My mother wants me to tell you,"</|quote|>she said, "that she hopes | vast snowy owl; she wore a ruby on her finger.<|quote|>"My mother wants me to tell you,"</|quote|>she said, "that she hopes you have begun your poem. | behind the forehead and in the depths of the eyes, and the commonest sentence would be flashed on by this immortal light. And she overflowed the edges of the dream; he remarked that her softness was like that of some vast snowy owl; she wore a ruby on her finger.<|quote|>"My mother wants me to tell you,"</|quote|>she said, "that she hopes you have begun your poem. She says every one ought to write poetry.... All my relations write poetry," she went on. "I can t bear to think of it sometimes because, of course, it s none of it any good. But then one needn t | its beauty, all that our wildest dreams bring us hints of. Katharine came into the room a moment later. He stood watching her come towards him, and thought her more beautiful and strange than his dream of her; for the real Katharine could speak the words which seemed to crowd behind the forehead and in the depths of the eyes, and the commonest sentence would be flashed on by this immortal light. And she overflowed the edges of the dream; he remarked that her softness was like that of some vast snowy owl; she wore a ruby on her finger.<|quote|>"My mother wants me to tell you,"</|quote|>she said, "that she hopes you have begun your poem. She says every one ought to write poetry.... All my relations write poetry," she went on. "I can t bear to think of it sometimes because, of course, it s none of it any good. But then one needn t read it" "You don t encourage me to write a poem," said Ralph. "But you re not a poet, too, are you?" she inquired, turning upon him with a laugh. "Should I tell you if I were?" "Yes. Because I think you speak the truth," she said, searching him for | had filled the shell of the old dream with the flesh of life; looked with fire out of phantom eyes. He glanced about him with bewilderment at finding himself among her chairs and tables; they were solid, for he grasped the back of the chair in which Katharine had sat; and yet they were unreal; the atmosphere was that of a dream. He summoned all the faculties of his spirit to seize what the minutes had to give him; and from the depths of his mind there rose unchecked a joyful recognition of the truth that human nature surpasses, in its beauty, all that our wildest dreams bring us hints of. Katharine came into the room a moment later. He stood watching her come towards him, and thought her more beautiful and strange than his dream of her; for the real Katharine could speak the words which seemed to crowd behind the forehead and in the depths of the eyes, and the commonest sentence would be flashed on by this immortal light. And she overflowed the edges of the dream; he remarked that her softness was like that of some vast snowy owl; she wore a ruby on her finger.<|quote|>"My mother wants me to tell you,"</|quote|>she said, "that she hopes you have begun your poem. She says every one ought to write poetry.... All my relations write poetry," she went on. "I can t bear to think of it sometimes because, of course, it s none of it any good. But then one needn t read it" "You don t encourage me to write a poem," said Ralph. "But you re not a poet, too, are you?" she inquired, turning upon him with a laugh. "Should I tell you if I were?" "Yes. Because I think you speak the truth," she said, searching him for proof of this apparently, with eyes now almost impersonally direct. It would be easy, Ralph thought, to worship one so far removed, and yet of so straight a nature; easy to submit recklessly to her, without thought of future pain. "Are you a poet?" she demanded. He felt that her question had an unexplained weight of meaning behind it, as if she sought an answer to a question that she did not ask. "No. I haven t written any poetry for years," he replied. "But all the same, I don t agree with you. I think it s the only | seeing him look up with an air of inquiry. "I forget" "Do you hate all books?" he asked. "It would be absurd to say that I hate all books when I ve only read ten, perhaps; but Here she pulled herself up short." "Well?" "Yes, I do hate books," she continued. "Why do you want to be for ever talking about your feelings? That s what I can t make out. And poetry s all about feelings novels are all about feelings." She cut a cake vigorously into slices, and providing a tray with bread and butter for Mrs. Hilbery, who was in her room with a cold, she rose to go upstairs. Ralph held the door open for her, and then stood with clasped hands in the middle of the room. His eyes were bright, and, indeed, he scarcely knew whether they beheld dreams or realities. All down the street and on the doorstep, and while he mounted the stairs, his dream of Katharine possessed him; on the threshold of the room he had dismissed it, in order to prevent too painful a collision between what he dreamt of her and what she was. And in five minutes she had filled the shell of the old dream with the flesh of life; looked with fire out of phantom eyes. He glanced about him with bewilderment at finding himself among her chairs and tables; they were solid, for he grasped the back of the chair in which Katharine had sat; and yet they were unreal; the atmosphere was that of a dream. He summoned all the faculties of his spirit to seize what the minutes had to give him; and from the depths of his mind there rose unchecked a joyful recognition of the truth that human nature surpasses, in its beauty, all that our wildest dreams bring us hints of. Katharine came into the room a moment later. He stood watching her come towards him, and thought her more beautiful and strange than his dream of her; for the real Katharine could speak the words which seemed to crowd behind the forehead and in the depths of the eyes, and the commonest sentence would be flashed on by this immortal light. And she overflowed the edges of the dream; he remarked that her softness was like that of some vast snowy owl; she wore a ruby on her finger.<|quote|>"My mother wants me to tell you,"</|quote|>she said, "that she hopes you have begun your poem. She says every one ought to write poetry.... All my relations write poetry," she went on. "I can t bear to think of it sometimes because, of course, it s none of it any good. But then one needn t read it" "You don t encourage me to write a poem," said Ralph. "But you re not a poet, too, are you?" she inquired, turning upon him with a laugh. "Should I tell you if I were?" "Yes. Because I think you speak the truth," she said, searching him for proof of this apparently, with eyes now almost impersonally direct. It would be easy, Ralph thought, to worship one so far removed, and yet of so straight a nature; easy to submit recklessly to her, without thought of future pain. "Are you a poet?" she demanded. He felt that her question had an unexplained weight of meaning behind it, as if she sought an answer to a question that she did not ask. "No. I haven t written any poetry for years," he replied. "But all the same, I don t agree with you. I think it s the only thing worth doing." "Why do you say that?" she asked, almost with impatience, tapping her spoon two or three times against the side of her cup. "Why?" Ralph laid hands on the first words that came to mind. "Because, I suppose, it keeps an ideal alive which might die otherwise." A curious change came over her face, as if the flame of her mind were subdued; and she looked at him ironically and with the expression which he had called sad before, for want of a better name for it. "I don t know that there s much sense in having ideals," she said. "But you have them," he replied energetically. "Why do we call them ideals? It s a stupid word. Dreams, I mean" She followed his words with parted lips, as though to answer eagerly when he had done; but as he said, "Dreams, I mean," the door of the drawing-room swung open, and so remained for a perceptible instant. They both held themselves silent, her lips still parted. Far off, they heard the rustle of skirts. Then the owner of the skirts appeared in the doorway, which she almost filled, nearly concealing the figure of a very | between the branches one sees no longer the blue sky, but the stars and the tops of the mountains." "One doesn t know any more, does one? One hasn t any advice to give one s children. One can only hope that they will have the same vision and the same power to believe, without which life would be so meaningless. That is what I ask for Katharine and her husband." CHAPTER XII "Is Mr. Hilbery at home, or Mrs. Hilbery?" Denham asked, of the parlor-maid in Chelsea, a week later. "No, sir. But Miss Hilbery is at home," the girl answered. Ralph had anticipated many answers, but not this one, and now it was unexpectedly made plain to him that it was the chance of seeing Katharine that had brought him all the way to Chelsea on pretence of seeing her father. He made some show of considering the matter, and was taken upstairs to the drawing-room. As upon that first occasion, some weeks ago, the door closed as if it were a thousand doors softly excluding the world; and once more Ralph received an impression of a room full of deep shadows, firelight, unwavering silver candle flames, and empty spaces to be crossed before reaching the round table in the middle of the room, with its frail burden of silver trays and china teacups. But this time Katharine was there by herself; the volume in her hand showed that she expected no visitors. Ralph said something about hoping to find her father. "My father is out," she replied. "But if you can wait, I expect him soon." It might have been due merely to politeness, but Ralph felt that she received him almost with cordiality. Perhaps she was bored by drinking tea and reading a book all alone; at any rate, she tossed the book on to a sofa with a gesture of relief. "Is that one of the moderns whom you despise?" he asked, smiling at the carelessness of her gesture. "Yes," she replied. "I think even you would despise him." "Even I?" he repeated. "Why even I?" "You said you liked modern things; I said I hated them." This was not a very accurate report of their conversation among the relics, perhaps, but Ralph was flattered to think that she remembered anything about it. "Or did I confess that I hated all books?" she went on, seeing him look up with an air of inquiry. "I forget" "Do you hate all books?" he asked. "It would be absurd to say that I hate all books when I ve only read ten, perhaps; but Here she pulled herself up short." "Well?" "Yes, I do hate books," she continued. "Why do you want to be for ever talking about your feelings? That s what I can t make out. And poetry s all about feelings novels are all about feelings." She cut a cake vigorously into slices, and providing a tray with bread and butter for Mrs. Hilbery, who was in her room with a cold, she rose to go upstairs. Ralph held the door open for her, and then stood with clasped hands in the middle of the room. His eyes were bright, and, indeed, he scarcely knew whether they beheld dreams or realities. All down the street and on the doorstep, and while he mounted the stairs, his dream of Katharine possessed him; on the threshold of the room he had dismissed it, in order to prevent too painful a collision between what he dreamt of her and what she was. And in five minutes she had filled the shell of the old dream with the flesh of life; looked with fire out of phantom eyes. He glanced about him with bewilderment at finding himself among her chairs and tables; they were solid, for he grasped the back of the chair in which Katharine had sat; and yet they were unreal; the atmosphere was that of a dream. He summoned all the faculties of his spirit to seize what the minutes had to give him; and from the depths of his mind there rose unchecked a joyful recognition of the truth that human nature surpasses, in its beauty, all that our wildest dreams bring us hints of. Katharine came into the room a moment later. He stood watching her come towards him, and thought her more beautiful and strange than his dream of her; for the real Katharine could speak the words which seemed to crowd behind the forehead and in the depths of the eyes, and the commonest sentence would be flashed on by this immortal light. And she overflowed the edges of the dream; he remarked that her softness was like that of some vast snowy owl; she wore a ruby on her finger.<|quote|>"My mother wants me to tell you,"</|quote|>she said, "that she hopes you have begun your poem. She says every one ought to write poetry.... All my relations write poetry," she went on. "I can t bear to think of it sometimes because, of course, it s none of it any good. But then one needn t read it" "You don t encourage me to write a poem," said Ralph. "But you re not a poet, too, are you?" she inquired, turning upon him with a laugh. "Should I tell you if I were?" "Yes. Because I think you speak the truth," she said, searching him for proof of this apparently, with eyes now almost impersonally direct. It would be easy, Ralph thought, to worship one so far removed, and yet of so straight a nature; easy to submit recklessly to her, without thought of future pain. "Are you a poet?" she demanded. He felt that her question had an unexplained weight of meaning behind it, as if she sought an answer to a question that she did not ask. "No. I haven t written any poetry for years," he replied. "But all the same, I don t agree with you. I think it s the only thing worth doing." "Why do you say that?" she asked, almost with impatience, tapping her spoon two or three times against the side of her cup. "Why?" Ralph laid hands on the first words that came to mind. "Because, I suppose, it keeps an ideal alive which might die otherwise." A curious change came over her face, as if the flame of her mind were subdued; and she looked at him ironically and with the expression which he had called sad before, for want of a better name for it. "I don t know that there s much sense in having ideals," she said. "But you have them," he replied energetically. "Why do we call them ideals? It s a stupid word. Dreams, I mean" She followed his words with parted lips, as though to answer eagerly when he had done; but as he said, "Dreams, I mean," the door of the drawing-room swung open, and so remained for a perceptible instant. They both held themselves silent, her lips still parted. Far off, they heard the rustle of skirts. Then the owner of the skirts appeared in the doorway, which she almost filled, nearly concealing the figure of a very much smaller lady who accompanied her. "My aunts!" Katharine murmured, under her breath. Her tone had a hint of tragedy in it, but no less, Ralph thought, than the situation required. She addressed the larger lady as Aunt Millicent; the smaller was Aunt Celia, Mrs. Milvain, who had lately undertaken the task of marrying Cyril to his wife. Both ladies, but Mrs. Cosham (Aunt Millicent) in particular, had that look of heightened, smoothed, incarnadined existence which is proper to elderly ladies paying calls in London about five o clock in the afternoon. Portraits by Romney, seen through glass, have something of their pink, mellow look, their blooming softness, as of apricots hanging upon a red wall in the afternoon sun. Mrs. Cosham was so appareled with hanging muffs, chains, and swinging draperies that it was impossible to detect the shape of a human being in the mass of brown and black which filled the arm-chair. Mrs. Milvain was a much slighter figure; but the same doubt as to the precise lines of her contour filled Ralph, as he regarded them, with dismal foreboding. What remark of his would ever reach these fabulous and fantastic characters? for there was something fantastically unreal in the curious swayings and noddings of Mrs. Cosham, as if her equipment included a large wire spring. Her voice had a high-pitched, cooing note, which prolonged words and cut them short until the English language seemed no longer fit for common purposes. In a moment of nervousness, so Ralph thought, Katharine had turned on innumerable electric lights. But Mrs. Cosham had gained impetus (perhaps her swaying movements had that end in view) for sustained speech; and she now addressed Ralph deliberately and elaborately. "I come from Woking, Mr. Popham. You may well ask me, why Woking? and to that I answer, for perhaps the hundredth time, because of the sunsets. We went there for the sunsets, but that was five-and-twenty years ago. Where are the sunsets now? Alas! There is no sunset now nearer than the South Coast." Her rich and romantic notes were accompanied by a wave of a long white hand, which, when waved, gave off a flash of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. Ralph wondered whether she more resembled an elephant, with a jeweled head-dress, or a superb cockatoo, balanced insecurely upon its perch, and pecking capriciously at a lump of sugar. "Where are the sunsets | realities. All down the street and on the doorstep, and while he mounted the stairs, his dream of Katharine possessed him; on the threshold of the room he had dismissed it, in order to prevent too painful a collision between what he dreamt of her and what she was. And in five minutes she had filled the shell of the old dream with the flesh of life; looked with fire out of phantom eyes. He glanced about him with bewilderment at finding himself among her chairs and tables; they were solid, for he grasped the back of the chair in which Katharine had sat; and yet they were unreal; the atmosphere was that of a dream. He summoned all the faculties of his spirit to seize what the minutes had to give him; and from the depths of his mind there rose unchecked a joyful recognition of the truth that human nature surpasses, in its beauty, all that our wildest dreams bring us hints of. Katharine came into the room a moment later. He stood watching her come towards him, and thought her more beautiful and strange than his dream of her; for the real Katharine could speak the words which seemed to crowd behind the forehead and in the depths of the eyes, and the commonest sentence would be flashed on by this immortal light. And she overflowed the edges of the dream; he remarked that her softness was like that of some vast snowy owl; she wore a ruby on her finger.<|quote|>"My mother wants me to tell you,"</|quote|>she said, "that she hopes you have begun your poem. She says every one ought to write poetry.... All my relations write poetry," she went on. "I can t bear to think of it sometimes because, of course, it s none of it any good. But then one needn t read it" "You don t encourage me to write a poem," said Ralph. "But you re not a poet, too, are you?" she inquired, turning upon him with a laugh. "Should I tell you if I were?" "Yes. Because I think you speak the truth," she said, searching him for proof of this apparently, with eyes now almost impersonally direct. It would be easy, Ralph thought, to worship one so far removed, and yet of so straight a nature; easy to submit recklessly to her, without thought of future pain. "Are you a poet?" she demanded. He felt that her question had an unexplained weight of meaning behind it, as if she sought an answer to a question that she did not ask. "No. I haven t written any poetry for years," he replied. "But all the same, I don t agree with you. I think it s the only thing worth doing." "Why do you say that?" she asked, almost with impatience, tapping her spoon two or three times against the side of her cup. "Why?" Ralph laid hands on the first words that came to mind. "Because, I suppose, it keeps an ideal alive which might die otherwise." A curious change came over her face, as if the flame of her mind were subdued; and she looked at him ironically and with the expression which he had called sad before, for want of a better name for it. "I don t know that there s much sense in having ideals," she said. "But you have them," he replied energetically. "Why do we call them ideals? It s a stupid word. Dreams, I mean" She followed his words with parted lips, as though to answer eagerly when he had done; but as he said, "Dreams, I mean," the door of the drawing-room swung open, and so remained for a perceptible instant. They both held themselves silent, her lips still parted. Far off, they heard the rustle of skirts. Then the owner of the skirts appeared in the doorway, which she almost filled, nearly concealing the figure of a very much smaller lady who accompanied her. "My aunts!" Katharine murmured, under her breath. Her tone had a hint of tragedy in it, but no less, Ralph thought, than the situation required. She addressed the larger lady as Aunt Millicent; the smaller was Aunt Celia, Mrs. Milvain, who had lately undertaken the task of marrying Cyril to his wife. Both ladies, but Mrs. Cosham (Aunt Millicent) in particular, had that look of heightened, smoothed, incarnadined existence which is proper to elderly ladies paying calls in London about five o clock in the afternoon. Portraits by Romney, seen through glass, have something of their pink, mellow look, their blooming softness, as of apricots hanging upon a red wall in the afternoon sun. Mrs. Cosham was so appareled with hanging muffs, chains, and swinging draperies that it was impossible to detect the shape of a human being in the mass of brown and black which filled the arm-chair. Mrs. Milvain was a much slighter figure; but the same doubt | Night And Day |
“Anyhow—Daisy stepped on it. I tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I pulled on the emergency brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on. | Gatsby | me, old sport.” He winced.<|quote|>“Anyhow—Daisy stepped on it. I tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I pulled on the emergency brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on.</|quote|>“She’ll be all right tomorrow,” | ripped her open—” “Don’t tell me, old sport.” He winced.<|quote|>“Anyhow—Daisy stepped on it. I tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I pulled on the emergency brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on.</|quote|>“She’ll be all right tomorrow,” he said presently. “I’m just | she knew. Well, first Daisy turned away from the woman toward the other car, and then she lost her nerve and turned back. The second my hand reached the wheel I felt the shock—it must have killed her instantly.” “It ripped her open—” “Don’t tell me, old sport.” He winced.<|quote|>“Anyhow—Daisy stepped on it. I tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I pulled on the emergency brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on.</|quote|>“She’ll be all right tomorrow,” he said presently. “I’m just going to wait here and see if he tries to bother her about that unpleasantness this afternoon. She’s locked herself into her room, and if he tries any brutality she’s going to turn the light out and on again.” “He | very nervous and she thought it would steady her to drive—and this woman rushed out at us just as we were passing a car coming the other way. It all happened in a minute, but it seemed to me that she wanted to speak to us, thought we were somebody she knew. Well, first Daisy turned away from the woman toward the other car, and then she lost her nerve and turned back. The second my hand reached the wheel I felt the shock—it must have killed her instantly.” “It ripped her open—” “Don’t tell me, old sport.” He winced.<|quote|>“Anyhow—Daisy stepped on it. I tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I pulled on the emergency brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on.</|quote|>“She’ll be all right tomorrow,” he said presently. “I’m just going to wait here and see if he tries to bother her about that unpleasantness this afternoon. She’s locked herself into her room, and if he tries any brutality she’s going to turn the light out and on again.” “He won’t touch her,” I said. “He’s not thinking about her.” “I don’t trust him, old sport.” “How long are you going to wait?” “All night, if necessary. Anyhow, till they all go to bed.” A new point of view occurred to me. Suppose Tom found out that Daisy had been | car in my garage. I don’t think anybody saw us, but of course I can’t be sure.” I disliked him so much by this time that I didn’t find it necessary to tell him he was wrong. “Who was the woman?” he inquired. “Her name was Wilson. Her husband owns the garage. How the devil did it happen?” “Well, I tried to swing the wheel—” He broke off, and suddenly I guessed at the truth. “Was Daisy driving?” “Yes,” he said after a moment, “but of course I’ll say I was. You see, when we left New York she was very nervous and she thought it would steady her to drive—and this woman rushed out at us just as we were passing a car coming the other way. It all happened in a minute, but it seemed to me that she wanted to speak to us, thought we were somebody she knew. Well, first Daisy turned away from the woman toward the other car, and then she lost her nerve and turned back. The second my hand reached the wheel I felt the shock—it must have killed her instantly.” “It ripped her open—” “Don’t tell me, old sport.” He winced.<|quote|>“Anyhow—Daisy stepped on it. I tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I pulled on the emergency brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on.</|quote|>“She’ll be all right tomorrow,” he said presently. “I’m just going to wait here and see if he tries to bother her about that unpleasantness this afternoon. She’s locked herself into her room, and if he tries any brutality she’s going to turn the light out and on again.” “He won’t touch her,” I said. “He’s not thinking about her.” “I don’t trust him, old sport.” “How long are you going to wait?” “All night, if necessary. Anyhow, till they all go to bed.” A new point of view occurred to me. Suppose Tom found out that Daisy had been driving. He might think he saw a connection in it—he might think anything. I looked at the house; there were two or three bright windows downstairs and the pink glow from Daisy’s room on the ground floor. “You wait here,” I said. “I’ll see if there’s any sign of a commotion.” I walked back along the border of the lawn, traversed the gravel softly, and tiptoed up the veranda steps. The drawing-room curtains were open, and I saw that the room was empty. Crossing the porch where we had dined that June night three months before, I came to a | 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.” I disliked him so much by this time that I didn’t find it necessary to tell him he was wrong. “Who was the woman?” he inquired. “Her name was Wilson. Her husband owns the garage. How the devil did it happen?” “Well, I tried to swing the wheel—” He broke off, and suddenly I guessed at the truth. “Was Daisy driving?” “Yes,” he said after a moment, “but of course I’ll say I was. You see, when we left New York she was very nervous and she thought it would steady her to drive—and this woman rushed out at us just as we were passing a car coming the other way. It all happened in a minute, but it seemed to me that she wanted to speak to us, thought we were somebody she knew. Well, first Daisy turned away from the woman toward the other car, and then she lost her nerve and turned back. The second my hand reached the wheel I felt the shock—it must have killed her instantly.” “It ripped her open—” “Don’t tell me, old sport.” He winced.<|quote|>“Anyhow—Daisy stepped on it. I tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I pulled on the emergency brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on.</|quote|>“She’ll be all right tomorrow,” he said presently. “I’m just going to wait here and see if he tries to bother her about that unpleasantness this afternoon. She’s locked herself into her room, and if he tries any brutality she’s going to turn the light out and on again.” “He won’t touch her,” I said. “He’s not thinking about her.” “I don’t trust him, old sport.” “How long are you going to wait?” “All night, if necessary. Anyhow, till they all go to bed.” A new point of view occurred to me. Suppose Tom found out that Daisy had been driving. He might think he saw a connection in it—he might think anything. I looked at the house; there were two or three bright windows downstairs and the pink glow from Daisy’s room on the ground floor. “You wait here,” I said. “I’ll see if there’s any sign of a commotion.” I walked back along the border of the lawn, traversed the gravel softly, and tiptoed up the veranda steps. The drawing-room curtains were open, and I saw that the room was empty. Crossing the porch where we had dined that June night three months before, I came to a small rectangle of light which I guessed was the pantry window. The blind was drawn, but I found a rift at the sill. Daisy and Tom were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, with a plate of cold fried chicken between them, and two bottles of ale. He was talking intently across the table at her, and in his earnestness his hand had fallen upon and covered her own. Once in a while she looked up at him and nodded in agreement. They weren’t happy, and neither of them had touched the chicken or the ale—and yet they weren’t unhappy either. There was an unmistakable air of natural intimacy about the picture, and anybody would have said that they were conspiring together. As I tiptoed from the porch I heard my taxi feeling its way along the dark road toward the house. Gatsby was waiting where I had left him in the drive. “Is it all quiet up there?” he asked anxiously. “Yes, it’s all quiet.” I hesitated. “You’d better come home and get some sleep.” He shook his head. “I want to wait here till Daisy goes to bed. Good night, old sport.” He put his hands | 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.” I disliked him so much by this time that I didn’t find it necessary to tell him he was wrong. “Who was the woman?” he inquired. “Her name was Wilson. Her husband owns the garage. How the devil did it happen?” “Well, I tried to swing the wheel—” He broke off, and suddenly I guessed at the truth. “Was Daisy driving?” “Yes,” he said after a moment, “but of course I’ll say I was. You see, when we left New York she was very nervous and she thought it would steady her to drive—and this woman rushed out at us just as we were passing a car coming the other way. It all happened in a minute, but it seemed to me that she wanted to speak to us, thought we were somebody she knew. Well, first Daisy turned away from the woman toward the other car, and then she lost her nerve and turned back. The second my hand reached the wheel I felt the shock—it must have killed her instantly.” “It ripped her open—” “Don’t tell me, old sport.” He winced.<|quote|>“Anyhow—Daisy stepped on it. I tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I pulled on the emergency brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on.</|quote|>“She’ll be all right tomorrow,” he said presently. “I’m just going to wait here and see if he tries to bother her about that unpleasantness this afternoon. She’s locked herself into her room, and if he tries any brutality she’s going to turn the light out and on again.” “He won’t touch her,” I said. “He’s not thinking about her.” “I don’t trust him, old sport.” “How long are you going to wait?” “All night, if necessary. Anyhow, till they all go to bed.” A new point of view occurred to me. Suppose Tom found out that Daisy had been driving. He might think he saw a connection in it—he might think anything. I looked at the house; there were two or three bright windows downstairs and the pink glow from Daisy’s room on the ground floor. “You wait here,” I said. “I’ll see if there’s any sign of a commotion.” I walked back along the border of the lawn, traversed the gravel softly, and tiptoed up the veranda steps. The drawing-room curtains were open, and I saw that the room was empty. Crossing the porch where we had dined that June night three months before, I came to a small rectangle of light which I guessed was the pantry window. The blind was drawn, but I found a rift at the sill. Daisy and Tom were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, with a plate of cold fried chicken between them, and two bottles of ale. He was talking intently across the table at her, and in his earnestness his hand had fallen upon and covered her own. Once in a while she looked up at him and nodded in agreement. They weren’t happy, and neither of them had touched the chicken or the ale—and yet they weren’t unhappy either. There was an unmistakable air of natural intimacy about the picture, and anybody would have said that they were conspiring together. As I tiptoed from the porch I heard my taxi feeling its way along the dark road toward the house. Gatsby was waiting where I had left him in the drive. “Is it all quiet up there?” he asked anxiously. “Yes, it’s all quiet.” I hesitated. “You’d better come home and get some sleep.” He shook his head. “I want to wait here till Daisy goes to bed. Good night, old sport.” He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned back eagerly to his scrutiny of the house, as though my presence marred the sacredness of the vigil. So I walked away and left him standing there in the moonlight—watching over nothing. VIII I couldn’t sleep all night; a foghorn was groaning incessantly on the Sound, and I tossed half-sick between grotesque reality and savage, frightening dreams. Toward dawn I heard a taxi go up Gatsby’s drive, and immediately I jumped out of bed and began to dress—I felt that I had something to tell him, something to warn him about, and morning would be too late. Crossing his lawn, I saw that his front door was still open and he was leaning against a table in the hall, heavy with dejection or sleep. “Nothing happened,” he said wanly. “I waited, and about four o’clock she came to the window and stood there for a minute and then turned out the light.” His house had never seemed so enormous to me as it did that night when we hunted through the great rooms for cigarettes. We pushed aside curtains that were like pavilions, and felt over innumerable feet of dark wall for electric light switches—once I tumbled with a sort of splash upon the keys of a ghostly piano. There was an inexplicable amount of dust everywhere, and the rooms were musty, as though they hadn’t been aired for many days. I found the humidor on an unfamiliar table, with two stale, dry cigarettes inside. Throwing open the French windows of the drawing-room, we sat smoking out into the darkness. “You ought to go away,” I said. “It’s pretty certain they’ll trace your car.” “Go away now, old sport?” “Go to Atlantic City for a week, or up to Montreal.” He wouldn’t consider it. He couldn’t possibly leave Daisy until he knew what she was going to do. He was clutching at some last hope and I couldn’t bear to shake him free. It was this night that he told me the strange story of his youth with Dan Cody—told it to me because “Jay Gatsby” had broken up like glass against Tom’s hard malice, and the long secret extravaganza was played out. I think that he would have acknowledged anything now, without reserve, but he wanted to talk about Daisy. She was the first “nice” girl he had ever known. In various unrevealed | 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.” I disliked him so much by this time that I didn’t find it necessary to tell him he was wrong. “Who was the woman?” he inquired. “Her name was Wilson. Her husband owns the garage. How the devil did it happen?” “Well, I tried to swing the wheel—” He broke off, and suddenly I guessed at the truth. “Was Daisy driving?” “Yes,” he said after a moment, “but of course I’ll say I was. You see, when we left New York she was very nervous and she thought it would steady her to drive—and this woman rushed out at us just as we were passing a car coming the other way. It all happened in a minute, but it seemed to me that she wanted to speak to us, thought we were somebody she knew. Well, first Daisy turned away from the woman toward the other car, and then she lost her nerve and turned back. The second my hand reached the wheel I felt the shock—it must have killed her instantly.” “It ripped her open—” “Don’t tell me, old sport.” He winced.<|quote|>“Anyhow—Daisy stepped on it. I tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I pulled on the emergency brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on.</|quote|>“She’ll be all right tomorrow,” he said presently. “I’m just going to wait here and see if he tries to bother her about that unpleasantness this afternoon. She’s locked herself into her room, and if he tries any brutality she’s going to turn the light out and on again.” “He won’t touch her,” I said. “He’s not thinking about her.” “I don’t trust him, old sport.” “How long are you going to wait?” “All night, if necessary. Anyhow, till they all go to bed.” A new point of view occurred to me. Suppose Tom found out that Daisy had been driving. He might think he saw a connection in it—he might think anything. I looked at the house; there were two or three bright windows downstairs and the pink glow from Daisy’s room on the ground floor. “You wait here,” I said. “I’ll see if there’s any sign of a commotion.” I walked back along the border of the lawn, traversed the gravel softly, and tiptoed up the veranda steps. The drawing-room curtains were open, and I saw that the room was empty. Crossing the porch where we had dined that June night three months before, I came to a small rectangle of light which I guessed was the pantry window. The blind was drawn, but I found a rift at the sill. Daisy and Tom were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, with a plate of cold fried chicken between them, and two bottles of ale. He was talking intently across the table at her, and in his earnestness his hand had fallen | The Great Gatsby |
"Yes, it would be fine," | Jem Wimble | on the ground between them.<|quote|>"Yes, it would be fine,"</|quote|>said Jem, with his mouth | scanty fare which they spread on the ground between them.<|quote|>"Yes, it would be fine,"</|quote|>said Jem, with his mouth and hands full. "We ought | now, as we've been on the tramp a good two hours, I vote we sit down and have a bit of a peck." Don agreed, and they sat down at the edge of the wood to partake of the rather scanty fare which they spread on the ground between them.<|quote|>"Yes, it would be fine,"</|quote|>said Jem, with his mouth and hands full. "We ought to go up that mountain some day. I've never been up a mountain. Hi! Wos!" This was shouted at another of the peculiar-looking little birds which ran swiftly out of the undergrowth, gave each in turn a comical look, and | unmelted in spite of the summer heat. "Wouldn't you like to go up there, Mas' Don?" said Jem, after a few moments' silence. "Go? I'd give anything to climb up there, Jem. What a view it must be." "Ah, it must, Mas' Don; but we won't try it to-day; and now, as we've been on the tramp a good two hours, I vote we sit down and have a bit of a peck." Don agreed, and they sat down at the edge of the wood to partake of the rather scanty fare which they spread on the ground between them.<|quote|>"Yes, it would be fine,"</|quote|>said Jem, with his mouth and hands full. "We ought to go up that mountain some day. I've never been up a mountain. Hi! Wos!" This was shouted at another of the peculiar-looking little birds which ran swiftly out of the undergrowth, gave each in turn a comical look, and then seized a good-sized piece of their provender and ran off. "Well, I call that sarce," said Jem; "that's what I calls that. Ah, if I'd had a stone I'd soon have made him drop that." "Now," said Don laughing, "do you call that an ostrich?" "To be sure I | to," said Jem laconically. "We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said Don, finding a similar sized piece, and thrusting it into the basket. "Couldn't we make some matches, Jem?" "Couldn't we make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box after a time." They again walked on in silence, climbing higher and higher, till, coming to an opening, they both paused in silent admiration of the view spread out before them, of river, lake, and mountain, whose top glistened like silver, where glacier and snow lay unmelted in spite of the summer heat. "Wouldn't you like to go up there, Mas' Don?" said Jem, after a few moments' silence. "Go? I'd give anything to climb up there, Jem. What a view it must be." "Ah, it must, Mas' Don; but we won't try it to-day; and now, as we've been on the tramp a good two hours, I vote we sit down and have a bit of a peck." Don agreed, and they sat down at the edge of the wood to partake of the rather scanty fare which they spread on the ground between them.<|quote|>"Yes, it would be fine,"</|quote|>said Jem, with his mouth and hands full. "We ought to go up that mountain some day. I've never been up a mountain. Hi! Wos!" This was shouted at another of the peculiar-looking little birds which ran swiftly out of the undergrowth, gave each in turn a comical look, and then seized a good-sized piece of their provender and ran off. "Well, I call that sarce," said Jem; "that's what I calls that. Ah, if I'd had a stone I'd soon have made him drop that." "Now," said Don laughing, "do you call that an ostrich?" "To be sure I do!" cried Jem. "That proves it. I've read in a book as ostriches do steal and swallow anything--nails, pocket-knives, and bits o' stone. Well! I never did!" Jem snatched off his cap and sent it spinning after another rail which had run up and seized a fruit from their basket, and skimmed off with its legs forming a misty appearance like the spokes of a rapidly turning wheel. "Sarce is nothing to it, Mas' Don. Why, that little beggar's ten times worse than the old magpie we used to have in the yard. They're so quick, too. Now, just look | feet high." "Not when he's young," said Jem. "That's a little one. Shouldn't wonder if there's some more." "You may be right, Jem, but I don't think there are ostriches here." "Well, I like that," said Jem, "when we've just seen one. I knew it directly. There used to be a picture of one in my old reading-book when I was at school." They trudged on for some distance in silence. "What yer thinking 'bout, Mas' Don?" "Home," said Don, quietly. "Oh! I say, don't think about home, Mas' Don, because if you do, I shall too; it do make me so unked." "I can't help it, Jem. It doesn't seem natural to settle down here, and go on week after week. I get asking myself, what we are doing it for." "To catch fish, and find fruit and keep ourselves alive. Say, Mas' Don, it's under them trees they digs up the big lumps of gum that they burn. Ah, there's a bit." Jem stooped and picked out from among the rotten pine needles a piece of pale yellowish-looking gum of the size of his fist. "That'll do for a light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to," said Jem laconically. "We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said Don, finding a similar sized piece, and thrusting it into the basket. "Couldn't we make some matches, Jem?" "Couldn't we make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box after a time." They again walked on in silence, climbing higher and higher, till, coming to an opening, they both paused in silent admiration of the view spread out before them, of river, lake, and mountain, whose top glistened like silver, where glacier and snow lay unmelted in spite of the summer heat. "Wouldn't you like to go up there, Mas' Don?" said Jem, after a few moments' silence. "Go? I'd give anything to climb up there, Jem. What a view it must be." "Ah, it must, Mas' Don; but we won't try it to-day; and now, as we've been on the tramp a good two hours, I vote we sit down and have a bit of a peck." Don agreed, and they sat down at the edge of the wood to partake of the rather scanty fare which they spread on the ground between them.<|quote|>"Yes, it would be fine,"</|quote|>said Jem, with his mouth and hands full. "We ought to go up that mountain some day. I've never been up a mountain. Hi! Wos!" This was shouted at another of the peculiar-looking little birds which ran swiftly out of the undergrowth, gave each in turn a comical look, and then seized a good-sized piece of their provender and ran off. "Well, I call that sarce," said Jem; "that's what I calls that. Ah, if I'd had a stone I'd soon have made him drop that." "Now," said Don laughing, "do you call that an ostrich?" "To be sure I do!" cried Jem. "That proves it. I've read in a book as ostriches do steal and swallow anything--nails, pocket-knives, and bits o' stone. Well! I never did!" Jem snatched off his cap and sent it spinning after another rail which had run up and seized a fruit from their basket, and skimmed off with its legs forming a misty appearance like the spokes of a rapidly turning wheel. "Sarce is nothing to it, Mas' Don. Why, that little beggar's ten times worse than the old magpie we used to have in the yard. They're so quick, too. Now, just look at that." Either the same or another of the little birds came out of the undergrowth, peering about in the most eccentric manner, and without displaying the least alarm. "Just look at him, Jem." "Look at him, Mas' Don? I am a-looking at him with all my eyes. He's a beauty, he is. Why, if I was a bird like that with such a shabby, dingy looking, sooty suit o' clothes, I know what I'd do." "What would you do?" "Why, I'd moult at once. Look at the rum little beggar. Arn't he comic? Why, he arn't got no wings and no tail. Hi! Cocky, how did you get your beak bent that way? Look as if you'd had it caught in a gate. Have another?" Jem took up a large raspberry-like fruit that he had picked some time before, and held it out to the bird, which stopped short, and held its head down comically, looking first at Jem, and then at the berry. With a rapid twist it turned its head on the other side, and performed the same operation with the left eye. "Well, he is a rum un!" cried Jem, laughing. "Look! Mas' Don, look!" Don | for a day. Here you can have as many as you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don. "Fill another basket with something to eat, take a couple of bags, and we'll go right away into the forest, and bring back as much fruit as we can." "I'll be all ready in no time," said Jem, cheerily; and at the end of three minutes he was equipped, and they started off together, to find Ngati half lying on the sands in company with about a dozen more of his tribe, all of whom gave the pair a friendly smile and a wondering look at the trouble they seemed to take to obtain fruit, when some of the women or girls could have done the task just as well. "They are about the idlest set of chaps I ever did see, Mas' Don," said Jem, as they trudged cautiously along through the ferny woodlands, where traces of volcanic action were wonderfully plentiful. "But they work when there's any need for it, I daresay," said Don. "See how vigorously they can row, and how energetic they are when they go through the war-dance." "Oh! Any stoopid could jump about and make faces," replied Jem. "I wonder whether they really could fight if there was a row?" "They look as if they could, Jem." "Looks arn't much good in fighting, Mas' Don. Well, anyhow, they're big and strong enough. Look! What a pity we haven't got a gun. Might have shot a pig and had some pork." He pointed to about half-a-dozen good-sized pigs, which had scurried across the path they followed, and then disappeared among the ferns. "Rum thing, it always seems to me that there's nothing here except pigs. There must be, farther in the woods. Mind that hole, my lad." Don carefully avoided stepping into a bubbling patch of hot mud right in their path, and, wondering what would be the consequences of a step in, he went on, in and out, among dangerous water holes and mud springs. Cockatoos whistled overhead, and parrots shrieked, while every now and then they came upon a curious-looking bird, whose covering resembled hair more than feathers, as it cocked its curved bill towards them, and then hurriedly disappeared by diving in amongst the dense low growth. "Look at that!" said Jem. "Ostrich?" "Ostrich!" cried Don contemptuously. "Why, an ostrich is eight feet high." "Not when he's young," said Jem. "That's a little one. Shouldn't wonder if there's some more." "You may be right, Jem, but I don't think there are ostriches here." "Well, I like that," said Jem, "when we've just seen one. I knew it directly. There used to be a picture of one in my old reading-book when I was at school." They trudged on for some distance in silence. "What yer thinking 'bout, Mas' Don?" "Home," said Don, quietly. "Oh! I say, don't think about home, Mas' Don, because if you do, I shall too; it do make me so unked." "I can't help it, Jem. It doesn't seem natural to settle down here, and go on week after week. I get asking myself, what we are doing it for." "To catch fish, and find fruit and keep ourselves alive. Say, Mas' Don, it's under them trees they digs up the big lumps of gum that they burn. Ah, there's a bit." Jem stooped and picked out from among the rotten pine needles a piece of pale yellowish-looking gum of the size of his fist. "That'll do for a light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to," said Jem laconically. "We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said Don, finding a similar sized piece, and thrusting it into the basket. "Couldn't we make some matches, Jem?" "Couldn't we make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box after a time." They again walked on in silence, climbing higher and higher, till, coming to an opening, they both paused in silent admiration of the view spread out before them, of river, lake, and mountain, whose top glistened like silver, where glacier and snow lay unmelted in spite of the summer heat. "Wouldn't you like to go up there, Mas' Don?" said Jem, after a few moments' silence. "Go? I'd give anything to climb up there, Jem. What a view it must be." "Ah, it must, Mas' Don; but we won't try it to-day; and now, as we've been on the tramp a good two hours, I vote we sit down and have a bit of a peck." Don agreed, and they sat down at the edge of the wood to partake of the rather scanty fare which they spread on the ground between them.<|quote|>"Yes, it would be fine,"</|quote|>said Jem, with his mouth and hands full. "We ought to go up that mountain some day. I've never been up a mountain. Hi! Wos!" This was shouted at another of the peculiar-looking little birds which ran swiftly out of the undergrowth, gave each in turn a comical look, and then seized a good-sized piece of their provender and ran off. "Well, I call that sarce," said Jem; "that's what I calls that. Ah, if I'd had a stone I'd soon have made him drop that." "Now," said Don laughing, "do you call that an ostrich?" "To be sure I do!" cried Jem. "That proves it. I've read in a book as ostriches do steal and swallow anything--nails, pocket-knives, and bits o' stone. Well! I never did!" Jem snatched off his cap and sent it spinning after another rail which had run up and seized a fruit from their basket, and skimmed off with its legs forming a misty appearance like the spokes of a rapidly turning wheel. "Sarce is nothing to it, Mas' Don. Why, that little beggar's ten times worse than the old magpie we used to have in the yard. They're so quick, too. Now, just look at that." Either the same or another of the little birds came out of the undergrowth, peering about in the most eccentric manner, and without displaying the least alarm. "Just look at him, Jem." "Look at him, Mas' Don? I am a-looking at him with all my eyes. He's a beauty, he is. Why, if I was a bird like that with such a shabby, dingy looking, sooty suit o' clothes, I know what I'd do." "What would you do?" "Why, I'd moult at once. Look at the rum little beggar. Arn't he comic? Why, he arn't got no wings and no tail. Hi! Cocky, how did you get your beak bent that way? Look as if you'd had it caught in a gate. Have another?" Jem took up a large raspberry-like fruit that he had picked some time before, and held it out to the bird, which stopped short, and held its head down comically, looking first at Jem, and then at the berry. With a rapid twist it turned its head on the other side, and performed the same operation with the left eye. "Well, he is a rum un!" cried Jem, laughing. "Look! Mas' Don, look!" Don was watching the eccentric-looking little creature, which ran forward rapidly, and then paused. "Why, 'tarn't a wild bird at all!" cried Jem. "It's one of the `my pakeha' chap's cocks an' hens. Well, I ham blessed!" For rapid almost as thought, and before Jem could recover from his surprise, the bird had darted forward, seized the fruit, and was off a dozen yards before he had darted out his hand after it. "Too late, Jem." "Yes, Mas' Don, too late that time; but I mean to ketch that chap, just to show him he arn't so clever as he thinks. You sit still, and go on eating, and don't take no notice, and look out--look out." "Oh!" ejaculated Don. For at that moment one of the birds had come up behind him, and almost before he had heard Jem's warning cry, he was made aware of the bird's presence by a sharp dig of its beak in the hand holding a portion of his dinner, which was carried rapidly away. "Magpies is nothing to 'em," cried Jem. "But wait a bit, my fine fellows, and you shall see what you shall see. Pass that there basket, Mas' Don. Ah! That's a good bait for my gentleman. Look at 'em. I can see three peeping out of the bushes. They're a-watching to see what I'm going to do." "Three! I can see four, Jem." "More for me to ketch, Mas' Don. Wonder whether they're good to eat? I say, do you think they can understand English?" Don laughed, and went on with his dinner, as Jem began to play fox, by putting a tempting-looking berry in his hand, stretching it out to the full extent of his arm, and then lying back among the ferns. "Now then, don't take no notice, Mas' Don. Let you an' me keep on feeding, and that'll 'tract 'em out." Don was already quietly "feeding," and he rested his back against a piece of stone, watching intently all the while. Two of the birds began to approach directly, while the others looked on as if deeply interested. The approach of the advance force was particularly curious, for they came on picking here and picking there, as if they had not the slightest intention of going near the fruit in Jem's hand; but in spite of several feints of going right away, always getting nearer, while Jem | a bit." Jem stooped and picked out from among the rotten pine needles a piece of pale yellowish-looking gum of the size of his fist. "That'll do for a light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to," said Jem laconically. "We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said Don, finding a similar sized piece, and thrusting it into the basket. "Couldn't we make some matches, Jem?" "Couldn't we make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box after a time." They again walked on in silence, climbing higher and higher, till, coming to an opening, they both paused in silent admiration of the view spread out before them, of river, lake, and mountain, whose top glistened like silver, where glacier and snow lay unmelted in spite of the summer heat. "Wouldn't you like to go up there, Mas' Don?" said Jem, after a few moments' silence. "Go? I'd give anything to climb up there, Jem. What a view it must be." "Ah, it must, Mas' Don; but we won't try it to-day; and now, as we've been on the tramp a good two hours, I vote we sit down and have a bit of a peck." Don agreed, and they sat down at the edge of the wood to partake of the rather scanty fare which they spread on the ground between them.<|quote|>"Yes, it would be fine,"</|quote|>said Jem, with his mouth and hands full. "We ought to go up that mountain some day. I've never been up a mountain. Hi! Wos!" This was shouted at another of the peculiar-looking little birds which ran swiftly out of the undergrowth, gave each in turn a comical look, and then seized a good-sized piece of their provender and ran off. "Well, I call that sarce," said Jem; "that's what I calls that. Ah, if I'd had a stone I'd soon have made him drop that." "Now," said Don laughing, "do you call that an ostrich?" "To be sure I do!" cried Jem. "That proves it. I've read in a book as ostriches do steal and swallow anything--nails, pocket-knives, and bits o' stone. Well! I never did!" Jem snatched off his cap and sent it spinning after another rail which had run up and seized a fruit from their basket, and skimmed off with its legs forming a misty appearance like the spokes of a rapidly turning wheel. "Sarce is nothing to it, Mas' Don. Why, that little beggar's ten times worse than the old magpie we used to have in the yard. They're so quick, too. Now, just look at that." Either the same or another of the little birds came out of the undergrowth, peering about in the most eccentric manner, and without displaying the least alarm. "Just look at him, Jem." "Look at him, Mas' Don? I am a-looking at him with all my eyes. He's a beauty, he is. Why, if I was a bird like that with such a shabby, dingy looking, sooty suit o' clothes, I know what | Don Lavington |
"He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay to dinner." | Harriet Smith | with them last Saturday." "Oh!"<|quote|>"He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay to dinner."</|quote|>"Oh!" "They talked a great | told me--that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday." "Oh!"<|quote|>"He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay to dinner."</|quote|>"Oh!" "They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne | looked?" "Just as they always do--very vulgar." "They told me something," said Harriet rather hesitatingly; "but it is nothing of any consequence." Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of its producing Mr. Elton. "They told me--that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday." "Oh!"<|quote|>"He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay to dinner."</|quote|>"Oh!" "They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox. I do not know what she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and stay there again next summer." "She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an Anne Cox should be." "She said | a word of it. Besides, if she does play so very well, you know, it is no more than she is obliged to do, because she will have to teach. The Coxes were wondering last night whether she would get into any great family. How did you think the Coxes looked?" "Just as they always do--very vulgar." "They told me something," said Harriet rather hesitatingly; "but it is nothing of any consequence." Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of its producing Mr. Elton. "They told me--that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday." "Oh!"<|quote|>"He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay to dinner."</|quote|>"Oh!" "They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox. I do not know what she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and stay there again next summer." "She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an Anne Cox should be." "She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there. He sat by her at dinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes would be very glad to marry him." "Very likely.--I think they are, without exception, the most vulgar girls in Highbury." Harriet had business at Ford's.--Emma thought it most | praised, but Jane Fairfax's is much beyond it." "Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she does, or that if there is any difference nobody would ever find it out. Mr. Cole said how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a great deal about your taste, and that he valued taste much more than execution." "Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet." "Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had any taste. Nobody talked about it. And I hate Italian singing.--There is no understanding a word of it. Besides, if she does play so very well, you know, it is no more than she is obliged to do, because she will have to teach. The Coxes were wondering last night whether she would get into any great family. How did you think the Coxes looked?" "Just as they always do--very vulgar." "They told me something," said Harriet rather hesitatingly; "but it is nothing of any consequence." Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of its producing Mr. Elton. "They told me--that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday." "Oh!"<|quote|>"He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay to dinner."</|quote|>"Oh!" "They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox. I do not know what she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and stay there again next summer." "She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an Anne Cox should be." "She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there. He sat by her at dinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes would be very glad to marry him." "Very likely.--I think they are, without exception, the most vulgar girls in Highbury." Harriet had business at Ford's.--Emma thought it most prudent to go with her. Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible, and in her present state, would be dangerous. Harriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word, was always very long at a purchase; and while she was still hanging over muslins and changing her mind, Emma went to the door for amusement.--Much could not be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury;--Mr. Perry walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in at the office-door, Mr. Cole's carriage-horses returning from exercise, or a stray letter-boy on an obstinate mule, were | her, and his submission to all that she told, was a compliment to her penetration, which made it difficult for her to be quite certain that she ought to have held her tongue. The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax; and there she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret the inferiority of her own playing and singing. She did most heartily grieve over the idleness of her childhood--and sat down and practised vigorously an hour and a half. She was then interrupted by Harriet's coming in; and if Harriet's praise could have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted. "Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!" "Don't class us together, Harriet. My playing is no more like her's, than a lamp is like sunshine." "Oh! dear--I think you play the best of the two. I think you play quite as well as she does. I am sure I had much rather hear you. Every body last night said how well you played." "Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt the difference. The truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good enough to be praised, but Jane Fairfax's is much beyond it." "Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she does, or that if there is any difference nobody would ever find it out. Mr. Cole said how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a great deal about your taste, and that he valued taste much more than execution." "Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet." "Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had any taste. Nobody talked about it. And I hate Italian singing.--There is no understanding a word of it. Besides, if she does play so very well, you know, it is no more than she is obliged to do, because she will have to teach. The Coxes were wondering last night whether she would get into any great family. How did you think the Coxes looked?" "Just as they always do--very vulgar." "They told me something," said Harriet rather hesitatingly; "but it is nothing of any consequence." Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of its producing Mr. Elton. "They told me--that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday." "Oh!"<|quote|>"He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay to dinner."</|quote|>"Oh!" "They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox. I do not know what she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and stay there again next summer." "She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an Anne Cox should be." "She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there. He sat by her at dinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes would be very glad to marry him." "Very likely.--I think they are, without exception, the most vulgar girls in Highbury." Harriet had business at Ford's.--Emma thought it most prudent to go with her. Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible, and in her present state, would be dangerous. Harriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word, was always very long at a purchase; and while she was still hanging over muslins and changing her mind, Emma went to the door for amusement.--Much could not be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury;--Mr. Perry walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in at the office-door, Mr. Cole's carriage-horses returning from exercise, or a stray letter-boy on an obstinate mule, were the liveliest objects she could presume to expect; and when her eyes fell only on the butcher with his tray, a tidy old woman travelling homewards from shop with her full basket, two curs quarrelling over a dirty bone, and a string of dawdling children round the baker's little bow-window eyeing the gingerbread, she knew she had no reason to complain, and was amused enough; quite enough still to stand at the door. A mind lively and at ease, can do with seeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not answer. She looked down the Randalls road. The scene enlarged; two persons appeared; Mrs. Weston and her son-in-law; they were walking into Highbury;--to Hartfield of course. They were stopping, however, in the first place at Mrs. Bates's; whose house was a little nearer Randalls than Ford's; and had all but knocked, when Emma caught their eye.--Immediately they crossed the road and came forward to her; and the agreeableness of yesterday's engagement seemed to give fresh pleasure to the present meeting. Mrs. Weston informed her that she was going to call on the Bateses, in order to hear the new instrument. "For my companion tells me," said she, "that I | capital in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an irresistible waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to Emma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top. While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off, Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr. Knightley. This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he were to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur something. There was no immediate appearance. No; he was talking to Mrs. Cole--he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole. Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe; and she led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more than five couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of it made it very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a partner. They were a couple worth looking at. Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed. It was growing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home, on her mother's account. After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to begin again, they were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful, and have done. "Perhaps it is as well," said Frank Churchill, as he attended Emma to her carriage. "I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing would not have agreed with me, after yours." CHAPTER IX Emma did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles. The visit afforded her many pleasant recollections the next day; and all that she might be supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion, must be amply repaid in the splendour of popularity. She must have delighted the Coles--worthy people, who deserved to be made happy!--And left a name behind her that would not soon die away. Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and there were two points on which she was not quite easy. She doubted whether she had not transgressed the duty of woman by woman, in betraying her suspicions of Jane Fairfax's feelings to Frank Churchill. It was hardly right; but it had been so strong an idea, that it would escape her, and his submission to all that she told, was a compliment to her penetration, which made it difficult for her to be quite certain that she ought to have held her tongue. The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax; and there she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret the inferiority of her own playing and singing. She did most heartily grieve over the idleness of her childhood--and sat down and practised vigorously an hour and a half. She was then interrupted by Harriet's coming in; and if Harriet's praise could have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted. "Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!" "Don't class us together, Harriet. My playing is no more like her's, than a lamp is like sunshine." "Oh! dear--I think you play the best of the two. I think you play quite as well as she does. I am sure I had much rather hear you. Every body last night said how well you played." "Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt the difference. The truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good enough to be praised, but Jane Fairfax's is much beyond it." "Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she does, or that if there is any difference nobody would ever find it out. Mr. Cole said how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a great deal about your taste, and that he valued taste much more than execution." "Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet." "Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had any taste. Nobody talked about it. And I hate Italian singing.--There is no understanding a word of it. Besides, if she does play so very well, you know, it is no more than she is obliged to do, because she will have to teach. The Coxes were wondering last night whether she would get into any great family. How did you think the Coxes looked?" "Just as they always do--very vulgar." "They told me something," said Harriet rather hesitatingly; "but it is nothing of any consequence." Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of its producing Mr. Elton. "They told me--that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday." "Oh!"<|quote|>"He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay to dinner."</|quote|>"Oh!" "They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox. I do not know what she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and stay there again next summer." "She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an Anne Cox should be." "She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there. He sat by her at dinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes would be very glad to marry him." "Very likely.--I think they are, without exception, the most vulgar girls in Highbury." Harriet had business at Ford's.--Emma thought it most prudent to go with her. Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible, and in her present state, would be dangerous. Harriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word, was always very long at a purchase; and while she was still hanging over muslins and changing her mind, Emma went to the door for amusement.--Much could not be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury;--Mr. Perry walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in at the office-door, Mr. Cole's carriage-horses returning from exercise, or a stray letter-boy on an obstinate mule, were the liveliest objects she could presume to expect; and when her eyes fell only on the butcher with his tray, a tidy old woman travelling homewards from shop with her full basket, two curs quarrelling over a dirty bone, and a string of dawdling children round the baker's little bow-window eyeing the gingerbread, she knew she had no reason to complain, and was amused enough; quite enough still to stand at the door. A mind lively and at ease, can do with seeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not answer. She looked down the Randalls road. The scene enlarged; two persons appeared; Mrs. Weston and her son-in-law; they were walking into Highbury;--to Hartfield of course. They were stopping, however, in the first place at Mrs. Bates's; whose house was a little nearer Randalls than Ford's; and had all but knocked, when Emma caught their eye.--Immediately they crossed the road and came forward to her; and the agreeableness of yesterday's engagement seemed to give fresh pleasure to the present meeting. Mrs. Weston informed her that she was going to call on the Bateses, in order to hear the new instrument. "For my companion tells me," said she, "that I absolutely promised Miss Bates last night, that I would come this morning. I was not aware of it myself. I did not know that I had fixed a day, but as he says I did, I am going now." "And while Mrs. Weston pays her visit, I may be allowed, I hope," said Frank Churchill, "to join your party and wait for her at Hartfield--if you are going home." Mrs. Weston was disappointed. "I thought you meant to go with me. They would be very much pleased." "Me! I should be quite in the way. But, perhaps--I may be equally in the way here. Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did not want me. My aunt always sends me off when she is shopping. She says I fidget her to death; and Miss Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same. What am I to do?" "I am here on no business of my own," said Emma; "I am only waiting for my friend. She will probably have soon done, and then we shall go home. But you had better go with Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument." "Well--if you advise it.--But" (with a smile) "if Colonel Campbell should have employed a careless friend, and if it should prove to have an indifferent tone--what shall I say? I shall be no support to Mrs. Weston. She might do very well by herself. A disagreeable truth would be palatable through her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the world at a civil falsehood." "I do not believe any such thing," replied Emma.--" "I am persuaded that you can be as insincere as your neighbours, when it is necessary; but there is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent. Quite otherwise indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax's opinion last night." "Do come with me," said Mrs. Weston, "if it be not very disagreeable to you. It need not detain us long. We will go to Hartfield afterwards. We will follow them to Hartfield. I really wish you to call with me. It will be felt so great an attention! and I always thought you meant it." He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him, returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates's door. Emma watched them in, and then joined Harriet at the interesting counter,--trying, with all the force of her own | to the Coles. The visit afforded her many pleasant recollections the next day; and all that she might be supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion, must be amply repaid in the splendour of popularity. She must have delighted the Coles--worthy people, who deserved to be made happy!--And left a name behind her that would not soon die away. Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and there were two points on which she was not quite easy. She doubted whether she had not transgressed the duty of woman by woman, in betraying her suspicions of Jane Fairfax's feelings to Frank Churchill. It was hardly right; but it had been so strong an idea, that it would escape her, and his submission to all that she told, was a compliment to her penetration, which made it difficult for her to be quite certain that she ought to have held her tongue. The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax; and there she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret the inferiority of her own playing and singing. She did most heartily grieve over the idleness of her childhood--and sat down and practised vigorously an hour and a half. She was then interrupted by Harriet's coming in; and if Harriet's praise could have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted. "Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!" "Don't class us together, Harriet. My playing is no more like her's, than a lamp is like sunshine." "Oh! dear--I think you play the best of the two. I think you play quite as well as she does. I am sure I had much rather hear you. Every body last night said how well you played." "Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt the difference. The truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good enough to be praised, but Jane Fairfax's is much beyond it." "Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she does, or that if there is any difference nobody would ever find it out. Mr. Cole said how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a great deal about your taste, and that he valued taste much more than execution." "Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet." "Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had any taste. Nobody talked about it. And I hate Italian singing.--There is no understanding a word of it. Besides, if she does play so very well, you know, it is no more than she is obliged to do, because she will have to teach. The Coxes were wondering last night whether she would get into any great family. How did you think the Coxes looked?" "Just as they always do--very vulgar." "They told me something," said Harriet rather hesitatingly; "but it is nothing of any consequence." Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of its producing Mr. Elton. "They told me--that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday." "Oh!"<|quote|>"He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay to dinner."</|quote|>"Oh!" "They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox. I do not know what she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and stay there again next summer." "She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an Anne Cox should be." "She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there. He sat by her at dinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes would be very glad to marry him." "Very likely.--I think they are, without exception, the most vulgar girls in Highbury." Harriet had business at Ford's.--Emma thought it most prudent to go with her. Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible, and in her present state, would be dangerous. Harriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word, was always very long at a purchase; and while she was still hanging over muslins and changing her mind, Emma went to the door for amusement.--Much could not be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury;--Mr. Perry walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in at the office-door, Mr. Cole's carriage-horses returning from exercise, or a stray letter-boy on an obstinate mule, were the liveliest objects she could presume to expect; and when her eyes fell only on the butcher with his tray, a tidy old woman travelling homewards from shop with her full basket, two curs quarrelling over a dirty bone, and a string of dawdling children round the baker's little bow-window eyeing the gingerbread, she knew she had no reason to complain, and was amused enough; quite enough still to stand at the door. A mind lively and at ease, can do with seeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not answer. She looked down the Randalls road. The scene enlarged; two persons appeared; Mrs. Weston and her son-in-law; they were walking into Highbury;--to Hartfield of course. They were stopping, however, in the first place at Mrs. Bates's; whose house was a little nearer Randalls than Ford's; and had all but knocked, when Emma caught their eye.--Immediately they crossed the road and came forward to her; and the agreeableness of yesterday's engagement seemed to give fresh pleasure to the present meeting. Mrs. Weston informed her that she was going to call on the Bateses, in order to hear the new instrument. "For my companion tells me," said she, "that I absolutely promised Miss Bates last night, that I would come this morning. I was not aware of it myself. I did not know that I had fixed a day, but as | Emma |
“Maybe I be the kind of girl you like better, now I come to town,” | Antonia | the house and admired everything.<|quote|>“Maybe I be the kind of girl you like better, now I come to town,”</|quote|>she suggested hopefully. How good | us.” Ántonia looked eagerly about the house and admired everything.<|quote|>“Maybe I be the kind of girl you like better, now I come to town,”</|quote|>she suggested hopefully. How good it was to have Ántonia | was wearing shoes and stockings, and was breathless and excited. She gave me a playful shake by the shoulders. Grandmother kissed her. “God bless you, child! Now you’ve come, you must try to do right and be a credit to us.” Ántonia looked eagerly about the house and admired everything.<|quote|>“Maybe I be the kind of girl you like better, now I come to town,”</|quote|>she suggested hopefully. How good it was to have Ántonia near us again; to see her every day and almost every night! Her greatest fault, Mrs. Harling found, was that she so often stopped her work and fell to playing with the children. She would race about the orchard with | girl will be happy here, and she’ll forget those things,” said Mrs. Harling confidently, as we rose to take our leave. III ON Saturday Ambrosch drove up to the back gate, and Ántonia jumped down from the wagon and ran into our kitchen just as she used to do. She was wearing shoes and stockings, and was breathless and excited. She gave me a playful shake by the shoulders. Grandmother kissed her. “God bless you, child! Now you’ve come, you must try to do right and be a credit to us.” Ántonia looked eagerly about the house and admired everything.<|quote|>“Maybe I be the kind of girl you like better, now I come to town,”</|quote|>she suggested hopefully. How good it was to have Ántonia near us again; to see her every day and almost every night! Her greatest fault, Mrs. Harling found, was that she so often stopped her work and fell to playing with the children. She would race about the orchard with us, or take sides in our hay-fights in the barn, or be the old bear that came down from the mountain and carried off Nina. Tony learned English so quickly that by the time school began she could speak as well as any of us. I was jealous of Tony’s | praise. Grandmother spoke feelingly. “When she first came to this country, Frances, and had that genteel old man to watch over her, she was as pretty a girl as ever I saw. But, dear me, what a life she’s led, out in the fields with those rough thrashers! Things would have been very different with poor Ántonia if her father had lived.” The Harlings begged us to tell them about Mr. Shimerda’s death and the big snowstorm. By the time we saw grandfather coming home from church we had told them pretty much all we knew of the Shimerdas. “The girl will be happy here, and she’ll forget those things,” said Mrs. Harling confidently, as we rose to take our leave. III ON Saturday Ambrosch drove up to the back gate, and Ántonia jumped down from the wagon and ran into our kitchen just as she used to do. She was wearing shoes and stockings, and was breathless and excited. She gave me a playful shake by the shoulders. Grandmother kissed her. “God bless you, child! Now you’ve come, you must try to do right and be a credit to us.” Ántonia looked eagerly about the house and admired everything.<|quote|>“Maybe I be the kind of girl you like better, now I come to town,”</|quote|>she suggested hopefully. How good it was to have Ántonia near us again; to see her every day and almost every night! Her greatest fault, Mrs. Harling found, was that she so often stopped her work and fell to playing with the children. She would race about the orchard with us, or take sides in our hay-fights in the barn, or be the old bear that came down from the mountain and carried off Nina. Tony learned English so quickly that by the time school began she could speak as well as any of us. I was jealous of Tony’s admiration for Charley Harling. Because he was always first in his classes at school, and could mend the water-pipes or the door-bell and take the clock to pieces, she seemed to think him a sort of prince. Nothing that Charley wanted was too much trouble for her. She loved to put up lunches for him when he went hunting, to mend his ball-gloves and sew buttons on his shooting-coat, baked the kind of nut-cake he liked, and fed his setter dog when he was away on trips with his father. Ántonia had made herself cloth working-slippers out of Mr. Harling’s | were through with the whole business, and how his mother tweaked his coat-tail and prompted him in Bohemian. Mrs. Harling finally agreed to pay three dollars a week for Ántonia’s services—good wages in those days—and to keep her in shoes. There had been hot dispute about the shoes, Mrs. Shimerda finally saying persuasively that she would send Mrs. Harling three fat geese every year to “make even.” Ambrosch was to bring his sister to town next Saturday. “She’ll be awkward and rough at first, like enough,” grandmother said anxiously, “but unless she’s been spoiled by the hard life she’s led, she has it in her to be a real helpful girl.” Mrs. Harling laughed her quick, decided laugh. “Oh, I’m not worrying, Mrs. Burden! I can bring something out of that girl. She’s barely seventeen, not too old to learn new ways. She’s good-looking, too!” she added warmly. Frances turned to grandmother. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Burden, you did n’t tell us that! She was working in the garden when we got there, barefoot and ragged. But she has such fine brown legs and arms, and splendid color in her cheeks—like those big dark red plums.” We were pleased at this praise. Grandmother spoke feelingly. “When she first came to this country, Frances, and had that genteel old man to watch over her, she was as pretty a girl as ever I saw. But, dear me, what a life she’s led, out in the fields with those rough thrashers! Things would have been very different with poor Ántonia if her father had lived.” The Harlings begged us to tell them about Mr. Shimerda’s death and the big snowstorm. By the time we saw grandfather coming home from church we had told them pretty much all we knew of the Shimerdas. “The girl will be happy here, and she’ll forget those things,” said Mrs. Harling confidently, as we rose to take our leave. III ON Saturday Ambrosch drove up to the back gate, and Ántonia jumped down from the wagon and ran into our kitchen just as she used to do. She was wearing shoes and stockings, and was breathless and excited. She gave me a playful shake by the shoulders. Grandmother kissed her. “God bless you, child! Now you’ve come, you must try to do right and be a credit to us.” Ántonia looked eagerly about the house and admired everything.<|quote|>“Maybe I be the kind of girl you like better, now I come to town,”</|quote|>she suggested hopefully. How good it was to have Ántonia near us again; to see her every day and almost every night! Her greatest fault, Mrs. Harling found, was that she so often stopped her work and fell to playing with the children. She would race about the orchard with us, or take sides in our hay-fights in the barn, or be the old bear that came down from the mountain and carried off Nina. Tony learned English so quickly that by the time school began she could speak as well as any of us. I was jealous of Tony’s admiration for Charley Harling. Because he was always first in his classes at school, and could mend the water-pipes or the door-bell and take the clock to pieces, she seemed to think him a sort of prince. Nothing that Charley wanted was too much trouble for her. She loved to put up lunches for him when he went hunting, to mend his ball-gloves and sew buttons on his shooting-coat, baked the kind of nut-cake he liked, and fed his setter dog when he was away on trips with his father. Ántonia had made herself cloth working-slippers out of Mr. Harling’s old coats, and in these she went padding about after Charley, fairly panting with eagerness to please him. Next to Charley, I think she loved Nina best. Nina was only six, and she was rather more complex than the other children. She was fanciful, had all sorts of unspoken preferences, and was easily offended. At the slightest disappointment or displeasure her velvety brown eyes filled with tears, and she would lift her chin and walk silently away. If we ran after her and tried to appease her, it did no good. She walked on unmollified. I used to think that no eyes in the world could grow so large or hold so many tears as Nina’s. Mrs. Harling and Ántonia invariably took her part. We were never given a chance to explain. The charge was simply: “You have made Nina cry. Now, Jimmy can go home, and Sally must get her arithmetic.” I liked Nina, too; she was so quaint and unexpected, and her eyes were lovely; but I often wanted to shake her. We had jolly evenings at the Harlings when the father was away. If he was at home, the children had to go to bed early, or | could count on a wedding present from Frances Harling. In August the Harlings’ Danish cook had to leave them. Grandmother entreated them to try Ántonia. She cornered Ambrosch the next time he came to town, and pointed out to him that any connection with Christian Harling would strengthen his credit and be of advantage to him. One Sunday Mrs. Harling took the long ride out to the Shimerdas’ with Frances. She said she wanted to see “what the girl came from” and to have a clear understanding with her mother. I was in our yard when they came driving home, just before sunset. They laughed and waved to me as they passed, and I could see they were in great good humor. After supper, when grandfather set off to church, grandmother and I took my short cut through the willow hedge and went over to hear about the visit to the Shimerdas. We found Mrs. Harling with Charley and Sally on the front porch, resting after her hard drive. Julia was in the hammock—she was fond of repose—and Frances was at the piano, playing without a light and talking to her mother through the open window. Mrs. Harling laughed when she saw us coming. “I expect you left your dishes on the table to-night, Mrs. Burden,” she called. Frances shut the piano and came out to join us. They had liked Ántonia from their first glimpse of her; felt they knew exactly what kind of girl she was. As for Mrs. Shimerda, they found her very amusing. Mrs. Harling chuckled whenever she spoke of her. “I expect I am more at home with that sort of bird than you are, Mrs. Burden. They’re a pair, Ambrosch and that old woman!” They had had a long argument with Ambrosch about Ántonia’s allowance for clothes and pocket-money. It was his plan that every cent of his sister’s wages should be paid over to him each month, and he would provide her with such clothing as he thought necessary. When Mrs. Harling told him firmly that she would keep fifty dollars a year for Ántonia’s own use, he declared they wanted to take his sister to town and dress her up and make a fool of her. Mrs. Harling gave us a lively account of Ambrosch’s behavior throughout the interview; how he kept jumping up and putting on his cap as if he were through with the whole business, and how his mother tweaked his coat-tail and prompted him in Bohemian. Mrs. Harling finally agreed to pay three dollars a week for Ántonia’s services—good wages in those days—and to keep her in shoes. There had been hot dispute about the shoes, Mrs. Shimerda finally saying persuasively that she would send Mrs. Harling three fat geese every year to “make even.” Ambrosch was to bring his sister to town next Saturday. “She’ll be awkward and rough at first, like enough,” grandmother said anxiously, “but unless she’s been spoiled by the hard life she’s led, she has it in her to be a real helpful girl.” Mrs. Harling laughed her quick, decided laugh. “Oh, I’m not worrying, Mrs. Burden! I can bring something out of that girl. She’s barely seventeen, not too old to learn new ways. She’s good-looking, too!” she added warmly. Frances turned to grandmother. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Burden, you did n’t tell us that! She was working in the garden when we got there, barefoot and ragged. But she has such fine brown legs and arms, and splendid color in her cheeks—like those big dark red plums.” We were pleased at this praise. Grandmother spoke feelingly. “When she first came to this country, Frances, and had that genteel old man to watch over her, she was as pretty a girl as ever I saw. But, dear me, what a life she’s led, out in the fields with those rough thrashers! Things would have been very different with poor Ántonia if her father had lived.” The Harlings begged us to tell them about Mr. Shimerda’s death and the big snowstorm. By the time we saw grandfather coming home from church we had told them pretty much all we knew of the Shimerdas. “The girl will be happy here, and she’ll forget those things,” said Mrs. Harling confidently, as we rose to take our leave. III ON Saturday Ambrosch drove up to the back gate, and Ántonia jumped down from the wagon and ran into our kitchen just as she used to do. She was wearing shoes and stockings, and was breathless and excited. She gave me a playful shake by the shoulders. Grandmother kissed her. “God bless you, child! Now you’ve come, you must try to do right and be a credit to us.” Ántonia looked eagerly about the house and admired everything.<|quote|>“Maybe I be the kind of girl you like better, now I come to town,”</|quote|>she suggested hopefully. How good it was to have Ántonia near us again; to see her every day and almost every night! Her greatest fault, Mrs. Harling found, was that she so often stopped her work and fell to playing with the children. She would race about the orchard with us, or take sides in our hay-fights in the barn, or be the old bear that came down from the mountain and carried off Nina. Tony learned English so quickly that by the time school began she could speak as well as any of us. I was jealous of Tony’s admiration for Charley Harling. Because he was always first in his classes at school, and could mend the water-pipes or the door-bell and take the clock to pieces, she seemed to think him a sort of prince. Nothing that Charley wanted was too much trouble for her. She loved to put up lunches for him when he went hunting, to mend his ball-gloves and sew buttons on his shooting-coat, baked the kind of nut-cake he liked, and fed his setter dog when he was away on trips with his father. Ántonia had made herself cloth working-slippers out of Mr. Harling’s old coats, and in these she went padding about after Charley, fairly panting with eagerness to please him. Next to Charley, I think she loved Nina best. Nina was only six, and she was rather more complex than the other children. She was fanciful, had all sorts of unspoken preferences, and was easily offended. At the slightest disappointment or displeasure her velvety brown eyes filled with tears, and she would lift her chin and walk silently away. If we ran after her and tried to appease her, it did no good. She walked on unmollified. I used to think that no eyes in the world could grow so large or hold so many tears as Nina’s. Mrs. Harling and Ántonia invariably took her part. We were never given a chance to explain. The charge was simply: “You have made Nina cry. Now, Jimmy can go home, and Sally must get her arithmetic.” I liked Nina, too; she was so quaint and unexpected, and her eyes were lovely; but I often wanted to shake her. We had jolly evenings at the Harlings when the father was away. If he was at home, the children had to go to bed early, or they came over to my house to play. Mr. Harling not only demanded a quiet house, he demanded all his wife’s attention. He used to take her away to their room in the west ell, and talk over his business with her all evening. Though we did not realize it then, Mrs. Harling was our audience when we played, and we always looked to her for suggestions. Nothing flattered one like her quick laugh. Mr. Harling had a desk in his bedroom, and his own easy-chair by the window, in which no one else ever sat. On the nights when he was at home, I could see his shadow on the blind, and it seemed to me an arrogant shadow. Mrs. Harling paid no heed to any one else if he was there. Before he went to bed she always got him a lunch of smoked salmon or anchovies and beer. He kept an alcohol lamp in his room, and a French coffee-pot, and his wife made coffee for him at any hour of the night he happened to want it. Most Black Hawk fathers had no personal habits outside their domestic ones; they paid the bills, pushed the baby carriage after office hours, moved the sprinkler about over the lawn, and took the family driving on Sunday. Mr. Harling, therefore, seemed to me autocratic and imperial in his ways. He walked, talked, put on his gloves, shook hands, like a man who felt that he had power. He was not tall, but he carried his head so haughtily that he looked a commanding figure, and there was something daring and challenging in his eyes. I used to imagine that the “nobles” of whom Ántonia was always talking probably looked very much like Christian Harling, wore caped overcoats like his, and just such a glittering diamond upon the little finger. Except when the father was at home, the Harling house was never quiet. Mrs. Harling and Nina and Ántonia made as much noise as a houseful of children, and there was usually somebody at the piano. Julia was the only one who was held down to regular hours of practicing, but they all played. When Frances came home at noon, she played until dinner was ready. When Sally got back from school, she sat down in her hat and coat and drummed the plantation melodies that negro minstrel troupes brought | saying persuasively that she would send Mrs. Harling three fat geese every year to “make even.” Ambrosch was to bring his sister to town next Saturday. “She’ll be awkward and rough at first, like enough,” grandmother said anxiously, “but unless she’s been spoiled by the hard life she’s led, she has it in her to be a real helpful girl.” Mrs. Harling laughed her quick, decided laugh. “Oh, I’m not worrying, Mrs. Burden! I can bring something out of that girl. She’s barely seventeen, not too old to learn new ways. She’s good-looking, too!” she added warmly. Frances turned to grandmother. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Burden, you did n’t tell us that! She was working in the garden when we got there, barefoot and ragged. But she has such fine brown legs and arms, and splendid color in her cheeks—like those big dark red plums.” We were pleased at this praise. Grandmother spoke feelingly. “When she first came to this country, Frances, and had that genteel old man to watch over her, she was as pretty a girl as ever I saw. But, dear me, what a life she’s led, out in the fields with those rough thrashers! Things would have been very different with poor Ántonia if her father had lived.” The Harlings begged us to tell them about Mr. Shimerda’s death and the big snowstorm. By the time we saw grandfather coming home from church we had told them pretty much all we knew of the Shimerdas. “The girl will be happy here, and she’ll forget those things,” said Mrs. Harling confidently, as we rose to take our leave. III ON Saturday Ambrosch drove up to the back gate, and Ántonia jumped down from the wagon and ran into our kitchen just as she used to do. She was wearing shoes and stockings, and was breathless and excited. She gave me a playful shake by the shoulders. Grandmother kissed her. “God bless you, child! Now you’ve come, you must try to do right and be a credit to us.” Ántonia looked eagerly about the house and admired everything.<|quote|>“Maybe I be the kind of girl you like better, now I come to town,”</|quote|>she suggested hopefully. How good it was to have Ántonia near us again; to see her every day and almost every night! Her greatest fault, Mrs. Harling found, was that she so often stopped her work and fell to playing with the children. She would race about the orchard with us, or take sides in our hay-fights in the barn, or be the old bear that came down from the mountain and carried off Nina. Tony learned English so quickly that by the time school began she could speak as well as any of us. I was jealous of Tony’s admiration for Charley Harling. Because he was always first in his classes at school, and could mend the water-pipes or the door-bell and take the clock to pieces, she seemed to think him a sort of prince. Nothing that Charley wanted was too much trouble for her. She loved to put up lunches for him when he went hunting, to mend his ball-gloves and sew buttons on his shooting-coat, baked the kind of nut-cake he liked, and fed his setter dog when he was away on trips with his father. Ántonia had made herself cloth working-slippers out of Mr. Harling’s old coats, and in these she went padding about after Charley, fairly panting with eagerness to please him. Next to Charley, I think she loved Nina best. Nina was only six, and she was rather more complex than the other children. She was fanciful, had all sorts of unspoken preferences, and was easily offended. At the slightest disappointment or displeasure her velvety brown eyes filled with tears, and she would lift her chin and walk silently away. If we ran after her and tried to appease her, it did no good. She walked on unmollified. I used to think that no eyes in the world could grow so large or hold so many tears as Nina’s. Mrs. Harling and Ántonia invariably took her part. We were never given a chance to explain. The charge was simply: “You have made Nina cry. Now, Jimmy can go home, and Sally must get her arithmetic.” I liked Nina, too; she was so quaint and unexpected, and her eyes were lovely; but I often wanted to shake her. We had jolly evenings at the Harlings when the father was away. If he was at home, the children had to go to bed early, or they came over to my house to play. Mr. Harling not only demanded a quiet house, he demanded all his wife’s attention. He used to take her away to their room in the west ell, and talk over his business with her all evening. Though we did not realize it then, Mrs. Harling was our audience when we played, and we always looked to her for suggestions. Nothing flattered one like her quick laugh. Mr. Harling had a desk in his bedroom, and his own easy-chair by the window, in which no one else ever sat. On the nights when he was at | My Antonia |
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 speaker | something like that look before?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"No," said the old gentleman, | soul! where have I seen something like that look before?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"No," said the old gentleman, shaking his head; "it must | 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?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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, | 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?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 | had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two or three streets, and down a place called Mutton Hill, when he was led beneath a low archway, and up a dirty court, into this dispensary of summary justice, by the back way. It was a small paved yard into which they turned; and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of whiskers on his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand. "What's the matter now?" said the man carelessly. "A young fogle-hunter," replied the man who had Oliver in charge. "Are you the party that's been robbed, sir?" inquired the man with the keys. "Yes, I am," replied the old gentleman; "but I am not sure that this boy actually took the handkerchief. I I would rather not press the case." "Must go before the magistrate now, sir," replied the man. "His worship will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows!" This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was searched; and nothing being found upon him, locked up. This cell was in shape 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?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 | with mud and dust, and bleeding from the mouth, looking wildly round upon the heap of faces that surrounded him, when the old gentleman was officiously dragged and pushed into the circle by the foremost of the pursuers. "Yes," said the gentleman, "I am afraid it is the boy." "Afraid!" murmured the crowd. "That's a good 'un!" "Poor fellow!" said the gentleman, "he has hurt himself." "_I_ did that, sir," said a great lubberly fellow, stepping forward; "and preciously I cut my knuckle agin' his mouth. I stopped him, sir." The fellow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for his pains; but, the old gentleman, eyeing him with an expression of dislike, look anxiously round, as if he contemplated running away himself: which it is very possible he might have attempted to do, and thus have afforded another chase, had not a police officer (who is generally the last person to arrive in such cases) at that moment made his way through the crowd, and seized Oliver by the collar. "Come, get up," said the man, roughly. "It wasn't me indeed, sir. Indeed, indeed, it was two other boys," said Oliver, clasping his hands passionately, and looking round. "They are here somewhere." "Oh no, they ain't," said the officer. He meant this to be ironical, but it was true besides; for the Dodger and Charley Bates had filed off down the first convenient court they came to. "Come, get up!" "Don't hurt him," said the old gentleman, compassionately. "Oh no, I won't hurt him," replied the officer, tearing his jacket half off his back, in proof thereof. "Come, I know you; it won't do. Will you stand upon your legs, you young devil?" Oliver, who could hardly stand, made a shift to raise himself on his feet, and was at once lugged along the streets by the jacket-collar, at a rapid pace. The gentleman walked on with them by the officer's side; and as many of the crowd as could achieve the feat, got a little ahead, and stared back at Oliver from time to time. The boys shouted in triumph; and on they went. CHAPTER XI. TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE; AND FURNISHES A SLIGHT SPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE The offence had been committed within the district, and indeed in the immediate neighborhood of, a very notorious metropolitan police office. The crowd had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two or three streets, and down a place called Mutton Hill, when he was led beneath a low archway, and up a dirty court, into this dispensary of summary justice, by the back way. It was a small paved yard into which they turned; and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of whiskers on his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand. "What's the matter now?" said the man carelessly. "A young fogle-hunter," replied the man who had Oliver in charge. "Are you the party that's been robbed, sir?" inquired the man with the keys. "Yes, I am," replied the old gentleman; "but I am not sure that this boy actually took the handkerchief. I I would rather not press the case." "Must go before the magistrate now, sir," replied the man. "His worship will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows!" This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was searched; and nothing being found upon him, locked up. This cell was in shape 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?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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." Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information. "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 | office. The crowd had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two or three streets, and down a place called Mutton Hill, when he was led beneath a low archway, and up a dirty court, into this dispensary of summary justice, by the back way. It was a small paved yard into which they turned; and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of whiskers on his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand. "What's the matter now?" said the man carelessly. "A young fogle-hunter," replied the man who had Oliver in charge. "Are you the party that's been robbed, sir?" inquired the man with the keys. "Yes, I am," replied the old gentleman; "but I am not sure that this boy actually took the handkerchief. I I would rather not press the case." "Must go before the magistrate now, sir," replied the man. "His worship will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows!" This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was searched; and nothing being found upon him, locked up. This cell was in shape 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?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 | Oliver Twist |
"Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?--You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me--but twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four horses." | Mrs. Elton | from London, a considerable journey."<|quote|>"Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?--You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me--but twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four horses."</|quote|>"The evil of the distance | one hundred and ninety miles from London, a considerable journey."<|quote|>"Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?--You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me--but twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four horses."</|quote|>"The evil of the distance from Enscombe," said Mr. Weston, | on Mrs. Churchill's account--she has not been well the whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her--so they are all to move southward without loss of time." "Indeed!--from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?" "Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a considerable journey."<|quote|>"Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?--You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me--but twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four horses."</|quote|>"The evil of the distance from Enscombe," said Mr. Weston, "is, that Mrs. Churchill, _as_ _we_ _understand_, has not been able to leave the sofa for a week together. In Frank's last letter she complained, he said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having both his | Mr. Weston, I could not have believed it of you!" "Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs. Elton.--This letter tells us--it is a short letter--written in a hurry, merely to give us notice--it tells us that they are all coming up to town directly, on Mrs. Churchill's account--she has not been well the whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her--so they are all to move southward without loss of time." "Indeed!--from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?" "Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a considerable journey."<|quote|>"Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?--You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me--but twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four horses."</|quote|>"The evil of the distance from Enscombe," said Mr. Weston, "is, that Mrs. Churchill, _as_ _we_ _understand_, has not been able to leave the sofa for a week together. In Frank's last letter she complained, he said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having both his arm and his uncle's! This, you know, speaks a great degree of weakness--but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to sleep only two nights on the road.--So Frank writes word. Certainly, delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You must grant me that." | of it in a letter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my son's hand, presumed to open it--though it was not directed to me--it was to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent, I assure you. I hardly ever get a letter." "And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr. Weston--" (laughing affectedly) "I must protest against that.--A most dangerous precedent indeed!--I beg you will not let your neighbours follow your example.--Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we married women must begin to exert ourselves!--Oh! Mr. Weston, I could not have believed it of you!" "Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs. Elton.--This letter tells us--it is a short letter--written in a hurry, merely to give us notice--it tells us that they are all coming up to town directly, on Mrs. Churchill's account--she has not been well the whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her--so they are all to move southward without loss of time." "Indeed!--from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?" "Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a considerable journey."<|quote|>"Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?--You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me--but twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four horses."</|quote|>"The evil of the distance from Enscombe," said Mr. Weston, "is, that Mrs. Churchill, _as_ _we_ _understand_, has not been able to leave the sofa for a week together. In Frank's last letter she complained, he said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having both his arm and his uncle's! This, you know, speaks a great degree of weakness--but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to sleep only two nights on the road.--So Frank writes word. Certainly, delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You must grant me that." "No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I always take the part of my own sex. I do indeed. I give you notice--You will find me a formidable antagonist on that point. I always stand up for women--and I assure you, if you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you would not wonder at Mrs. Churchill's making incredible exertions to avoid it. Selina says it is quite horror to her--and I believe I have caught a little of her nicety. She always travels with her own sheets; an excellent precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the | granted, or he might not have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly delighted. They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to be made happy;--from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but she was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have been too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs. Elton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject with her. CHAPTER XVIII "I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you," said Mr. Weston. Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended her by such a hope, smiled most graciously. "You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume," he continued--" "and know him to be my son, though he does not bear my name." "Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance. I am sure Mr. Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage." "You are very obliging.--Frank will be extremely happy, I am sure.-- He is to be in town next week, if not sooner. We have notice of it in a letter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my son's hand, presumed to open it--though it was not directed to me--it was to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent, I assure you. I hardly ever get a letter." "And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr. Weston--" (laughing affectedly) "I must protest against that.--A most dangerous precedent indeed!--I beg you will not let your neighbours follow your example.--Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we married women must begin to exert ourselves!--Oh! Mr. Weston, I could not have believed it of you!" "Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs. Elton.--This letter tells us--it is a short letter--written in a hurry, merely to give us notice--it tells us that they are all coming up to town directly, on Mrs. Churchill's account--she has not been well the whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her--so they are all to move southward without loss of time." "Indeed!--from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?" "Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a considerable journey."<|quote|>"Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?--You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me--but twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four horses."</|quote|>"The evil of the distance from Enscombe," said Mr. Weston, "is, that Mrs. Churchill, _as_ _we_ _understand_, has not been able to leave the sofa for a week together. In Frank's last letter she complained, he said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having both his arm and his uncle's! This, you know, speaks a great degree of weakness--but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to sleep only two nights on the road.--So Frank writes word. Certainly, delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You must grant me that." "No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I always take the part of my own sex. I do indeed. I give you notice--You will find me a formidable antagonist on that point. I always stand up for women--and I assure you, if you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you would not wonder at Mrs. Churchill's making incredible exertions to avoid it. Selina says it is quite horror to her--and I believe I have caught a little of her nicety. She always travels with her own sheets; an excellent precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?" "Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any other fine lady ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be second to any lady in the land for" "-- Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with, "Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina is no fine lady, I assure you. Do not run away with such an idea." "Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is as thorough a fine lady as any body ever beheld." Mrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in disclaiming so warmly. It was by no means her object to have it believed that her sister was _not_ a fine lady; perhaps there was want of spirit in the pretence of it;--and she was considering in what way she had best retract, when Mr. Weston went on. "Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you may suspect--but this is quite between ourselves. She is very fond of Frank, and therefore I would not speak ill of her. Besides, she is out of health now; but _that_ indeed, by her own account, she has always been. I would not say so to every body, Mrs. Elton, | interesting to every body in the room. He gave her a letter, it was from Frank, and to herself; he had met with it in his way, and had taken the liberty of opening it. "Read it, read it," said he, "it will give you pleasure; only a few lines--will not take you long; read it to Emma." The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking to them the whole time, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible to every body. "Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do you say to it?--I always told you he would be here again soon, did not I?--Anne, my dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not believe me?--In town next week, you see--at the latest, I dare say; for _she_ is as impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be done; most likely they will be there to-morrow or Saturday. As to her illness, all nothing of course. But it is an excellent thing to have Frank among us again, so near as town. They will stay a good while when they do come, and he will be half his time with us. This is precisely what I wanted. Well, pretty good news, is not it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read it all? Put it up, put it up; we will have a good talk about it some other time, but it will not do now. I shall only just mention the circumstance to the others in a common way." Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion. Her looks and words had nothing to restrain them. She was happy, she knew she was happy, and knew she ought to be happy. Her congratulations were warm and open; but Emma could not speak so fluently. _She_ was a little occupied in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the degree of her agitation, which she rather thought was considerable. Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative to want others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say, and soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial communication of what the whole room must have overheard already. It was well that he took every body's joy for granted, or he might not have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly delighted. They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to be made happy;--from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but she was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have been too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs. Elton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject with her. CHAPTER XVIII "I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you," said Mr. Weston. Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended her by such a hope, smiled most graciously. "You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume," he continued--" "and know him to be my son, though he does not bear my name." "Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance. I am sure Mr. Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage." "You are very obliging.--Frank will be extremely happy, I am sure.-- He is to be in town next week, if not sooner. We have notice of it in a letter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my son's hand, presumed to open it--though it was not directed to me--it was to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent, I assure you. I hardly ever get a letter." "And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr. Weston--" (laughing affectedly) "I must protest against that.--A most dangerous precedent indeed!--I beg you will not let your neighbours follow your example.--Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we married women must begin to exert ourselves!--Oh! Mr. Weston, I could not have believed it of you!" "Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs. Elton.--This letter tells us--it is a short letter--written in a hurry, merely to give us notice--it tells us that they are all coming up to town directly, on Mrs. Churchill's account--she has not been well the whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her--so they are all to move southward without loss of time." "Indeed!--from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?" "Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a considerable journey."<|quote|>"Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?--You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me--but twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four horses."</|quote|>"The evil of the distance from Enscombe," said Mr. Weston, "is, that Mrs. Churchill, _as_ _we_ _understand_, has not been able to leave the sofa for a week together. In Frank's last letter she complained, he said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having both his arm and his uncle's! This, you know, speaks a great degree of weakness--but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to sleep only two nights on the road.--So Frank writes word. Certainly, delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You must grant me that." "No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I always take the part of my own sex. I do indeed. I give you notice--You will find me a formidable antagonist on that point. I always stand up for women--and I assure you, if you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you would not wonder at Mrs. Churchill's making incredible exertions to avoid it. Selina says it is quite horror to her--and I believe I have caught a little of her nicety. She always travels with her own sheets; an excellent precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?" "Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any other fine lady ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be second to any lady in the land for" "-- Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with, "Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina is no fine lady, I assure you. Do not run away with such an idea." "Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is as thorough a fine lady as any body ever beheld." Mrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in disclaiming so warmly. It was by no means her object to have it believed that her sister was _not_ a fine lady; perhaps there was want of spirit in the pretence of it;--and she was considering in what way she had best retract, when Mr. Weston went on. "Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you may suspect--but this is quite between ourselves. She is very fond of Frank, and therefore I would not speak ill of her. Besides, she is out of health now; but _that_ indeed, by her own account, she has always been. I would not say so to every body, Mrs. Elton, but I have not much faith in Mrs. Churchill's illness." "If she is really ill, why not go to Bath, Mr. Weston?--To Bath, or to Clifton?" "She has taken it into her head that Enscombe is too cold for her. The fact is, I suppose, that she is tired of Enscombe. She has now been a longer time stationary there, than she ever was before, and she begins to want change. It is a retired place. A fine place, but very retired." "Aye--like Maple Grove, I dare say. Nothing can stand more retired from the road than Maple Grove. Such an immense plantation all round it! You seem shut out from every thing--in the most complete retirement.--And Mrs. Churchill probably has not health or spirits like Selina to enjoy that sort of seclusion. Or, perhaps she may not have resources enough in herself to be qualified for a country life. I always say a woman cannot have too many resources--and I feel very thankful that I have so many myself as to be quite independent of society." "Frank was here in February for a fortnight." "So I remember to have heard. He will find an _addition_ to the society of Highbury when he comes again; that is, if I may presume to call myself an addition. But perhaps he may never have heard of there being such a creature in the world." This was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed by, and Mr. Weston, with a very good grace, immediately exclaimed, "My dear madam! Nobody but yourself could imagine such a thing possible. Not heard of you!--I believe Mrs. Weston's letters lately have been full of very little else than Mrs. Elton." He had done his duty and could return to his son. "When Frank left us," continued he, "it was quite uncertain when we might see him again, which makes this day's news doubly welcome. It has been completely unexpected. That is, _I_ always had a strong persuasion he would be here again soon, I was sure something favourable would turn up--but nobody believed me. He and Mrs. Weston were both dreadfully desponding. 'How could he contrive to come? And how could it be supposed that his uncle and aunt would spare him again?' and so forth--I always felt that something would happen in our favour; and so it has, you see. I have observed, | Emma could not speak so fluently. _She_ was a little occupied in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the degree of her agitation, which she rather thought was considerable. Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative to want others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say, and soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial communication of what the whole room must have overheard already. It was well that he took every body's joy for granted, or he might not have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly delighted. They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to be made happy;--from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but she was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have been too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs. Elton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject with her. CHAPTER XVIII "I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you," said Mr. Weston. Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended her by such a hope, smiled most graciously. "You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume," he continued--" "and know him to be my son, though he does not bear my name." "Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance. I am sure Mr. Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage." "You are very obliging.--Frank will be extremely happy, I am sure.-- He is to be in town next week, if not sooner. We have notice of it in a letter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my son's hand, presumed to open it--though it was not directed to me--it was to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent, I assure you. I hardly ever get a letter." "And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr. Weston--" (laughing affectedly) "I must protest against that.--A most dangerous precedent indeed!--I beg you will not let your neighbours follow your example.--Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we married women must begin to exert ourselves!--Oh! Mr. Weston, I could not have believed it of you!" "Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs. Elton.--This letter tells us--it is a short letter--written in a hurry, merely to give us notice--it tells us that they are all coming up to town directly, on Mrs. Churchill's account--she has not been well the whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her--so they are all to move southward without loss of time." "Indeed!--from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?" "Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a considerable journey."<|quote|>"Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?--You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me--but twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four horses."</|quote|>"The evil of the distance from Enscombe," said Mr. Weston, "is, that Mrs. Churchill, _as_ _we_ _understand_, has not been able to leave the sofa for a week together. In Frank's last letter she complained, he said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having both his arm and his uncle's! This, you know, speaks a great degree of weakness--but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to sleep only two nights on the road.--So Frank writes word. Certainly, delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You must grant me that." "No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I always take the part of my own sex. I do indeed. I give you notice--You will find me a formidable antagonist on that point. I always stand up for women--and I assure you, if you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you would not wonder at Mrs. Churchill's making incredible exertions to avoid it. Selina says it is quite horror to her--and I believe I have caught a little of her nicety. She always travels with her own sheets; an excellent precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?" "Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any other fine lady ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be second to any lady in the land for" "-- Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with, "Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina is no fine lady, I assure you. Do not run away with such an idea." "Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is as thorough a fine lady as any body ever beheld." Mrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in disclaiming so warmly. It was by no means her object to have it believed that her sister was _not_ a fine lady; perhaps there was want of spirit in the pretence of it;--and she was considering in what way she had best retract, when Mr. Weston went on. "Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you may suspect--but this is quite between ourselves. She is very fond of | Emma |
She scarce required his assent to touch a bell. | No speaker | my car.” “At the door?”<|quote|>She scarce required his assent to touch a bell.</|quote|>“I can easily send for | “But my cheque-book’s down in my car.” “At the door?”<|quote|>She scarce required his assent to touch a bell.</|quote|>“I can easily send for it.” And she threw off | might have dropped some round ripeness. It was for her friend to pick up his plum and his privilege. “Will you write a cheque?” “Yes, if you want it right away.” To which, however, he added, clapping vainly a breast-pocket: “But my cheque-book’s down in my car.” “At the door?”<|quote|>She scarce required his assent to touch a bell.</|quote|>“I can easily send for it.” And she threw off while they waited: “It’s so sweet your ‘flying round’ with your cheque-book!” He put it with promptitude another way. “It flies round pretty well with _Mr_----!” “Mr. Bender’s cheque-book--in his car,” she went on to Gotch, who had answered her | promise you I’ll thoroughly obey the direction of your pressure.” “All right then!” And he stopped before her, in his unrest, monumentally pledged, yet still more massively immeasurable. “How’ll you have it?” She bristled as with all the possible beautiful choices; then she shed her selection as a heaving fruit-tree might have dropped some round ripeness. It was for her friend to pick up his plum and his privilege. “Will you write a cheque?” “Yes, if you want it right away.” To which, however, he added, clapping vainly a breast-pocket: “But my cheque-book’s down in my car.” “At the door?”<|quote|>She scarce required his assent to touch a bell.</|quote|>“I can easily send for it.” And she threw off while they waited: “It’s so sweet your ‘flying round’ with your cheque-book!” He put it with promptitude another way. “It flies round pretty well with _Mr_----!” “Mr. Bender’s cheque-book--in his car,” she went on to Gotch, who had answered her summons. The owner of the interesting object further instructed him: “You’ll find in the pocket a large red morocco case.” “Very good, sir,” said Gotch--but with another word for his mistress. “Lord John would like to know--” “Lord John’s there?” she interrupted. Gotch turned to the open door. “Here he | “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed you my word for, thrown in, I’ll resign myself to whatever you may be disposed--characteristically!--to give for this one.” “If it’s a question of resignation,” said Mr. Bender, “you mean of course what I may be disposed--characteristically!--_not_ to give.” She played on him for an instant all her radiance. “Yes then, you dear sharp rich thing!” “And you take in, I assume,” he pursued, “that I’m just going to lean on you, for what I want, with the full weight of a determined man.” “Well,” she laughed, “I promise you I’ll thoroughly obey the direction of your pressure.” “All right then!” And he stopped before her, in his unrest, monumentally pledged, yet still more massively immeasurable. “How’ll you have it?” She bristled as with all the possible beautiful choices; then she shed her selection as a heaving fruit-tree might have dropped some round ripeness. It was for her friend to pick up his plum and his privilege. “Will you write a cheque?” “Yes, if you want it right away.” To which, however, he added, clapping vainly a breast-pocket: “But my cheque-book’s down in my car.” “At the door?”<|quote|>She scarce required his assent to touch a bell.</|quote|>“I can easily send for it.” And she threw off while they waited: “It’s so sweet your ‘flying round’ with your cheque-book!” He put it with promptitude another way. “It flies round pretty well with _Mr_----!” “Mr. Bender’s cheque-book--in his car,” she went on to Gotch, who had answered her summons. The owner of the interesting object further instructed him: “You’ll find in the pocket a large red morocco case.” “Very good, sir,” said Gotch--but with another word for his mistress. “Lord John would like to know--” “Lord John’s there?” she interrupted. Gotch turned to the open door. “Here he is, my lady.” She accommodated herself at once, under Mr. Bender’s eye, to the complication involved in his lordship’s presence. “It’s he who went round to Bond Street.” Mr. Bender stared, but saw the connection. “To stop the show?” And then as the young man was already there: “You’ve stopped the show?” “It’s ‘on’ more than ever!” Lord John responded while Gotch retired: a hurried, flurried, breathless Lord John, strikingly different from the backward messenger she had lately seen despatched. “But Theign should be here!” --he addressed her excitedly. “I announce you a call from the Prince.” “The Prince?” --she | account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She waited a little, brightly composed--then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.” His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance--his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his eyes once more--though after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a glamour, no shade of a secret; then he came back to his hostess. “Do you call giving me an advantage squeezing me by your sweet modesty for less than I may possibly bear?” “How can I say fairer,” she returned, “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed you my word for, thrown in, I’ll resign myself to whatever you may be disposed--characteristically!--to give for this one.” “If it’s a question of resignation,” said Mr. Bender, “you mean of course what I may be disposed--characteristically!--_not_ to give.” She played on him for an instant all her radiance. “Yes then, you dear sharp rich thing!” “And you take in, I assume,” he pursued, “that I’m just going to lean on you, for what I want, with the full weight of a determined man.” “Well,” she laughed, “I promise you I’ll thoroughly obey the direction of your pressure.” “All right then!” And he stopped before her, in his unrest, monumentally pledged, yet still more massively immeasurable. “How’ll you have it?” She bristled as with all the possible beautiful choices; then she shed her selection as a heaving fruit-tree might have dropped some round ripeness. It was for her friend to pick up his plum and his privilege. “Will you write a cheque?” “Yes, if you want it right away.” To which, however, he added, clapping vainly a breast-pocket: “But my cheque-book’s down in my car.” “At the door?”<|quote|>She scarce required his assent to touch a bell.</|quote|>“I can easily send for it.” And she threw off while they waited: “It’s so sweet your ‘flying round’ with your cheque-book!” He put it with promptitude another way. “It flies round pretty well with _Mr_----!” “Mr. Bender’s cheque-book--in his car,” she went on to Gotch, who had answered her summons. The owner of the interesting object further instructed him: “You’ll find in the pocket a large red morocco case.” “Very good, sir,” said Gotch--but with another word for his mistress. “Lord John would like to know--” “Lord John’s there?” she interrupted. Gotch turned to the open door. “Here he is, my lady.” She accommodated herself at once, under Mr. Bender’s eye, to the complication involved in his lordship’s presence. “It’s he who went round to Bond Street.” Mr. Bender stared, but saw the connection. “To stop the show?” And then as the young man was already there: “You’ve stopped the show?” “It’s ‘on’ more than ever!” Lord John responded while Gotch retired: a hurried, flurried, breathless Lord John, strikingly different from the backward messenger she had lately seen despatched. “But Theign should be here!” --he addressed her excitedly. “I announce you a call from the Prince.” “The Prince?” --she gasped as for the burden of the honour. “He follows you?” Mr. Bender, with an eagerness and a candour there was no mistaking, recognised on behalf of his ampler action a world of associational advantage and auspicious possibility. “Is the Prince _after_ the thing?” Lord John remained, in spite of this challenge, conscious of nothing but his message. “He was there with Mackintosh--to see and admire the picture; which he thinks, by the way, a Mantovano pure and simple!--and did me the honour to remember me. When he heard me report to Mackintosh in his presence the sentiments expressed to me here by our noble friend and of which, embarrassed though I doubtless was,” the young man pursued to Lady Sandgate, “I gave as clear an account as I could, he was so delighted with it that he declared they mustn’t think then of taking the thing off, but must on the contrary keep putting it forward for all it’s worth, and he would come round and congratulate and thank Theign and explain him his reasons.” Their hostess cast about for a sign. “Why Theign is at Kitty’s, worse luck! The Prince calls on him _here?_” “He calls, you see, | thrown into the arena for quite a while. I guess I can do with it for _that_.” Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge. “Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!” --and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch. “You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,” opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play. “Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She waited a little, brightly composed--then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.” His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance--his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his eyes once more--though after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a glamour, no shade of a secret; then he came back to his hostess. “Do you call giving me an advantage squeezing me by your sweet modesty for less than I may possibly bear?” “How can I say fairer,” she returned, “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed you my word for, thrown in, I’ll resign myself to whatever you may be disposed--characteristically!--to give for this one.” “If it’s a question of resignation,” said Mr. Bender, “you mean of course what I may be disposed--characteristically!--_not_ to give.” She played on him for an instant all her radiance. “Yes then, you dear sharp rich thing!” “And you take in, I assume,” he pursued, “that I’m just going to lean on you, for what I want, with the full weight of a determined man.” “Well,” she laughed, “I promise you I’ll thoroughly obey the direction of your pressure.” “All right then!” And he stopped before her, in his unrest, monumentally pledged, yet still more massively immeasurable. “How’ll you have it?” She bristled as with all the possible beautiful choices; then she shed her selection as a heaving fruit-tree might have dropped some round ripeness. It was for her friend to pick up his plum and his privilege. “Will you write a cheque?” “Yes, if you want it right away.” To which, however, he added, clapping vainly a breast-pocket: “But my cheque-book’s down in my car.” “At the door?”<|quote|>She scarce required his assent to touch a bell.</|quote|>“I can easily send for it.” And she threw off while they waited: “It’s so sweet your ‘flying round’ with your cheque-book!” He put it with promptitude another way. “It flies round pretty well with _Mr_----!” “Mr. Bender’s cheque-book--in his car,” she went on to Gotch, who had answered her summons. The owner of the interesting object further instructed him: “You’ll find in the pocket a large red morocco case.” “Very good, sir,” said Gotch--but with another word for his mistress. “Lord John would like to know--” “Lord John’s there?” she interrupted. Gotch turned to the open door. “Here he is, my lady.” She accommodated herself at once, under Mr. Bender’s eye, to the complication involved in his lordship’s presence. “It’s he who went round to Bond Street.” Mr. Bender stared, but saw the connection. “To stop the show?” And then as the young man was already there: “You’ve stopped the show?” “It’s ‘on’ more than ever!” Lord John responded while Gotch retired: a hurried, flurried, breathless Lord John, strikingly different from the backward messenger she had lately seen despatched. “But Theign should be here!” --he addressed her excitedly. “I announce you a call from the Prince.” “The Prince?” --she gasped as for the burden of the honour. “He follows you?” Mr. Bender, with an eagerness and a candour there was no mistaking, recognised on behalf of his ampler action a world of associational advantage and auspicious possibility. “Is the Prince _after_ the thing?” Lord John remained, in spite of this challenge, conscious of nothing but his message. “He was there with Mackintosh--to see and admire the picture; which he thinks, by the way, a Mantovano pure and simple!--and did me the honour to remember me. When he heard me report to Mackintosh in his presence the sentiments expressed to me here by our noble friend and of which, embarrassed though I doubtless was,” the young man pursued to Lady Sandgate, “I gave as clear an account as I could, he was so delighted with it that he declared they mustn’t think then of taking the thing off, but must on the contrary keep putting it forward for all it’s worth, and he would come round and congratulate and thank Theign and explain him his reasons.” Their hostess cast about for a sign. “Why Theign is at Kitty’s, worse luck! The Prince calls on him _here?_” “He calls, you see, on _you_, my lady--at five-forty-five; and graciously desired me so to put it you.” “He’s very kind, but” --she took in her condition-- “I’m not even _dressed!_” “You’ll have time” --the young man was a comfort-- “while I rush to Berkeley Square. And pardon me, Bender--though it’s so near--if I just bag your car.” “That’s, that’s it, take his car!” --Lady Sandgate almost swept him away. “You may use my car all right,” Mr. Bender contributed-- “but what I want to know is what the man’s _after_.” “The man? what man?” his friend scarce paused to ask. “The Prince then--if you allow he _is_ a man! Is he after my picture?” Lord John vividly disclaimed authority. “If you’ll wait, my dear fellow, you’ll see.” “Oh why should he ‘wait’?” burst from their cautious companion--only to be caught up, however, in the next breath, so swift her gracious revolution. “Wait, wait indeed, Mr. Bender--I won’t give you up for any Prince!” With which she appealed again to Lord John. “He wants to ‘congratulate’?” “On Theign’s decision, as I’ve told you--which I announced to Mackintosh, by Theign’s extraordinary order, under his Highness’s nose, and which his Highness, by the same token, took up like a shot.” Her face, as she bethought herself, was convulsed as by some quick perception of what her informant must have done and what therefore the Prince’s interest rested on; all, however, to the effect, given their actual company, of her at once dodging and covering that issue. “The decision to remove the picture?” Lord John also observed a discretion. “He wouldn’t hear of such a thing--says it must stay stock still. So there you are!” This determined in Mr. Bender a not unnatural, in fact quite a clamorous, series of questions. “But _where_ are we, and what has the Prince to do with Lord Theign’s decision when that’s all _I’m_ here for? What in thunder _is_ Lord Theign’s decision--what was his ‘extraordinary order’?” Lord John, too long detained and his hand now on the door, put off this solicitor as he had already been put off. “Lady Sandgate, _you_ tell him! I rush!” Mr. Bender saw him vanish, but all to a greater bewilderment. “What the h---- then (I beg your pardon!) is he talking about, and what ‘sentiments’ did he report round there that Lord Theign had been expressing?” His hostess faced it not otherwise than | after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a glamour, no shade of a secret; then he came back to his hostess. “Do you call giving me an advantage squeezing me by your sweet modesty for less than I may possibly bear?” “How can I say fairer,” she returned, “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed you my word for, thrown in, I’ll resign myself to whatever you may be disposed--characteristically!--to give for this one.” “If it’s a question of resignation,” said Mr. Bender, “you mean of course what I may be disposed--characteristically!--_not_ to give.” She played on him for an instant all her radiance. “Yes then, you dear sharp rich thing!” “And you take in, I assume,” he pursued, “that I’m just going to lean on you, for what I want, with the full weight of a determined man.” “Well,” she laughed, “I promise you I’ll thoroughly obey the direction of your pressure.” “All right then!” And he stopped before her, in his unrest, monumentally pledged, yet still more massively immeasurable. “How’ll you have it?” She bristled as with all the possible beautiful choices; then she shed her selection as a heaving fruit-tree might have dropped some round ripeness. It was for her friend to pick up his plum and his privilege. “Will you write a cheque?” “Yes, if you want it right away.” To which, however, he added, clapping vainly a breast-pocket: “But my cheque-book’s down in my car.” “At the door?”<|quote|>She scarce required his assent to touch a bell.</|quote|>“I can easily send for it.” And she threw off while they waited: “It’s so sweet your ‘flying round’ with your cheque-book!” He put it with promptitude another way. “It flies round pretty well with _Mr_----!” “Mr. Bender’s cheque-book--in his car,” she went on to Gotch, who had answered her summons. The owner of the interesting object further instructed him: “You’ll find in the pocket a large red morocco case.” “Very good, sir,” said Gotch--but with another word for his mistress. “Lord John would like to know--” “Lord John’s there?” she interrupted. Gotch turned to the open door. “Here he is, my lady.” She accommodated herself at once, under Mr. Bender’s eye, to the complication involved in his lordship’s presence. “It’s he who went round to Bond Street.” Mr. Bender stared, but saw the connection. “To stop the show?” And then as the young man was already there: “You’ve stopped the show?” “It’s ‘on’ more than ever!” Lord John responded while Gotch retired: a hurried, flurried, breathless Lord John, strikingly different from the backward messenger she had lately seen despatched. “But Theign should be here!” --he addressed her excitedly. “I announce you a call from the Prince.” “The Prince?” --she gasped as for the burden of the honour. “He follows you?” Mr. Bender, with an eagerness and a candour there was no mistaking, recognised on behalf of his ampler action a world of associational advantage and auspicious possibility. “Is the Prince _after_ the thing?” Lord John remained, in spite of this challenge, conscious of nothing but his message. “He was there with Mackintosh--to see and admire the picture; which he thinks, by the way, a Mantovano pure and simple!--and did me the honour to remember me. When he heard me report to Mackintosh in his presence the sentiments expressed to me here by our noble friend and of which, embarrassed though I doubtless was,” the young man pursued to Lady Sandgate, “I gave as clear an account as I could, he was so delighted with it that he declared they mustn’t think then of taking the thing off, but must on the contrary keep putting it forward for all it’s worth, and he | The Outcry |
"that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and and something worse than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed." | Nance | dear lady," cried the girl,<|quote|>"that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and and something worse than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed."</|quote|>"I pity you!" said Rose, | "Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady," cried the girl,<|quote|>"that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and and something worse than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed."</|quote|>"I pity you!" said Rose, in a broken voice. "It | would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement." "What dreadful things are these!" said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion. "Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady," cried the girl,<|quote|>"that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and and something worse than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed."</|quote|>"I pity you!" said Rose, in a broken voice. "It wrings my heart to hear you!" "Heaven bless you for your goodness!" rejoined the girl. "If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if | the thieves, and that never from the first moment I can recollect my eyes and senses opening on London streets have known any better life, or kinder words than they have given me, so help me God! Do not mind shrinking openly from me, lady. I am younger than you would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement." "What dreadful things are these!" said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion. "Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady," cried the girl,<|quote|>"that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and and something worse than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed."</|quote|>"I pity you!" said Rose, in a broken voice. "It wrings my heart to hear you!" "Heaven bless you for your goodness!" rejoined the girl. "If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?" "No," said Rose. "He knows you," replied the girl; "and knew you were here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out." "I never | me so kindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is is that door shut?" "Yes," said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance in case she should require it. "Why?" "Because," said the girl, "I am about to put my life and the lives of others in your hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old Fagin's on the night he went out from the house in Pentonville." "You!" said Rose Maylie. "I, lady!" replied the girl. "I am the infamous creature you have heard of, that lives among the thieves, and that never from the first moment I can recollect my eyes and senses opening on London streets have known any better life, or kinder words than they have given me, so help me God! Do not mind shrinking openly from me, lady. I am younger than you would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement." "What dreadful things are these!" said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion. "Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady," cried the girl,<|quote|>"that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and and something worse than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed."</|quote|>"I pity you!" said Rose, in a broken voice. "It wrings my heart to hear you!" "Heaven bless you for your goodness!" rejoined the girl. "If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?" "No," said Rose. "He knows you," replied the girl; "and knew you were here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out." "I never heard the name," said Rose. "Then he goes by some other amongst us," rejoined the girl, "which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I suspecting this man listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks the man I asked you about, you know" "Yes," said Rose, "I understand." "That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and | figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said: "It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you'd have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason either." "I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you," replied Rose. "Do not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you inquired for." The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl completely by surprise, and she burst into tears. "Oh, lady, lady!" she said, clasping her hands passionately before her face, "if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me, there would there would!" "Sit down," said Rose, earnestly. "If you are in poverty or affliction I shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can, I shall indeed. Sit down." "Let me stand, lady," said the girl, still weeping, "and do not speak to me so kindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is is that door shut?" "Yes," said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance in case she should require it. "Why?" "Because," said the girl, "I am about to put my life and the lives of others in your hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old Fagin's on the night he went out from the house in Pentonville." "You!" said Rose Maylie. "I, lady!" replied the girl. "I am the infamous creature you have heard of, that lives among the thieves, and that never from the first moment I can recollect my eyes and senses opening on London streets have known any better life, or kinder words than they have given me, so help me God! Do not mind shrinking openly from me, lady. I am younger than you would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement." "What dreadful things are these!" said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion. "Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady," cried the girl,<|quote|>"that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and and something worse than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed."</|quote|>"I pity you!" said Rose, in a broken voice. "It wrings my heart to hear you!" "Heaven bless you for your goodness!" rejoined the girl. "If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?" "No," said Rose. "He knows you," replied the girl; "and knew you were here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out." "I never heard the name," said Rose. "Then he goes by some other amongst us," rejoined the girl, "which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I suspecting this man listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks the man I asked you about, you know" "Yes," said Rose, "I understand." "That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl; "and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night." "And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these:" So the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.' "They laughed, and talked of his success in | will know whether to hear her business, or to have her turned out of doors as an impostor." "I say," said the man, "you're coming it strong!" "You give the message," said the girl firmly; "and let me hear the answer." The man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless, listening with quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn, of which the chaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they became still more so, when the man returned, and said the young woman was to walk upstairs. "It's no good being proper in this world," said the first housemaid. "Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire," said the second. The third contented herself with wondering "what ladies was made of" "; and the fourth took the first in a quartette of "Shameful!" with which the Dianas concluded. Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired. CHAPTER XL. A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER The girl's life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman's original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview. But struggling with these better feelings was pride, the vice of the lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself, even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child. She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said: "It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you'd have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason either." "I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you," replied Rose. "Do not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you inquired for." The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl completely by surprise, and she burst into tears. "Oh, lady, lady!" she said, clasping her hands passionately before her face, "if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me, there would there would!" "Sit down," said Rose, earnestly. "If you are in poverty or affliction I shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can, I shall indeed. Sit down." "Let me stand, lady," said the girl, still weeping, "and do not speak to me so kindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is is that door shut?" "Yes," said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance in case she should require it. "Why?" "Because," said the girl, "I am about to put my life and the lives of others in your hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old Fagin's on the night he went out from the house in Pentonville." "You!" said Rose Maylie. "I, lady!" replied the girl. "I am the infamous creature you have heard of, that lives among the thieves, and that never from the first moment I can recollect my eyes and senses opening on London streets have known any better life, or kinder words than they have given me, so help me God! Do not mind shrinking openly from me, lady. I am younger than you would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement." "What dreadful things are these!" said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion. "Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady," cried the girl,<|quote|>"that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and and something worse than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed."</|quote|>"I pity you!" said Rose, in a broken voice. "It wrings my heart to hear you!" "Heaven bless you for your goodness!" rejoined the girl. "If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?" "No," said Rose. "He knows you," replied the girl; "and knew you were here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out." "I never heard the name," said Rose. "Then he goes by some other amongst us," rejoined the girl, "which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I suspecting this man listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks the man I asked you about, you know" "Yes," said Rose, "I understand." "That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl; "and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night." "And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these:" So the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.' "They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had got the young devil's money safely now, he'd rather have had it the other way; for, what a game it would have been to have brought down the boast of the father's will, by driving him through every jail in town, and then hauling him up for some capital felony which Fagin could easily manage, after having made a good profit of him besides." "What is all this!" said Rose. "The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips," replied the girl. "Then, he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that if he could gratify his hatred by taking the boy's life without bringing his own neck in danger, he would; but, as he couldn't, he'd be upon the watch to meet him at every turn in life; and if he took advantage of his birth and history, he might harm him yet." In short, Fagin,' "he says," Jew as you are, you never laid such snares as I'll contrive for my young brother, Oliver.'" "His brother!" exclaimed Rose. "Those were his words," said Nancy, glancing uneasily round, as she had scarcely ceased to do, since she began to speak, for a vision of Sikes haunted her perpetually. "And more. When he spoke of you and the other lady, and said it seemed contrived by Heaven, or the devil, against him, that Oliver should come into your hands, he laughed, and said there was some comfort in that too, for how many thousands and hundreds of thousands of pounds would you not give, if you had them, to know who your two-legged spaniel was." "You do not mean," said Rose, turning very pale, "to tell me that this was said in earnest?" "He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man ever did," replied the girl, shaking her head. "He is an earnest man when his hatred is up. I know many who do worse things; but I'd rather listen to them all a dozen times, than to that Monks once. It is growing late, and I have to reach home without suspicion of having been on such an errand as this. I must get back quickly." "But what can I do?" said Rose. "To what use can I turn this communication without you? Back! | a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child. She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said: "It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you'd have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason either." "I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you," replied Rose. "Do not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you inquired for." The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl completely by surprise, and she burst into tears. "Oh, lady, lady!" she said, clasping her hands passionately before her face, "if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me, there would there would!" "Sit down," said Rose, earnestly. "If you are in poverty or affliction I shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can, I shall indeed. Sit down." "Let me stand, lady," said the girl, still weeping, "and do not speak to me so kindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is is that door shut?" "Yes," said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance in case she should require it. "Why?" "Because," said the girl, "I am about to put my life and the lives of others in your hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old Fagin's on the night he went out from the house in Pentonville." "You!" said Rose Maylie. "I, lady!" replied the girl. "I am the infamous creature you have heard of, that lives among the thieves, and that never from the first moment I can recollect my eyes and senses opening on London streets have known any better life, or kinder words than they have given me, so help me God! Do not mind shrinking openly from me, lady. I am younger than you would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement." "What dreadful things are these!" said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion. "Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady," cried the girl,<|quote|>"that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and and something worse than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed."</|quote|>"I pity you!" said Rose, in a broken voice. "It wrings my heart to hear you!" "Heaven bless you for your goodness!" rejoined the girl. "If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?" "No," said Rose. "He knows you," replied the girl; "and knew you were here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out." "I never heard the name," said Rose. "Then he goes by some other amongst us," rejoined the girl, "which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I suspecting this man listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks the man I asked you about, you know" "Yes," said Rose, "I understand." "That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl; "and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night." "And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these:" So the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.' "They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had got the young devil's money safely now, he'd rather have had it the other way; for, what a game it would have been to have brought down the boast of the father's will, by driving him through every jail in town, and then hauling him up for some capital felony which Fagin could easily manage, after having made a good profit of him besides." "What is all this!" said Rose. "The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips," replied the girl. "Then, he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that if he could gratify his hatred by taking the | Oliver Twist |
His words he seemed to be dragging out like words in an anthem; but Syme, who was watching, saw his long fingers rattle quickly on the edge of the crazy table. He read the message, | No speaker | Comrade Syme rather than me"<|quote|>His words he seemed to be dragging out like words in an anthem; but Syme, who was watching, saw his long fingers rattle quickly on the edge of the crazy table. He read the message,</|quote|>"You must go on. This | came in the way of Comrade Syme rather than me"<|quote|>His words he seemed to be dragging out like words in an anthem; but Syme, who was watching, saw his long fingers rattle quickly on the edge of the crazy table. He read the message,</|quote|>"You must go on. This devil has sucked me dry!" | Professor, like a man toiling through heavy sand, "the incident that has occurred to us and has led us to ask for information about the Marquis, is one which you may think it better to have narrated; but as it came in the way of Comrade Syme rather than me"<|quote|>His words he seemed to be dragging out like words in an anthem; but Syme, who was watching, saw his long fingers rattle quickly on the edge of the crazy table. He read the message,</|quote|>"You must go on. This devil has sucked me dry!" Syme plunged into the breach with that bravado of improvisation which always came to him when he was alarmed. "Yes, the thing really happened to me," he said hastily. "I had the good fortune to fall into conversation with a | sunlight the colours of the Doctor's complexion, the pattern of his tweeds, grew and expanded outrageously, as such things grow too important in a realistic novel. But his smile was quite slight, the pose of his head polite; the only uncanny thing was his silence. "As I say," resumed the Professor, like a man toiling through heavy sand, "the incident that has occurred to us and has led us to ask for information about the Marquis, is one which you may think it better to have narrated; but as it came in the way of Comrade Syme rather than me"<|quote|>His words he seemed to be dragging out like words in an anthem; but Syme, who was watching, saw his long fingers rattle quickly on the edge of the crazy table. He read the message,</|quote|>"You must go on. This devil has sucked me dry!" Syme plunged into the breach with that bravado of improvisation which always came to him when he was alarmed. "Yes, the thing really happened to me," he said hastily. "I had the good fortune to fall into conversation with a detective who took me, thanks to my hat, for a respectable person. Wishing to clinch my reputation for respectability, I took him and made him very drunk at the Savoy. Under this influence he became friendly, and told me in so many words that within a day or two they | at all like the cataleptic stare and horrible silence which he had confronted in the Professor half an hour before. About the Professor's makeup and all his antics there was always something merely grotesque, like a gollywog. Syme remembered those wild woes of yesterday as one remembers being afraid of Bogy in childhood. But here was daylight; here was a healthy, square-shouldered man in tweeds, not odd save for the accident of his ugly spectacles, not glaring or grinning at all, but smiling steadily and not saying a word. The whole had a sense of unbearable reality. Under the increasing sunlight the colours of the Doctor's complexion, the pattern of his tweeds, grew and expanded outrageously, as such things grow too important in a realistic novel. But his smile was quite slight, the pose of his head polite; the only uncanny thing was his silence. "As I say," resumed the Professor, like a man toiling through heavy sand, "the incident that has occurred to us and has led us to ask for information about the Marquis, is one which you may think it better to have narrated; but as it came in the way of Comrade Syme rather than me"<|quote|>His words he seemed to be dragging out like words in an anthem; but Syme, who was watching, saw his long fingers rattle quickly on the edge of the crazy table. He read the message,</|quote|>"You must go on. This devil has sucked me dry!" Syme plunged into the breach with that bravado of improvisation which always came to him when he was alarmed. "Yes, the thing really happened to me," he said hastily. "I had the good fortune to fall into conversation with a detective who took me, thanks to my hat, for a respectable person. Wishing to clinch my reputation for respectability, I took him and made him very drunk at the Savoy. Under this influence he became friendly, and told me in so many words that within a day or two they hope to arrest the Marquis in France." "So unless you or I can get on his track" The Doctor was still smiling in the most friendly way, and his protected eyes were still impenetrable. The Professor signalled to Syme that he would resume his explanation, and he began again with the same elaborate calm. "Syme immediately brought this information to me, and we came here together to see what use you would be inclined to make of it. It seems to me unquestionably urgent that" All this time Syme had been staring at the Doctor almost as steadily as the | Then he added with infinite slowness, "We have information which renders intolerable anything in the nature of a moment's delay." Dr. Bull smiled again, but continued to gaze on them without speaking. The Professor resumed, a pause before each weary word "Please do not think me excessively abrupt; but I advise you to alter those plans, or if it is too late for that, to follow your agent with all the support you can get for him. Comrade Syme and I have had an experience which it would take more time to recount than we can afford, if we are to act on it. I will, however, relate the occurrence in detail, even at the risk of losing time, if you really feel that it is essential to the understanding of the problem we have to discuss." He was spinning out his sentences, making them intolerably long and lingering, in the hope of maddening the practical little Doctor into an explosion of impatience which might show his hand. But the little Doctor continued only to stare and smile, and the monologue was uphill work. Syme began to feel a new sickness and despair. The Doctor's smile and silence were not at all like the cataleptic stare and horrible silence which he had confronted in the Professor half an hour before. About the Professor's makeup and all his antics there was always something merely grotesque, like a gollywog. Syme remembered those wild woes of yesterday as one remembers being afraid of Bogy in childhood. But here was daylight; here was a healthy, square-shouldered man in tweeds, not odd save for the accident of his ugly spectacles, not glaring or grinning at all, but smiling steadily and not saying a word. The whole had a sense of unbearable reality. Under the increasing sunlight the colours of the Doctor's complexion, the pattern of his tweeds, grew and expanded outrageously, as such things grow too important in a realistic novel. But his smile was quite slight, the pose of his head polite; the only uncanny thing was his silence. "As I say," resumed the Professor, like a man toiling through heavy sand, "the incident that has occurred to us and has led us to ask for information about the Marquis, is one which you may think it better to have narrated; but as it came in the way of Comrade Syme rather than me"<|quote|>His words he seemed to be dragging out like words in an anthem; but Syme, who was watching, saw his long fingers rattle quickly on the edge of the crazy table. He read the message,</|quote|>"You must go on. This devil has sucked me dry!" Syme plunged into the breach with that bravado of improvisation which always came to him when he was alarmed. "Yes, the thing really happened to me," he said hastily. "I had the good fortune to fall into conversation with a detective who took me, thanks to my hat, for a respectable person. Wishing to clinch my reputation for respectability, I took him and made him very drunk at the Savoy. Under this influence he became friendly, and told me in so many words that within a day or two they hope to arrest the Marquis in France." "So unless you or I can get on his track" The Doctor was still smiling in the most friendly way, and his protected eyes were still impenetrable. The Professor signalled to Syme that he would resume his explanation, and he began again with the same elaborate calm. "Syme immediately brought this information to me, and we came here together to see what use you would be inclined to make of it. It seems to me unquestionably urgent that" All this time Syme had been staring at the Doctor almost as steadily as the Doctor stared at the Professor, but quite without the smile. The nerves of both comrades-in-arms were near snapping under that strain of motionless amiability, when Syme suddenly leant forward and idly tapped the edge of the table. His message to his ally ran, "I have an intuition." The Professor, with scarcely a pause in his monologue, signalled back, "Then sit on it." Syme telegraphed, "It is quite extraordinary." The other answered, "Extraordinary rot!" Syme said, "I am a poet." The other retorted, "You are a dead man." Syme had gone quite red up to his yellow hair, and his eyes were burning feverishly. As he said he had an intuition, and it had risen to a sort of lightheaded certainty. Resuming his symbolic taps, he signalled to his friend, "You scarcely realise how poetic my intuition is. It has that sudden quality we sometimes feel in the coming of spring." He then studied the answer on his friend's fingers. The answer was, "Go to hell!" The Professor then resumed his merely verbal monologue addressed to the Doctor. "Perhaps I should rather say," said Syme on his fingers, "that it resembles that sudden smell of the sea which may be found | necessary to thought. Or it was like the stunning statements of astronomy about the distance of the fixed stars. He was ascending the house of reason, a thing more hideous than unreason itself. By the time they reached Dr. Bull's landing, a last window showed them a harsh, white dawn edged with banks of a kind of coarse red, more like red clay than red cloud. And when they entered Dr. Bull's bare garret it was full of light. Syme had been haunted by a half historic memory in connection with these empty rooms and that austere daybreak. The moment he saw the garret and Dr. Bull sitting writing at a table, he remembered what the memory was the French Revolution. There should have been the black outline of a guillotine against that heavy red and white of the morning. Dr. Bull was in his white shirt and black breeches only; his cropped, dark head might well have just come out of its wig; he might have been Marat or a more slipshod Robespierre. Yet when he was seen properly, the French fancy fell away. The Jacobins were idealists; there was about this man a murderous materialism. His position gave him a somewhat new appearance. The strong, white light of morning coming from one side creating sharp shadows, made him seem both more pale and more angular than he had looked at the breakfast on the balcony. Thus the two black glasses that encased his eyes might really have been black cavities in his skull, making him look like a death's-head. And, indeed, if ever Death himself sat writing at a wooden table, it might have been he. He looked up and smiled brightly enough as the men came in, and rose with the resilient rapidity of which the Professor had spoken. He set chairs for both of them, and going to a peg behind the door, proceeded to put on a coat and waistcoat of rough, dark tweed; he buttoned it up neatly, and came back to sit down at his table. The quiet good humour of his manner left his two opponents helpless. It was with some momentary difficulty that the Professor broke silence and began, "I'm sorry to disturb you so early, comrade," said he, with a careful resumption of the slow de Worms manner. "You have no doubt made all the arrangements for the Paris affair?" Then he added with infinite slowness, "We have information which renders intolerable anything in the nature of a moment's delay." Dr. Bull smiled again, but continued to gaze on them without speaking. The Professor resumed, a pause before each weary word "Please do not think me excessively abrupt; but I advise you to alter those plans, or if it is too late for that, to follow your agent with all the support you can get for him. Comrade Syme and I have had an experience which it would take more time to recount than we can afford, if we are to act on it. I will, however, relate the occurrence in detail, even at the risk of losing time, if you really feel that it is essential to the understanding of the problem we have to discuss." He was spinning out his sentences, making them intolerably long and lingering, in the hope of maddening the practical little Doctor into an explosion of impatience which might show his hand. But the little Doctor continued only to stare and smile, and the monologue was uphill work. Syme began to feel a new sickness and despair. The Doctor's smile and silence were not at all like the cataleptic stare and horrible silence which he had confronted in the Professor half an hour before. About the Professor's makeup and all his antics there was always something merely grotesque, like a gollywog. Syme remembered those wild woes of yesterday as one remembers being afraid of Bogy in childhood. But here was daylight; here was a healthy, square-shouldered man in tweeds, not odd save for the accident of his ugly spectacles, not glaring or grinning at all, but smiling steadily and not saying a word. The whole had a sense of unbearable reality. Under the increasing sunlight the colours of the Doctor's complexion, the pattern of his tweeds, grew and expanded outrageously, as such things grow too important in a realistic novel. But his smile was quite slight, the pose of his head polite; the only uncanny thing was his silence. "As I say," resumed the Professor, like a man toiling through heavy sand, "the incident that has occurred to us and has led us to ask for information about the Marquis, is one which you may think it better to have narrated; but as it came in the way of Comrade Syme rather than me"<|quote|>His words he seemed to be dragging out like words in an anthem; but Syme, who was watching, saw his long fingers rattle quickly on the edge of the crazy table. He read the message,</|quote|>"You must go on. This devil has sucked me dry!" Syme plunged into the breach with that bravado of improvisation which always came to him when he was alarmed. "Yes, the thing really happened to me," he said hastily. "I had the good fortune to fall into conversation with a detective who took me, thanks to my hat, for a respectable person. Wishing to clinch my reputation for respectability, I took him and made him very drunk at the Savoy. Under this influence he became friendly, and told me in so many words that within a day or two they hope to arrest the Marquis in France." "So unless you or I can get on his track" The Doctor was still smiling in the most friendly way, and his protected eyes were still impenetrable. The Professor signalled to Syme that he would resume his explanation, and he began again with the same elaborate calm. "Syme immediately brought this information to me, and we came here together to see what use you would be inclined to make of it. It seems to me unquestionably urgent that" All this time Syme had been staring at the Doctor almost as steadily as the Doctor stared at the Professor, but quite without the smile. The nerves of both comrades-in-arms were near snapping under that strain of motionless amiability, when Syme suddenly leant forward and idly tapped the edge of the table. His message to his ally ran, "I have an intuition." The Professor, with scarcely a pause in his monologue, signalled back, "Then sit on it." Syme telegraphed, "It is quite extraordinary." The other answered, "Extraordinary rot!" Syme said, "I am a poet." The other retorted, "You are a dead man." Syme had gone quite red up to his yellow hair, and his eyes were burning feverishly. As he said he had an intuition, and it had risen to a sort of lightheaded certainty. Resuming his symbolic taps, he signalled to his friend, "You scarcely realise how poetic my intuition is. It has that sudden quality we sometimes feel in the coming of spring." He then studied the answer on his friend's fingers. The answer was, "Go to hell!" The Professor then resumed his merely verbal monologue addressed to the Doctor. "Perhaps I should rather say," said Syme on his fingers, "that it resembles that sudden smell of the sea which may be found in the heart of lush woods." His companion disdained to reply. "Or yet again," tapped Syme, "it is positive, as is the passionate red hair of a beautiful woman." The Professor was continuing his speech, but in the middle of it Syme decided to act. He leant across the table, and said in a voice that could not be neglected "Dr. Bull!" The Doctor's sleek and smiling head did not move, but they could have sworn that under his dark glasses his eyes darted towards Syme. "Dr. Bull," said Syme, in a voice peculiarly precise and courteous, "would you do me a small favour? Would you be so kind as to take off your spectacles?" The Professor swung round on his seat, and stared at Syme with a sort of frozen fury of astonishment. Syme, like a man who has thrown his life and fortune on the table, leaned forward with a fiery face. The Doctor did not move. For a few seconds there was a silence in which one could hear a pin drop, split once by the single hoot of a distant steamer on the Thames. Then Dr. Bull rose slowly, still smiling, and took off his spectacles. Syme sprang to his feet, stepping backwards a little, like a chemical lecturer from a successful explosion. His eyes were like stars, and for an instant he could only point without speaking. The Professor had also started to his feet, forgetful of his supposed paralysis. He leant on the back of the chair and stared doubtfully at Dr. Bull, as if the Doctor had been turned into a toad before his eyes. And indeed it was almost as great a transformation scene. The two detectives saw sitting in the chair before them a very boyish-looking young man, with very frank and happy hazel eyes, an open expression, cockney clothes like those of a city clerk, and an unquestionable breath about him of being very good and rather commonplace. The smile was still there, but it might have been the first smile of a baby. "I knew I was a poet," cried Syme in a sort of ecstasy. "I knew my intuition was as infallible as the Pope. It was the spectacles that did it! It was all the spectacles. Given those beastly black eyes, and all the rest of him his health and his jolly looks, made him a live | and more angular than he had looked at the breakfast on the balcony. Thus the two black glasses that encased his eyes might really have been black cavities in his skull, making him look like a death's-head. And, indeed, if ever Death himself sat writing at a wooden table, it might have been he. He looked up and smiled brightly enough as the men came in, and rose with the resilient rapidity of which the Professor had spoken. He set chairs for both of them, and going to a peg behind the door, proceeded to put on a coat and waistcoat of rough, dark tweed; he buttoned it up neatly, and came back to sit down at his table. The quiet good humour of his manner left his two opponents helpless. It was with some momentary difficulty that the Professor broke silence and began, "I'm sorry to disturb you so early, comrade," said he, with a careful resumption of the slow de Worms manner. "You have no doubt made all the arrangements for the Paris affair?" Then he added with infinite slowness, "We have information which renders intolerable anything in the nature of a moment's delay." Dr. Bull smiled again, but continued to gaze on them without speaking. The Professor resumed, a pause before each weary word "Please do not think me excessively abrupt; but I advise you to alter those plans, or if it is too late for that, to follow your agent with all the support you can get for him. Comrade Syme and I have had an experience which it would take more time to recount than we can afford, if we are to act on it. I will, however, relate the occurrence in detail, even at the risk of losing time, if you really feel that it is essential to the understanding of the problem we have to discuss." He was spinning out his sentences, making them intolerably long and lingering, in the hope of maddening the practical little Doctor into an explosion of impatience which might show his hand. But the little Doctor continued only to stare and smile, and the monologue was uphill work. Syme began to feel a new sickness and despair. The Doctor's smile and silence were not at all like the cataleptic stare and horrible silence which he had confronted in the Professor half an hour before. About the Professor's makeup and all his antics there was always something merely grotesque, like a gollywog. Syme remembered those wild woes of yesterday as one remembers being afraid of Bogy in childhood. But here was daylight; here was a healthy, square-shouldered man in tweeds, not odd save for the accident of his ugly spectacles, not glaring or grinning at all, but smiling steadily and not saying a word. The whole had a sense of unbearable reality. Under the increasing sunlight the colours of the Doctor's complexion, the pattern of his tweeds, grew and expanded outrageously, as such things grow too important in a realistic novel. But his smile was quite slight, the pose of his head polite; the only uncanny thing was his silence. "As I say," resumed the Professor, like a man toiling through heavy sand, "the incident that has occurred to us and has led us to ask for information about the Marquis, is one which you may think it better to have narrated; but as it came in the way of Comrade Syme rather than me"<|quote|>His words he seemed to be dragging out like words in an anthem; but Syme, who was watching, saw his long fingers rattle quickly on the edge of the crazy table. He read the message,</|quote|>"You must go on. This devil has sucked me dry!" Syme plunged into the breach with that bravado of improvisation which always came to him when he was alarmed. "Yes, the thing really happened to me," he said hastily. "I had the good fortune to fall into conversation with a detective who took me, thanks to my hat, for a respectable person. Wishing to clinch my reputation for respectability, I took him and made him very drunk at the Savoy. Under this influence he became friendly, and told me in so many words that within a day or two they hope to arrest the Marquis in France." "So unless you or I can get on his track" The Doctor was still smiling in the most friendly way, and his protected eyes were still impenetrable. The Professor signalled to Syme that he would resume his explanation, and he began again with the same elaborate calm. "Syme immediately brought this information to me, and we came here together to see what use you would be inclined to make of it. It seems to me unquestionably urgent that" All this time Syme had been staring at the Doctor almost as steadily as the Doctor stared at the Professor, but quite without the smile. The nerves of both comrades-in-arms were near snapping under that strain of motionless amiability, when Syme suddenly leant forward and idly tapped the edge of the table. His message to his ally ran, "I have an intuition." The Professor, with scarcely a pause in his monologue, signalled back, "Then sit on it." Syme telegraphed, "It is quite extraordinary." The other answered, "Extraordinary rot!" Syme said, "I am a poet." The other retorted, "You are a dead man." Syme had gone quite red up to his yellow hair, and his eyes were burning feverishly. As he said he had an intuition, and it had risen to a sort of lightheaded certainty. Resuming his symbolic taps, he signalled to his friend, "You scarcely realise how poetic my intuition is. It has that sudden quality we sometimes feel in the coming of spring." He then studied the answer on his friend's fingers. The answer was, "Go to hell!" The Professor then resumed his merely verbal monologue addressed to the Doctor. "Perhaps I should rather say," said Syme on his fingers, "that it resembles that sudden smell of the sea which may be found in the heart of lush woods." His companion disdained to reply. "Or yet again," tapped Syme, "it is positive, as is the passionate red hair of a beautiful woman." The Professor was continuing his speech, but in the middle of it Syme decided to act. He leant across the table, and said in a voice that could not be neglected "Dr. Bull!" The Doctor's sleek and smiling head did not move, but they could have sworn that under his dark | The Man Who Was Thursday |
“Either you ought to be more careful, or you oughtn’t to drive at all.” | Nick | a rotten driver,” I protested.<|quote|>“Either you ought to be more careful, or you oughtn’t to drive at all.”</|quote|>“I am careful.” “No, you’re | on one man’s coat. “You’re a rotten driver,” I protested.<|quote|>“Either you ought to be more careful, or you oughtn’t to drive at all.”</|quote|>“I am careful.” “No, you’re not.” “Well, other people are,” | deeply—I was casually sorry, and then I forgot. It was on that same house-party that we had a curious conversation about driving a car. It started because she passed so close to some workmen that our fender flicked a button on one man’s coat. “You’re a rotten driver,” I protested.<|quote|>“Either you ought to be more careful, or you oughtn’t to drive at all.”</|quote|>“I am careful.” “No, you’re not.” “Well, other people are,” she said lightly. “What’s that got to do with it?” “They’ll keep out of my way,” she insisted. “It takes two to make an accident.” “Suppose you met somebody just as careless as yourself.” “I hope I never will,” she | suppose she had begun dealing in subterfuges when she was very young in order to keep that cool, insolent smile turned to the world and yet satisfy the demands of her hard, jaunty body. It made no difference to me. Dishonesty in a woman is a thing you never blame deeply—I was casually sorry, and then I forgot. It was on that same house-party that we had a curious conversation about driving a car. It started because she passed so close to some workmen that our fender flicked a button on one man’s coat. “You’re a rotten driver,” I protested.<|quote|>“Either you ought to be more careful, or you oughtn’t to drive at all.”</|quote|>“I am careful.” “No, you’re not.” “Well, other people are,” she said lightly. “What’s that got to do with it?” “They’ll keep out of my way,” she insisted. “It takes two to make an accident.” “Suppose you met somebody just as careless as yourself.” “I hope I never will,” she answered. “I hate careless people. That’s why I like you.” Her grey, sun-strained eyes stared straight ahead, but she had deliberately shifted our relations, and for a moment I thought I loved her. But I am slow-thinking and full of interior rules that act as brakes on my desires, and | she had moved her ball from a bad lie in the semifinal round. The thing approached the proportions of a scandal—then died away. A caddy retracted his statement, and the only other witness admitted that he might have been mistaken. The incident and the name had remained together in my mind. Jordan Baker instinctively avoided clever, shrewd men, and now I saw that this was because she felt safer on a plane where any divergence from a code would be thought impossible. She was incurably dishonest. She wasn’t able to endure being at a disadvantage and, given this unwillingness, I suppose she had begun dealing in subterfuges when she was very young in order to keep that cool, insolent smile turned to the world and yet satisfy the demands of her hard, jaunty body. It made no difference to me. Dishonesty in a woman is a thing you never blame deeply—I was casually sorry, and then I forgot. It was on that same house-party that we had a curious conversation about driving a car. It started because she passed so close to some workmen that our fender flicked a button on one man’s coat. “You’re a rotten driver,” I protested.<|quote|>“Either you ought to be more careful, or you oughtn’t to drive at all.”</|quote|>“I am careful.” “No, you’re not.” “Well, other people are,” she said lightly. “What’s that got to do with it?” “They’ll keep out of my way,” she insisted. “It takes two to make an accident.” “Suppose you met somebody just as careless as yourself.” “I hope I never will,” she answered. “I hate careless people. That’s why I like you.” Her grey, sun-strained eyes stared straight ahead, but she had deliberately shifted our relations, and for a moment I thought I loved her. But I am slow-thinking and full of interior rules that act as brakes on my desires, and I knew that first I had to get myself definitely out of that tangle back home. I’d been writing letters once a week and signing them: “Love, Nick,” and all I could think of was how, when that certain girl played tennis, a faint moustache of perspiration appeared on her upper lip. Nevertheless there was a vague understanding that had to be tactfully broken off before I was free. Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known. IV On Sunday | for the theatre district, I felt a sinking in my heart. Forms leaned together in the taxis as they waited, and voices sang, and there was laughter from unheard jokes, and lighted cigarettes made unintelligible circles inside. Imagining that I, too, was hurrying towards gaiety and sharing their intimate excitement, I wished them well. For a while I lost sight of Jordan Baker, and then in midsummer I found her again. At first I was flattered to go places with her, because she was a golf champion, and everyone knew her name. Then it was something more. I wasn’t actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity. The bored haughty face that she turned to the world concealed something—most affectations conceal something eventually, even though they don’t in the beginning—and one day I found what it was. When we were on a house-party together up in Warwick, she left a borrowed car out in the rain with the top down, and then lied about it—and suddenly I remembered the story about her that had eluded me that night at Daisy’s. At her first big golf tournament there was a row that nearly reached the newspapers—a suggestion that she had moved her ball from a bad lie in the semifinal round. The thing approached the proportions of a scandal—then died away. A caddy retracted his statement, and the only other witness admitted that he might have been mistaken. The incident and the name had remained together in my mind. Jordan Baker instinctively avoided clever, shrewd men, and now I saw that this was because she felt safer on a plane where any divergence from a code would be thought impossible. She was incurably dishonest. She wasn’t able to endure being at a disadvantage and, given this unwillingness, I suppose she had begun dealing in subterfuges when she was very young in order to keep that cool, insolent smile turned to the world and yet satisfy the demands of her hard, jaunty body. It made no difference to me. Dishonesty in a woman is a thing you never blame deeply—I was casually sorry, and then I forgot. It was on that same house-party that we had a curious conversation about driving a car. It started because she passed so close to some workmen that our fender flicked a button on one man’s coat. “You’re a rotten driver,” I protested.<|quote|>“Either you ought to be more careful, or you oughtn’t to drive at all.”</|quote|>“I am careful.” “No, you’re not.” “Well, other people are,” she said lightly. “What’s that got to do with it?” “They’ll keep out of my way,” she insisted. “It takes two to make an accident.” “Suppose you met somebody just as careless as yourself.” “I hope I never will,” she answered. “I hate careless people. That’s why I like you.” Her grey, sun-strained eyes stared straight ahead, but she had deliberately shifted our relations, and for a moment I thought I loved her. But I am slow-thinking and full of interior rules that act as brakes on my desires, and I knew that first I had to get myself definitely out of that tangle back home. I’d been writing letters once a week and signing them: “Love, Nick,” and all I could think of was how, when that certain girl played tennis, a faint moustache of perspiration appeared on her upper lip. Nevertheless there was a vague understanding that had to be tactfully broken off before I was free. Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known. IV On Sunday morning while church bells rang in the villages alongshore, the world and its mistress returned to Gatsby’s house and twinkled hilariously on his lawn. “He’s a bootlegger,” said the young ladies, moving somewhere between his cocktails and his flowers. “One time he killed a man who had found out that he was nephew to Von Hindenburg and second cousin to the devil. Reach me a rose, honey, and pour me a last drop into that there crystal glass.” Once I wrote down on the empty spaces of a timetable the names of those who came to Gatsby’s house that summer. It is an old timetable now, disintegrating at its folds, and headed “This schedule in effect July 5th, 1922.” But I can still read the grey names, and they will give you a better impression than my generalities of those who accepted Gatsby’s hospitality and paid him the subtle tribute of knowing nothing whatever about him. From East Egg, then, came the Chester Beckers and the Leeches, and a man named Bunsen, whom I knew at Yale, and Doctor Webster Civet, who was drowned last summer up in Maine. And the Hornbeams and the Willie Voltaires, and a whole clan | I have given the impression that the events of three nights several weeks apart were all that absorbed me. On the contrary, they were merely casual events in a crowded summer, and, until much later, they absorbed me infinitely less than my personal affairs. Most of the time I worked. In the early morning the sun threw my shadow westward as I hurried down the white chasms of lower New York to the Probity Trust. I knew the other clerks and young bond-salesmen by their first names, and lunched with them in dark, crowded restaurants on little pig sausages and mashed potatoes and coffee. I even had a short affair with a girl who lived in Jersey City and worked in the accounting department, but her brother began throwing mean looks in my direction, so when she went on her vacation in July I let it blow quietly away. I took dinner usually at the Yale Club—for some reason it was the gloomiest event of my day—and then I went upstairs to the library and studied investments and securities for a conscientious hour. There were generally a few rioters around, but they never came into the library, so it was a good place to work. After that, if the night was mellow, I strolled down Madison Avenue past the old Murray Hill Hotel, and over 33rd Street to the Pennsylvania Station. I began to like New York, the racy, adventurous feel of it at night, and the satisfaction that the constant flicker of men and women and machines gives to the restless eye. I liked to walk up Fifth Avenue and pick out romantic women from the crowd and imagine that in a few minutes I was going to enter into their lives, and no one would ever know or disapprove. Sometimes, in my mind, I followed them to their apartments on the corners of hidden streets, and they turned and smiled back at me before they faded through a door into warm darkness. At the enchanted metropolitan twilight I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others—poor young clerks who loitered in front of windows waiting until it was time for a solitary restaurant dinner—young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life. Again at eight o’clock, when the dark lanes of the Forties were lined five deep with throbbing taxicabs, bound for the theatre district, I felt a sinking in my heart. Forms leaned together in the taxis as they waited, and voices sang, and there was laughter from unheard jokes, and lighted cigarettes made unintelligible circles inside. Imagining that I, too, was hurrying towards gaiety and sharing their intimate excitement, I wished them well. For a while I lost sight of Jordan Baker, and then in midsummer I found her again. At first I was flattered to go places with her, because she was a golf champion, and everyone knew her name. Then it was something more. I wasn’t actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity. The bored haughty face that she turned to the world concealed something—most affectations conceal something eventually, even though they don’t in the beginning—and one day I found what it was. When we were on a house-party together up in Warwick, she left a borrowed car out in the rain with the top down, and then lied about it—and suddenly I remembered the story about her that had eluded me that night at Daisy’s. At her first big golf tournament there was a row that nearly reached the newspapers—a suggestion that she had moved her ball from a bad lie in the semifinal round. The thing approached the proportions of a scandal—then died away. A caddy retracted his statement, and the only other witness admitted that he might have been mistaken. The incident and the name had remained together in my mind. Jordan Baker instinctively avoided clever, shrewd men, and now I saw that this was because she felt safer on a plane where any divergence from a code would be thought impossible. She was incurably dishonest. She wasn’t able to endure being at a disadvantage and, given this unwillingness, I suppose she had begun dealing in subterfuges when she was very young in order to keep that cool, insolent smile turned to the world and yet satisfy the demands of her hard, jaunty body. It made no difference to me. Dishonesty in a woman is a thing you never blame deeply—I was casually sorry, and then I forgot. It was on that same house-party that we had a curious conversation about driving a car. It started because she passed so close to some workmen that our fender flicked a button on one man’s coat. “You’re a rotten driver,” I protested.<|quote|>“Either you ought to be more careful, or you oughtn’t to drive at all.”</|quote|>“I am careful.” “No, you’re not.” “Well, other people are,” she said lightly. “What’s that got to do with it?” “They’ll keep out of my way,” she insisted. “It takes two to make an accident.” “Suppose you met somebody just as careless as yourself.” “I hope I never will,” she answered. “I hate careless people. That’s why I like you.” Her grey, sun-strained eyes stared straight ahead, but she had deliberately shifted our relations, and for a moment I thought I loved her. But I am slow-thinking and full of interior rules that act as brakes on my desires, and I knew that first I had to get myself definitely out of that tangle back home. I’d been writing letters once a week and signing them: “Love, Nick,” and all I could think of was how, when that certain girl played tennis, a faint moustache of perspiration appeared on her upper lip. Nevertheless there was a vague understanding that had to be tactfully broken off before I was free. Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known. IV On Sunday morning while church bells rang in the villages alongshore, the world and its mistress returned to Gatsby’s house and twinkled hilariously on his lawn. “He’s a bootlegger,” said the young ladies, moving somewhere between his cocktails and his flowers. “One time he killed a man who had found out that he was nephew to Von Hindenburg and second cousin to the devil. Reach me a rose, honey, and pour me a last drop into that there crystal glass.” Once I wrote down on the empty spaces of a timetable the names of those who came to Gatsby’s house that summer. It is an old timetable now, disintegrating at its folds, and headed “This schedule in effect July 5th, 1922.” But I can still read the grey names, and they will give you a better impression than my generalities of those who accepted Gatsby’s hospitality and paid him the subtle tribute of knowing nothing whatever about him. From East Egg, then, came the Chester Beckers and the Leeches, and a man named Bunsen, whom I knew at Yale, and Doctor Webster Civet, who was drowned last summer up in Maine. And the Hornbeams and the Willie Voltaires, and a whole clan named Blackbuck, who always gathered in a corner and flipped up their noses like goats at whosoever came near. And the Ismays and the Chrysties (or rather Hubert Auerbach and Mr. Chrystie’s wife), and Edgar Beaver, whose hair, they say, turned cotton-white one winter afternoon for no good reason at all. Clarence Endive was from East Egg, as I remember. He came only once, in white knickerbockers, and had a fight with a bum named Etty in the garden. From farther out on the Island came the Cheadles and the O. R. P. Schraeders, and the Stonewall Jackson Abrams of Georgia, and the Fishguards and the Ripley Snells. Snell was there three days before he went to the penitentiary, so drunk out on the gravel drive that Mrs. Ulysses Swett’s automobile ran over his right hand. The Dancies came, too, and S. B. Whitebait, who was well over sixty, and Maurice A. Flink, and the Hammerheads, and Beluga the tobacco importer, and Beluga’s girls. From West Egg came the Poles and the Mulreadys and Cecil Roebuck and Cecil Schoen and Gulick the State senator and Newton Orchid, who controlled Films Par Excellence, and Eckhaust and Clyde Cohen and Don S. Schwartz (the son) and Arthur McCarty, all connected with the movies in one way or another. And the Catlips and the Bembergs and G. Earl Muldoon, brother to that Muldoon who afterward strangled his wife. Da Fontano the promoter came there, and Ed Legros and James B. ( “Rot-Gut” ) Ferret and the De Jongs and Ernest Lilly—they came to gamble, and when Ferret wandered into the garden it meant he was cleaned out and Associated Traction would have to fluctuate profitably next day. A man named Klipspringer was there so often that he became known as “the boarder” —I doubt if he had any other home. Of theatrical people there were Gus Waize and Horace O’Donavan and Lester Myer and George Duckweed and Francis Bull. Also from New York were the Chromes and the Backhyssons and the Dennickers and Russel Betty and the Corrigans and the Kellehers and the Dewars and the Scullys and S. W. Belcher and the Smirkes and the young Quinns, divorced now, and Henry L. Palmetto, who killed himself by jumping in front of a subway train in Times Square. Benny McClenahan arrived always with four girls. They were never quite the same ones in | they waited, and voices sang, and there was laughter from unheard jokes, and lighted cigarettes made unintelligible circles inside. Imagining that I, too, was hurrying towards gaiety and sharing their intimate excitement, I wished them well. For a while I lost sight of Jordan Baker, and then in midsummer I found her again. At first I was flattered to go places with her, because she was a golf champion, and everyone knew her name. Then it was something more. I wasn’t actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity. The bored haughty face that she turned to the world concealed something—most affectations conceal something eventually, even though they don’t in the beginning—and one day I found what it was. When we were on a house-party together up in Warwick, she left a borrowed car out in the rain with the top down, and then lied about it—and suddenly I remembered the story about her that had eluded me that night at Daisy’s. At her first big golf tournament there was a row that nearly reached the newspapers—a suggestion that she had moved her ball from a bad lie in the semifinal round. The thing approached the proportions of a scandal—then died away. A caddy retracted his statement, and the only other witness admitted that he might have been mistaken. The incident and the name had remained together in my mind. Jordan Baker instinctively avoided clever, shrewd men, and now I saw that this was because she felt safer on a plane where any divergence from a code would be thought impossible. She was incurably dishonest. She wasn’t able to endure being at a disadvantage and, given this unwillingness, I suppose she had begun dealing in subterfuges when she was very young in order to keep that cool, insolent smile turned to the world and yet satisfy the demands of her hard, jaunty body. It made no difference to me. Dishonesty in a woman is a thing you never blame deeply—I was casually sorry, and then I forgot. It was on that same house-party that we had a curious conversation about driving a car. It started because she passed so close to some workmen that our fender flicked a button on one man’s coat. “You’re a rotten driver,” I protested.<|quote|>“Either you ought to be more careful, or you oughtn’t to drive at all.”</|quote|>“I am careful.” “No, you’re not.” “Well, other people are,” she said lightly. “What’s that got to do with it?” “They’ll keep out of my way,” she insisted. “It takes two to make an accident.” “Suppose you met somebody just as careless as yourself.” “I hope I never will,” she answered. “I hate careless people. That’s why I like you.” Her grey, sun-strained eyes stared straight ahead, but she had deliberately shifted our relations, and for a moment I thought I loved her. But I am slow-thinking and full of interior rules that act as brakes on my desires, and I knew that first I had to get myself definitely out of that tangle back home. I’d been writing letters once a week and signing them: “Love, Nick,” and all I could think of was how, when that certain girl played tennis, a faint moustache of perspiration appeared on her upper lip. Nevertheless there was a vague understanding that had to be tactfully broken off before I was free. Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known. IV On Sunday morning while church bells rang in the villages alongshore, the world and its | The Great Gatsby |
"I am in love with Katharine myself. That is why I am here to-night." | Ralph Denham | in his rooms at night.<|quote|>"I am in love with Katharine myself. That is why I am here to-night."</|quote|>Ralph spoke distinctly and deliberately, | appeared thinking of Katharine alone in his rooms at night.<|quote|>"I am in love with Katharine myself. That is why I am here to-night."</|quote|>Ralph spoke distinctly and deliberately, as if Rodney s confession | had all the marks of Rodney s character, and recalled, with; strange vividness, his personal appearance. Denham could see him against the blank buildings and towers of the horizon. He saw him dignified, exalted, and tragic, as he might have appeared thinking of Katharine alone in his rooms at night.<|quote|>"I am in love with Katharine myself. That is why I am here to-night."</|quote|>Ralph spoke distinctly and deliberately, as if Rodney s confession had made this statement necessary. Rodney exclaimed something inarticulate. "Ah, I ve always known it," he cried, "I ve known it from the first. You ll marry her!" The cry had a note of despair in it. Again the wind | Denham, tortures!" "Yes, yes, I know that." "She s laughed at me." "Never to me." The wind blew a space between the words blew them so far away that they seemed unspoken. "How I ve loved her!" This was certainly spoken by the man at Denham s side. The voice had all the marks of Rodney s character, and recalled, with; strange vividness, his personal appearance. Denham could see him against the blank buildings and towers of the horizon. He saw him dignified, exalted, and tragic, as he might have appeared thinking of Katharine alone in his rooms at night.<|quote|>"I am in love with Katharine myself. That is why I am here to-night."</|quote|>Ralph spoke distinctly and deliberately, as if Rodney s confession had made this statement necessary. Rodney exclaimed something inarticulate. "Ah, I ve always known it," he cried, "I ve known it from the first. You ll marry her!" The cry had a note of despair in it. Again the wind intercepted their words. They said no more. At length they drew up beneath a lamp-post, simultaneously. "My God, Denham, what fools we both are!" Rodney exclaimed. They looked at each other, queerly, in the light of the lamp. Fools! They seemed to confess to each other the extreme depths of | desire to protect him, exposed without the knowledge which made his own way so direct. They were united as the adventurous are united, though one reaches the goal and the other perishes by the way. "You couldn t laugh at some one you cared for." This sentence, apparently addressed to no other human being, reached Denham s ears. The wind seemed to muffle it and fly away with it directly. Had Rodney spoken those words? "You love her." Was that his own voice, which seemed to sound in the air several yards in front of him? "I ve suffered tortures, Denham, tortures!" "Yes, yes, I know that." "She s laughed at me." "Never to me." The wind blew a space between the words blew them so far away that they seemed unspoken. "How I ve loved her!" This was certainly spoken by the man at Denham s side. The voice had all the marks of Rodney s character, and recalled, with; strange vividness, his personal appearance. Denham could see him against the blank buildings and towers of the horizon. He saw him dignified, exalted, and tragic, as he might have appeared thinking of Katharine alone in his rooms at night.<|quote|>"I am in love with Katharine myself. That is why I am here to-night."</|quote|>Ralph spoke distinctly and deliberately, as if Rodney s confession had made this statement necessary. Rodney exclaimed something inarticulate. "Ah, I ve always known it," he cried, "I ve known it from the first. You ll marry her!" The cry had a note of despair in it. Again the wind intercepted their words. They said no more. At length they drew up beneath a lamp-post, simultaneously. "My God, Denham, what fools we both are!" Rodney exclaimed. They looked at each other, queerly, in the light of the lamp. Fools! They seemed to confess to each other the extreme depths of their folly. For the moment, under the lamp-post, they seemed to be aware of some common knowledge which did away with the possibility of rivalry, and made them feel more sympathy for each other than for any one else in the world. Giving simultaneously a little nod, as if in confirmation of this understanding, they parted without speaking again. CHAPTER XXIX Between twelve and one that Sunday night Katharine lay in bed, not asleep, but in that twilight region where a detached and humorous view of our own lot is possible; or if we must be serious, our seriousness is | back to my house." This seemed to confirm Rodney s belief that he had been discussed. He turned over the unpalatable idea for a while, in silence. "Women are incomprehensible creatures, Denham!" he then exclaimed. "Um," said Denham, who seemed to himself possessed of complete understanding, not merely of women, but of the entire universe. He could read Rodney, too, like a book. He knew that he was unhappy, and he pitied him, and wished to help him. "You say something and they fly into a passion. Or for no reason at all, they laugh. I take it that no amount of education will" The remainder of the sentence was lost in the high wind, against which they had to struggle; but Denham understood that he referred to Katharine s laughter, and that the memory of it was still hurting him. In comparison with Rodney, Denham felt himself very secure; he saw Rodney as one of the lost birds dashed senseless against the glass; one of the flying bodies of which the air was full. But he and Katharine were alone together, aloft, splendid, and luminous with a twofold radiance. He pitied the unstable creature beside him; he felt a desire to protect him, exposed without the knowledge which made his own way so direct. They were united as the adventurous are united, though one reaches the goal and the other perishes by the way. "You couldn t laugh at some one you cared for." This sentence, apparently addressed to no other human being, reached Denham s ears. The wind seemed to muffle it and fly away with it directly. Had Rodney spoken those words? "You love her." Was that his own voice, which seemed to sound in the air several yards in front of him? "I ve suffered tortures, Denham, tortures!" "Yes, yes, I know that." "She s laughed at me." "Never to me." The wind blew a space between the words blew them so far away that they seemed unspoken. "How I ve loved her!" This was certainly spoken by the man at Denham s side. The voice had all the marks of Rodney s character, and recalled, with; strange vividness, his personal appearance. Denham could see him against the blank buildings and towers of the horizon. He saw him dignified, exalted, and tragic, as he might have appeared thinking of Katharine alone in his rooms at night.<|quote|>"I am in love with Katharine myself. That is why I am here to-night."</|quote|>Ralph spoke distinctly and deliberately, as if Rodney s confession had made this statement necessary. Rodney exclaimed something inarticulate. "Ah, I ve always known it," he cried, "I ve known it from the first. You ll marry her!" The cry had a note of despair in it. Again the wind intercepted their words. They said no more. At length they drew up beneath a lamp-post, simultaneously. "My God, Denham, what fools we both are!" Rodney exclaimed. They looked at each other, queerly, in the light of the lamp. Fools! They seemed to confess to each other the extreme depths of their folly. For the moment, under the lamp-post, they seemed to be aware of some common knowledge which did away with the possibility of rivalry, and made them feel more sympathy for each other than for any one else in the world. Giving simultaneously a little nod, as if in confirmation of this understanding, they parted without speaking again. CHAPTER XXIX Between twelve and one that Sunday night Katharine lay in bed, not asleep, but in that twilight region where a detached and humorous view of our own lot is possible; or if we must be serious, our seriousness is tempered by the swift oncome of slumber and oblivion. She saw the forms of Ralph, William, Cassandra, and herself, as if they were all equally unsubstantial, and, in putting off reality, had gained a kind of dignity which rested upon each impartially. Thus rid of any uncomfortable warmth of partisanship or load of obligation, she was dropping off to sleep when a light tap sounded upon her door. A moment later Cassandra stood beside her, holding a candle and speaking in the low tones proper to the time of night. "Are you awake, Katharine?" "Yes, I m awake. What is it?" She roused herself, sat up, and asked what in Heaven s name Cassandra was doing? "I couldn t sleep, and I thought I d come and speak to you only for a moment, though. I m going home to-morrow." "Home? Why, what has happened?" "Something happened to-day which makes it impossible for me to stay here." Cassandra spoke formally, almost solemnly; the announcement was clearly prepared and marked a crisis of the utmost gravity. She continued what seemed to be part of a set speech. "I have decided to tell you the whole truth, Katharine. William allowed himself to | for her without saying anything definite or anything offensive to her. But he had lost his head; under the goad of Katharine s ridicule he had said too much, and Cassandra, superb in her dignity and severity, had refused to hear another word, and threatened an immediate return to her home. His agitation, after an evening spent between the two women, was extreme. Moreover, he could not help suspecting that Ralph was wandering near the Hilberys house, at this hour, for reasons connected with Katharine. There was probably some understanding between them not that anything of the kind mattered to him now. He was convinced that he had never cared for any one save Cassandra, and Katharine s future was no concern of his. Aloud, he said, shortly, that he was very tired and wished to find a cab. But on Sunday night, on the Embankment, cabs were hard to come by, and Rodney found himself constrained to walk some distance, at any rate, in Denham s company. Denham maintained his silence. Rodney s irritation lapsed. He found the silence oddly suggestive of the good masculine qualities which he much respected, and had at this moment great reason to need. After the mystery, difficulty, and uncertainty of dealing with the other sex, intercourse with one s own is apt to have a composing and even ennobling influence, since plain speaking is possible and subterfuges of no avail. Rodney, too, was much in need of a confidant; Katharine, despite her promises of help, had failed him at the critical moment; she had gone off with Denham; she was, perhaps, tormenting Denham as she had tormented him. How grave and stable he seemed, speaking little, and walking firmly, compared with what Rodney knew of his own torments and indecisions! He began to cast about for some way of telling the story of his relations with Katharine and Cassandra that would not lower him in Denham s eyes. It then occurred to him that, perhaps, Katharine herself had confided in Denham; they had something in common; it was likely that they had discussed him that very afternoon. The desire to discover what they had said of him now came uppermost in his mind. He recalled Katharine s laugh; he remembered that she had gone, laughing, to walk with Denham. "Did you stay long after we d left?" he asked abruptly. "No. We went back to my house." This seemed to confirm Rodney s belief that he had been discussed. He turned over the unpalatable idea for a while, in silence. "Women are incomprehensible creatures, Denham!" he then exclaimed. "Um," said Denham, who seemed to himself possessed of complete understanding, not merely of women, but of the entire universe. He could read Rodney, too, like a book. He knew that he was unhappy, and he pitied him, and wished to help him. "You say something and they fly into a passion. Or for no reason at all, they laugh. I take it that no amount of education will" The remainder of the sentence was lost in the high wind, against which they had to struggle; but Denham understood that he referred to Katharine s laughter, and that the memory of it was still hurting him. In comparison with Rodney, Denham felt himself very secure; he saw Rodney as one of the lost birds dashed senseless against the glass; one of the flying bodies of which the air was full. But he and Katharine were alone together, aloft, splendid, and luminous with a twofold radiance. He pitied the unstable creature beside him; he felt a desire to protect him, exposed without the knowledge which made his own way so direct. They were united as the adventurous are united, though one reaches the goal and the other perishes by the way. "You couldn t laugh at some one you cared for." This sentence, apparently addressed to no other human being, reached Denham s ears. The wind seemed to muffle it and fly away with it directly. Had Rodney spoken those words? "You love her." Was that his own voice, which seemed to sound in the air several yards in front of him? "I ve suffered tortures, Denham, tortures!" "Yes, yes, I know that." "She s laughed at me." "Never to me." The wind blew a space between the words blew them so far away that they seemed unspoken. "How I ve loved her!" This was certainly spoken by the man at Denham s side. The voice had all the marks of Rodney s character, and recalled, with; strange vividness, his personal appearance. Denham could see him against the blank buildings and towers of the horizon. He saw him dignified, exalted, and tragic, as he might have appeared thinking of Katharine alone in his rooms at night.<|quote|>"I am in love with Katharine myself. That is why I am here to-night."</|quote|>Ralph spoke distinctly and deliberately, as if Rodney s confession had made this statement necessary. Rodney exclaimed something inarticulate. "Ah, I ve always known it," he cried, "I ve known it from the first. You ll marry her!" The cry had a note of despair in it. Again the wind intercepted their words. They said no more. At length they drew up beneath a lamp-post, simultaneously. "My God, Denham, what fools we both are!" Rodney exclaimed. They looked at each other, queerly, in the light of the lamp. Fools! They seemed to confess to each other the extreme depths of their folly. For the moment, under the lamp-post, they seemed to be aware of some common knowledge which did away with the possibility of rivalry, and made them feel more sympathy for each other than for any one else in the world. Giving simultaneously a little nod, as if in confirmation of this understanding, they parted without speaking again. CHAPTER XXIX Between twelve and one that Sunday night Katharine lay in bed, not asleep, but in that twilight region where a detached and humorous view of our own lot is possible; or if we must be serious, our seriousness is tempered by the swift oncome of slumber and oblivion. She saw the forms of Ralph, William, Cassandra, and herself, as if they were all equally unsubstantial, and, in putting off reality, had gained a kind of dignity which rested upon each impartially. Thus rid of any uncomfortable warmth of partisanship or load of obligation, she was dropping off to sleep when a light tap sounded upon her door. A moment later Cassandra stood beside her, holding a candle and speaking in the low tones proper to the time of night. "Are you awake, Katharine?" "Yes, I m awake. What is it?" She roused herself, sat up, and asked what in Heaven s name Cassandra was doing? "I couldn t sleep, and I thought I d come and speak to you only for a moment, though. I m going home to-morrow." "Home? Why, what has happened?" "Something happened to-day which makes it impossible for me to stay here." Cassandra spoke formally, almost solemnly; the announcement was clearly prepared and marked a crisis of the utmost gravity. She continued what seemed to be part of a set speech. "I have decided to tell you the whole truth, Katharine. William allowed himself to behave in a way which made me extremely uncomfortable to-day." Katharine seemed to waken completely, and at once to be in control of herself. "At the Zoo?" she asked. "No, on the way home. When we had tea." As if foreseeing that the interview might be long, and the night chilly, Katharine advised Cassandra to wrap herself in a quilt. Cassandra did so with unbroken solemnity. "There s a train at eleven," she said. "I shall tell Aunt Maggie that I have to go suddenly.... I shall make Violet s visit an excuse. But, after thinking it over, I don t see how I can go without telling you the truth." She was careful to abstain from looking in Katharine s direction. There was a slight pause. "But I don t see the least reason why you should go," said Katharine eventually. Her voice sounded so astonishingly equable that Cassandra glanced at her. It was impossible to suppose that she was either indignant or surprised; she seemed, on the contrary, sitting up in bed, with her arms clasped round her knees and a little frown on her brow, to be thinking closely upon a matter of indifference to her. "Because I can t allow any man to behave to me in that way," Cassandra replied, and she added, "particularly when I know that he is engaged to some one else." "But you like him, don t you?" Katharine inquired. "That s got nothing to do with it," Cassandra exclaimed indignantly. "I consider his conduct, under the circumstances, most disgraceful." This was the last of the sentences of her premeditated speech; and having spoken it she was left unprovided with any more to say in that particular style. When Katharine remarked: "I should say it had everything to do with it," Cassandra s self-possession deserted her. "I don t understand you in the least, Katharine. How can you behave as you behave? Ever since I came here I ve been amazed by you!" "You ve enjoyed yourself, haven t you?" Katharine asked. "Yes, I have," Cassandra admitted. "Anyhow, my behavior hasn t spoiled your visit." "No," Cassandra allowed once more. She was completely at a loss. In her forecast of the interview she had taken it for granted that Katharine, after an outburst of incredulity, would agree that Cassandra must return home as soon as possible. But Katharine, on the contrary, | he had been discussed. He turned over the unpalatable idea for a while, in silence. "Women are incomprehensible creatures, Denham!" he then exclaimed. "Um," said Denham, who seemed to himself possessed of complete understanding, not merely of women, but of the entire universe. He could read Rodney, too, like a book. He knew that he was unhappy, and he pitied him, and wished to help him. "You say something and they fly into a passion. Or for no reason at all, they laugh. I take it that no amount of education will" The remainder of the sentence was lost in the high wind, against which they had to struggle; but Denham understood that he referred to Katharine s laughter, and that the memory of it was still hurting him. In comparison with Rodney, Denham felt himself very secure; he saw Rodney as one of the lost birds dashed senseless against the glass; one of the flying bodies of which the air was full. But he and Katharine were alone together, aloft, splendid, and luminous with a twofold radiance. He pitied the unstable creature beside him; he felt a desire to protect him, exposed without the knowledge which made his own way so direct. They were united as the adventurous are united, though one reaches the goal and the other perishes by the way. "You couldn t laugh at some one you cared for." This sentence, apparently addressed to no other human being, reached Denham s ears. The wind seemed to muffle it and fly away with it directly. Had Rodney spoken those words? "You love her." Was that his own voice, which seemed to sound in the air several yards in front of him? "I ve suffered tortures, Denham, tortures!" "Yes, yes, I know that." "She s laughed at me." "Never to me." The wind blew a space between the words blew them so far away that they seemed unspoken. "How I ve loved her!" This was certainly spoken by the man at Denham s side. The voice had all the marks of Rodney s character, and recalled, with; strange vividness, his personal appearance. Denham could see him against the blank buildings and towers of the horizon. He saw him dignified, exalted, and tragic, as he might have appeared thinking of Katharine alone in his rooms at night.<|quote|>"I am in love with Katharine myself. That is why I am here to-night."</|quote|>Ralph spoke distinctly and deliberately, as if Rodney s confession had made this statement necessary. Rodney exclaimed something inarticulate. "Ah, I ve always known it," he cried, "I ve known it from the first. You ll marry her!" The cry had a note of despair in it. Again the wind intercepted their words. They said no more. At length they drew up beneath a lamp-post, simultaneously. "My God, Denham, what fools we both are!" Rodney exclaimed. They looked at each other, queerly, in the light of the lamp. Fools! They seemed to confess to each other the extreme depths of their folly. For the moment, under the lamp-post, they seemed to be aware of some common knowledge which did away with the possibility of rivalry, and made them feel more sympathy for each other than for any one else in the world. Giving simultaneously a little nod, as if in confirmation of this understanding, they parted without speaking again. CHAPTER XXIX Between twelve and one that Sunday night Katharine lay in bed, not asleep, but in that twilight region where a detached and humorous view of our own lot is possible; or if we must be serious, our seriousness is tempered by the swift oncome of slumber and oblivion. She saw the forms of Ralph, William, Cassandra, and herself, as if they were all equally unsubstantial, and, in putting off reality, had gained a kind of dignity which rested upon each impartially. Thus rid of any uncomfortable warmth of partisanship or load of obligation, she was dropping off to sleep when a light tap sounded upon her door. A moment later Cassandra stood beside her, holding a candle and speaking in the low tones proper to the time of night. "Are you awake, Katharine?" "Yes, I m awake. What is it?" She roused herself, sat up, and asked what in Heaven s name Cassandra was doing? "I couldn t sleep, and I thought I d come and speak to you only for a moment, though. I m going home to-morrow." "Home? Why, what has happened?" "Something happened to-day which makes it impossible for me to stay here." Cassandra spoke formally, almost solemnly; the announcement was clearly prepared and marked a crisis of the | Night And Day |
he said gravely. I did not quite know what to say. | No speaker | "A woman's happiness, _mon ami_,"<|quote|>he said gravely. I did not quite know what to say.</|quote|>"The moment has come," said | the balance." "And that is?" "A woman's happiness, _mon ami_,"<|quote|>he said gravely. I did not quite know what to say.</|quote|>"The moment has come," said Poirot thoughtfully, "and I do | to speak,' as your so great Shakespeare says," that is the question.'" I did not trouble to correct the quotation. "You are not serious, Poirot?" "I am of the most serious. For the most serious of all things hangs in the balance." "And that is?" "A woman's happiness, _mon ami_,"<|quote|>he said gravely. I did not quite know what to say.</|quote|>"The moment has come," said Poirot thoughtfully, "and I do not know what to do. For, see you, it is a big stake for which I play. No one but I, Hercule Poirot, would attempt it!" And he tapped himself proudly on the breast. After pausing a few minutes respectfully, | up at my entrance. "What is it?" I asked solicitously. "You are not ill, I trust?" "No, no, not ill. But I decide an affair of great moment." "Whether to catch the criminal or not?" I asked facetiously. But, to my great surprise, Poirot nodded gravely. "To speak or not to speak,' as your so great Shakespeare says," that is the question.'" I did not trouble to correct the quotation. "You are not serious, Poirot?" "I am of the most serious. For the most serious of all things hangs in the balance." "And that is?" "A woman's happiness, _mon ami_,"<|quote|>he said gravely. I did not quite know what to say.</|quote|>"The moment has come," said Poirot thoughtfully, "and I do not know what to do. For, see you, it is a big stake for which I play. No one but I, Hercule Poirot, would attempt it!" And he tapped himself proudly on the breast. After pausing a few minutes respectfully, so as not to spoil his effect, I gave him Lawrence's message. "Aha!" he cried. "So he has found the extra coffee-cup. That is good. He has more intelligence than would appear, this long-faced Monsieur Lawrence of yours!" I did not myself think very highly of Lawrence's intelligence; but I | "It's nothing much, but well, if you are going, will you tell him" he dropped his voice to a whisper "I think I've found the extra coffee-cup!" I had almost forgotten that enigmatical message of Poirot's, but now my curiosity was aroused afresh. Lawrence would say no more, so I decided that I would descend from my high horse, and once more seek out Poirot at Leastways Cottage. This time I was received with a smile. Monsieur Poirot was within. Would I mount? I mounted accordingly. Poirot was sitting by the table, his head buried in his hands. He sprang up at my entrance. "What is it?" I asked solicitously. "You are not ill, I trust?" "No, no, not ill. But I decide an affair of great moment." "Whether to catch the criminal or not?" I asked facetiously. But, to my great surprise, Poirot nodded gravely. "To speak or not to speak,' as your so great Shakespeare says," that is the question.'" I did not trouble to correct the quotation. "You are not serious, Poirot?" "I am of the most serious. For the most serious of all things hangs in the balance." "And that is?" "A woman's happiness, _mon ami_,"<|quote|>he said gravely. I did not quite know what to say.</|quote|>"The moment has come," said Poirot thoughtfully, "and I do not know what to do. For, see you, it is a big stake for which I play. No one but I, Hercule Poirot, would attempt it!" And he tapped himself proudly on the breast. After pausing a few minutes respectfully, so as not to spoil his effect, I gave him Lawrence's message. "Aha!" he cried. "So he has found the extra coffee-cup. That is good. He has more intelligence than would appear, this long-faced Monsieur Lawrence of yours!" I did not myself think very highly of Lawrence's intelligence; but I forebore to contradict Poirot, and gently took him to task for forgetting my instructions as to which were Cynthia's days off. "It is true. I have the head of a sieve. However, the other young lady was most kind. She was sorry for my disappointment, and showed me everything in the kindest way." "Oh, well, that's all right, then, and you must go to tea with Cynthia another day." I told him about the letter. "I am sorry for that," he said. "I always had hopes of that letter. But no, it was not to be. This affair must all | music publishers, acknowledging Mrs. Inglethorp's cheque, and regretting they had been unable to trace a certain series of Russian folksongs. So the last hope of solving the mystery, by means of Mrs. Inglethorp's correspondence on the fatal evening, had to be abandoned. Just before tea, I strolled down to tell Poirot of the new disappointment, but found, to my annoyance, that he was once more out. "Gone to London again?" "Oh, no, monsieur, he has but taken the train to Tadminster. To see a young lady's dispensary,' he said." "Silly ass!" I ejaculated. "I told him Wednesday was the one day she wasn't there! Well, tell him to look us up to-morrow morning, will you?" "Certainly, monsieur." But, on the following day, no sign of Poirot. I was getting angry. He was really treating us in the most cavalier fashion. After lunch, Lawrence drew me aside, and asked if I was going down to see him. "No, I don't think I shall. He can come up here if he wants to see us." "Oh!" Lawrence looked indeterminate. Something unusually nervous and excited in his manner roused my curiosity. "What is it?" I asked. "I could go if there's anything special." "It's nothing much, but well, if you are going, will you tell him" he dropped his voice to a whisper "I think I've found the extra coffee-cup!" I had almost forgotten that enigmatical message of Poirot's, but now my curiosity was aroused afresh. Lawrence would say no more, so I decided that I would descend from my high horse, and once more seek out Poirot at Leastways Cottage. This time I was received with a smile. Monsieur Poirot was within. Would I mount? I mounted accordingly. Poirot was sitting by the table, his head buried in his hands. He sprang up at my entrance. "What is it?" I asked solicitously. "You are not ill, I trust?" "No, no, not ill. But I decide an affair of great moment." "Whether to catch the criminal or not?" I asked facetiously. But, to my great surprise, Poirot nodded gravely. "To speak or not to speak,' as your so great Shakespeare says," that is the question.'" I did not trouble to correct the quotation. "You are not serious, Poirot?" "I am of the most serious. For the most serious of all things hangs in the balance." "And that is?" "A woman's happiness, _mon ami_,"<|quote|>he said gravely. I did not quite know what to say.</|quote|>"The moment has come," said Poirot thoughtfully, "and I do not know what to do. For, see you, it is a big stake for which I play. No one but I, Hercule Poirot, would attempt it!" And he tapped himself proudly on the breast. After pausing a few minutes respectfully, so as not to spoil his effect, I gave him Lawrence's message. "Aha!" he cried. "So he has found the extra coffee-cup. That is good. He has more intelligence than would appear, this long-faced Monsieur Lawrence of yours!" I did not myself think very highly of Lawrence's intelligence; but I forebore to contradict Poirot, and gently took him to task for forgetting my instructions as to which were Cynthia's days off. "It is true. I have the head of a sieve. However, the other young lady was most kind. She was sorry for my disappointment, and showed me everything in the kindest way." "Oh, well, that's all right, then, and you must go to tea with Cynthia another day." I told him about the letter. "I am sorry for that," he said. "I always had hopes of that letter. But no, it was not to be. This affair must all be unravelled from within." He tapped his forehead. "These little grey cells. It is" up to them' "as you say over here." Then, suddenly, he asked: "Are you a judge of finger-marks, my friend?" "No," I said, rather surprised, "I know that there are no two finger-marks alike, but that's as far as my science goes." "Exactly." He unlocked a little drawer, and took out some photographs which he laid on the table. "I have numbered them, 1, 2, 3. Will you describe them to me?" I studied the proofs attentively. "All greatly magnified, I see. No. 1, I should say, are a man's finger-prints; thumb and first finger. No. 2 are a lady's; they are much smaller, and quite different in every way. No. 3" I paused for some time "there seem to be a lot of confused finger-marks, but here, very distinctly, are No. 1's." "Overlapping the others?" "Yes." "You recognize them beyond fail?" "Oh, yes; they are identical." Poirot nodded, and gently taking the photographs from me locked them up again. "I suppose," I said, "that as usual, you are not going to explain?" "On the contrary. No. 1 were the finger-prints of Monsieur Lawrence. No. 2 | Styles." "You and John are not going to live here?" "John may live here, but I shall not." "You are going to leave him?" "Yes." "But why?" She paused a long time, and said at last: "Perhaps because I want to be free!" And, as she spoke, I had a sudden vision of broad spaces, virgin tracts of forests, untrodden lands and a realization of what freedom would mean to such a nature as Mary Cavendish. I seemed to see her for a moment as she was, a proud wild creature, as untamed by civilization as some shy bird of the hills. A little cry broke from her lips: "You don't know, you don't know, how this hateful place has been prison to me!" "I understand," I said, "but but don't do anything rash." "Oh, rash!" Her voice mocked at my prudence. Then suddenly I said a thing I could have bitten out my tongue for: "You know that Dr. Bauerstein has been arrested?" An instant coldness passed like a mask over her face, blotting out all expression. "John was so kind as to break that to me this morning." "Well, what do you think?" I asked feebly. "Of what?" "Of the arrest?" "What should I think? Apparently he is a German spy; so the gardener had told John." Her face and voice were absolutely cold and expressionless. Did she care, or did she not? She moved away a step or two, and fingered one of the flower vases. "These are quite dead. I must do them again. Would you mind moving thank you, Mr. Hastings." And she walked quietly past me out of the window, with a cool little nod of dismissal. No, surely she could not care for Bauerstein. No woman could act her part with that icy unconcern. Poirot did not make his appearance the following morning, and there was no sign of the Scotland Yard men. But, at lunch-time, there arrived a new piece of evidence or rather lack of evidence. We had vainly tried to trace the fourth letter, which Mrs. Inglethorp had written on the evening preceding her death. Our efforts having been in vain, we had abandoned the matter, hoping that it might turn up of itself one day. And this is just what did happen, in the shape of a communication, which arrived by the second post from a firm of French music publishers, acknowledging Mrs. Inglethorp's cheque, and regretting they had been unable to trace a certain series of Russian folksongs. So the last hope of solving the mystery, by means of Mrs. Inglethorp's correspondence on the fatal evening, had to be abandoned. Just before tea, I strolled down to tell Poirot of the new disappointment, but found, to my annoyance, that he was once more out. "Gone to London again?" "Oh, no, monsieur, he has but taken the train to Tadminster. To see a young lady's dispensary,' he said." "Silly ass!" I ejaculated. "I told him Wednesday was the one day she wasn't there! Well, tell him to look us up to-morrow morning, will you?" "Certainly, monsieur." But, on the following day, no sign of Poirot. I was getting angry. He was really treating us in the most cavalier fashion. After lunch, Lawrence drew me aside, and asked if I was going down to see him. "No, I don't think I shall. He can come up here if he wants to see us." "Oh!" Lawrence looked indeterminate. Something unusually nervous and excited in his manner roused my curiosity. "What is it?" I asked. "I could go if there's anything special." "It's nothing much, but well, if you are going, will you tell him" he dropped his voice to a whisper "I think I've found the extra coffee-cup!" I had almost forgotten that enigmatical message of Poirot's, but now my curiosity was aroused afresh. Lawrence would say no more, so I decided that I would descend from my high horse, and once more seek out Poirot at Leastways Cottage. This time I was received with a smile. Monsieur Poirot was within. Would I mount? I mounted accordingly. Poirot was sitting by the table, his head buried in his hands. He sprang up at my entrance. "What is it?" I asked solicitously. "You are not ill, I trust?" "No, no, not ill. But I decide an affair of great moment." "Whether to catch the criminal or not?" I asked facetiously. But, to my great surprise, Poirot nodded gravely. "To speak or not to speak,' as your so great Shakespeare says," that is the question.'" I did not trouble to correct the quotation. "You are not serious, Poirot?" "I am of the most serious. For the most serious of all things hangs in the balance." "And that is?" "A woman's happiness, _mon ami_,"<|quote|>he said gravely. I did not quite know what to say.</|quote|>"The moment has come," said Poirot thoughtfully, "and I do not know what to do. For, see you, it is a big stake for which I play. No one but I, Hercule Poirot, would attempt it!" And he tapped himself proudly on the breast. After pausing a few minutes respectfully, so as not to spoil his effect, I gave him Lawrence's message. "Aha!" he cried. "So he has found the extra coffee-cup. That is good. He has more intelligence than would appear, this long-faced Monsieur Lawrence of yours!" I did not myself think very highly of Lawrence's intelligence; but I forebore to contradict Poirot, and gently took him to task for forgetting my instructions as to which were Cynthia's days off. "It is true. I have the head of a sieve. However, the other young lady was most kind. She was sorry for my disappointment, and showed me everything in the kindest way." "Oh, well, that's all right, then, and you must go to tea with Cynthia another day." I told him about the letter. "I am sorry for that," he said. "I always had hopes of that letter. But no, it was not to be. This affair must all be unravelled from within." He tapped his forehead. "These little grey cells. It is" up to them' "as you say over here." Then, suddenly, he asked: "Are you a judge of finger-marks, my friend?" "No," I said, rather surprised, "I know that there are no two finger-marks alike, but that's as far as my science goes." "Exactly." He unlocked a little drawer, and took out some photographs which he laid on the table. "I have numbered them, 1, 2, 3. Will you describe them to me?" I studied the proofs attentively. "All greatly magnified, I see. No. 1, I should say, are a man's finger-prints; thumb and first finger. No. 2 are a lady's; they are much smaller, and quite different in every way. No. 3" I paused for some time "there seem to be a lot of confused finger-marks, but here, very distinctly, are No. 1's." "Overlapping the others?" "Yes." "You recognize them beyond fail?" "Oh, yes; they are identical." Poirot nodded, and gently taking the photographs from me locked them up again. "I suppose," I said, "that as usual, you are not going to explain?" "On the contrary. No. 1 were the finger-prints of Monsieur Lawrence. No. 2 were those of Mademoiselle Cynthia. They are not important. I merely obtained them for comparison. No. 3 is a little more complicated." "Yes?" "It is, as you see, highly magnified. You may have noticed a sort of blur extending all across the picture. I will not describe to you the special apparatus, dusting powder, etc., which I used. It is a well-known process to the police, and by means of it you can obtain a photograph of the finger-prints of any object in a very short space of time. Well, my friend, you have seen the finger-marks it remains to tell you the particular object on which they had been left." "Go on I am really excited." "_Eh bien!_ Photo No. 3 represents the highly magnified surface of a tiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster which sounds like the house that Jack built!" "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish's finger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there!" "Oh, yes, he did!" "Impossible! We were all together the whole time." Poirot shook his head. "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony." "I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer. "They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then." "How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were | of the flower vases. "These are quite dead. I must do them again. Would you mind moving thank you, Mr. Hastings." And she walked quietly past me out of the window, with a cool little nod of dismissal. No, surely she could not care for Bauerstein. No woman could act her part with that icy unconcern. Poirot did not make his appearance the following morning, and there was no sign of the Scotland Yard men. But, at lunch-time, there arrived a new piece of evidence or rather lack of evidence. We had vainly tried to trace the fourth letter, which Mrs. Inglethorp had written on the evening preceding her death. Our efforts having been in vain, we had abandoned the matter, hoping that it might turn up of itself one day. And this is just what did happen, in the shape of a communication, which arrived by the second post from a firm of French music publishers, acknowledging Mrs. Inglethorp's cheque, and regretting they had been unable to trace a certain series of Russian folksongs. So the last hope of solving the mystery, by means of Mrs. Inglethorp's correspondence on the fatal evening, had to be abandoned. Just before tea, I strolled down to tell Poirot of the new disappointment, but found, to my annoyance, that he was once more out. "Gone to London again?" "Oh, no, monsieur, he has but taken the train to Tadminster. To see a young lady's dispensary,' he said." "Silly ass!" I ejaculated. "I told him Wednesday was the one day she wasn't there! Well, tell him to look us up to-morrow morning, will you?" "Certainly, monsieur." But, on the following day, no sign of Poirot. I was getting angry. He was really treating us in the most cavalier fashion. After lunch, Lawrence drew me aside, and asked if I was going down to see him. "No, I don't think I shall. He can come up here if he wants to see us." "Oh!" Lawrence looked indeterminate. Something unusually nervous and excited in his manner roused my curiosity. "What is it?" I asked. "I could go if there's anything special." "It's nothing much, but well, if you are going, will you tell him" he dropped his voice to a whisper "I think I've found the extra coffee-cup!" I had almost forgotten that enigmatical message of Poirot's, but now my curiosity was aroused afresh. Lawrence would say no more, so I decided that I would descend from my high horse, and once more seek out Poirot at Leastways Cottage. This time I was received with a smile. Monsieur Poirot was within. Would I mount? I mounted accordingly. Poirot was sitting by the table, his head buried in his hands. He sprang up at my entrance. "What is it?" I asked solicitously. "You are not ill, I trust?" "No, no, not ill. But I decide an affair of great moment." "Whether to catch the criminal or not?" I asked facetiously. But, to my great surprise, Poirot nodded gravely. "To speak or not to speak,' as your so great Shakespeare says," that is the question.'" I did not trouble to correct the quotation. "You are not serious, Poirot?" "I am of the most serious. For the most serious of all things hangs in the balance." "And that is?" "A woman's happiness, _mon ami_,"<|quote|>he said gravely. I did not quite know what to say.</|quote|>"The moment has come," said Poirot thoughtfully, "and I do not know what to do. For, see you, it is a big stake for which I play. No one but I, Hercule Poirot, would attempt it!" And he tapped himself proudly on the breast. After pausing a few minutes respectfully, so as not to spoil his effect, I gave him Lawrence's message. "Aha!" he cried. "So he has found the extra coffee-cup. That is good. He has more intelligence than would appear, this long-faced Monsieur Lawrence of yours!" I did not myself think very highly of Lawrence's intelligence; but I forebore to contradict Poirot, and gently took him to task for forgetting my instructions as to which were Cynthia's days off. "It is true. I have the head of a sieve. However, the other young lady was most kind. She was sorry for my disappointment, and showed me everything in the kindest way." "Oh, well, that's all right, then, and you must go to tea with Cynthia another day." I told him about the letter. "I am sorry for that," he said. "I always had hopes of that letter. But no, it was not to be. This affair must all be unravelled from within." He tapped his forehead. "These little grey cells. It is" up to them' "as you say over | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression was renewed on every face. Miss Quested was only a victim, but young Heaslop was a martyr; he was the recipient of all the evil intended against them by the country they had tried to serve; he was bearing the sahib's cross. And they fretted because they could do nothing for him in return; they felt so craven sitting on softness and attending the course of the law. | No speaker | man." "Heaslop's just behind me."<|quote|>At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression was renewed on every face. Miss Quested was only a victim, but young Heaslop was a martyr; he was the recipient of all the evil intended against them by the country they had tried to serve; he was bearing the sahib's cross. And they fretted because they could do nothing for him in return; they felt so craven sitting on softness and attending the course of the law.</|quote|>"I wish to God I | with questions, Lesley." "Sorry, old man." "Heaslop's just behind me."<|quote|>At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression was renewed on every face. Miss Quested was only a victim, but young Heaslop was a martyr; he was the recipient of all the evil intended against them by the country they had tried to serve; he was bearing the sahib's cross. And they fretted because they could do nothing for him in return; they felt so craven sitting on softness and attending the course of the law.</|quote|>"I wish to God I hadn't given my jewel of | at this. "Squat down, Callendar; tell us all about it." "Take me some time to do that." "How's the old lady?" "Temperature." "My wife heard she was sinking." "So she may be. I guarantee nothing. I really can't be plagued with questions, Lesley." "Sorry, old man." "Heaslop's just behind me."<|quote|>At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression was renewed on every face. Miss Quested was only a victim, but young Heaslop was a martyr; he was the recipient of all the evil intended against them by the country they had tried to serve; he was bearing the sahib's cross. And they fretted because they could do nothing for him in return; they felt so craven sitting on softness and attending the course of the law.</|quote|>"I wish to God I hadn't given my jewel of an assistant leave. I'ld cut my tongue out first. To feel I'm responsible, that's what hits me. To refuse, and then give in under pressure. That is what I did, my sons, that is what I did." Fielding took his | on an ottoman, and said, "H'm!" Everyone began pressing him for details. "No one's out of danger in this country as long as they have a temperature," was his answer. He appeared to resent his patient's recovery, and no one who knew the old Major and his ways was surprised at this. "Squat down, Callendar; tell us all about it." "Take me some time to do that." "How's the old lady?" "Temperature." "My wife heard she was sinking." "So she may be. I guarantee nothing. I really can't be plagued with questions, Lesley." "Sorry, old man." "Heaslop's just behind me."<|quote|>At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression was renewed on every face. Miss Quested was only a victim, but young Heaslop was a martyr; he was the recipient of all the evil intended against them by the country they had tried to serve; he was bearing the sahib's cross. And they fretted because they could do nothing for him in return; they felt so craven sitting on softness and attending the course of the law.</|quote|>"I wish to God I hadn't given my jewel of an assistant leave. I'ld cut my tongue out first. To feel I'm responsible, that's what hits me. To refuse, and then give in under pressure. That is what I did, my sons, that is what I did." Fielding took his pipe from his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully. Thinking him afraid, the other went on: "I understood an Englishman was to accompany the expedition. That is why I gave in." "No one blames you, my dear Callendar," said the Collector, looking down. "We are all to blame in the | I had a knock with on your Maidan last month. Well, he was all right. Any native who plays polo is all right. What you've got to stamp on is these educated classes, and, mind, I do know what I'm talking about this time." The smoking-room door opened, and let in a feminine buzz. Mrs. Turton called out, "She's better," and from both sections of the community a sigh of joy and relief rose. The Civil Surgeon, who had brought the good news, came in. His cumbrous, pasty face looked ill-tempered. He surveyed the company, saw Fielding crouched below him on an ottoman, and said, "H'm!" Everyone began pressing him for details. "No one's out of danger in this country as long as they have a temperature," was his answer. He appeared to resent his patient's recovery, and no one who knew the old Major and his ways was surprised at this. "Squat down, Callendar; tell us all about it." "Take me some time to do that." "How's the old lady?" "Temperature." "My wife heard she was sinking." "So she may be. I guarantee nothing. I really can't be plagued with questions, Lesley." "Sorry, old man." "Heaslop's just behind me."<|quote|>At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression was renewed on every face. Miss Quested was only a victim, but young Heaslop was a martyr; he was the recipient of all the evil intended against them by the country they had tried to serve; he was bearing the sahib's cross. And they fretted because they could do nothing for him in return; they felt so craven sitting on softness and attending the course of the law.</|quote|>"I wish to God I hadn't given my jewel of an assistant leave. I'ld cut my tongue out first. To feel I'm responsible, that's what hits me. To refuse, and then give in under pressure. That is what I did, my sons, that is what I did." Fielding took his pipe from his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully. Thinking him afraid, the other went on: "I understood an Englishman was to accompany the expedition. That is why I gave in." "No one blames you, my dear Callendar," said the Collector, looking down. "We are all to blame in the sense that we ought to have seen the expedition was insufficiently guaranteed, and stopped it. I knew about it myself; we lent our car this morning to take the ladies to the station. We are all implicated in that sense, but not an atom of blame attaches to you personally." "I don't feel that. I wish I could. Responsibility is a very awful thing, and I've no use for the man who shirks it." His eyes were directed on Fielding. Those who knew that Fielding had undertaken to accompany and missed the early train were sorry for him; it was | give me Sikhs, give me Marathas, Bhils, Afridis and Pathans, and really if it comes to that, I don't mind if you give me the scums of the bazaars. Properly led, mind. I'd lead them anywhere" The Collector nodded at him pleasantly, and said to his own people: "Don't start carrying arms about. I want everything to go on precisely as usual, until there's cause for the contrary. Get the womenfolk off to the hills, but do it quietly, and for Heaven's sake no more talk of special trains. Never mind what you think or feel. Possibly I have feelings too. One isolated Indian has attempted is charged with an attempted crime." He flipped his forehead hard with his finger-nail, and they all realized that he felt as deeply as they did, and they loved him, and determined not to increase his difficulties. "Act upon that fact until there are more facts," he concluded. "Assume every Indian is an angel." They murmured, "Right you are, Burra Sahib. . . . Angels. . . . Exactly. . . ." From the subaltern: "Exactly what I said. The native's all right if you get him alone. Lesley! Lesley! You remember the one I had a knock with on your Maidan last month. Well, he was all right. Any native who plays polo is all right. What you've got to stamp on is these educated classes, and, mind, I do know what I'm talking about this time." The smoking-room door opened, and let in a feminine buzz. Mrs. Turton called out, "She's better," and from both sections of the community a sigh of joy and relief rose. The Civil Surgeon, who had brought the good news, came in. His cumbrous, pasty face looked ill-tempered. He surveyed the company, saw Fielding crouched below him on an ottoman, and said, "H'm!" Everyone began pressing him for details. "No one's out of danger in this country as long as they have a temperature," was his answer. He appeared to resent his patient's recovery, and no one who knew the old Major and his ways was surprised at this. "Squat down, Callendar; tell us all about it." "Take me some time to do that." "How's the old lady?" "Temperature." "My wife heard she was sinking." "So she may be. I guarantee nothing. I really can't be plagued with questions, Lesley." "Sorry, old man." "Heaslop's just behind me."<|quote|>At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression was renewed on every face. Miss Quested was only a victim, but young Heaslop was a martyr; he was the recipient of all the evil intended against them by the country they had tried to serve; he was bearing the sahib's cross. And they fretted because they could do nothing for him in return; they felt so craven sitting on softness and attending the course of the law.</|quote|>"I wish to God I hadn't given my jewel of an assistant leave. I'ld cut my tongue out first. To feel I'm responsible, that's what hits me. To refuse, and then give in under pressure. That is what I did, my sons, that is what I did." Fielding took his pipe from his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully. Thinking him afraid, the other went on: "I understood an Englishman was to accompany the expedition. That is why I gave in." "No one blames you, my dear Callendar," said the Collector, looking down. "We are all to blame in the sense that we ought to have seen the expedition was insufficiently guaranteed, and stopped it. I knew about it myself; we lent our car this morning to take the ladies to the station. We are all implicated in that sense, but not an atom of blame attaches to you personally." "I don't feel that. I wish I could. Responsibility is a very awful thing, and I've no use for the man who shirks it." His eyes were directed on Fielding. Those who knew that Fielding had undertaken to accompany and missed the early train were sorry for him; it was what is to be expected when a man mixes himself up with natives; always ends in some indignity. The Collector, who knew more, kept silent, for the official in him still hoped that Fielding would toe the line. The conversation turned to women and children again, and under its cover Major Callendar got hold of the subaltern, and set him on to bait the schoolmaster. Pretending to be more drunk than he really was, he began to make semi-offensive remarks. "Heard about Miss Quested's servant?" reinforced the Major. "No, what about him?" "Heaslop warned Miss Quested's servant last night never to lose sight of her. Prisoner got hold of this and managed to leave him behind. Bribed him. Heaslop has just found out the whole story, with names and sums a well-known pimp to those people gave the money, Mohammed Latif by name. So much for the servant. What about the Englishman our friend here? How did they get rid of him? Money again." Fielding rose to his feet, supported by murmurs and exclamations, for no one yet suspected his integrity. "Oh, I'm being misunderstood, apologies," said the Major offensively. "I didn't mean they bribed Mr. Fielding." "Then what do | dozen others crooked, and they love to humiliate the civilian administration. One soldier was in the room this evening a stray subaltern from a Gurkha regiment; he was a little drunk, and regarded his presence as providential. The Collector sighed. There seemed nothing for it but the old weary business of compromise and moderation. He longed for the good old days when an Englishman could satisfy his own honour and no questions asked afterwards. Poor young Heaslop had taken a step in this direction, by refusing bail, but the Collector couldn't feel this was wise of poor young Heaslop. Not only would the Nawab Bahadur and others be angry, but the Government of India itself also watches and behind it is that caucus of cranks and cravens, the British Parliament. He had constantly to remind himself that, in the eyes of the law, Aziz was not yet guilty, and the effort fatigued him. The others, less responsible, could behave naturally. They had started speaking of "women and children" that phrase that exempts the male from sanity when it has been repeated a few times. Each felt that all he loved best in the world was at stake, demanded revenge, and was filled with a not unpleasing glow, in which the chilly and half-known features of Miss Quested vanished, and were replaced by all that is sweetest and warmest in the private life. "But it's the women and children," they repeated, and the Collector knew he ought to stop them intoxicating themselves, but he hadn't the heart. "They ought to be compelled to give hostages," etc. Many of the said women and children were leaving for the Hill Station in a few days, and the suggestion was made that they should be packed off at once in a special train. "_And_ a jolly suggestion," the subaltern cried. "The army's got to come in sooner or later. (A special train was in his mind inseparable from troops.) This would never have happened if Barabas Hill was under military control. Station a bunch of Gurkhas at the entrance of the cave was all that was wanted." "Mrs. Blakiston was saying if only there were a few Tommies," remarked someone. "English no good," he cried, getting his loyalties mixed. "Native troops for this country. Give me the sporting type of native, give me Gurkhas, give me Rajputs, give me Jats, give me the Punjabi, give me Sikhs, give me Marathas, Bhils, Afridis and Pathans, and really if it comes to that, I don't mind if you give me the scums of the bazaars. Properly led, mind. I'd lead them anywhere" The Collector nodded at him pleasantly, and said to his own people: "Don't start carrying arms about. I want everything to go on precisely as usual, until there's cause for the contrary. Get the womenfolk off to the hills, but do it quietly, and for Heaven's sake no more talk of special trains. Never mind what you think or feel. Possibly I have feelings too. One isolated Indian has attempted is charged with an attempted crime." He flipped his forehead hard with his finger-nail, and they all realized that he felt as deeply as they did, and they loved him, and determined not to increase his difficulties. "Act upon that fact until there are more facts," he concluded. "Assume every Indian is an angel." They murmured, "Right you are, Burra Sahib. . . . Angels. . . . Exactly. . . ." From the subaltern: "Exactly what I said. The native's all right if you get him alone. Lesley! Lesley! You remember the one I had a knock with on your Maidan last month. Well, he was all right. Any native who plays polo is all right. What you've got to stamp on is these educated classes, and, mind, I do know what I'm talking about this time." The smoking-room door opened, and let in a feminine buzz. Mrs. Turton called out, "She's better," and from both sections of the community a sigh of joy and relief rose. The Civil Surgeon, who had brought the good news, came in. His cumbrous, pasty face looked ill-tempered. He surveyed the company, saw Fielding crouched below him on an ottoman, and said, "H'm!" Everyone began pressing him for details. "No one's out of danger in this country as long as they have a temperature," was his answer. He appeared to resent his patient's recovery, and no one who knew the old Major and his ways was surprised at this. "Squat down, Callendar; tell us all about it." "Take me some time to do that." "How's the old lady?" "Temperature." "My wife heard she was sinking." "So she may be. I guarantee nothing. I really can't be plagued with questions, Lesley." "Sorry, old man." "Heaslop's just behind me."<|quote|>At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression was renewed on every face. Miss Quested was only a victim, but young Heaslop was a martyr; he was the recipient of all the evil intended against them by the country they had tried to serve; he was bearing the sahib's cross. And they fretted because they could do nothing for him in return; they felt so craven sitting on softness and attending the course of the law.</|quote|>"I wish to God I hadn't given my jewel of an assistant leave. I'ld cut my tongue out first. To feel I'm responsible, that's what hits me. To refuse, and then give in under pressure. That is what I did, my sons, that is what I did." Fielding took his pipe from his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully. Thinking him afraid, the other went on: "I understood an Englishman was to accompany the expedition. That is why I gave in." "No one blames you, my dear Callendar," said the Collector, looking down. "We are all to blame in the sense that we ought to have seen the expedition was insufficiently guaranteed, and stopped it. I knew about it myself; we lent our car this morning to take the ladies to the station. We are all implicated in that sense, but not an atom of blame attaches to you personally." "I don't feel that. I wish I could. Responsibility is a very awful thing, and I've no use for the man who shirks it." His eyes were directed on Fielding. Those who knew that Fielding had undertaken to accompany and missed the early train were sorry for him; it was what is to be expected when a man mixes himself up with natives; always ends in some indignity. The Collector, who knew more, kept silent, for the official in him still hoped that Fielding would toe the line. The conversation turned to women and children again, and under its cover Major Callendar got hold of the subaltern, and set him on to bait the schoolmaster. Pretending to be more drunk than he really was, he began to make semi-offensive remarks. "Heard about Miss Quested's servant?" reinforced the Major. "No, what about him?" "Heaslop warned Miss Quested's servant last night never to lose sight of her. Prisoner got hold of this and managed to leave him behind. Bribed him. Heaslop has just found out the whole story, with names and sums a well-known pimp to those people gave the money, Mohammed Latif by name. So much for the servant. What about the Englishman our friend here? How did they get rid of him? Money again." Fielding rose to his feet, supported by murmurs and exclamations, for no one yet suspected his integrity. "Oh, I'm being misunderstood, apologies," said the Major offensively. "I didn't mean they bribed Mr. Fielding." "Then what do you mean?" "They paid the other Indian to make you late Godbole. He was saying his prayers. I know those prayers!" "That's ridiculous . . ." He sat down again, trembling with rage; person after person was being dragged into the mud. Having shot this bolt, the Major prepared the next. "Heaslop also found out something from his mother. Aziz paid a herd of natives to suffocate her in a cave. That was the end of her, or would have been only she got out. Nicely planned, wasn't it? Neat. Then he could go on with the girl. He and she and a guide, provided by the same Mohammed Latif. Guide now can't be found. Pretty." His voice broke into a roar. "It's not the time for sitting down. It's the time for action. Call in the troops and clear the bazaars." The Major's outbursts were always discounted, but he made everyone uneasy on this occasion. The crime was even worse than they had supposed the unspeakable limit of cynicism, untouched since 1857. Fielding forgot his anger on poor old Godbole's behalf, and became thoughtful; the evil was propagating in every direction, it seemed to have an existence of its own, apart from anything that was done or said by individuals, and he understood better why both Aziz and Hamidullah had been inclined to lie down and die. His adversary saw that he was in trouble, and now ventured to say, "I suppose nothing that's said inside the club will go outside the club?" winking the while at Lesley. "Why should it?" responded Lesley. "Oh, nothing. I only heard a rumour that a certain member here present has been seeing the prisoner this afternoon. You can't run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, at least not in this country." "Does anyone here present want to?" Fielding was determined not to be drawn again. He had something to say, but it should be at his own moment. The attack failed to mature, because the Collector did not support it. Attention shifted from him for a time. Then the buzz of women broke out again. The door had been opened by Ronny. The young man looked exhausted and tragic, also gentler than usual. He always showed deference to his superiors, but now it came straight from his heart. He seemed to appeal for their protection in the insult that had | cave was all that was wanted." "Mrs. Blakiston was saying if only there were a few Tommies," remarked someone. "English no good," he cried, getting his loyalties mixed. "Native troops for this country. Give me the sporting type of native, give me Gurkhas, give me Rajputs, give me Jats, give me the Punjabi, give me Sikhs, give me Marathas, Bhils, Afridis and Pathans, and really if it comes to that, I don't mind if you give me the scums of the bazaars. Properly led, mind. I'd lead them anywhere" The Collector nodded at him pleasantly, and said to his own people: "Don't start carrying arms about. I want everything to go on precisely as usual, until there's cause for the contrary. Get the womenfolk off to the hills, but do it quietly, and for Heaven's sake no more talk of special trains. Never mind what you think or feel. Possibly I have feelings too. One isolated Indian has attempted is charged with an attempted crime." He flipped his forehead hard with his finger-nail, and they all realized that he felt as deeply as they did, and they loved him, and determined not to increase his difficulties. "Act upon that fact until there are more facts," he concluded. "Assume every Indian is an angel." They murmured, "Right you are, Burra Sahib. . . . Angels. . . . Exactly. . . ." From the subaltern: "Exactly what I said. The native's all right if you get him alone. Lesley! Lesley! You remember the one I had a knock with on your Maidan last month. Well, he was all right. Any native who plays polo is all right. What you've got to stamp on is these educated classes, and, mind, I do know what I'm talking about this time." The smoking-room door opened, and let in a feminine buzz. Mrs. Turton called out, "She's better," and from both sections of the community a sigh of joy and relief rose. The Civil Surgeon, who had brought the good news, came in. His cumbrous, pasty face looked ill-tempered. He surveyed the company, saw Fielding crouched below him on an ottoman, and said, "H'm!" Everyone began pressing him for details. "No one's out of danger in this country as long as they have a temperature," was his answer. He appeared to resent his patient's recovery, and no one who knew the old Major and his ways was surprised at this. "Squat down, Callendar; tell us all about it." "Take me some time to do that." "How's the old lady?" "Temperature." "My wife heard she was sinking." "So she may be. I guarantee nothing. I really can't be plagued with questions, Lesley." "Sorry, old man." "Heaslop's just behind me."<|quote|>At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression was renewed on every face. Miss Quested was only a victim, but young Heaslop was a martyr; he was the recipient of all the evil intended against them by the country they had tried to serve; he was bearing the sahib's cross. And they fretted because they could do nothing for him in return; they felt so craven sitting on softness and attending the course of the law.</|quote|>"I wish to God I hadn't given my jewel of an assistant leave. I'ld cut my tongue out first. To feel I'm responsible, that's what hits me. To refuse, and then give in under pressure. That is what I did, my sons, that is what I did." Fielding took his pipe from his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully. Thinking him afraid, the other went on: "I understood an Englishman was to accompany the expedition. That is why I gave in." "No one blames you, my dear Callendar," said the Collector, looking down. "We are all to blame in the sense that we ought to have seen the expedition was insufficiently guaranteed, and stopped it. I knew about it myself; we lent our car this morning to take the ladies to the station. We are all implicated in that sense, but not an atom of blame attaches to you personally." "I don't feel that. I wish I could. Responsibility is a very awful thing, and I've no use for the man who shirks it." His eyes were directed on Fielding. Those who knew that Fielding had undertaken to accompany and missed the early train were sorry for him; it was what is to be expected when a man mixes himself up with natives; always ends in some indignity. The Collector, who knew more, kept silent, for the official in him still hoped that Fielding would toe the line. The conversation turned to women and children again, and under its cover Major Callendar got hold of the subaltern, and set him on to bait the schoolmaster. Pretending to be more drunk than he really was, he began to make semi-offensive remarks. "Heard about Miss Quested's servant?" reinforced the Major. "No, what about him?" "Heaslop warned Miss Quested's servant last night never to lose sight of her. Prisoner got hold of this and managed to leave him behind. Bribed him. Heaslop has just found out the whole story, with names and sums a well-known pimp to those people gave the money, Mohammed Latif by name. So much for the servant. What about the Englishman | A Passage To India |
(looking towards Captain Wentworth,) | No speaker | to another. He undertakes it;"<|quote|>(looking towards Captain Wentworth,)</|quote|>"he is writing about it | indeed, to make it over to another. He undertakes it;"<|quote|>(looking towards Captain Wentworth,)</|quote|>"he is writing about it now." And with a quivering | home for her; and I have now the charge of getting it properly set for another! It was a commission to me! But who else was there to employ? I hope I can allow for him. I am not sorry, indeed, to make it over to another. He undertakes it;"<|quote|>(looking towards Captain Wentworth,)</|quote|>"he is writing about it now." And with a quivering lip he wound up the whole by adding, "Poor Fanny! she would not have forgotten him so soon!" "No," replied Anne, in a low, feeling voice. "That I can easily believe." "It was not in her nature. She doted on | remember our walking together at Lyme, and grieving for him? I little thought then--but no matter. This was drawn at the Cape. He met with a clever young German artist at the Cape, and in compliance with a promise to my poor sister, sat to him, and was bringing it home for her; and I have now the charge of getting it properly set for another! It was a commission to me! But who else was there to employ? I hope I can allow for him. I am not sorry, indeed, to make it over to another. He undertakes it;"<|quote|>(looking towards Captain Wentworth,)</|quote|>"he is writing about it now." And with a quivering lip he wound up the whole by adding, "Poor Fanny! she would not have forgotten him so soon!" "No," replied Anne, in a low, feeling voice. "That I can easily believe." "It was not in her nature. She doted on him." "It would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved." Captain Harville smiled, as much as to say, "Do you claim that for your sex?" and she answered the question, smiling also, "Yes. We certainly do not forget you as soon as you forget us. It is, | went to him. The window at which he stood was at the other end of the room from where the two ladies were sitting, and though nearer to Captain Wentworth's table, not very near. As she joined him, Captain Harville's countenance re-assumed the serious, thoughtful expression which seemed its natural character. "Look here," said he, unfolding a parcel in his hand, and displaying a small miniature painting, "do you know who that is?" "Certainly: Captain Benwick." "Yes, and you may guess who it is for. But," (in a deep tone,) "it was not done for her. Miss Elliot, do you remember our walking together at Lyme, and grieving for him? I little thought then--but no matter. This was drawn at the Cape. He met with a clever young German artist at the Cape, and in compliance with a promise to my poor sister, sat to him, and was bringing it home for her; and I have now the charge of getting it properly set for another! It was a commission to me! But who else was there to employ? I hope I can allow for him. I am not sorry, indeed, to make it over to another. He undertakes it;"<|quote|>(looking towards Captain Wentworth,)</|quote|>"he is writing about it now." And with a quivering lip he wound up the whole by adding, "Poor Fanny! she would not have forgotten him so soon!" "No," replied Anne, in a low, feeling voice. "That I can easily believe." "It was not in her nature. She doted on him." "It would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved." Captain Harville smiled, as much as to say, "Do you claim that for your sex?" and she answered the question, smiling also, "Yes. We certainly do not forget you as soon as you forget us. It is, perhaps, our fate rather than our merit. We cannot help ourselves. We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us. You are forced on exertion. You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some sort or other, to take you back into the world immediately, and continual occupation and change soon weaken impressions." "Granting your assertion that the world does all this so soon for men (which, however, I do not think I shall grant), it does not apply to Benwick. He has not been forced upon any exertion. The peace turned him on shore at the | a nervous thrill all over her; and at the same moment that her eyes instinctively glanced towards the distant table, Captain Wentworth's pen ceased to move, his head was raised, pausing, listening, and he turned round the next instant to give a look, one quick, conscious look at her. The two ladies continued to talk, to re-urge the same admitted truths, and enforce them with such examples of the ill effect of a contrary practice as had fallen within their observation, but Anne heard nothing distinctly; it was only a buzz of words in her ear, her mind was in confusion. Captain Harville, who had in truth been hearing none of it, now left his seat, and moved to a window, and Anne seeming to watch him, though it was from thorough absence of mind, became gradually sensible that he was inviting her to join him where he stood. He looked at her with a smile, and a little motion of the head, which expressed, "Come to me, I have something to say;" and the unaffected, easy kindness of manner which denoted the feelings of an older acquaintance than he really was, strongly enforced the invitation. She roused herself and went to him. The window at which he stood was at the other end of the room from where the two ladies were sitting, and though nearer to Captain Wentworth's table, not very near. As she joined him, Captain Harville's countenance re-assumed the serious, thoughtful expression which seemed its natural character. "Look here," said he, unfolding a parcel in his hand, and displaying a small miniature painting, "do you know who that is?" "Certainly: Captain Benwick." "Yes, and you may guess who it is for. But," (in a deep tone,) "it was not done for her. Miss Elliot, do you remember our walking together at Lyme, and grieving for him? I little thought then--but no matter. This was drawn at the Cape. He met with a clever young German artist at the Cape, and in compliance with a promise to my poor sister, sat to him, and was bringing it home for her; and I have now the charge of getting it properly set for another! It was a commission to me! But who else was there to employ? I hope I can allow for him. I am not sorry, indeed, to make it over to another. He undertakes it;"<|quote|>(looking towards Captain Wentworth,)</|quote|>"he is writing about it now." And with a quivering lip he wound up the whole by adding, "Poor Fanny! she would not have forgotten him so soon!" "No," replied Anne, in a low, feeling voice. "That I can easily believe." "It was not in her nature. She doted on him." "It would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved." Captain Harville smiled, as much as to say, "Do you claim that for your sex?" and she answered the question, smiling also, "Yes. We certainly do not forget you as soon as you forget us. It is, perhaps, our fate rather than our merit. We cannot help ourselves. We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us. You are forced on exertion. You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some sort or other, to take you back into the world immediately, and continual occupation and change soon weaken impressions." "Granting your assertion that the world does all this so soon for men (which, however, I do not think I shall grant), it does not apply to Benwick. He has not been forced upon any exertion. The peace turned him on shore at the very moment, and he has been living with us, in our little family circle, ever since." "True," said Anne, "very true; I did not recollect; but what shall we say now, Captain Harville? If the change be not from outward circumstances, it must be from within; it must be nature, man's nature, which has done the business for Captain Benwick." "No, no, it is not man's nature. I will not allow it to be more man's nature than woman's to be inconstant and forget those they do love, or have loved. I believe the reverse. I believe in a true analogy between our bodily frames and our mental; and that as our bodies are the strongest, so are our feelings; capable of bearing most rough usage, and riding out the heaviest weather." "Your feelings may be the strongest," replied Anne, "but the same spirit of analogy will authorise me to assert that ours are the most tender. Man is more robust than woman, but he is not longer lived; which exactly explains my view of the nature of their attachments. Nay, it would be too hard upon you, if it were otherwise. You have difficulties, and privations, and dangers enough | had met again and again to talk it over; what my brother Hayter had said one day, and what Mr Musgrove had proposed the next, and what had occurred to my sister Hayter, and what the young people had wished, and what I said at first I never could consent to, but was afterwards persuaded to think might do very well," and a great deal in the same style of open-hearted communication: minutiae which, even with every advantage of taste and delicacy, which good Mrs Musgrove could not give, could be properly interesting only to the principals. Mrs Croft was attending with great good-humour, and whenever she spoke at all, it was very sensibly. Anne hoped the gentlemen might each be too much self-occupied to hear. "And so, ma'am, all these thing considered," said Mrs Musgrove, in her powerful whisper, "though we could have wished it different, yet, altogether, we did not think it fair to stand out any longer, for Charles Hayter was quite wild about it, and Henrietta was pretty near as bad; and so we thought they had better marry at once, and make the best of it, as many others have done before them. At any rate, said I, it will be better than a long engagement." "That is precisely what I was going to observe," cried Mrs Croft. "I would rather have young people settle on a small income at once, and have to struggle with a few difficulties together, than be involved in a long engagement. I always think that no mutual--" "Oh! dear Mrs Croft," cried Mrs Musgrove, unable to let her finish her speech, "there is nothing I so abominate for young people as a long engagement. It is what I always protested against for my children. It is all very well, I used to say, for young people to be engaged, if there is a certainty of their being able to marry in six months, or even in twelve; but a long engagement--" "Yes, dear ma'am," said Mrs Croft, "or an uncertain engagement, an engagement which may be long. To begin without knowing that at such a time there will be the means of marrying, I hold to be very unsafe and unwise, and what I think all parents should prevent as far as they can." Anne found an unexpected interest here. She felt its application to herself, felt it in a nervous thrill all over her; and at the same moment that her eyes instinctively glanced towards the distant table, Captain Wentworth's pen ceased to move, his head was raised, pausing, listening, and he turned round the next instant to give a look, one quick, conscious look at her. The two ladies continued to talk, to re-urge the same admitted truths, and enforce them with such examples of the ill effect of a contrary practice as had fallen within their observation, but Anne heard nothing distinctly; it was only a buzz of words in her ear, her mind was in confusion. Captain Harville, who had in truth been hearing none of it, now left his seat, and moved to a window, and Anne seeming to watch him, though it was from thorough absence of mind, became gradually sensible that he was inviting her to join him where he stood. He looked at her with a smile, and a little motion of the head, which expressed, "Come to me, I have something to say;" and the unaffected, easy kindness of manner which denoted the feelings of an older acquaintance than he really was, strongly enforced the invitation. She roused herself and went to him. The window at which he stood was at the other end of the room from where the two ladies were sitting, and though nearer to Captain Wentworth's table, not very near. As she joined him, Captain Harville's countenance re-assumed the serious, thoughtful expression which seemed its natural character. "Look here," said he, unfolding a parcel in his hand, and displaying a small miniature painting, "do you know who that is?" "Certainly: Captain Benwick." "Yes, and you may guess who it is for. But," (in a deep tone,) "it was not done for her. Miss Elliot, do you remember our walking together at Lyme, and grieving for him? I little thought then--but no matter. This was drawn at the Cape. He met with a clever young German artist at the Cape, and in compliance with a promise to my poor sister, sat to him, and was bringing it home for her; and I have now the charge of getting it properly set for another! It was a commission to me! But who else was there to employ? I hope I can allow for him. I am not sorry, indeed, to make it over to another. He undertakes it;"<|quote|>(looking towards Captain Wentworth,)</|quote|>"he is writing about it now." And with a quivering lip he wound up the whole by adding, "Poor Fanny! she would not have forgotten him so soon!" "No," replied Anne, in a low, feeling voice. "That I can easily believe." "It was not in her nature. She doted on him." "It would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved." Captain Harville smiled, as much as to say, "Do you claim that for your sex?" and she answered the question, smiling also, "Yes. We certainly do not forget you as soon as you forget us. It is, perhaps, our fate rather than our merit. We cannot help ourselves. We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us. You are forced on exertion. You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some sort or other, to take you back into the world immediately, and continual occupation and change soon weaken impressions." "Granting your assertion that the world does all this so soon for men (which, however, I do not think I shall grant), it does not apply to Benwick. He has not been forced upon any exertion. The peace turned him on shore at the very moment, and he has been living with us, in our little family circle, ever since." "True," said Anne, "very true; I did not recollect; but what shall we say now, Captain Harville? If the change be not from outward circumstances, it must be from within; it must be nature, man's nature, which has done the business for Captain Benwick." "No, no, it is not man's nature. I will not allow it to be more man's nature than woman's to be inconstant and forget those they do love, or have loved. I believe the reverse. I believe in a true analogy between our bodily frames and our mental; and that as our bodies are the strongest, so are our feelings; capable of bearing most rough usage, and riding out the heaviest weather." "Your feelings may be the strongest," replied Anne, "but the same spirit of analogy will authorise me to assert that ours are the most tender. Man is more robust than woman, but he is not longer lived; which exactly explains my view of the nature of their attachments. Nay, it would be too hard upon you, if it were otherwise. You have difficulties, and privations, and dangers enough to struggle with. You are always labouring and toiling, exposed to every risk and hardship. Your home, country, friends, all quitted. Neither time, nor health, nor life, to be called your own. It would be hard, indeed" (with a faltering voice), "if woman's feelings were to be added to all this." "We shall never agree upon this question," Captain Harville was beginning to say, when a slight noise called their attention to Captain Wentworth's hitherto perfectly quiet division of the room. It was nothing more than that his pen had fallen down; but Anne was startled at finding him nearer than she had supposed, and half inclined to suspect that the pen had only fallen because he had been occupied by them, striving to catch sounds, which yet she did not think he could have caught. "Have you finished your letter?" said Captain Harville. "Not quite, a few lines more. I shall have done in five minutes." "There is no hurry on my side. I am only ready whenever you are. I am in very good anchorage here," (smiling at Anne,) "well supplied, and want for nothing. No hurry for a signal at all. Well, Miss Elliot," (lowering his voice,) "as I was saying we shall never agree, I suppose, upon this point. No man and woman, would, probably. But let me observe that all histories are against you--all stories, prose and verse. If I had such a memory as Benwick, I could bring you fifty quotations in a moment on my side the argument, and I do not think I ever opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon woman's inconstancy. Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman's fickleness. But perhaps you will say, these were all written by men." "Perhaps I shall. Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything." "But how shall we prove anything?" "We never shall. We never can expect to prove any thing upon such a point. It is a difference of opinion which does not admit of proof. We each begin, probably, with a little bias towards our own sex; and upon that bias build every circumstance in | unexpected interest here. She felt its application to herself, felt it in a nervous thrill all over her; and at the same moment that her eyes instinctively glanced towards the distant table, Captain Wentworth's pen ceased to move, his head was raised, pausing, listening, and he turned round the next instant to give a look, one quick, conscious look at her. The two ladies continued to talk, to re-urge the same admitted truths, and enforce them with such examples of the ill effect of a contrary practice as had fallen within their observation, but Anne heard nothing distinctly; it was only a buzz of words in her ear, her mind was in confusion. Captain Harville, who had in truth been hearing none of it, now left his seat, and moved to a window, and Anne seeming to watch him, though it was from thorough absence of mind, became gradually sensible that he was inviting her to join him where he stood. He looked at her with a smile, and a little motion of the head, which expressed, "Come to me, I have something to say;" and the unaffected, easy kindness of manner which denoted the feelings of an older acquaintance than he really was, strongly enforced the invitation. She roused herself and went to him. The window at which he stood was at the other end of the room from where the two ladies were sitting, and though nearer to Captain Wentworth's table, not very near. As she joined him, Captain Harville's countenance re-assumed the serious, thoughtful expression which seemed its natural character. "Look here," said he, unfolding a parcel in his hand, and displaying a small miniature painting, "do you know who that is?" "Certainly: Captain Benwick." "Yes, and you may guess who it is for. But," (in a deep tone,) "it was not done for her. Miss Elliot, do you remember our walking together at Lyme, and grieving for him? I little thought then--but no matter. This was drawn at the Cape. He met with a clever young German artist at the Cape, and in compliance with a promise to my poor sister, sat to him, and was bringing it home for her; and I have now the charge of getting it properly set for another! It was a commission to me! But who else was there to employ? I hope I can allow for him. I am not sorry, indeed, to make it over to another. He undertakes it;"<|quote|>(looking towards Captain Wentworth,)</|quote|>"he is writing about it now." And with a quivering lip he wound up the whole by adding, "Poor Fanny! she would not have forgotten him so soon!" "No," replied Anne, in a low, feeling voice. "That I can easily believe." "It was not in her nature. She doted on him." "It would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved." Captain Harville smiled, as much as to say, "Do you claim that for your sex?" and she answered the question, smiling also, "Yes. We certainly do not forget you as soon as you forget us. It is, perhaps, our fate rather than our merit. We cannot help ourselves. We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us. You are forced on exertion. You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some sort or other, to take you back into the world immediately, and continual occupation and change soon weaken impressions." "Granting your assertion that the world does all this so soon for men (which, however, I do not think I shall grant), it does not apply to Benwick. He has not been forced upon any exertion. The peace turned him on shore at the very moment, and he has been living with us, in our little family circle, ever since." "True," said Anne, "very true; I did not recollect; but what shall we say now, Captain Harville? If the change be not from outward circumstances, it must be from within; it must be nature, man's nature, which has done the business for Captain Benwick." "No, no, it is not man's nature. I will not allow it to be more man's nature than woman's to be inconstant and forget those they do love, or have loved. I believe the reverse. I believe in a true analogy between our bodily frames and our mental; and that as our bodies are the strongest, so are our feelings; capable of bearing most rough usage, and riding out the heaviest weather." "Your feelings may be the strongest," replied Anne, "but the same spirit of analogy will authorise me to assert that ours are the most tender. Man is more robust than woman, but he is not longer lived; which exactly explains my view of the nature of their attachments. Nay, it would be too hard upon you, if it were otherwise. You have difficulties, and privations, and dangers enough to struggle with. You are always labouring and toiling, exposed to every risk and hardship. Your home, country, friends, all quitted. Neither time, nor health, nor life, to be called your own. It would be hard, indeed" (with a faltering voice), "if woman's feelings were to be added to all this." "We shall never agree upon this question," Captain Harville was beginning to say, when a slight noise called their attention to Captain Wentworth's hitherto perfectly quiet division of the room. It was nothing more than that his pen had fallen down; but Anne was startled at finding him nearer than she had supposed, and half inclined to suspect that the pen had | Persuasion |
"No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!" | Miss Welland | but she held his gaze.<|quote|>"No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!"</|quote|>she exclaimed, her blue eyes | today." Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze.<|quote|>"No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!"</|quote|>she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory. XXXIV. Newland | was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made a last effort to collect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it? I thought you said you weren't sure till today." Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze.<|quote|>"No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!"</|quote|>she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory. XXXIV. Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in his library in East Thirty-ninth Street. He had just got back from a big official reception for the inauguration of the new galleries at the Metropolitan Museum, and the spectacle of those great spaces | "Only Mamma and your mother." She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead: "That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made a last effort to collect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it? I thought you said you weren't sure till today." Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze.<|quote|>"No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!"</|quote|>she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory. XXXIV. Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in his library in East Thirty-ninth Street. He had just got back from a big official reception for the inauguration of the new galleries at the Metropolitan Museum, and the spectacle of those great spaces crowded with the spoils of the ages, where the throng of fashion circulated through a series of scientifically catalogued treasures, had suddenly pressed on a rusted spring of memory. "Why, this used to be one of the old Cesnola rooms," he heard some one say; and instantly everything about him | looked up at her with a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee. "Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to him while his cold hand stroked her hair. There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled with strident laughter; then May freed herself from his arms and stood up. "You didn't guess--?" "Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--" They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother." She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead: "That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made a last effort to collect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it? I thought you said you weren't sure till today." Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze.<|quote|>"No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!"</|quote|>she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory. XXXIV. Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in his library in East Thirty-ninth Street. He had just got back from a big official reception for the inauguration of the new galleries at the Metropolitan Museum, and the spectacle of those great spaces crowded with the spoils of the ages, where the throng of fashion circulated through a series of scientifically catalogued treasures, had suddenly pressed on a rusted spring of memory. "Why, this used to be one of the old Cesnola rooms," he heard some one say; and instantly everything about him vanished, and he was sitting alone on a hard leather divan against a radiator, while a slight figure in a long sealskin cloak moved away down the meagrely-fitted vista of the old Museum. The vision had roused a host of other associations, and he sat looking with new eyes at the library which, for over thirty years, had been the scene of his solitary musings and of all the family confabulations. It was the room in which most of the real things of his life had happened. There his wife, nearly twenty-six years ago, had broken to him, with a | I want to make a break--" "A break? To give up the law?" "To go away, at any rate--at once. On a long trip, ever so far off--away from everything--" He paused, conscious that he had failed in his attempt to speak with the indifference of a man who longs for a change, and is yet too weary to welcome it. Do what he would, the chord of eagerness vibrated. "Away from everything--" he repeated. "Ever so far? Where, for instance?" she asked. "Oh, I don't know. India--or Japan." She stood up, and as he sat with bent head, his chin propped on his hands, he felt her warmly and fragrantly hovering over him. "As far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear ..." she said in an unsteady voice. "Not unless you'll take me with you." And then, as he was silent, she went on, in tones so clear and evenly-pitched that each separate syllable tapped like a little hammer on his brain: "That is, if the doctors will let me go ... but I'm afraid they won't. For you see, Newland, I've been sure since this morning of something I've been so longing and hoping for--" He looked up at her with a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee. "Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to him while his cold hand stroked her hair. There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled with strident laughter; then May freed herself from his arms and stood up. "You didn't guess--?" "Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--" They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother." She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead: "That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made a last effort to collect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it? I thought you said you weren't sure till today." Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze.<|quote|>"No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!"</|quote|>she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory. XXXIV. Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in his library in East Thirty-ninth Street. He had just got back from a big official reception for the inauguration of the new galleries at the Metropolitan Museum, and the spectacle of those great spaces crowded with the spoils of the ages, where the throng of fashion circulated through a series of scientifically catalogued treasures, had suddenly pressed on a rusted spring of memory. "Why, this used to be one of the old Cesnola rooms," he heard some one say; and instantly everything about him vanished, and he was sitting alone on a hard leather divan against a radiator, while a slight figure in a long sealskin cloak moved away down the meagrely-fitted vista of the old Museum. The vision had roused a host of other associations, and he sat looking with new eyes at the library which, for over thirty years, had been the scene of his solitary musings and of all the family confabulations. It was the room in which most of the real things of his life had happened. There his wife, nearly twenty-six years ago, had broken to him, with a blushing circumlocution that would have caused the young women of the new generation to smile, the news that she was to have a child; and there their eldest boy, Dallas, too delicate to be taken to church in midwinter, had been christened by their old friend the Bishop of New York, the ample magnificent irreplaceable Bishop, so long the pride and ornament of his diocese. There Dallas had first staggered across the floor shouting "Dad," while May and the nurse laughed behind the door; there their second child, Mary (who was so like her mother), had announced her engagement to the dullest and most reliable of Reggie Chivers's many sons; and there Archer had kissed her through her wedding veil before they went down to the motor which was to carry them to Grace Church--for in a world where all else had reeled on its foundations the "Grace Church wedding" remained an unchanged institution. It was in the library that he and May had always discussed the future of the children: the studies of Dallas and his young brother Bill, Mary's incurable indifference to "accomplishments," and passion for sport and philanthropy, and the vague leanings toward "art" which had finally | a moment alone with her at the door of her carriage. "Is your carriage here?" he asked; and at that moment Mrs. van der Luyden, who was being majestically inserted into her sables, said gently: "We are driving dear Ellen home." Archer's heart gave a jerk, and Madame Olenska, clasping her cloak and fan with one hand, held out the other to him. "Good-bye," she said. "Good-bye--but I shall see you soon in Paris," he answered aloud--it seemed to him that he had shouted it. "Oh," she murmured, "if you and May could come--!" Mr. van der Luyden advanced to give her his arm, and Archer turned to Mrs. van der Luyden. For a moment, in the billowy darkness inside the big landau, he caught the dim oval of a face, eyes shining steadily--and she was gone. As he went up the steps he crossed Lawrence Lefferts coming down with his wife. Lefferts caught his host by the sleeve, drawing back to let Gertrude pass. "I say, old chap: do you mind just letting it be understood that I'm dining with you at the club tomorrow night? Thanks so much, you old brick! Good-night." "It DID go off beautifully, didn't it?" May questioned from the threshold of the library. Archer roused himself with a start. As soon as the last carriage had driven away, he had come up to the library and shut himself in, with the hope that his wife, who still lingered below, would go straight to her room. But there she stood, pale and drawn, yet radiating the factitious energy of one who has passed beyond fatigue. "May I come and talk it over?" she asked. "Of course, if you like. But you must be awfully sleepy--" "No, I'm not sleepy. I should like to sit with you a little." "Very well," he said, pushing her chair near the fire. She sat down and he resumed his seat; but neither spoke for a long time. At length Archer began abruptly: "Since you're not tired, and want to talk, there's something I must tell you. I tried to the other night--." She looked at him quickly. "Yes, dear. Something about yourself?" "About myself. You say you're not tired: well, I am. Horribly tired ..." In an instant she was all tender anxiety. "Oh, I've seen it coming on, Newland! You've been so wickedly overworked--" "Perhaps it's that. Anyhow, I want to make a break--" "A break? To give up the law?" "To go away, at any rate--at once. On a long trip, ever so far off--away from everything--" He paused, conscious that he had failed in his attempt to speak with the indifference of a man who longs for a change, and is yet too weary to welcome it. Do what he would, the chord of eagerness vibrated. "Away from everything--" he repeated. "Ever so far? Where, for instance?" she asked. "Oh, I don't know. India--or Japan." She stood up, and as he sat with bent head, his chin propped on his hands, he felt her warmly and fragrantly hovering over him. "As far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear ..." she said in an unsteady voice. "Not unless you'll take me with you." And then, as he was silent, she went on, in tones so clear and evenly-pitched that each separate syllable tapped like a little hammer on his brain: "That is, if the doctors will let me go ... but I'm afraid they won't. For you see, Newland, I've been sure since this morning of something I've been so longing and hoping for--" He looked up at her with a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee. "Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to him while his cold hand stroked her hair. There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled with strident laughter; then May freed herself from his arms and stood up. "You didn't guess--?" "Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--" They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother." She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead: "That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made a last effort to collect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it? I thought you said you weren't sure till today." Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze.<|quote|>"No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!"</|quote|>she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory. XXXIV. Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in his library in East Thirty-ninth Street. He had just got back from a big official reception for the inauguration of the new galleries at the Metropolitan Museum, and the spectacle of those great spaces crowded with the spoils of the ages, where the throng of fashion circulated through a series of scientifically catalogued treasures, had suddenly pressed on a rusted spring of memory. "Why, this used to be one of the old Cesnola rooms," he heard some one say; and instantly everything about him vanished, and he was sitting alone on a hard leather divan against a radiator, while a slight figure in a long sealskin cloak moved away down the meagrely-fitted vista of the old Museum. The vision had roused a host of other associations, and he sat looking with new eyes at the library which, for over thirty years, had been the scene of his solitary musings and of all the family confabulations. It was the room in which most of the real things of his life had happened. There his wife, nearly twenty-six years ago, had broken to him, with a blushing circumlocution that would have caused the young women of the new generation to smile, the news that she was to have a child; and there their eldest boy, Dallas, too delicate to be taken to church in midwinter, had been christened by their old friend the Bishop of New York, the ample magnificent irreplaceable Bishop, so long the pride and ornament of his diocese. There Dallas had first staggered across the floor shouting "Dad," while May and the nurse laughed behind the door; there their second child, Mary (who was so like her mother), had announced her engagement to the dullest and most reliable of Reggie Chivers's many sons; and there Archer had kissed her through her wedding veil before they went down to the motor which was to carry them to Grace Church--for in a world where all else had reeled on its foundations the "Grace Church wedding" remained an unchanged institution. It was in the library that he and May had always discussed the future of the children: the studies of Dallas and his young brother Bill, Mary's incurable indifference to "accomplishments," and passion for sport and philanthropy, and the vague leanings toward "art" which had finally landed the restless and curious Dallas in the office of a rising New York architect. The young men nowadays were emancipating themselves from the law and business and taking up all sorts of new things. If they were not absorbed in state politics or municipal reform, the chances were that they were going in for Central American archaeology, for architecture or landscape-engineering; taking a keen and learned interest in the prerevolutionary buildings of their own country, studying and adapting Georgian types, and protesting at the meaningless use of the word "Colonial." Nobody nowadays had "Colonial" houses except the millionaire grocers of the suburbs. But above all--sometimes Archer put it above all--it was in that library that the Governor of New York, coming down from Albany one evening to dine and spend the night, had turned to his host, and said, banging his clenched fist on the table and gnashing his eye-glasses: "Hang the professional politician! You're the kind of man the country wants, Archer. If the stable's ever to be cleaned out, men like you have got to lend a hand in the cleaning." "Men like you--" how Archer had glowed at the phrase! How eagerly he had risen up at the call! It was an echo of Ned Winsett's old appeal to roll his sleeves up and get down into the muck; but spoken by a man who set the example of the gesture, and whose summons to follow him was irresistible. Archer, as he looked back, was not sure that men like himself WERE what his country needed, at least in the active service to which Theodore Roosevelt had pointed; in fact, there was reason to think it did not, for after a year in the State Assembly he had not been re-elected, and had dropped back thankfully into obscure if useful municipal work, and from that again to the writing of occasional articles in one of the reforming weeklies that were trying to shake the country out of its apathy. It was little enough to look back on; but when he remembered to what the young men of his generation and his set had looked forward--the narrow groove of money-making, sport and society to which their vision had been limited--even his small contribution to the new state of things seemed to count, as each brick counts in a well-built wall. He had done little in public life; | far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear ..." she said in an unsteady voice. "Not unless you'll take me with you." And then, as he was silent, she went on, in tones so clear and evenly-pitched that each separate syllable tapped like a little hammer on his brain: "That is, if the doctors will let me go ... but I'm afraid they won't. For you see, Newland, I've been sure since this morning of something I've been so longing and hoping for--" He looked up at her with a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee. "Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to him while his cold hand stroked her hair. There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled with strident laughter; then May freed herself from his arms and stood up. "You didn't guess--?" "Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--" They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother." She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead: "That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made a last effort to collect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it? I thought you said you weren't sure till today." Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze.<|quote|>"No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!"</|quote|>she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory. XXXIV. Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in his library in East Thirty-ninth Street. He had just got back from a big official reception for the inauguration of the new galleries at the Metropolitan Museum, and the spectacle of those great spaces crowded with the spoils of the ages, where the throng of fashion circulated through a series of scientifically catalogued treasures, had suddenly pressed on a rusted spring of memory. "Why, this used to be one of the old Cesnola rooms," he heard some one say; and instantly everything about him vanished, and he was sitting alone on a hard leather divan against a radiator, while a slight figure in a long sealskin cloak moved away down the meagrely-fitted vista of the old Museum. The vision had roused a host of other associations, and he sat looking with new eyes at the library which, for over thirty years, had been the scene of his solitary musings and of all the family confabulations. It was the room in which most of the real things of his life had happened. There his wife, nearly twenty-six years ago, had broken to him, with a blushing circumlocution that would have caused the young women of the new generation to smile, the news that she was to have a child; and there their eldest boy, Dallas, too delicate to be taken to church in midwinter, had been christened by their old friend the Bishop of New York, the ample magnificent irreplaceable Bishop, so long the pride and ornament of his diocese. There Dallas had first staggered across the floor shouting "Dad," while May and the nurse laughed behind the door; there their second child, Mary (who was so like her mother), had announced her engagement to the dullest and most reliable of Reggie Chivers's many sons; and there Archer had kissed her through her wedding veil before they went down to the motor which was to carry them to Grace Church--for in a world where all | The Age Of Innocence |
said Sarah, | No speaker | when he recollected this engagement,"<|quote|>said Sarah,</|quote|>"but why not do it | for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this engagement,"<|quote|>said Sarah,</|quote|>"but why not do it civilly?" "I am sorry for | the sweets of incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with youthful ardour. "My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless trouble," said her mother at last; "depend upon it, it is something not at all worth understanding." "I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this engagement,"<|quote|>said Sarah,</|quote|>"but why not do it civilly?" "I am sorry for the young people," returned Mrs. Morland; "they must have a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now; Catherine is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General Tilney." Catherine sighed. | Catherine herself; but it did not oppress them by any means so long; and, after a due course of useless conjecture, that "it was a strange business, and that he must be a very strange man," grew enough for all their indignation and wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the sweets of incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with youthful ardour. "My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless trouble," said her mother at last; "depend upon it, it is something not at all worth understanding." "I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this engagement,"<|quote|>said Sarah,</|quote|>"but why not do it civilly?" "I am sorry for the young people," returned Mrs. Morland; "they must have a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now; Catherine is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General Tilney." Catherine sighed. "Well," continued her philosophic mother, "I am glad I did not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all over, perhaps there is no great harm done. It is always good for young people to be put upon exerting themselves; and you know, my dear Catherine, | lonely journey, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not but feel that it might have been productive of much unpleasantness to her; that it was what they could never have voluntarily suffered; and that, in forcing her on such a measure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably nor feelingly neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it, what could have provoked him to such a breach of hospitality, and so suddenly turned all his partial regard for their daughter into actual ill will, was a matter which they were at least as far from divining as Catherine herself; but it did not oppress them by any means so long; and, after a due course of useless conjecture, that "it was a strange business, and that he must be a very strange man," grew enough for all their indignation and wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the sweets of incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with youthful ardour. "My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless trouble," said her mother at last; "depend upon it, it is something not at all worth understanding." "I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this engagement,"<|quote|>said Sarah,</|quote|>"but why not do it civilly?" "I am sorry for the young people," returned Mrs. Morland; "they must have a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now; Catherine is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General Tilney." Catherine sighed. "Well," continued her philosophic mother, "I am glad I did not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all over, perhaps there is no great harm done. It is always good for young people to be put upon exerting themselves; and you know, my dear Catherine, you always were a sad little scatter-brained creature; but now you must have been forced to have your wits about you, with so much changing of chaises and so forth; and I hope it will appear that you have not left anything behind you in any of the pockets." Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own amendment, but her spirits were quite worn down; and, to be silent and alone becoming soon her only wish, she readily agreed to her mother s next counsel of going early to bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in | stepped from the carriage, she found herself soothed beyond anything that she had believed possible. So surrounded, so caressed, she was even happy! In the joyfulness of family love everything for a short time was subdued, and the pleasure of seeing her, leaving them at first little leisure for calm curiosity, they were all seated round the tea-table, which Mrs. Morland had hurried for the comfort of the poor traveller, whose pale and jaded looks soon caught her notice, before any inquiry so direct as to demand a positive answer was addressed to her. Reluctantly, and with much hesitation, did she then begin what might perhaps, at the end of half an hour, be termed, by the courtesy of her hearers, an explanation; but scarcely, within that time, could they at all discover the cause, or collect the particulars, of her sudden return. They were far from being an irritable race; far from any quickness in catching, or bitterness in resenting, affronts: but here, when the whole was unfolded, was an insult not to be overlooked, nor, for the first half hour, to be easily pardoned. Without suffering any romantic alarm, in the consideration of their daughter s long and lonely journey, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not but feel that it might have been productive of much unpleasantness to her; that it was what they could never have voluntarily suffered; and that, in forcing her on such a measure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably nor feelingly neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it, what could have provoked him to such a breach of hospitality, and so suddenly turned all his partial regard for their daughter into actual ill will, was a matter which they were at least as far from divining as Catherine herself; but it did not oppress them by any means so long; and, after a due course of useless conjecture, that "it was a strange business, and that he must be a very strange man," grew enough for all their indignation and wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the sweets of incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with youthful ardour. "My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless trouble," said her mother at last; "depend upon it, it is something not at all worth understanding." "I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this engagement,"<|quote|>said Sarah,</|quote|>"but why not do it civilly?" "I am sorry for the young people," returned Mrs. Morland; "they must have a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now; Catherine is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General Tilney." Catherine sighed. "Well," continued her philosophic mother, "I am glad I did not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all over, perhaps there is no great harm done. It is always good for young people to be put upon exerting themselves; and you know, my dear Catherine, you always were a sad little scatter-brained creature; but now you must have been forced to have your wits about you, with so much changing of chaises and so forth; and I hope it will appear that you have not left anything behind you in any of the pockets." Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own amendment, but her spirits were quite worn down; and, to be silent and alone becoming soon her only wish, she readily agreed to her mother s next counsel of going early to bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in her ill looks and agitation but the natural consequence of mortified feelings, and of the unusual exertion and fatigue of such a journey, parted from her without any doubt of their being soon slept away; and though, when they all met the next morning, her recovery was not equal to their hopes, they were still perfectly unsuspicious of there being any deeper evil. They never once thought of her heart, which, for the parents of a young lady of seventeen, just returned from her first excursion from home, was odd enough! As soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her promise to Miss Tilney, whose trust in the effect of time and distance on her friend s disposition was already justified, for already did Catherine reproach herself with having parted from Eleanor coldly, with having never enough valued her merits or kindness, and never enough commiserated her for what she had been yesterday left to endure. The strength of these feelings, however, was far from assisting her pen; and never had it been harder for her to write than in addressing Eleanor Tilney. To compose a letter which might at once do justice to her sentiments and | to distress or frighten her. Her youth, civil manners, and liberal pay procured her all the attention that a traveller like herself could require; and stopping only to change horses, she travelled on for about eleven hours without accident or alarm, and between six and seven o clock in the evening found herself entering Fullerton. A heroine returning, at the close of her career, to her native village, in all the triumph of recovered reputation, and all the dignity of a countess, with a long train of noble relations in their several phaetons, and three waiting-maids in a travelling chaise and four, behind her, is an event on which the pen of the contriver may well delight to dwell; it gives credit to every conclusion, and the author must share in the glory she so liberally bestows. But my affair is widely different; I bring back my heroine to her home in solitude and disgrace; and no sweet elation of spirits can lead me into minuteness. A heroine in a hack post-chaise is such a blow upon sentiment, as no attempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand. Swiftly therefore shall her post-boy drive through the village, amid the gaze of Sunday groups, and speedy shall be her descent from it. But, whatever might be the distress of Catherine s mind, as she thus advanced towards the parsonage, and whatever the humiliation of her biographer in relating it, she was preparing enjoyment of no everyday nature for those to whom she went; first, in the appearance of her carriage and secondly, in herself. The chaise of a traveller being a rare sight in Fullerton, the whole family were immediately at the window; and to have it stop at the sweep-gate was a pleasure to brighten every eye and occupy every fancy a pleasure quite unlooked for by all but the two youngest children, a boy and girl of six and four years old, who expected a brother or sister in every carriage. Happy the glance that first distinguished Catherine! Happy the voice that proclaimed the discovery! But whether such happiness were the lawful property of George or Harriet could never be exactly understood. Her father, mother, Sarah, George, and Harriet, all assembled at the door to welcome her with affectionate eagerness, was a sight to awaken the best feelings of Catherine s heart; and in the embrace of each, as she stepped from the carriage, she found herself soothed beyond anything that she had believed possible. So surrounded, so caressed, she was even happy! In the joyfulness of family love everything for a short time was subdued, and the pleasure of seeing her, leaving them at first little leisure for calm curiosity, they were all seated round the tea-table, which Mrs. Morland had hurried for the comfort of the poor traveller, whose pale and jaded looks soon caught her notice, before any inquiry so direct as to demand a positive answer was addressed to her. Reluctantly, and with much hesitation, did she then begin what might perhaps, at the end of half an hour, be termed, by the courtesy of her hearers, an explanation; but scarcely, within that time, could they at all discover the cause, or collect the particulars, of her sudden return. They were far from being an irritable race; far from any quickness in catching, or bitterness in resenting, affronts: but here, when the whole was unfolded, was an insult not to be overlooked, nor, for the first half hour, to be easily pardoned. Without suffering any romantic alarm, in the consideration of their daughter s long and lonely journey, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not but feel that it might have been productive of much unpleasantness to her; that it was what they could never have voluntarily suffered; and that, in forcing her on such a measure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably nor feelingly neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it, what could have provoked him to such a breach of hospitality, and so suddenly turned all his partial regard for their daughter into actual ill will, was a matter which they were at least as far from divining as Catherine herself; but it did not oppress them by any means so long; and, after a due course of useless conjecture, that "it was a strange business, and that he must be a very strange man," grew enough for all their indignation and wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the sweets of incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with youthful ardour. "My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless trouble," said her mother at last; "depend upon it, it is something not at all worth understanding." "I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this engagement,"<|quote|>said Sarah,</|quote|>"but why not do it civilly?" "I am sorry for the young people," returned Mrs. Morland; "they must have a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now; Catherine is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General Tilney." Catherine sighed. "Well," continued her philosophic mother, "I am glad I did not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all over, perhaps there is no great harm done. It is always good for young people to be put upon exerting themselves; and you know, my dear Catherine, you always were a sad little scatter-brained creature; but now you must have been forced to have your wits about you, with so much changing of chaises and so forth; and I hope it will appear that you have not left anything behind you in any of the pockets." Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own amendment, but her spirits were quite worn down; and, to be silent and alone becoming soon her only wish, she readily agreed to her mother s next counsel of going early to bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in her ill looks and agitation but the natural consequence of mortified feelings, and of the unusual exertion and fatigue of such a journey, parted from her without any doubt of their being soon slept away; and though, when they all met the next morning, her recovery was not equal to their hopes, they were still perfectly unsuspicious of there being any deeper evil. They never once thought of her heart, which, for the parents of a young lady of seventeen, just returned from her first excursion from home, was odd enough! As soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her promise to Miss Tilney, whose trust in the effect of time and distance on her friend s disposition was already justified, for already did Catherine reproach herself with having parted from Eleanor coldly, with having never enough valued her merits or kindness, and never enough commiserated her for what she had been yesterday left to endure. The strength of these feelings, however, was far from assisting her pen; and never had it been harder for her to write than in addressing Eleanor Tilney. To compose a letter which might at once do justice to her sentiments and her situation, convey gratitude without servile regret, be guarded without coldness, and honest without resentment a letter which Eleanor might not be pained by the perusal of and, above all, which she might not blush herself, if Henry should chance to see, was an undertaking to frighten away all her powers of performance; and, after long thought and much perplexity, to be very brief was all that she could determine on with any confidence of safety. The money therefore which Eleanor had advanced was enclosed with little more than grateful thanks, and the thousand good wishes of a most affectionate heart. "This has been a strange acquaintance," observed Mrs. Morland, as the letter was finished; "soon made and soon ended. I am sorry it happens so, for Mrs. Allen thought them very pretty kind of young people; and you were sadly out of luck too in your Isabella. Ah! Poor James! Well, we must live and learn; and the next new friends you make I hope will be better worth keeping." Catherine coloured as she warmly answered, "No friend can be better worth keeping than Eleanor." "If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some time or other; do not be uneasy. It is ten to one but you are thrown together again in the course of a few years; and then what a pleasure it will be!" Mrs. Morland was not happy in her attempt at consolation. The hope of meeting again in the course of a few years could only put into Catherine s head what might happen within that time to make a meeting dreadful to her. She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of him with less tenderness than she did at that moment; but he might forget her; and in that case, to meet ! Her eyes filled with tears as she pictured her acquaintance so renewed; and her mother, perceiving her comfortable suggestions to have had no good effect, proposed, as another expedient for restoring her spirits, that they should call on Mrs. Allen. The two houses were only a quarter of a mile apart; and, as they walked, Mrs. Morland quickly dispatched all that she felt on the score of James s disappointment. "We are sorry for him," said she; "but otherwise there is no harm done in the match going off; for it could not be a desirable | collect the particulars, of her sudden return. They were far from being an irritable race; far from any quickness in catching, or bitterness in resenting, affronts: but here, when the whole was unfolded, was an insult not to be overlooked, nor, for the first half hour, to be easily pardoned. Without suffering any romantic alarm, in the consideration of their daughter s long and lonely journey, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not but feel that it might have been productive of much unpleasantness to her; that it was what they could never have voluntarily suffered; and that, in forcing her on such a measure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably nor feelingly neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it, what could have provoked him to such a breach of hospitality, and so suddenly turned all his partial regard for their daughter into actual ill will, was a matter which they were at least as far from divining as Catherine herself; but it did not oppress them by any means so long; and, after a due course of useless conjecture, that "it was a strange business, and that he must be a very strange man," grew enough for all their indignation and wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the sweets of incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing with youthful ardour. "My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless trouble," said her mother at last; "depend upon it, it is something not at all worth understanding." "I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this engagement,"<|quote|>said Sarah,</|quote|>"but why not do it civilly?" "I am sorry for the young people," returned Mrs. Morland; "they must have a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now; Catherine is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General Tilney." Catherine sighed. "Well," continued her philosophic mother, "I am glad I did not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all over, perhaps there is no great harm done. It is always good for young people to be put upon exerting themselves; and you know, my dear Catherine, you always were a sad little scatter-brained creature; but now you must have been forced to have your wits about you, with so much changing of chaises and so forth; and I hope it will appear that you have not left anything behind you in any of the pockets." Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own amendment, but her spirits were quite worn down; and, to be silent and alone becoming soon her only wish, she readily agreed to her mother s next counsel of going early to bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in her ill looks and agitation but the natural consequence of mortified feelings, and of the unusual exertion and fatigue of such a journey, parted from her without any doubt of their being soon slept away; and though, when they all met the next morning, her recovery was not equal to their hopes, they were still perfectly unsuspicious of there being any deeper evil. They never once thought of her heart, which, for the parents of a young lady of seventeen, just returned from her first excursion from home, was odd enough! As soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her promise to Miss Tilney, whose trust in the effect of | Northanger Abbey |
"Didn't you swim?" | Jake Barnes | anybody. I never went out."<|quote|>"Didn't you swim?"</|quote|>"No. Didn't do a thing." | amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out."<|quote|>"Didn't you swim?"</|quote|>"No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. | Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out."<|quote|>"Didn't you swim?"</|quote|>"No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. "So that's the way it was in Vienna." "It was like everything in Vienna." Brett smiled at him again. "You've a nice friend, Jake." "He's all right," I said. "He's | smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out."<|quote|>"Didn't you swim?"</|quote|>"No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. "So that's the way it was in Vienna." "It was like everything in Vienna." Brett smiled at him again. "You've a nice friend, Jake." "He's all right," I said. "He's a taxidermist." "That was in another country," Bill said. "And besides all the animals were dead." "One more," Brett said, "and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi." "There's a line of them. Right out in front." "Good." We had the drink and put Brett into her | bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might do that. Now you're not talking rot." We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. "Stop at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful." "Ask him about Vienna." "Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out."<|quote|>"Didn't you swim?"</|quote|>"No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. "So that's the way it was in Vienna." "It was like everything in Vienna." Brett smiled at him again. "You've a nice friend, Jake." "He's all right," I said. "He's a taxidermist." "That was in another country," Bill said. "And besides all the animals were dead." "One more," Brett said, "and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi." "There's a line of them. Right out in front." "Good." We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi. "Mind you're at the Select around ten. Make him come. Michael will be there." "We'll be there," Bill said. The taxi started and Brett waved. "Quite a girl," Bill said. "She's damned nice. Who's Michael?" "The man she's going to marry." "Well, well," Bill said. "That's always just the stage I meet anybody. What'll I send them? Think they'd like a couple of stuffed race-horses?" "We better eat." "Is she really Lady something or other?" Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the Ile Saint Louis. "Oh, yes. In the stud-book and everything." "Well, well." We | sad." "He's all right." "Splendid. Wish he wouldn't keep going off like a cat, though. Makes me nervous." "What'll we do to-night?" "Doesn't make any difference. Only let's not get daunted. Suppose they got any hard-boiled eggs here? If they had hard-boiled eggs here we wouldn't have to go all the way down to the island to eat." "Nix," I said. "We're going to have a regular meal." "Just a suggestion," said Bill. "Want to start now?" "Come on." We started on again down the Boulevard. A horse-cab passed us. Bill looked at it. "See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I'm a nature-writer." A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett. "Beautiful lady," said Bill. "Going to kidnap us." "Hullo!" Brett said. "Hullo!" "This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley." Brett smiled at Bill. "I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even. Michael comes in to-night." "Good. Come on and eat with us, and we'll all go to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on." "Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might do that. Now you're not talking rot." We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. "Stop at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful." "Ask him about Vienna." "Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out."<|quote|>"Didn't you swim?"</|quote|>"No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. "So that's the way it was in Vienna." "It was like everything in Vienna." Brett smiled at him again. "You've a nice friend, Jake." "He's all right," I said. "He's a taxidermist." "That was in another country," Bill said. "And besides all the animals were dead." "One more," Brett said, "and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi." "There's a line of them. Right out in front." "Good." We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi. "Mind you're at the Select around ten. Make him come. Michael will be there." "We'll be there," Bill said. The taxi started and Brett waved. "Quite a girl," Bill said. "She's damned nice. Who's Michael?" "The man she's going to marry." "Well, well," Bill said. "That's always just the stage I meet anybody. What'll I send them? Think they'd like a couple of stuffed race-horses?" "We better eat." "Is she really Lady something or other?" Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the Ile Saint Louis. "Oh, yes. In the stud-book and everything." "Well, well." We ate dinner at Madame Lecomte's restaurant on the far side of the island. It was crowded with Americans and we had to stand up and wait for a place. Some one had put it in the American Women's Club list as a quaint restaurant on the Paris quais as yet untouched by Americans, so we had to wait forty-five minutes for a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918, and right after the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made a great fuss over seeing him. "Doesn't get us a table, though," Bill said. "Grand woman, though." We had a good meal, a roast chicken, new green beans, mashed potatoes, a salad, and some apple-pie and cheese. "You've got the world here all right," Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand. "Oh, my God!" "You'll be rich." "I hope so." After the coffee and a _fine_ we got the bill, chalked up the same as ever on a slate, that was doubtless one of the "quaint" features, paid it, shook hands, and went out. "You never come here any more, Monsieur Barnes," Madame Lecomte said. "Too many compatriots." "Come at lunch-time. It's not crowded then." "Good. I'll be | "What became of the nigger?" "Went back to Cologne. Lives there. Married. Got a family. Going to write me a letter and send me the money I loaned him. Wonderful nigger. Hope I gave him the right address." "You probably did." "Well, anyway, let's eat," said Bill. "Unless you want me to tell you some more travel stories." "Go on." "Let's eat." We went down-stairs and out onto the Boulevard St. Michel in the warm June evening. "Where will we go?" "Want to eat on the island?" "Sure." We walked down the Boulevard. At the juncture of the Rue Denfert-Rochereau with the Boulevard is a statue of two men in flowing robes. "I know who they are." Bill eyed the monument. "Gentlemen who invented pharmacy. Don't try and fool me on Paris." We went on. "Here's a taxidermist's," Bill said. "Want to buy anything? Nice stuffed dog?" "Come on," I said. "You're pie-eyed." "Pretty nice stuffed dogs," Bill said. "Certainly brighten up your flat." "Come on." "Just one stuffed dog. I can take 'em or leave 'em alone. But listen, Jake. Just one stuffed dog." "Come on." "Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog." "We'll get one on the way back." "All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault." We went on. "How'd you feel that way about dogs so sudden?" "Always felt that way about dogs. Always been a great lover of stuffed animals." We stopped and had a drink. "Certainly like to drink," Bill said. "You ought to try it some times, Jake." "You're about a hundred and forty-four ahead of me." "Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret of my success. Never been daunted. Never been daunted in public." "Where were you drinking?" "Stopped at the Crillon. George made me a couple of Jack Roses. George's a great man. Know the secret of his success? Never been daunted." "You'll be daunted after about three more pernods." "Not in public. If I begin to feel daunted I'll go off by myself. I'm like a cat that way." "When did you see Harvey Stone?" "At the Crillon. Harvey was just a little daunted. Hadn't eaten for three days. Doesn't eat any more. Just goes off like a cat. Pretty sad." "He's all right." "Splendid. Wish he wouldn't keep going off like a cat, though. Makes me nervous." "What'll we do to-night?" "Doesn't make any difference. Only let's not get daunted. Suppose they got any hard-boiled eggs here? If they had hard-boiled eggs here we wouldn't have to go all the way down to the island to eat." "Nix," I said. "We're going to have a regular meal." "Just a suggestion," said Bill. "Want to start now?" "Come on." We started on again down the Boulevard. A horse-cab passed us. Bill looked at it. "See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I'm a nature-writer." A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett. "Beautiful lady," said Bill. "Going to kidnap us." "Hullo!" Brett said. "Hullo!" "This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley." Brett smiled at Bill. "I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even. Michael comes in to-night." "Good. Come on and eat with us, and we'll all go to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on." "Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might do that. Now you're not talking rot." We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. "Stop at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful." "Ask him about Vienna." "Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out."<|quote|>"Didn't you swim?"</|quote|>"No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. "So that's the way it was in Vienna." "It was like everything in Vienna." Brett smiled at him again. "You've a nice friend, Jake." "He's all right," I said. "He's a taxidermist." "That was in another country," Bill said. "And besides all the animals were dead." "One more," Brett said, "and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi." "There's a line of them. Right out in front." "Good." We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi. "Mind you're at the Select around ten. Make him come. Michael will be there." "We'll be there," Bill said. The taxi started and Brett waved. "Quite a girl," Bill said. "She's damned nice. Who's Michael?" "The man she's going to marry." "Well, well," Bill said. "That's always just the stage I meet anybody. What'll I send them? Think they'd like a couple of stuffed race-horses?" "We better eat." "Is she really Lady something or other?" Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the Ile Saint Louis. "Oh, yes. In the stud-book and everything." "Well, well." We ate dinner at Madame Lecomte's restaurant on the far side of the island. It was crowded with Americans and we had to stand up and wait for a place. Some one had put it in the American Women's Club list as a quaint restaurant on the Paris quais as yet untouched by Americans, so we had to wait forty-five minutes for a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918, and right after the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made a great fuss over seeing him. "Doesn't get us a table, though," Bill said. "Grand woman, though." We had a good meal, a roast chicken, new green beans, mashed potatoes, a salad, and some apple-pie and cheese. "You've got the world here all right," Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand. "Oh, my God!" "You'll be rich." "I hope so." After the coffee and a _fine_ we got the bill, chalked up the same as ever on a slate, that was doubtless one of the "quaint" features, paid it, shook hands, and went out. "You never come here any more, Monsieur Barnes," Madame Lecomte said. "Too many compatriots." "Come at lunch-time. It's not crowded then." "Good. I'll be down soon." We walked along under the trees that grew out over the river on the Quai d'Orl ans side of the island. Across the river were the broken walls of old houses that were being torn down. "They're going to cut a street through." "They would," Bill said. We walked on and circled the island. The river was dark and a bateau mouche went by, all bright with lights, going fast and quiet up and out of sight under the bridge. Down the river was Notre Dame squatting against the night sky. We crossed to the left bank of the Seine by the wooden foot-bridge from the Quai de Bethune, and stopped on the bridge and looked down the river at Notre Dame. Standing on the bridge the island looked dark, the houses were high against the sky, and the trees were shadows. "It's pretty grand," Bill said. "God, I love to get back." We leaned on the wooden rail of the bridge and looked up the river to the lights of the big bridges. Below the water was smooth and black. It made no sound against the piles of the bridge. A man and a girl passed us. They were walking with their arms around each other. We crossed the bridge and walked up the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. It was steep walking, and we went all the way up to the Place Contrescarpe. The arc-light shone through the leaves of the trees in the square, and underneath the trees was an S bus ready to start. Music came out of the door of the Negre Joyeux. Through the window of the Caf Aux Amateurs I saw the long zinc bar. Outside on the terrace working people were drinking. In the open kitchen of the Amateurs a girl was cooking potato-chips in oil. There was an iron pot of stew. The girl ladled some onto a plate for an old man who stood holding a bottle of red wine in one hand. "Want to have a drink?" "No," said Bill. "I don't need it." We turned to the right off the Place Contrescarpe, walking along smooth narrow streets with high old houses on both sides. Some of the houses jutted out toward the street. Others were cut back. We came onto the Rue du Pot de Fer and followed it along until it brought us to the rigid | like a cat. Pretty sad." "He's all right." "Splendid. Wish he wouldn't keep going off like a cat, though. Makes me nervous." "What'll we do to-night?" "Doesn't make any difference. Only let's not get daunted. Suppose they got any hard-boiled eggs here? If they had hard-boiled eggs here we wouldn't have to go all the way down to the island to eat." "Nix," I said. "We're going to have a regular meal." "Just a suggestion," said Bill. "Want to start now?" "Come on." We started on again down the Boulevard. A horse-cab passed us. Bill looked at it. "See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I'm a nature-writer." A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett. "Beautiful lady," said Bill. "Going to kidnap us." "Hullo!" Brett said. "Hullo!" "This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley." Brett smiled at Bill. "I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even. Michael comes in to-night." "Good. Come on and eat with us, and we'll all go to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on." "Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might do that. Now you're not talking rot." We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. "Stop at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful." "Ask him about Vienna." "Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out."<|quote|>"Didn't you swim?"</|quote|>"No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. "So that's the way it was in Vienna." "It was like everything in Vienna." Brett smiled at him again. "You've a nice friend, Jake." "He's all right," I said. "He's a taxidermist." "That was in another country," Bill said. "And besides all the animals were dead." "One more," Brett said, "and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi." "There's a line of them. Right out in front." "Good." We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi. "Mind you're at the Select around ten. Make him come. Michael will be there." "We'll be there," Bill said. The taxi started and Brett waved. "Quite a girl," Bill said. "She's damned nice. Who's Michael?" "The man she's going to marry." "Well, well," Bill said. "That's always just the stage I meet anybody. What'll I send them? Think they'd like a couple of stuffed race-horses?" "We better eat." "Is she really Lady something or other?" Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the Ile Saint Louis. "Oh, yes. In the stud-book and everything." "Well, well." We ate dinner at Madame Lecomte's restaurant on the far side of the island. It was crowded with Americans and we had to stand up and wait for a place. Some one had put it in the American Women's Club list as a quaint restaurant on the Paris quais as yet untouched by Americans, so we had to wait forty-five minutes for a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918, and right after the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made a great fuss over seeing him. "Doesn't get us a table, though," Bill said. "Grand woman, though." We had a good meal, a roast chicken, new green beans, mashed potatoes, a salad, and some apple-pie and cheese. "You've got the world here all right," Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand. "Oh, my God!" "You'll be rich." "I hope so." After the coffee and a _fine_ we got the bill, chalked up the same as ever on a slate, that was doubtless one of the "quaint" features, paid it, shook hands, and went out. "You never come here any more, Monsieur Barnes," Madame Lecomte said. "Too many compatriots." "Come at lunch-time. It's not crowded then." "Good. I'll be down soon." We walked along under the trees that grew out over the river on the Quai d'Orl ans side of the island. Across the river were the broken walls of old houses that were being torn down. "They're going to cut a street through." "They would," Bill said. We walked on and circled the island. The river was dark and a bateau mouche went by, all bright with lights, going fast and quiet up and out of sight under the bridge. Down the river was Notre Dame squatting against the night sky. We crossed to the left | The Sun Also Rises |
"We wear them to pass the Police." | Dr. Aziz | as he bent his neck.<|quote|>"We wear them to pass the Police."</|quote|>"What's that?" "If I'm biking | collars at all?" grumbled Fielding as he bent his neck.<|quote|>"We wear them to pass the Police."</|quote|>"What's that?" "If I'm biking in English dress starch collar, | knew better; as a club it declined to change. "Let me put in your stud. I see . . . the shirt back's hole is rather small and to rip it wider a pity." "Why in hell does one wear collars at all?" grumbled Fielding as he bent his neck.<|quote|>"We wear them to pass the Police."</|quote|>"What's that?" "If I'm biking in English dress starch collar, hat with ditch they take no notice. When I wear a fez, they cry, Your lamp's out!' Lord Curzon did not consider this when he urged natives of India to retain their picturesque costumes. Hooray! Stud's gone in. Sometimes I | they wanted to say quickly; there were none of the babuisms ascribed to them up at the club. But then the club moved slowly; it still declared that few Mohammedans and no Hindus would eat at an Englishman's table, and that all Indian ladies were in impenetrable purdah. Individually it knew better; as a club it declined to change. "Let me put in your stud. I see . . . the shirt back's hole is rather small and to rip it wider a pity." "Why in hell does one wear collars at all?" grumbled Fielding as he bent his neck.<|quote|>"We wear them to pass the Police."</|quote|>"What's that?" "If I'm biking in English dress starch collar, hat with ditch they take no notice. When I wear a fez, they cry, Your lamp's out!' Lord Curzon did not consider this when he urged natives of India to retain their picturesque costumes. Hooray! Stud's gone in. Sometimes I shut my eyes and dream I have splendid clothes again and am riding into battle behind Alamgir. Mr. Fielding, must not India have been beautiful then, with the Mogul Empire at its height and Alamgir reigning at Delhi upon the Peacock Throne?" "Two ladies are coming to tea to meet | be so ashamed." He sat down gaily on the bed; then, forgetting himself entirely, drew up his legs and folded them under him. "Everything ranged coldly on shelves was what _I_ thought. I say, Mr. Fielding, is the stud going to go in?" "I hae ma doots." "What's that last sentence, please? Will you teach me some new words and so improve my English?" Fielding doubted whether "everything ranged coldly on shelves" could be improved. He was often struck with the liveliness with which the younger generation handled a foreign tongue. They altered the idiom, but they could say whatever they wanted to say quickly; there were none of the babuisms ascribed to them up at the club. But then the club moved slowly; it still declared that few Mohammedans and no Hindus would eat at an Englishman's table, and that all Indian ladies were in impenetrable purdah. Individually it knew better; as a club it declined to change. "Let me put in your stud. I see . . . the shirt back's hole is rather small and to rip it wider a pity." "Why in hell does one wear collars at all?" grumbled Fielding as he bent his neck.<|quote|>"We wear them to pass the Police."</|quote|>"What's that?" "If I'm biking in English dress starch collar, hat with ditch they take no notice. When I wear a fez, they cry, Your lamp's out!' Lord Curzon did not consider this when he urged natives of India to retain their picturesque costumes. Hooray! Stud's gone in. Sometimes I shut my eyes and dream I have splendid clothes again and am riding into battle behind Alamgir. Mr. Fielding, must not India have been beautiful then, with the Mogul Empire at its height and Alamgir reigning at Delhi upon the Peacock Throne?" "Two ladies are coming to tea to meet you I think you know them." "Meet me? I know no ladies." "Not Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested?" "Oh yes I remember." The romance at the mosque had sunk out of his consciousness as soon as it was over. "An excessively aged lady; but will you please repeat the name of her companion?" "Miss Quested." "Just as you wish." He was disappointed that other guests were coming, for he preferred to be alone with his new friend. "You can talk to Miss Quested about the Peacock Throne if you like she's artistic, they say." "Is she a Post Impressionist?" "Post | wrong?" "I've stamped on my last collar stud." "Take mine, take mine." "Have you a spare one?" "Yes, yes, one minute." "Not if you're wearing it yourself." "No, no, one in my pocket." Stepping aside, so that his outline might vanish, he wrenched off his collar, and pulled out of his shirt the back stud, a gold stud, which was part of a set that his brother-in-law had brought him from Europe. "Here it is," he cried. "Come in with it if you don't mind the unconventionality." "One minute again." Replacing his collar, he prayed that it would not spring up at the back during tea. Fielding's bearer, who was helping him to dress, opened the door for him. "Many thanks." They shook hands smiling. He began to look round, as he would have with any old friend. Fielding was not surprised at the rapidity of their intimacy. With so emotional a people it was apt to come at once or never, and he and Aziz, having heard only good of each other, could afford to dispense with preliminaries. "But I always thought that Englishmen kept their rooms so tidy. It seems that this is not so. I need not be so ashamed." He sat down gaily on the bed; then, forgetting himself entirely, drew up his legs and folded them under him. "Everything ranged coldly on shelves was what _I_ thought. I say, Mr. Fielding, is the stud going to go in?" "I hae ma doots." "What's that last sentence, please? Will you teach me some new words and so improve my English?" Fielding doubted whether "everything ranged coldly on shelves" could be improved. He was often struck with the liveliness with which the younger generation handled a foreign tongue. They altered the idiom, but they could say whatever they wanted to say quickly; there were none of the babuisms ascribed to them up at the club. But then the club moved slowly; it still declared that few Mohammedans and no Hindus would eat at an Englishman's table, and that all Indian ladies were in impenetrable purdah. Individually it knew better; as a club it declined to change. "Let me put in your stud. I see . . . the shirt back's hole is rather small and to rip it wider a pity." "Why in hell does one wear collars at all?" grumbled Fielding as he bent his neck.<|quote|>"We wear them to pass the Police."</|quote|>"What's that?" "If I'm biking in English dress starch collar, hat with ditch they take no notice. When I wear a fez, they cry, Your lamp's out!' Lord Curzon did not consider this when he urged natives of India to retain their picturesque costumes. Hooray! Stud's gone in. Sometimes I shut my eyes and dream I have splendid clothes again and am riding into battle behind Alamgir. Mr. Fielding, must not India have been beautiful then, with the Mogul Empire at its height and Alamgir reigning at Delhi upon the Peacock Throne?" "Two ladies are coming to tea to meet you I think you know them." "Meet me? I know no ladies." "Not Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested?" "Oh yes I remember." The romance at the mosque had sunk out of his consciousness as soon as it was over. "An excessively aged lady; but will you please repeat the name of her companion?" "Miss Quested." "Just as you wish." He was disappointed that other guests were coming, for he preferred to be alone with his new friend. "You can talk to Miss Quested about the Peacock Throne if you like she's artistic, they say." "Is she a Post Impressionist?" "Post Impressionism, indeed! Come along to tea. This world is getting too much for me altogether." Aziz was offended. The remark suggested that he, an obscure Indian, had no right to have heard of Post Impressionism a privilege reserved for the Ruling Race, that. He said stiffly, "I do not consider Mrs. Moore my friend, I only met her accidentally in my mosque," and was adding "a single meeting is too short to make a friend," but before he could finish the sentence the stiffness vanished from it, because he felt Fielding's fundamental good will. His own went out to it, and grappled beneath the shifting tides of emotion which can alone bear the voyager to an anchorage but may also carry him across it on to the rocks. He was safe really as safe as the shore-dweller who can only understand stability and supposes that every ship must be wrecked, and he had sensations the shore-dweller cannot know. Indeed, he was sensitive rather than responsive. In every remark he found a meaning, but not always the true meaning, and his life though vivid was largely a dream. Fielding, for instance, had not meant that Indians are obscure, but that Post | they were new-comers who would view everything with an equal if superficial eye, and would not turn on a special voice when speaking to his other guests. The College itself had been slapped down by the Public Works Department, but its grounds included an ancient garden and a garden-house, and here he lived for much of the year. He was dressing after a bath when Dr. Aziz was announced. Lifting up his voice, he shouted from the bedroom, "Please make yourself at home." The remark was unpremeditated, like most of his actions; it was what he felt inclined to say. To Aziz it had a very definite meaning. "May I really, Mr. Fielding? It's very good of you," he called back; "I like unconventional behaviour so extremely." His spirits flared up, he glanced round the living-room. Some luxury in it, but no order nothing to intimidate poor Indians. It was also a very beautiful room, opening into the garden through three high arches of wood. "The fact is I have long wanted to meet you," he continued. "I have heard so much about your warm heart from the Nawab Bahadur. But where is one to meet in a wretched hole like Chandrapore?" He came close up to the door. "When I was greener here, I'll tell you what. I used to wish you to fall ill so that we could meet that way." They laughed, and encouraged by his success he began to improvise. "I said to myself, How does Mr. Fielding look this morning? Perhaps pale. And the Civil Surgeon is pale too, he will not be able to attend upon him when the shivering commences. I should have been sent for instead. Then we would have had jolly talks, for you are a celebrated student of Persian poetry." "You know me by sight, then." "Of course, of course. You know me?" "I know you very well by name." "I have been here such a short time, and always in the bazaar. No wonder you have never seen me, and I wonder you know my name. I say, Mr. Fielding?" "Yes?" "Guess what I look like before you come out. That will be a kind of game." "You're five feet nine inches high," said Fielding, surmising this much through the ground glass of the bedroom door. "Jolly good. What next? Have I not a venerable white beard?" "Blast!" "Anything wrong?" "I've stamped on my last collar stud." "Take mine, take mine." "Have you a spare one?" "Yes, yes, one minute." "Not if you're wearing it yourself." "No, no, one in my pocket." Stepping aside, so that his outline might vanish, he wrenched off his collar, and pulled out of his shirt the back stud, a gold stud, which was part of a set that his brother-in-law had brought him from Europe. "Here it is," he cried. "Come in with it if you don't mind the unconventionality." "One minute again." Replacing his collar, he prayed that it would not spring up at the back during tea. Fielding's bearer, who was helping him to dress, opened the door for him. "Many thanks." They shook hands smiling. He began to look round, as he would have with any old friend. Fielding was not surprised at the rapidity of their intimacy. With so emotional a people it was apt to come at once or never, and he and Aziz, having heard only good of each other, could afford to dispense with preliminaries. "But I always thought that Englishmen kept their rooms so tidy. It seems that this is not so. I need not be so ashamed." He sat down gaily on the bed; then, forgetting himself entirely, drew up his legs and folded them under him. "Everything ranged coldly on shelves was what _I_ thought. I say, Mr. Fielding, is the stud going to go in?" "I hae ma doots." "What's that last sentence, please? Will you teach me some new words and so improve my English?" Fielding doubted whether "everything ranged coldly on shelves" could be improved. He was often struck with the liveliness with which the younger generation handled a foreign tongue. They altered the idiom, but they could say whatever they wanted to say quickly; there were none of the babuisms ascribed to them up at the club. But then the club moved slowly; it still declared that few Mohammedans and no Hindus would eat at an Englishman's table, and that all Indian ladies were in impenetrable purdah. Individually it knew better; as a club it declined to change. "Let me put in your stud. I see . . . the shirt back's hole is rather small and to rip it wider a pity." "Why in hell does one wear collars at all?" grumbled Fielding as he bent his neck.<|quote|>"We wear them to pass the Police."</|quote|>"What's that?" "If I'm biking in English dress starch collar, hat with ditch they take no notice. When I wear a fez, they cry, Your lamp's out!' Lord Curzon did not consider this when he urged natives of India to retain their picturesque costumes. Hooray! Stud's gone in. Sometimes I shut my eyes and dream I have splendid clothes again and am riding into battle behind Alamgir. Mr. Fielding, must not India have been beautiful then, with the Mogul Empire at its height and Alamgir reigning at Delhi upon the Peacock Throne?" "Two ladies are coming to tea to meet you I think you know them." "Meet me? I know no ladies." "Not Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested?" "Oh yes I remember." The romance at the mosque had sunk out of his consciousness as soon as it was over. "An excessively aged lady; but will you please repeat the name of her companion?" "Miss Quested." "Just as you wish." He was disappointed that other guests were coming, for he preferred to be alone with his new friend. "You can talk to Miss Quested about the Peacock Throne if you like she's artistic, they say." "Is she a Post Impressionist?" "Post Impressionism, indeed! Come along to tea. This world is getting too much for me altogether." Aziz was offended. The remark suggested that he, an obscure Indian, had no right to have heard of Post Impressionism a privilege reserved for the Ruling Race, that. He said stiffly, "I do not consider Mrs. Moore my friend, I only met her accidentally in my mosque," and was adding "a single meeting is too short to make a friend," but before he could finish the sentence the stiffness vanished from it, because he felt Fielding's fundamental good will. His own went out to it, and grappled beneath the shifting tides of emotion which can alone bear the voyager to an anchorage but may also carry him across it on to the rocks. He was safe really as safe as the shore-dweller who can only understand stability and supposes that every ship must be wrecked, and he had sensations the shore-dweller cannot know. Indeed, he was sensitive rather than responsive. In every remark he found a meaning, but not always the true meaning, and his life though vivid was largely a dream. Fielding, for instance, had not meant that Indians are obscure, but that Post Impressionism is; a gulf divided his remark from Mrs. Turton's "Why, they speak English," but to Aziz the two sounded alike. Fielding saw that something had gone wrong, and equally that it had come right, but he didn't fidget, being an optimist where personal relations were concerned, and their talk rattled on as before. "Besides the ladies I am expecting one of my assistants Narayan Godbole." "Oho, the Deccani Brahman!" "He wants the past back too, but not precisely Alamgir." "I should think not. Do you know what Deccani Brahmans say? That England conquered India from them from them, mind, and not from the Moguls. Is not that like their cheek? They have even bribed it to appear in text-books, for they are so subtle and immensely rich. Professor Godbole must be quite unlike all other Deccani Brahmans from all I can hear say. A most sincere chap." "Why don't you fellows run a club in Chandrapore, Aziz?" "Perhaps some day . . . just now I see Mrs. Moore and what's her name coming." How fortunate that it was an "unconventional" party, where formalities are ruled out! On this basis Aziz found the English ladies easy to talk to, he treated them like men. Beauty would have troubled him, for it entails rules of its own, but Mrs. Moore was so old and Miss Quested so plain that he was spared this anxiety. Adela's angular body and the freckles on her face were terrible defects in his eyes, and he wondered how God could have been so unkind to any female form. His attitude towards her remained entirely straightforward in consequence. "I want to ask you something, Dr. Aziz," she began. "I heard from Mrs. Moore how helpful you were to her in the mosque, and how interesting. She learnt more about India in those few minutes' talk with you than in the three weeks since we landed." "Oh, please do not mention a little thing like that. Is there anything else I may tell you about my country?" "I want you to explain a disappointment we had this morning; it must be some point of Indian etiquette." "There honestly is none," he replied. "We are by nature a most informal people." "I am afraid we must have made some blunder and given offence," said Mrs. Moore. "That is even more impossible. But may I know the facts?" "An | one in my pocket." Stepping aside, so that his outline might vanish, he wrenched off his collar, and pulled out of his shirt the back stud, a gold stud, which was part of a set that his brother-in-law had brought him from Europe. "Here it is," he cried. "Come in with it if you don't mind the unconventionality." "One minute again." Replacing his collar, he prayed that it would not spring up at the back during tea. Fielding's bearer, who was helping him to dress, opened the door for him. "Many thanks." They shook hands smiling. He began to look round, as he would have with any old friend. Fielding was not surprised at the rapidity of their intimacy. With so emotional a people it was apt to come at once or never, and he and Aziz, having heard only good of each other, could afford to dispense with preliminaries. "But I always thought that Englishmen kept their rooms so tidy. It seems that this is not so. I need not be so ashamed." He sat down gaily on the bed; then, forgetting himself entirely, drew up his legs and folded them under him. "Everything ranged coldly on shelves was what _I_ thought. I say, Mr. Fielding, is the stud going to go in?" "I hae ma doots." "What's that last sentence, please? Will you teach me some new words and so improve my English?" Fielding doubted whether "everything ranged coldly on shelves" could be improved. He was often struck with the liveliness with which the younger generation handled a foreign tongue. They altered the idiom, but they could say whatever they wanted to say quickly; there were none of the babuisms ascribed to them up at the club. But then the club moved slowly; it still declared that few Mohammedans and no Hindus would eat at an Englishman's table, and that all Indian ladies were in impenetrable purdah. Individually it knew better; as a club it declined to change. "Let me put in your stud. I see . . . the shirt back's hole is rather small and to rip it wider a pity." "Why in hell does one wear collars at all?" grumbled Fielding as he bent his neck.<|quote|>"We wear them to pass the Police."</|quote|>"What's that?" "If I'm biking in English dress starch collar, hat with ditch they take no notice. When I wear a fez, they cry, Your lamp's out!' Lord Curzon did not consider this when he urged natives of India to retain their picturesque costumes. Hooray! Stud's gone in. Sometimes I shut my eyes and dream I have splendid clothes again and am riding into battle behind Alamgir. Mr. Fielding, must not India have been beautiful then, with the Mogul Empire at its height and Alamgir reigning at Delhi upon the Peacock Throne?" "Two ladies are coming to tea to meet you I think you know them." "Meet me? I know no ladies." "Not Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested?" "Oh yes I remember." The romance at the mosque had sunk out of his consciousness as soon as it was over. "An excessively aged lady; but will you please repeat the name of her companion?" "Miss Quested." "Just as you wish." He was disappointed that other guests were coming, for he preferred to be alone with his new friend. "You can talk to Miss Quested about the Peacock Throne if you like she's artistic, they say." "Is she a Post Impressionist?" "Post Impressionism, indeed! Come along to tea. This world is getting too much for me altogether." Aziz was offended. The remark suggested that he, an obscure Indian, | A Passage To India |
"No," | Caroline Abbott | Did you not understand that?"<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Miss Abbott, utterly bewildered. | having her for my son. Did you not understand that?"<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Miss Abbott, utterly bewildered. Then, for a moment, she | like to have said were too violent for her. "To look after the baby, certainly," said he. "The baby--?" She had forgotten it. "It is an English marriage," he said proudly. "I do not care about the money. I am having her for my son. Did you not understand that?"<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Miss Abbott, utterly bewildered. Then, for a moment, she saw light. "It is not necessary, Signor Carella. Since you are tired of the baby--" Ever after she remembered it to her credit that she saw her mistake at once. "I don t mean that," she added quickly. "I know," | to get me, and she will do her duty well." "Her duty!" cried Miss Abbott, with all the bitterness of which she was capable. "Why, of course. She knows why I am marrying her." "To succeed where Lilia failed! To be your housekeeper, your slave, you--" The words she would like to have said were too violent for her. "To look after the baby, certainly," said he. "The baby--?" She had forgotten it. "It is an English marriage," he said proudly. "I do not care about the money. I am having her for my son. Did you not understand that?"<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Miss Abbott, utterly bewildered. Then, for a moment, she saw light. "It is not necessary, Signor Carella. Since you are tired of the baby--" Ever after she remembered it to her credit that she saw her mistake at once. "I don t mean that," she added quickly. "I know," was his courteous response. "Ah, in a foreign language (and how perfectly you speak Italian) one is certain to make slips." She looked at his face. It was apparently innocent of satire. "You meant that we could not always be together yet, he and I. You are right. What is | is no love?" "But she does love me! I forgot to tell you that." "Indeed." "Passionately." He laid his hand upon his own heart. "Then God help her!" He stamped impatiently. "Whatever I say displeases you, Signorina. God help you, for you are most unfair. You say that I ill-treated my dear wife. It is not so. I have never ill-treated any one. You complain that there is no love in this marriage. I prove that there is, and you become still more angry. What do you want? Do you suppose she will not be contented? Glad enough she is to get me, and she will do her duty well." "Her duty!" cried Miss Abbott, with all the bitterness of which she was capable. "Why, of course. She knows why I am marrying her." "To succeed where Lilia failed! To be your housekeeper, your slave, you--" The words she would like to have said were too violent for her. "To look after the baby, certainly," said he. "The baby--?" She had forgotten it. "It is an English marriage," he said proudly. "I do not care about the money. I am having her for my son. Did you not understand that?"<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Miss Abbott, utterly bewildered. Then, for a moment, she saw light. "It is not necessary, Signor Carella. Since you are tired of the baby--" Ever after she remembered it to her credit that she saw her mistake at once. "I don t mean that," she added quickly. "I know," was his courteous response. "Ah, in a foreign language (and how perfectly you speak Italian) one is certain to make slips." She looked at his face. It was apparently innocent of satire. "You meant that we could not always be together yet, he and I. You are right. What is to be done? I cannot afford a nurse, and Perfetta is too rough. When he was ill I dare not let her touch him. When he has to be washed, which happens now and then, who does it? I. I feed him, or settle what he shall have. I sleep with him and comfort him when he is unhappy in the night. No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do not be unfair this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (his voice became pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and | her. It is a lie. You wanted her money. Has this woman money too?" "Why, yes!" he said irritably. "A little." "And I suppose you will say that you love her." "I shall not say it. It will be untrue. Now my poor wife--" He stopped, seeing that the comparison would involve him in difficulties. And indeed he had often found Lilia as agreeable as any one else. Miss Abbott was furious at this final insult to her dead acquaintance. She was glad that after all she could be so angry with the boy. She glowed and throbbed; her tongue moved nimbly. At the finish, if the real business of the day had been completed, she could have swept majestically from the house. But the baby still remained, asleep on a dirty rug. Gino was thoughtful, and stood scratching his head. He respected Miss Abbott. He wished that she would respect him. "So you do not advise me?" he said dolefully. "But why should it be a failure?" Miss Abbott tried to remember that he was really a child still--a child with the strength and the passions of a disreputable man. "How can it succeed," she said solemnly, "where there is no love?" "But she does love me! I forgot to tell you that." "Indeed." "Passionately." He laid his hand upon his own heart. "Then God help her!" He stamped impatiently. "Whatever I say displeases you, Signorina. God help you, for you are most unfair. You say that I ill-treated my dear wife. It is not so. I have never ill-treated any one. You complain that there is no love in this marriage. I prove that there is, and you become still more angry. What do you want? Do you suppose she will not be contented? Glad enough she is to get me, and she will do her duty well." "Her duty!" cried Miss Abbott, with all the bitterness of which she was capable. "Why, of course. She knows why I am marrying her." "To succeed where Lilia failed! To be your housekeeper, your slave, you--" The words she would like to have said were too violent for her. "To look after the baby, certainly," said he. "The baby--?" She had forgotten it. "It is an English marriage," he said proudly. "I do not care about the money. I am having her for my son. Did you not understand that?"<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Miss Abbott, utterly bewildered. Then, for a moment, she saw light. "It is not necessary, Signor Carella. Since you are tired of the baby--" Ever after she remembered it to her credit that she saw her mistake at once. "I don t mean that," she added quickly. "I know," was his courteous response. "Ah, in a foreign language (and how perfectly you speak Italian) one is certain to make slips." She looked at his face. It was apparently innocent of satire. "You meant that we could not always be together yet, he and I. You are right. What is to be done? I cannot afford a nurse, and Perfetta is too rough. When he was ill I dare not let her touch him. When he has to be washed, which happens now and then, who does it? I. I feed him, or settle what he shall have. I sleep with him and comfort him when he is unhappy in the night. No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do not be unfair this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (his voice became pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and are not all suitable for a young man." "Not at all suitable," said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton. "A little more wine?" asked Gino kindly. "Oh, no, thank you! But marriage, Signor Carella, is a very serious step. Could you not manage more simply? Your relative, for example--" "Empoli! I would as soon have him in England!" "England, then--" He laughed. "He has a grandmother there, you know--Mrs. Theobald." "He has a grandmother here. No, he is troublesome, but I must have him with me. I will not even have my father and mother too. For they would separate us," he added. "How?" "They would separate our thoughts." She was silent. This cruel, vicious fellow knew of strange refinements. The horrible truth, that wicked people are capable of love, stood naked before her, and her moral being was abashed. It was her duty to rescue the baby, to save it from contagion, and she still meant to do her duty. But the comfortable sense | continued his sentence. "When my poor wife died I thought of having my relatives to live here. My father wished to give up his practice at Empoli; my mother and sisters and two aunts were also willing. But it was impossible. They have their ways of doing things, and when I was younger I was content with them. But now I am a man. I have my own ways. Do you understand?" "Yes, I do," said Miss Abbott, thinking of her own dear father, whose tricks and habits, after twenty-five years spent in their company, were beginning to get on her nerves. She remembered, though, that she was not here to sympathize with Gino--at all events, not to show that she sympathized. She also reminded herself that he was not worthy of sympathy. "It is a large house," she repeated. "Immense; and the taxes! But it will be better when--Ah! but you have never guessed why I went to Poggibonsi--why it was that I was out when he called." "I cannot guess, Signor Carella. I am here on business." "But try." "I cannot; I hardly know you." "But we are old friends," he said, "and your approval will be grateful to me. You gave it me once before. Will you give it now?" "I have not come as a friend this time," she answered stiffly. "I am not likely, Signor Carella, to approve of anything you do." "Oh, Signorina!" He laughed, as if he found her piquant and amusing. "Surely you approve of marriage?" "Where there is love," said Miss Abbott, looking at him hard. His face had altered in the last year, but not for the worse, which was baffling. "Where there is love," said he, politely echoing the English view. Then he smiled on her, expecting congratulations. "Do I understand that you are proposing to marry again?" He nodded. "I forbid you, then!" He looked puzzled, but took it for some foreign banter, and laughed. "I forbid you!" repeated Miss Abbott, and all the indignation of her sex and her nationality went thrilling through the words. "But why?" He jumped up, frowning. His voice was squeaky and petulant, like that of a child who is suddenly forbidden a toy. "You have ruined one woman; I forbid you to ruin another. It is not a year since Lilia died. You pretended to me the other day that you loved her. It is a lie. You wanted her money. Has this woman money too?" "Why, yes!" he said irritably. "A little." "And I suppose you will say that you love her." "I shall not say it. It will be untrue. Now my poor wife--" He stopped, seeing that the comparison would involve him in difficulties. And indeed he had often found Lilia as agreeable as any one else. Miss Abbott was furious at this final insult to her dead acquaintance. She was glad that after all she could be so angry with the boy. She glowed and throbbed; her tongue moved nimbly. At the finish, if the real business of the day had been completed, she could have swept majestically from the house. But the baby still remained, asleep on a dirty rug. Gino was thoughtful, and stood scratching his head. He respected Miss Abbott. He wished that she would respect him. "So you do not advise me?" he said dolefully. "But why should it be a failure?" Miss Abbott tried to remember that he was really a child still--a child with the strength and the passions of a disreputable man. "How can it succeed," she said solemnly, "where there is no love?" "But she does love me! I forgot to tell you that." "Indeed." "Passionately." He laid his hand upon his own heart. "Then God help her!" He stamped impatiently. "Whatever I say displeases you, Signorina. God help you, for you are most unfair. You say that I ill-treated my dear wife. It is not so. I have never ill-treated any one. You complain that there is no love in this marriage. I prove that there is, and you become still more angry. What do you want? Do you suppose she will not be contented? Glad enough she is to get me, and she will do her duty well." "Her duty!" cried Miss Abbott, with all the bitterness of which she was capable. "Why, of course. She knows why I am marrying her." "To succeed where Lilia failed! To be your housekeeper, your slave, you--" The words she would like to have said were too violent for her. "To look after the baby, certainly," said he. "The baby--?" She had forgotten it. "It is an English marriage," he said proudly. "I do not care about the money. I am having her for my son. Did you not understand that?"<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Miss Abbott, utterly bewildered. Then, for a moment, she saw light. "It is not necessary, Signor Carella. Since you are tired of the baby--" Ever after she remembered it to her credit that she saw her mistake at once. "I don t mean that," she added quickly. "I know," was his courteous response. "Ah, in a foreign language (and how perfectly you speak Italian) one is certain to make slips." She looked at his face. It was apparently innocent of satire. "You meant that we could not always be together yet, he and I. You are right. What is to be done? I cannot afford a nurse, and Perfetta is too rough. When he was ill I dare not let her touch him. When he has to be washed, which happens now and then, who does it? I. I feed him, or settle what he shall have. I sleep with him and comfort him when he is unhappy in the night. No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do not be unfair this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (his voice became pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and are not all suitable for a young man." "Not at all suitable," said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton. "A little more wine?" asked Gino kindly. "Oh, no, thank you! But marriage, Signor Carella, is a very serious step. Could you not manage more simply? Your relative, for example--" "Empoli! I would as soon have him in England!" "England, then--" He laughed. "He has a grandmother there, you know--Mrs. Theobald." "He has a grandmother here. No, he is troublesome, but I must have him with me. I will not even have my father and mother too. For they would separate us," he added. "How?" "They would separate our thoughts." She was silent. This cruel, vicious fellow knew of strange refinements. The horrible truth, that wicked people are capable of love, stood naked before her, and her moral being was abashed. It was her duty to rescue the baby, to save it from contagion, and she still meant to do her duty. But the comfortable sense of virtue left her. She was in the presence of something greater than right or wrong. Forgetting that this was an interview, he had strolled back into the room, driven by the instinct she had aroused in him. "Wake up!" he cried to his baby, as if it was some grown-up friend. Then he lifted his foot and trod lightly on its stomach. Miss Abbott cried, "Oh, take care!" She was unaccustomed to this method of awakening the young. "He is not much longer than my boot, is he? Can you believe that in time his own boots will be as large? And that he also--" "But ought you to treat him like that?" He stood with one foot resting on the little body, suddenly musing, filled with the desire that his son should be like him, and should have sons like him, to people the earth. It is the strongest desire that can come to a man--if it comes to him at all--stronger even than love or the desire for personal immortality. All men vaunt it, and declare that it is theirs; but the hearts of most are set elsewhere. It is the exception who comprehends that physical and spiritual life may stream out of him for ever. Miss Abbott, for all her goodness, could not comprehend it, though such a thing is more within the comprehension of women. And when Gino pointed first to himself and then to his baby and said "father-son," she still took it as a piece of nursery prattle, and smiled mechanically. The child, the first fruits, woke up and glared at her. Gino did not greet it, but continued the exposition of his policy. "This woman will do exactly what I tell her. She is fond of children. She is clean; she has a pleasant voice. She is not beautiful; I cannot pretend that to you for a moment. But she is what I require." The baby gave a piercing yell. "Oh, do take care!" begged Miss Abbott. "You are squeezing it." "It is nothing. If he cries silently then you may be frightened. He thinks I am going to wash him, and he is quite right." "Wash him!" she cried. "You? Here?" The homely piece of news seemed to shatter all her plans. She had spent a long half-hour in elaborate approaches, in high moral attacks; she had neither frightened her enemy | Abbott was furious at this final insult to her dead acquaintance. She was glad that after all she could be so angry with the boy. She glowed and throbbed; her tongue moved nimbly. At the finish, if the real business of the day had been completed, she could have swept majestically from the house. But the baby still remained, asleep on a dirty rug. Gino was thoughtful, and stood scratching his head. He respected Miss Abbott. He wished that she would respect him. "So you do not advise me?" he said dolefully. "But why should it be a failure?" Miss Abbott tried to remember that he was really a child still--a child with the strength and the passions of a disreputable man. "How can it succeed," she said solemnly, "where there is no love?" "But she does love me! I forgot to tell you that." "Indeed." "Passionately." He laid his hand upon his own heart. "Then God help her!" He stamped impatiently. "Whatever I say displeases you, Signorina. God help you, for you are most unfair. You say that I ill-treated my dear wife. It is not so. I have never ill-treated any one. You complain that there is no love in this marriage. I prove that there is, and you become still more angry. What do you want? Do you suppose she will not be contented? Glad enough she is to get me, and she will do her duty well." "Her duty!" cried Miss Abbott, with all the bitterness of which she was capable. "Why, of course. She knows why I am marrying her." "To succeed where Lilia failed! To be your housekeeper, your slave, you--" The words she would like to have said were too violent for her. "To look after the baby, certainly," said he. "The baby--?" She had forgotten it. "It is an English marriage," he said proudly. "I do not care about the money. I am having her for my son. Did you not understand that?"<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>said Miss Abbott, utterly bewildered. Then, for a moment, she saw light. "It is not necessary, Signor Carella. Since you are tired of the baby--" Ever after she remembered it to her credit that she saw her mistake at once. "I don t mean that," she added quickly. "I know," was his courteous response. "Ah, in a foreign language (and how perfectly you speak Italian) one is certain to make slips." She looked at his face. It was apparently innocent of satire. "You meant that we could not always be together yet, he and I. You are right. What is to be done? I cannot afford a nurse, and Perfetta is too rough. When he was ill I dare not let her touch him. When he has to be washed, which happens now and then, who does it? I. I feed him, or settle what he shall have. I sleep with him and comfort him when he is unhappy in the night. No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do not be unfair this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (his voice became pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and are not all suitable for a young man." "Not at all suitable," said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton. "A little more wine?" asked Gino kindly. "Oh, no, thank you! But marriage, Signor Carella, is a very serious step. Could you not manage more simply? Your relative, for example--" "Empoli! I would as soon have him in England!" "England, then--" He laughed. "He has a grandmother there, you know--Mrs. Theobald." "He has a grandmother here. No, he is troublesome, but I must have him with me. I will not even have my father and mother too. For they would separate us," he added. "How?" "They would separate our thoughts." She was silent. This cruel, vicious fellow knew of strange refinements. The horrible truth, that wicked people are capable of love, stood naked before her, and her moral being was abashed. It was her duty to rescue the baby, to save it from contagion, and she still meant to do her duty. But the comfortable sense of virtue left her. She was in the presence of something greater than right or wrong. Forgetting that this was an interview, he had strolled back into the room, driven by the instinct she had aroused in him. "Wake up!" he cried to his baby, as if it was some grown-up friend. Then he lifted his foot and trod lightly on its stomach. Miss Abbott cried, "Oh, take care!" She was unaccustomed to this method of awakening the young. "He is not much longer than my boot, is he? Can you believe that in time his own boots will be as large? And that he also--" "But ought you to treat him like that?" He stood with one foot resting on the little body, suddenly musing, filled with the desire that his son should be like him, and should have sons like him, to people the earth. It is the strongest desire that can come to a man--if it comes to him at all--stronger even than love or the desire for personal immortality. All men vaunt it, and declare that it is theirs; but the hearts of most are set elsewhere. It is the exception who | Where Angels Fear To Tread |
I continued calmly, but with not a little discomfiture at De Griers merriment. | No speaker | to let the Baron off,"<|quote|>I continued calmly, but with not a little discomfiture at De Griers merriment.</|quote|>"And since you, General, have | aloud. "Nor do I intend to let the Baron off,"<|quote|>I continued calmly, but with not a little discomfiture at De Griers merriment.</|quote|>"And since you, General, have today been so good as | yourself to answer for my conduct." So struck was he with my words that, spreading out his hands, he turned to the Frenchman, and interpreted to him that I had challenged himself (the General) to a duel. The Frenchman laughed aloud. "Nor do I intend to let the Baron off,"<|quote|>I continued calmly, but with not a little discomfiture at De Griers merriment.</|quote|>"And since you, General, have today been so good as to listen to the Baron s complaints, and to enter into his concerns since you have made yourself a participator in the affair I have the honour to inform you that, tomorrow morning at the latest, I shall, in my | of age, a university graduate, a gentleman, and, until I met yourself, a complete stranger to you. Only my boundless respect for your merits restrains me from demanding satisfaction at your hands, as well as a further explanation as to the reasons which have led you to take it upon yourself to answer for my conduct." So struck was he with my words that, spreading out his hands, he turned to the Frenchman, and interpreted to him that I had challenged himself (the General) to a duel. The Frenchman laughed aloud. "Nor do I intend to let the Baron off,"<|quote|>I continued calmly, but with not a little discomfiture at De Griers merriment.</|quote|>"And since you, General, have today been so good as to listen to the Baron s complaints, and to enter into his concerns since you have made yourself a participator in the affair I have the honour to inform you that, tomorrow morning at the latest, I shall, in my own name, demand of the said Baron a formal explanation as to the reasons which have led him to disregard the fact that the matter lies between him and myself alone, and to put a slight upon me by referring it to another person, as though I were unworthy to | the General, said to him very gravely: "The matter cannot end here. I regret very much that you should have been put to unpleasantness at the Baron s hands; but, the fault (pardon me) is your own. How came you to answer for me to the Baron? And what did you mean by saying that I formed part of your household? I am merely your family tutor not a son of yours, nor yet your ward, nor a person of any kind for whose acts you need be responsible. I am a judicially competent person, a man of twenty-five years of age, a university graduate, a gentleman, and, until I met yourself, a complete stranger to you. Only my boundless respect for your merits restrains me from demanding satisfaction at your hands, as well as a further explanation as to the reasons which have led you to take it upon yourself to answer for my conduct." So struck was he with my words that, spreading out his hands, he turned to the Frenchman, and interpreted to him that I had challenged himself (the General) to a duel. The Frenchman laughed aloud. "Nor do I intend to let the Baron off,"<|quote|>I continued calmly, but with not a little discomfiture at De Griers merriment.</|quote|>"And since you, General, have today been so good as to listen to the Baron s complaints, and to enter into his concerns since you have made yourself a participator in the affair I have the honour to inform you that, tomorrow morning at the latest, I shall, in my own name, demand of the said Baron a formal explanation as to the reasons which have led him to disregard the fact that the matter lies between him and myself alone, and to put a slight upon me by referring it to another person, as though I were unworthy to answer for my own conduct." Then there happened what I had foreseen. The General on hearing of this further intended outrage, showed the white feather. "What?" he cried. "Do you intend to go on with this damned nonsense? Do you not realise the harm that it is doing me? I beg of you not to laugh at me, sir not to laugh at me, for we have police authorities here who, out of respect for my rank, and for that of the Baron... In short, sir, I swear to you that I will have you arrested, and marched out of | upon me upon _me_, my good sir? You have entailed upon me the fact of my being forced to sue humbly to the Baron, and to give him my word of honour that this very day you shall cease to belong to my establishment!" "Excuse me, General," I interrupted, "but did he make an express point of it that I should cease to belong to your establishment, as you call it?" "No; I, of my own initiative, thought that I ought to afford him that satisfaction; and, with it he was satisfied. So we must part, good sir. It is my duty to hand over to you forty g lden, three florins, as per the accompanying statement. Here is the money, and here the account, which you are at liberty to verify. Farewell. From henceforth we are strangers. From you I have never had anything but trouble and unpleasantness. I am about to call the landlord, and explain to him that from tomorrow onwards I shall no longer be responsible for your hotel expenses. Also I have the honour to remain your obedient servant." I took the money and the account (which was indicted in pencil), and, bowing low to the General, said to him very gravely: "The matter cannot end here. I regret very much that you should have been put to unpleasantness at the Baron s hands; but, the fault (pardon me) is your own. How came you to answer for me to the Baron? And what did you mean by saying that I formed part of your household? I am merely your family tutor not a son of yours, nor yet your ward, nor a person of any kind for whose acts you need be responsible. I am a judicially competent person, a man of twenty-five years of age, a university graduate, a gentleman, and, until I met yourself, a complete stranger to you. Only my boundless respect for your merits restrains me from demanding satisfaction at your hands, as well as a further explanation as to the reasons which have led you to take it upon yourself to answer for my conduct." So struck was he with my words that, spreading out his hands, he turned to the Frenchman, and interpreted to him that I had challenged himself (the General) to a duel. The Frenchman laughed aloud. "Nor do I intend to let the Baron off,"<|quote|>I continued calmly, but with not a little discomfiture at De Griers merriment.</|quote|>"And since you, General, have today been so good as to listen to the Baron s complaints, and to enter into his concerns since you have made yourself a participator in the affair I have the honour to inform you that, tomorrow morning at the latest, I shall, in my own name, demand of the said Baron a formal explanation as to the reasons which have led him to disregard the fact that the matter lies between him and myself alone, and to put a slight upon me by referring it to another person, as though I were unworthy to answer for my own conduct." Then there happened what I had foreseen. The General on hearing of this further intended outrage, showed the white feather. "What?" he cried. "Do you intend to go on with this damned nonsense? Do you not realise the harm that it is doing me? I beg of you not to laugh at me, sir not to laugh at me, for we have police authorities here who, out of respect for my rank, and for that of the Baron... In short, sir, I swear to you that I will have you arrested, and marched out of the place, to prevent any further brawling on your part. Do you understand what I say?" He was almost breathless with anger, as well as in a terrible fright. "General," I replied with that calmness which he never could abide, "one cannot arrest a man for brawling until he has brawled. I have not so much as begun my explanations to the Baron, and you are altogether ignorant as to the form and time which my intended procedure is likely to assume. I wish but to disabuse the Baron of what is, to me, a shameful supposition namely, that I am under the guardianship of a person who is qualified to exercise control over my free will. It is vain for you to disturb and alarm yourself." "For God s sake, Alexis Ivanovitch, do put an end to this senseless scheme of yours!" he muttered, but with a sudden change from a truculent tone to one of entreaty as he caught me by the hand. "Do you know what is likely to come of it? Merely further unpleasantness. You will agree with me, I am sure, that at present I ought to move with especial care yes, with very especial | me from regret in the matter. Of late that is to say, for the last two or three weeks I have been feeling not at all well. That is to say, I have been in a sick, nervous, irritable, fanciful condition, so that I have periodically lost control over myself. For instance, on more than one occasion I have tried to pick a quarrel even with Monsieur le Marquise here; and, under the circumstances, he had no choice but to answer me. In short, I have recently been showing signs of ill-health. Whether the Baroness Burmergelm will take this circumstance into consideration when I come to beg her pardon (for I _do_ intend to make her amends) I do not know; but I doubt if she will, and the less so since, so far as I know, the circumstance is one which, of late, has begun to be abused in the legal world, in that advocates in criminal cases have taken to justifying their clients on the ground that, at the moment of the crime, they (the clients) were unconscious of what they were doing that, in short, they were out of health. My client committed the murder that is true; but he has no recollection of having committed it. And doctors actually support these advocates by affirming that there really is such a malady that there really _can_ arise temporary delusions which make a man remember nothing of a given deed, or only a half or a quarter of it! But the Baron and Baroness are members of an older generation, as well as Prussian Junkers and landowners. To them such a process in the medico-judicial world will be unknown, and therefore, they are the more unlikely to accept any such explanation. What is _your_ opinion about it, General?" "Enough, sir!" he thundered with barely restrained fury. "Enough, I say! Once and for all I must endeavour to rid myself of you and your impertinence. To justify yourself in the eyes of the Baron and Baroness will be impossible. Any intercourse with you, even though it be confined to a begging of their pardons, they would look upon as a degradation. I may tell you that, on learning that you formed part of my household, the Baron approached me in the Casino, and demanded of me additional satisfaction. Do you understand, then, what it is that you have entailed upon me upon _me_, my good sir? You have entailed upon me the fact of my being forced to sue humbly to the Baron, and to give him my word of honour that this very day you shall cease to belong to my establishment!" "Excuse me, General," I interrupted, "but did he make an express point of it that I should cease to belong to your establishment, as you call it?" "No; I, of my own initiative, thought that I ought to afford him that satisfaction; and, with it he was satisfied. So we must part, good sir. It is my duty to hand over to you forty g lden, three florins, as per the accompanying statement. Here is the money, and here the account, which you are at liberty to verify. Farewell. From henceforth we are strangers. From you I have never had anything but trouble and unpleasantness. I am about to call the landlord, and explain to him that from tomorrow onwards I shall no longer be responsible for your hotel expenses. Also I have the honour to remain your obedient servant." I took the money and the account (which was indicted in pencil), and, bowing low to the General, said to him very gravely: "The matter cannot end here. I regret very much that you should have been put to unpleasantness at the Baron s hands; but, the fault (pardon me) is your own. How came you to answer for me to the Baron? And what did you mean by saying that I formed part of your household? I am merely your family tutor not a son of yours, nor yet your ward, nor a person of any kind for whose acts you need be responsible. I am a judicially competent person, a man of twenty-five years of age, a university graduate, a gentleman, and, until I met yourself, a complete stranger to you. Only my boundless respect for your merits restrains me from demanding satisfaction at your hands, as well as a further explanation as to the reasons which have led you to take it upon yourself to answer for my conduct." So struck was he with my words that, spreading out his hands, he turned to the Frenchman, and interpreted to him that I had challenged himself (the General) to a duel. The Frenchman laughed aloud. "Nor do I intend to let the Baron off,"<|quote|>I continued calmly, but with not a little discomfiture at De Griers merriment.</|quote|>"And since you, General, have today been so good as to listen to the Baron s complaints, and to enter into his concerns since you have made yourself a participator in the affair I have the honour to inform you that, tomorrow morning at the latest, I shall, in my own name, demand of the said Baron a formal explanation as to the reasons which have led him to disregard the fact that the matter lies between him and myself alone, and to put a slight upon me by referring it to another person, as though I were unworthy to answer for my own conduct." Then there happened what I had foreseen. The General on hearing of this further intended outrage, showed the white feather. "What?" he cried. "Do you intend to go on with this damned nonsense? Do you not realise the harm that it is doing me? I beg of you not to laugh at me, sir not to laugh at me, for we have police authorities here who, out of respect for my rank, and for that of the Baron... In short, sir, I swear to you that I will have you arrested, and marched out of the place, to prevent any further brawling on your part. Do you understand what I say?" He was almost breathless with anger, as well as in a terrible fright. "General," I replied with that calmness which he never could abide, "one cannot arrest a man for brawling until he has brawled. I have not so much as begun my explanations to the Baron, and you are altogether ignorant as to the form and time which my intended procedure is likely to assume. I wish but to disabuse the Baron of what is, to me, a shameful supposition namely, that I am under the guardianship of a person who is qualified to exercise control over my free will. It is vain for you to disturb and alarm yourself." "For God s sake, Alexis Ivanovitch, do put an end to this senseless scheme of yours!" he muttered, but with a sudden change from a truculent tone to one of entreaty as he caught me by the hand. "Do you know what is likely to come of it? Merely further unpleasantness. You will agree with me, I am sure, that at present I ought to move with especial care yes, with very especial care. You cannot be fully aware of how I am situated. When we leave this place I shall be ready to receive you back into my household; but, for the time being I Well, I cannot tell you all my reasons." With that he wound up in a despairing voice: "O Alexis Ivanovitch, Alexis Ivanovitch!" I moved towards the door begging him to be calm, and promising that everything should be done decently and in order; whereafter I departed. Russians, when abroad, are over-apt to play the poltroon, to watch all their words, and to wonder what people are thinking of their conduct, or whether such and such a thing is _comme il faut_. In short, they are over-apt to cosset themselves, and to lay claim to great importance. Always they prefer the form of behaviour which has once and for all become accepted and established. This they will follow slavishly whether in hotels, on promenades, at meetings, or when on a journey. But the General had avowed to me that, over and above such considerations as these, there were circumstances which compelled him to "move with especial care at present" ", and that the fact had actually made him poor-spirited and a coward it had made him altogether change his tone towards me. This fact I took into my calculations, and duly noted it, for, of course, he _might_ apply to the authorities tomorrow, and it behoved me to go carefully. Yet it was not the General but Polina that I wanted to anger. She had treated me with such cruelty, and had got me into such a hole, that I felt a longing to force her to beseech me to stop. Of course, my tomfoolery might compromise her; yet certain other feelings and desires had begun to form themselves in my brain. If I was never to rank in her eyes as anything but a nonentity, it would not greatly matter if I figured as a draggle-tailed cockerel, and the Baron were to give me a good thrashing; but, the fact was that I desired to have the laugh of them all, and to come out myself unscathed. Let people see what they _would_ see. Let Polina, for once, have a good fright, and be forced to whistle me to heel again. But, however much she might whistle, she should see that I was at least no draggle-tailed | you and your impertinence. To justify yourself in the eyes of the Baron and Baroness will be impossible. Any intercourse with you, even though it be confined to a begging of their pardons, they would look upon as a degradation. I may tell you that, on learning that you formed part of my household, the Baron approached me in the Casino, and demanded of me additional satisfaction. Do you understand, then, what it is that you have entailed upon me upon _me_, my good sir? You have entailed upon me the fact of my being forced to sue humbly to the Baron, and to give him my word of honour that this very day you shall cease to belong to my establishment!" "Excuse me, General," I interrupted, "but did he make an express point of it that I should cease to belong to your establishment, as you call it?" "No; I, of my own initiative, thought that I ought to afford him that satisfaction; and, with it he was satisfied. So we must part, good sir. It is my duty to hand over to you forty g lden, three florins, as per the accompanying statement. Here is the money, and here the account, which you are at liberty to verify. Farewell. From henceforth we are strangers. From you I have never had anything but trouble and unpleasantness. I am about to call the landlord, and explain to him that from tomorrow onwards I shall no longer be responsible for your hotel expenses. Also I have the honour to remain your obedient servant." I took the money and the account (which was indicted in pencil), and, bowing low to the General, said to him very gravely: "The matter cannot end here. I regret very much that you should have been put to unpleasantness at the Baron s hands; but, the fault (pardon me) is your own. How came you to answer for me to the Baron? And what did you mean by saying that I formed part of your household? I am merely your family tutor not a son of yours, nor yet your ward, nor a person of any kind for whose acts you need be responsible. I am a judicially competent person, a man of twenty-five years of age, a university graduate, a gentleman, and, until I met yourself, a complete stranger to you. Only my boundless respect for your merits restrains me from demanding satisfaction at your hands, as well as a further explanation as to the reasons which have led you to take it upon yourself to answer for my conduct." So struck was he with my words that, spreading out his hands, he turned to the Frenchman, and interpreted to him that I had challenged himself (the General) to a duel. The Frenchman laughed aloud. "Nor do I intend to let the Baron off,"<|quote|>I continued calmly, but with not a little discomfiture at De Griers merriment.</|quote|>"And since you, General, have today been so good as to listen to the Baron s complaints, and to enter into his concerns since you have made yourself a participator in the affair I have the honour to inform you that, tomorrow morning at the latest, I shall, in my own name, demand of the said Baron a formal explanation as to the reasons which have led him to disregard the fact that the matter lies between him and myself alone, and to put a slight upon me by referring it to another person, as though I were unworthy to answer for my own conduct." Then there happened what I had foreseen. The General on hearing of this further intended outrage, showed the white feather. "What?" he cried. "Do you intend to go on with this damned nonsense? Do you not realise the harm that it is doing me? I beg of you not to laugh at me, sir not to laugh at me, for we have police authorities here who, out of respect for my rank, and for that of the Baron... In short, sir, I swear to you that I will have you arrested, and marched out of the place, to prevent any further brawling on your part. Do you understand what I say?" He was almost breathless with anger, as well as in a terrible fright. "General," I replied with that calmness which he never could abide, "one cannot arrest a man for brawling until he has brawled. I have not so much as begun my explanations to the Baron, and you are altogether ignorant as to the form and time which my intended procedure is likely to assume. I wish but to disabuse the Baron of what is, to me, a shameful supposition namely, that I am under the guardianship of a person who is qualified to exercise control over my free will. It is vain for you to disturb and alarm yourself." "For God s sake, Alexis Ivanovitch, do put an end to this senseless scheme of yours!" he muttered, but with a sudden change from a truculent tone to one of entreaty as he caught me by the hand. "Do you know what is likely to come of it? Merely further unpleasantness. You will agree with me, I am sure, that at present I ought to move with especial care yes, with very especial care. You cannot | The Gambler |
'I will not say, that since I entered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:' | No speaker | was one of her expressions."<|quote|>'I will not say, that since I entered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:'</|quote|>"--and the quivering lip, Emma, | Weston, "she was energetic. This was one of her expressions."<|quote|>'I will not say, that since I entered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:'</|quote|>"--and the quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an | own mind as every thing had so long been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the subject. "On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so many months," continued Mrs. Weston, "she was energetic. This was one of her expressions."<|quote|>'I will not say, that since I entered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:'</|quote|>"--and the quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart." "Poor girl!" said Emma. "She thinks herself wrong, then, for having consented to a private engagement?" "Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to blame herself." 'The | Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the cause; but when these effusions were put by, they had talked a good deal of the present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs. Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief to her companion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had so long been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the subject. "On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so many months," continued Mrs. Weston, "she was energetic. This was one of her expressions."<|quote|>'I will not say, that since I entered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:'</|quote|>"--and the quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart." "Poor girl!" said Emma. "She thinks herself wrong, then, for having consented to a private engagement?" "Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to blame herself." 'The consequence,' "said she," 'has been a state of perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no expiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all my sense of | body, and so little of themselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for them. Miss Fairfax's recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to invite her to an airing; she had drawn back and declined at first, but, on being pressed had yielded; and, in the course of their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragement, overcome so much of her embarrassment, as to bring her to converse on the important subject. Apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their first reception, and the warmest expressions of the gratitude she was always feeling towards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the cause; but when these effusions were put by, they had talked a good deal of the present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs. Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief to her companion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had so long been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the subject. "On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so many months," continued Mrs. Weston, "she was energetic. This was one of her expressions."<|quote|>'I will not say, that since I entered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:'</|quote|>"--and the quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart." "Poor girl!" said Emma. "She thinks herself wrong, then, for having consented to a private engagement?" "Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to blame herself." 'The consequence,' "said she," 'has been a state of perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no expiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me ought not to be.' 'Do not imagine, madam,' "she continued," 'that I was taught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on the principles or the care of the friends who brought me up. The error has been all my own; and I do assure you that, with all the excuse that present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread making the story known to Colonel Campbell.'" "Poor girl!" said Emma again. "She loves him | instead, and to defer this ceremonious call till a little time had passed, and Mr. Churchill could be reconciled to the engagement's becoming known; as, considering every thing, she thought such a visit could not be paid without leading to reports:--but Mr. Weston had thought differently; he was extremely anxious to shew his approbation to Miss Fairfax and her family, and did not conceive that any suspicion could be excited by it; or if it were, that it would be of any consequence; for "such things," he observed, "always got about." Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston had very good reason for saying so. They had gone, in short--and very great had been the evident distress and confusion of the lady. She had hardly been able to speak a word, and every look and action had shewn how deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her daughter--who proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had been a gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They were both so truly respectable in their happiness, so disinterested in every sensation; thought so much of Jane; so much of every body, and so little of themselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for them. Miss Fairfax's recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to invite her to an airing; she had drawn back and declined at first, but, on being pressed had yielded; and, in the course of their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragement, overcome so much of her embarrassment, as to bring her to converse on the important subject. Apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their first reception, and the warmest expressions of the gratitude she was always feeling towards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the cause; but when these effusions were put by, they had talked a good deal of the present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs. Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief to her companion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had so long been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the subject. "On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so many months," continued Mrs. Weston, "she was energetic. This was one of her expressions."<|quote|>'I will not say, that since I entered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:'</|quote|>"--and the quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart." "Poor girl!" said Emma. "She thinks herself wrong, then, for having consented to a private engagement?" "Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to blame herself." 'The consequence,' "said she," 'has been a state of perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no expiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me ought not to be.' 'Do not imagine, madam,' "she continued," 'that I was taught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on the principles or the care of the friends who brought me up. The error has been all my own; and I do assure you that, with all the excuse that present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread making the story known to Colonel Campbell.'" "Poor girl!" said Emma again. "She loves him then excessively, I suppose. It must have been from attachment only, that she could be led to form the engagement. Her affection must have overpowered her judgment." "Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him." "I am afraid," returned Emma, sighing, "that I must often have contributed to make her unhappy." "On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But she probably had something of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the misunderstandings which he had given us hints of before. One natural consequence of the evil she had involved herself in," she said, "was that of making her _unreasonable_. The consciousness of having done amiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious and irritable to a degree that must have been--that had been--hard for him to bear." 'I did not make the allowances,' "said she," 'which I ought to have done, for his temper and spirits--his delightful spirits, and that gaiety, that playfulness of disposition, which, under any other circumstances, would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to me, as they were at first.' "She then began to speak of you, and of the great kindness | together again, she might at least be able to ascertain what the chances for it were.--She should see them henceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly as she had hitherto misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know how to admit that she could be blinded here.--He was expected back every day. The power of observation would be soon given--frightfully soon it appeared when her thoughts were in one course. In the meanwhile, she resolved against seeing Harriet.--It would do neither of them good, it would do the subject no good, to be talking of it farther.--She was resolved not to be convinced, as long as she could doubt, and yet had no authority for opposing Harriet's confidence. To talk would be only to irritate.--She wrote to her, therefore, kindly, but decisively, to beg that she would not, at present, come to Hartfield; acknowledging it to be her conviction, that all farther confidential discussion of _one_ topic had better be avoided; and hoping, that if a few days were allowed to pass before they met again, except in the company of others--she objected only to a tete-a-tete--they might be able to act as if they had forgotten the conversation of yesterday.--Harriet submitted, and approved, and was grateful. This point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear Emma's thoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed them, sleeping or waking, the last twenty-four hours--Mrs. Weston, who had been calling on her daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her way home, almost as much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself, to relate all the particulars of so interesting an interview. Mr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates's, and gone through his share of this essential attention most handsomely; but she having then induced Miss Fairfax to join her in an airing, was now returned with much more to say, and much more to say with satisfaction, than a quarter of an hour spent in Mrs. Bates's parlour, with all the encumbrance of awkward feelings, could have afforded. A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it while her friend related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the visit in a good deal of agitation herself; and in the first place had wished not to go at all at present, to be allowed merely to write to Miss Fairfax instead, and to defer this ceremonious call till a little time had passed, and Mr. Churchill could be reconciled to the engagement's becoming known; as, considering every thing, she thought such a visit could not be paid without leading to reports:--but Mr. Weston had thought differently; he was extremely anxious to shew his approbation to Miss Fairfax and her family, and did not conceive that any suspicion could be excited by it; or if it were, that it would be of any consequence; for "such things," he observed, "always got about." Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston had very good reason for saying so. They had gone, in short--and very great had been the evident distress and confusion of the lady. She had hardly been able to speak a word, and every look and action had shewn how deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her daughter--who proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had been a gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They were both so truly respectable in their happiness, so disinterested in every sensation; thought so much of Jane; so much of every body, and so little of themselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for them. Miss Fairfax's recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to invite her to an airing; she had drawn back and declined at first, but, on being pressed had yielded; and, in the course of their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragement, overcome so much of her embarrassment, as to bring her to converse on the important subject. Apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their first reception, and the warmest expressions of the gratitude she was always feeling towards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the cause; but when these effusions were put by, they had talked a good deal of the present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs. Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief to her companion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had so long been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the subject. "On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so many months," continued Mrs. Weston, "she was energetic. This was one of her expressions."<|quote|>'I will not say, that since I entered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:'</|quote|>"--and the quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart." "Poor girl!" said Emma. "She thinks herself wrong, then, for having consented to a private engagement?" "Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to blame herself." 'The consequence,' "said she," 'has been a state of perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no expiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me ought not to be.' 'Do not imagine, madam,' "she continued," 'that I was taught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on the principles or the care of the friends who brought me up. The error has been all my own; and I do assure you that, with all the excuse that present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread making the story known to Colonel Campbell.'" "Poor girl!" said Emma again. "She loves him then excessively, I suppose. It must have been from attachment only, that she could be led to form the engagement. Her affection must have overpowered her judgment." "Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him." "I am afraid," returned Emma, sighing, "that I must often have contributed to make her unhappy." "On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But she probably had something of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the misunderstandings which he had given us hints of before. One natural consequence of the evil she had involved herself in," she said, "was that of making her _unreasonable_. The consciousness of having done amiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious and irritable to a degree that must have been--that had been--hard for him to bear." 'I did not make the allowances,' "said she," 'which I ought to have done, for his temper and spirits--his delightful spirits, and that gaiety, that playfulness of disposition, which, under any other circumstances, would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to me, as they were at first.' "She then began to speak of you, and of the great kindness you had shewn her during her illness; and with a blush which shewed me how it was all connected, desired me, whenever I had an opportunity, to thank you--I could not thank you too much--for every wish and every endeavour to do her good. She was sensible that you had never received any proper acknowledgment from herself." "If I did not know her to be happy now," said Emma, seriously, "which, in spite of every little drawback from her scrupulous conscience, she must be, I could not bear these thanks;--for, oh! Mrs. Weston, if there were an account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done Miss Fairfax!--Well" (checking herself, and trying to be more lively) ", this is all to be forgotten. You are very kind to bring me these interesting particulars. They shew her to the greatest advantage. I am sure she is very good--I hope she will be very happy. It is fit that the fortune should be on his side, for I think the merit will be all on hers." Such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs. Weston. She thought well of Frank in almost every respect; and, what was more, she loved him very much, and her defence was, therefore, earnest. She talked with a great deal of reason, and at least equal affection--but she had too much to urge for Emma's attention; it was soon gone to Brunswick Square or to Donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen; and when Mrs. Weston ended with, "We have not yet had the letter we are so anxious for, you know, but I hope it will soon come," she was obliged to pause before she answered, and at last obliged to answer at random, before she could at all recollect what letter it was which they were so anxious for. "Are you well, my Emma?" was Mrs. Weston's parting question. "Oh! perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to give me intelligence of the letter as soon as possible." Mrs. Weston's communications furnished Emma with more food for unpleasant reflection, by increasing her esteem and compassion, and her sense of past injustice towards Miss Fairfax. She bitterly regretted not having sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the envious feelings which had certainly been, in some measure, the cause. Had she followed Mr. Knightley's known wishes, in paying | speak a word, and every look and action had shewn how deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her daughter--who proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had been a gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They were both so truly respectable in their happiness, so disinterested in every sensation; thought so much of Jane; so much of every body, and so little of themselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for them. Miss Fairfax's recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to invite her to an airing; she had drawn back and declined at first, but, on being pressed had yielded; and, in the course of their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragement, overcome so much of her embarrassment, as to bring her to converse on the important subject. Apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their first reception, and the warmest expressions of the gratitude she was always feeling towards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the cause; but when these effusions were put by, they had talked a good deal of the present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs. Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief to her companion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had so long been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the subject. "On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so many months," continued Mrs. Weston, "she was energetic. This was one of her expressions."<|quote|>'I will not say, that since I entered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:'</|quote|>"--and the quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart." "Poor girl!" said Emma. "She thinks herself wrong, then, for having consented to a private engagement?" "Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to blame herself." 'The consequence,' "said she," 'has been a state of perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no expiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me ought not to be.' 'Do not imagine, madam,' "she continued," 'that I was taught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on the principles or the care of the friends who brought me up. The error has been all my own; and I do assure you that, with all the excuse that present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread making the story known to Colonel Campbell.'" "Poor girl!" said Emma again. "She loves him then excessively, I suppose. It must have been from attachment only, that she could be led to form the engagement. Her affection must have overpowered her judgment." "Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him." "I am afraid," returned Emma, sighing, "that I must often have contributed to make her unhappy." "On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But she probably had something of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the misunderstandings which he had given us hints of before. One natural consequence of the evil she had involved herself in," she said, "was that of making her _unreasonable_. The consciousness of having done amiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious and irritable to a degree that must have been--that had been--hard for him to bear." 'I did not make the allowances,' "said she," 'which I ought to have done, for his temper and spirits--his delightful spirits, and that gaiety, that playfulness of disposition, which, under any other circumstances, would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to me, as they were at first.' "She then began to speak of you, and of the great kindness you had shewn her during her illness; and with a blush which shewed me how it was all connected, desired me, whenever I had an opportunity, to thank | Emma |
"My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don t imagine I let him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait." | Dorian Gray | different as I came in."<|quote|>"My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don t imagine I let him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait."</|quote|>"Too strong! Surely not, my | I felt the room looked different as I came in."<|quote|>"My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don t imagine I let him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait."</|quote|>"Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an | you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best thing I have ever done. Do take the screen away, Dorian. It is simply disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room looked different as I came in."<|quote|>"My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don t imagine I let him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait."</|quote|>"Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place for it. Let me see it." And Hallward walked towards the corner of the room. A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray s lips, and he rushed between the painter and the screen. "Basil," he said, looking | get on without you." "I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!" he exclaimed, starting back. The painter stared at him. "My dear boy, what nonsense!" he cried. "Do you mean to say you don t like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best thing I have ever done. Do take the screen away, Dorian. It is simply disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room looked different as I came in."<|quote|>"My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don t imagine I let him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait."</|quote|>"Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place for it. Let me see it." And Hallward walked towards the corner of the room. A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray s lips, and he rushed between the painter and the screen. "Basil," he said, looking very pale, "you must not look at it. I don t wish you to." "Not look at my own work! You are not serious. Why shouldn t I look at it?" exclaimed Hallward, laughing. "If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will never | Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned to any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince Charming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl, Basil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken pathetic words." "I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you must come and sit to me yourself again. I can t get on without you." "I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!" he exclaimed, starting back. The painter stared at him. "My dear boy, what nonsense!" he cried. "Do you mean to say you don t like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best thing I have ever done. Do take the screen away, Dorian. It is simply disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room looked different as I came in."<|quote|>"My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don t imagine I let him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait."</|quote|>"Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place for it. Let me see it." And Hallward walked towards the corner of the room. A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray s lips, and he rushed between the painter and the screen. "Basil," he said, looking very pale, "you must not look at it. I don t wish you to." "Not look at my own work! You are not serious. Why shouldn t I look at it?" exclaimed Hallward, laughing. "If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will never speak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don t offer any explanation, and you are not to ask for any. But, remember, if you touch this screen, everything is over between us." Hallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute amazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was actually pallid with rage. His hands were clenched, and the pupils of his eyes were like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over. "Dorian!" "Don t speak!" "But what is the matter? Of course I won t | you are too much afraid of life but you are better. And how happy we used to be together! Don t leave me, Basil, and don t quarrel with me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said." The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble. "Well, Dorian," he said at length, with a sad smile, "I won t speak to you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your name won t be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?" Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at the mention of the word "inquest." There was something so crude and vulgar about everything of the kind. "They don t know my name," he answered. "But surely she did?" "Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned to any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince Charming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl, Basil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken pathetic words." "I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you must come and sit to me yourself again. I can t get on without you." "I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!" he exclaimed, starting back. The painter stared at him. "My dear boy, what nonsense!" he cried. "Do you mean to say you don t like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best thing I have ever done. Do take the screen away, Dorian. It is simply disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room looked different as I came in."<|quote|>"My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don t imagine I let him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait."</|quote|>"Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place for it. Let me see it." And Hallward walked towards the corner of the room. A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray s lips, and he rushed between the painter and the screen. "Basil," he said, looking very pale, "you must not look at it. I don t wish you to." "Not look at my own work! You are not serious. Why shouldn t I look at it?" exclaimed Hallward, laughing. "If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will never speak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don t offer any explanation, and you are not to ask for any. But, remember, if you touch this screen, everything is over between us." Hallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute amazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was actually pallid with rage. His hands were clenched, and the pupils of his eyes were like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over. "Dorian!" "Don t speak!" "But what is the matter? Of course I won t look at it if you don t want me to," he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel and going over towards the window. "But, really, it seems rather absurd that I shouldn t see my own work, especially as I am going to exhibit it in Paris in the autumn. I shall probably have to give it another coat of varnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to-day?" "To exhibit it! You want to exhibit it?" exclaimed Dorian Gray, a strange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going to be shown his secret? Were people to gape at the mystery of his life? That was impossible. Something he did not know what had to be done at once. "Yes; I don t suppose you will object to that. Georges Petit is going to collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue de S ze, which will open the first week in October. The portrait will only be away a month. I should think you could easily spare it for that time. In fact, you are sure to be out of town. And if you keep it | a particular moment about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six you would have found me in tears. Even Harry, who was here, who brought me the news, in fact, had no idea what I was going through. I suffered immensely. Then it passed away. I cannot repeat an emotion. No one can, except sentimentalists. And you are awfully unjust, Basil. You come down here to console me. That is charming of you. You find me consoled, and you are furious. How like a sympathetic person! You remind me of a story Harry told me about a certain philanthropist who spent twenty years of his life in trying to get some grievance redressed, or some unjust law altered I forget exactly what it was. Finally he succeeded, and nothing could exceed his disappointment. He had absolutely nothing to do, almost died of _ennui_, and became a confirmed misanthrope. And besides, my dear old Basil, if you really want to console me, teach me rather to forget what has happened, or to see it from a proper artistic point of view. Was it not Gautier who used to write about _la consolation des arts_? I remember picking up a little vellum-covered book in your studio one day and chancing on that delightful phrase. Well, I am not like that young man you told me of when we were down at Marlow together, the young man who used to say that yellow satin could console one for all the miseries of life. I love beautiful things that one can touch and handle. Old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp there is much to be got from all these. But the artistic temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more to me. To become the spectator of one s own life, as Harry says, is to escape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my talking to you like this. You have not realized how I have developed. I was a schoolboy when you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less. I am changed, but you must always be my friend. Of course, I am very fond of Harry. But I know that you are better than he is. You are not stronger you are too much afraid of life but you are better. And how happy we used to be together! Don t leave me, Basil, and don t quarrel with me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said." The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble. "Well, Dorian," he said at length, with a sad smile, "I won t speak to you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your name won t be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?" Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at the mention of the word "inquest." There was something so crude and vulgar about everything of the kind. "They don t know my name," he answered. "But surely she did?" "Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned to any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince Charming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl, Basil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken pathetic words." "I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you must come and sit to me yourself again. I can t get on without you." "I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!" he exclaimed, starting back. The painter stared at him. "My dear boy, what nonsense!" he cried. "Do you mean to say you don t like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best thing I have ever done. Do take the screen away, Dorian. It is simply disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room looked different as I came in."<|quote|>"My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don t imagine I let him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait."</|quote|>"Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place for it. Let me see it." And Hallward walked towards the corner of the room. A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray s lips, and he rushed between the painter and the screen. "Basil," he said, looking very pale, "you must not look at it. I don t wish you to." "Not look at my own work! You are not serious. Why shouldn t I look at it?" exclaimed Hallward, laughing. "If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will never speak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don t offer any explanation, and you are not to ask for any. But, remember, if you touch this screen, everything is over between us." Hallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute amazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was actually pallid with rage. His hands were clenched, and the pupils of his eyes were like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over. "Dorian!" "Don t speak!" "But what is the matter? Of course I won t look at it if you don t want me to," he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel and going over towards the window. "But, really, it seems rather absurd that I shouldn t see my own work, especially as I am going to exhibit it in Paris in the autumn. I shall probably have to give it another coat of varnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to-day?" "To exhibit it! You want to exhibit it?" exclaimed Dorian Gray, a strange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going to be shown his secret? Were people to gape at the mystery of his life? That was impossible. Something he did not know what had to be done at once. "Yes; I don t suppose you will object to that. Georges Petit is going to collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue de S ze, which will open the first week in October. The portrait will only be away a month. I should think you could easily spare it for that time. In fact, you are sure to be out of town. And if you keep it always behind a screen, you can t care much about it." Dorian Gray passed his hand over his forehead. There were beads of perspiration there. He felt that he was on the brink of a horrible danger. "You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it," he cried. "Why have you changed your mind? You people who go in for being consistent have just as many moods as others have. The only difference is that your moods are rather meaningless. You can t have forgotten that you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the world would induce you to send it to any exhibition. You told Harry exactly the same thing." He stopped suddenly, and a gleam of light came into his eyes. He remembered that Lord Henry had said to him once, half seriously and half in jest, "If you want to have a strange quarter of an hour, get Basil to tell you why he won t exhibit your picture. He told me why he wouldn t, and it was a revelation to me." Yes, perhaps Basil, too, had his secret. He would ask him and try. "Basil," he said, coming over quite close and looking him straight in the face, "we have each of us a secret. Let me know yours, and I shall tell you mine. What was your reason for refusing to exhibit my picture?" The painter shuddered in spite of himself. "Dorian, if I told you, you might like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. I could not bear your doing either of those two things. If you wish me never to look at your picture again, I am content. I have always you to look at. If you wish the best work I have ever done to be hidden from the world, I am satisfied. Your friendship is dearer to me than any fame or reputation." "No, Basil, you must tell me," insisted Dorian Gray. "I think I have a right to know." His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity had taken its place. He was determined to find out Basil Hallward s mystery. "Let us sit down, Dorian," said the painter, looking troubled. "Let us sit down. And just answer me one question. Have you noticed in the picture something curious? something that probably at first did not strike you, | am what I am. There is nothing more to be said." The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble. "Well, Dorian," he said at length, with a sad smile, "I won t speak to you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your name won t be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?" Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at the mention of the word "inquest." There was something so crude and vulgar about everything of the kind. "They don t know my name," he answered. "But surely she did?" "Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned to any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince Charming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl, Basil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken pathetic words." "I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you must come and sit to me yourself again. I can t get on without you." "I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!" he exclaimed, starting back. The painter stared at him. "My dear boy, what nonsense!" he cried. "Do you mean to say you don t like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best thing I have ever done. Do take the screen away, Dorian. It is simply disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room looked different as I came in."<|quote|>"My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don t imagine I let him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait."</|quote|>"Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place for it. Let me see it." And Hallward walked towards the corner of the room. A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray s lips, and he rushed between the painter and the screen. "Basil," he said, looking very pale, "you must not look at it. I don t wish you to." "Not look at my own work! You are not serious. Why shouldn t I look at it?" exclaimed Hallward, laughing. "If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will never speak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don t offer any explanation, and you are not to ask for any. But, remember, if you touch this screen, everything is over between us." Hallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute amazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was actually pallid with rage. His hands were clenched, and the pupils of his eyes were like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over. "Dorian!" "Don t speak!" "But what is the matter? Of course I won t look at it if you don t want me to," he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel and going over towards the window. "But, really, it seems rather absurd that I shouldn t see my own work, especially as I am going to exhibit it in Paris in the autumn. I shall probably have to give it another coat of varnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to-day?" "To exhibit it! You want to exhibit it?" exclaimed Dorian Gray, a strange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going to be shown his secret? Were people to gape at the mystery of his life? That was impossible. Something he did not know what had to be done at once. "Yes; I don t suppose you will object to that. Georges Petit is going to collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue de S ze, which will open the first week in October. The portrait will only be away a month. I should think you could easily spare it for that time. In fact, you are sure to be out of town. And if you keep it always behind a screen, you can t care much about it." Dorian Gray passed his hand over his forehead. There were beads of perspiration there. He felt that he was on the brink of a horrible danger. "You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it," he cried. "Why have you changed | The Picture Of Dorian Gray |
"what if at first he was to refuse?" | Caroline Abbott | "But, Harriet," said Miss Abbott,<|quote|>"what if at first he was to refuse?"</|quote|>"I don t know the | Florence we get a nurse--" "But, Harriet," said Miss Abbott,<|quote|>"what if at first he was to refuse?"</|quote|>"I don t know the meaning of the word," said | far as Florence--" "My dear sister, you can t run on like that. You don t buy a pair of gloves in two hours, much less a baby." "Three hours, then, or four; or make him learn English ways. At Florence we get a nurse--" "But, Harriet," said Miss Abbott,<|quote|>"what if at first he was to refuse?"</|quote|>"I don t know the meaning of the word," said Harriet impressively. "I ve told the landlady that Philip and I only want our rooms one night, and we shall keep to it." "I dare say it will be all right. But, as I told you, I thought the man | not contradict her. "You see him tomorrow at ten, Philip. Well, don t forget the blank cheque. Say an hour for the business. No, Italians are so slow; say two. Twelve o clock. Lunch. Well--then it s no good going till the evening train. I can manage the baby as far as Florence--" "My dear sister, you can t run on like that. You don t buy a pair of gloves in two hours, much less a baby." "Three hours, then, or four; or make him learn English ways. At Florence we get a nurse--" "But, Harriet," said Miss Abbott,<|quote|>"what if at first he was to refuse?"</|quote|>"I don t know the meaning of the word," said Harriet impressively. "I ve told the landlady that Philip and I only want our rooms one night, and we shall keep to it." "I dare say it will be all right. But, as I told you, I thought the man I met on the Rocca a strange, difficult man." "He s insolent to ladies, we know. But my brother can be trusted to bring him to his senses. That woman, Philip, whom you saw will carry the baby to the hotel. Of course you must tip her for it. And | an unexpected course. Anger, cynicism, stubborn morality--all had ended in a feeling of good-will towards each other and towards the city which had received them. And now Harriet was here--acrid, indissoluble, large; the same in Italy as in England--changing her disposition never, and her atmosphere under protest. Yet even Harriet was human, and the better for a little tea. She did not scold Philip for finding Gino out, as she might reasonably have done. She showered civilities on Miss Abbott, exclaiming again and again that Caroline s visit was one of the most fortunate coincidences in the world. Caroline did not contradict her. "You see him tomorrow at ten, Philip. Well, don t forget the blank cheque. Say an hour for the business. No, Italians are so slow; say two. Twelve o clock. Lunch. Well--then it s no good going till the evening train. I can manage the baby as far as Florence--" "My dear sister, you can t run on like that. You don t buy a pair of gloves in two hours, much less a baby." "Three hours, then, or four; or make him learn English ways. At Florence we get a nurse--" "But, Harriet," said Miss Abbott,<|quote|>"what if at first he was to refuse?"</|quote|>"I don t know the meaning of the word," said Harriet impressively. "I ve told the landlady that Philip and I only want our rooms one night, and we shall keep to it." "I dare say it will be all right. But, as I told you, I thought the man I met on the Rocca a strange, difficult man." "He s insolent to ladies, we know. But my brother can be trusted to bring him to his senses. That woman, Philip, whom you saw will carry the baby to the hotel. Of course you must tip her for it. And try, if you can, to get poor Lilia s silver bangles. They were nice quiet things, and will do for Irma. And there is an inlaid box I lent her--lent, not gave--to keep her handkerchiefs in. It s of no real value; but this is our only chance. Don t ask for it; but if you see it lying about, just say--" "No, Harriet; I ll try for the baby, but for nothing else. I promise to do that tomorrow, and to do it in the way you wish. But tonight, as we re all tired, we want a change | before dinner. Some of them stood and gazed at the advertisements on the tower. "Surely that isn t an opera-bill?" said Miss Abbott. Philip put on his pince-nez. "Lucia di Lammermoor. By the Master Donizetti. Unique representation. This evening." "But is there an opera? Right up here?" "Why, yes. These people know how to live. They would sooner have a thing bad than not have it at all. That is why they have got to have so much that is good. However bad the performance is tonight, it will be alive. Italians don t love music silently, like the beastly Germans. The audience takes its share--sometimes more." "Can t we go?" He turned on her, but not unkindly. "But we re here to rescue a child!" He cursed himself for the remark. All the pleasure and the light went out of her face, and she became again Miss Abbott of Sawston--good, oh, most undoubtedly good, but most appallingly dull. Dull and remorseful: it is a deadly combination, and he strove against it in vain till he was interrupted by the opening of the dining-room door. They started as guiltily as if they had been flirting. Their interview had taken such an unexpected course. Anger, cynicism, stubborn morality--all had ended in a feeling of good-will towards each other and towards the city which had received them. And now Harriet was here--acrid, indissoluble, large; the same in Italy as in England--changing her disposition never, and her atmosphere under protest. Yet even Harriet was human, and the better for a little tea. She did not scold Philip for finding Gino out, as she might reasonably have done. She showered civilities on Miss Abbott, exclaiming again and again that Caroline s visit was one of the most fortunate coincidences in the world. Caroline did not contradict her. "You see him tomorrow at ten, Philip. Well, don t forget the blank cheque. Say an hour for the business. No, Italians are so slow; say two. Twelve o clock. Lunch. Well--then it s no good going till the evening train. I can manage the baby as far as Florence--" "My dear sister, you can t run on like that. You don t buy a pair of gloves in two hours, much less a baby." "Three hours, then, or four; or make him learn English ways. At Florence we get a nurse--" "But, Harriet," said Miss Abbott,<|quote|>"what if at first he was to refuse?"</|quote|>"I don t know the meaning of the word," said Harriet impressively. "I ve told the landlady that Philip and I only want our rooms one night, and we shall keep to it." "I dare say it will be all right. But, as I told you, I thought the man I met on the Rocca a strange, difficult man." "He s insolent to ladies, we know. But my brother can be trusted to bring him to his senses. That woman, Philip, whom you saw will carry the baby to the hotel. Of course you must tip her for it. And try, if you can, to get poor Lilia s silver bangles. They were nice quiet things, and will do for Irma. And there is an inlaid box I lent her--lent, not gave--to keep her handkerchiefs in. It s of no real value; but this is our only chance. Don t ask for it; but if you see it lying about, just say--" "No, Harriet; I ll try for the baby, but for nothing else. I promise to do that tomorrow, and to do it in the way you wish. But tonight, as we re all tired, we want a change of topic. We want relaxation. We want to go to the theatre." "Theatres here? And at such a moment?" "We should hardly enjoy it, with the great interview impending," said Miss Abbott, with an anxious glance at Philip. He did not betray her, but said, "Don t you think it s better than sitting in all the evening and getting nervous?" His sister shook her head. "Mother wouldn t like it. It would be most unsuitable--almost irreverent. Besides all that, foreign theatres are notorious. Don t you remember those letters in the Church Family Newspaper ?" "But this is an opera-- Lucia di Lammermoor --Sir Walter Scott--classical, you know." Harriet s face grew resigned. "Certainly one has so few opportunities of hearing music. It is sure to be very bad. But it might be better than sitting idle all the evening. We have no book, and I lost my crochet at Florence." "Good. Miss Abbott, you are coming too?" "It is very kind of you, Mr. Herriton. In some ways I should enjoy it; but--excuse the suggestion--I don t think we ought to go to cheap seats." "Good gracious me!" cried Harriet, "I should never have thought of that. As | the Rocca--wasn t it fine?" "What isn t fine here?" she answered gently, and then added, "I wish I was Harriet," throwing an extraordinary meaning into the words. "Because Harriet--?" She would not go further, but he believed that she had paid homage to the complexity of life. For her, at all events, the expedition was neither easy nor jolly. Beauty, evil, charm, vulgarity, mystery--she also acknowledged this tangle, in spite of herself. And her voice thrilled him when she broke silence with "Mr. Herriton--come here--look at this!" She removed a pile of plates from the Gothic window, and they leant out of it. Close opposite, wedged between mean houses, there rose up one of the great towers. It is your tower: you stretch a barricade between it and the hotel, and the traffic is blocked in a moment. Farther up, where the street empties out by the church, your connections, the Merli and the Capocchi, do likewise. They command the Piazza, you the Siena gate. No one can move in either but he shall be instantly slain, either by bows or by crossbows, or by Greek fire. Beware, however, of the back bedroom windows. For they are menaced by the tower of the Aldobrandeschi, and before now arrows have stuck quivering over the washstand. Guard these windows well, lest there be a repetition of the events of February 1338, when the hotel was surprised from the rear, and your dearest friend--you could just make out that it was he--was thrown at you over the stairs. "It reaches up to heaven," said Philip, "and down to the other place." The summit of the tower was radiant in the sun, while its base was in shadow and pasted over with advertisements. "Is it to be a symbol of the town?" She gave no hint that she understood him. But they remained together at the window because it was a little cooler and so pleasant. Philip found a certain grace and lightness in his companion which he had never noticed in England. She was appallingly narrow, but her consciousness of wider things gave to her narrowness a pathetic charm. He did not suspect that he was more graceful too. For our vanity is such that we hold our own characters immutable, and we are slow to acknowledge that they have changed, even for the better. Citizens came out for a little stroll before dinner. Some of them stood and gazed at the advertisements on the tower. "Surely that isn t an opera-bill?" said Miss Abbott. Philip put on his pince-nez. "Lucia di Lammermoor. By the Master Donizetti. Unique representation. This evening." "But is there an opera? Right up here?" "Why, yes. These people know how to live. They would sooner have a thing bad than not have it at all. That is why they have got to have so much that is good. However bad the performance is tonight, it will be alive. Italians don t love music silently, like the beastly Germans. The audience takes its share--sometimes more." "Can t we go?" He turned on her, but not unkindly. "But we re here to rescue a child!" He cursed himself for the remark. All the pleasure and the light went out of her face, and she became again Miss Abbott of Sawston--good, oh, most undoubtedly good, but most appallingly dull. Dull and remorseful: it is a deadly combination, and he strove against it in vain till he was interrupted by the opening of the dining-room door. They started as guiltily as if they had been flirting. Their interview had taken such an unexpected course. Anger, cynicism, stubborn morality--all had ended in a feeling of good-will towards each other and towards the city which had received them. And now Harriet was here--acrid, indissoluble, large; the same in Italy as in England--changing her disposition never, and her atmosphere under protest. Yet even Harriet was human, and the better for a little tea. She did not scold Philip for finding Gino out, as she might reasonably have done. She showered civilities on Miss Abbott, exclaiming again and again that Caroline s visit was one of the most fortunate coincidences in the world. Caroline did not contradict her. "You see him tomorrow at ten, Philip. Well, don t forget the blank cheque. Say an hour for the business. No, Italians are so slow; say two. Twelve o clock. Lunch. Well--then it s no good going till the evening train. I can manage the baby as far as Florence--" "My dear sister, you can t run on like that. You don t buy a pair of gloves in two hours, much less a baby." "Three hours, then, or four; or make him learn English ways. At Florence we get a nurse--" "But, Harriet," said Miss Abbott,<|quote|>"what if at first he was to refuse?"</|quote|>"I don t know the meaning of the word," said Harriet impressively. "I ve told the landlady that Philip and I only want our rooms one night, and we shall keep to it." "I dare say it will be all right. But, as I told you, I thought the man I met on the Rocca a strange, difficult man." "He s insolent to ladies, we know. But my brother can be trusted to bring him to his senses. That woman, Philip, whom you saw will carry the baby to the hotel. Of course you must tip her for it. And try, if you can, to get poor Lilia s silver bangles. They were nice quiet things, and will do for Irma. And there is an inlaid box I lent her--lent, not gave--to keep her handkerchiefs in. It s of no real value; but this is our only chance. Don t ask for it; but if you see it lying about, just say--" "No, Harriet; I ll try for the baby, but for nothing else. I promise to do that tomorrow, and to do it in the way you wish. But tonight, as we re all tired, we want a change of topic. We want relaxation. We want to go to the theatre." "Theatres here? And at such a moment?" "We should hardly enjoy it, with the great interview impending," said Miss Abbott, with an anxious glance at Philip. He did not betray her, but said, "Don t you think it s better than sitting in all the evening and getting nervous?" His sister shook her head. "Mother wouldn t like it. It would be most unsuitable--almost irreverent. Besides all that, foreign theatres are notorious. Don t you remember those letters in the Church Family Newspaper ?" "But this is an opera-- Lucia di Lammermoor --Sir Walter Scott--classical, you know." Harriet s face grew resigned. "Certainly one has so few opportunities of hearing music. It is sure to be very bad. But it might be better than sitting idle all the evening. We have no book, and I lost my crochet at Florence." "Good. Miss Abbott, you are coming too?" "It is very kind of you, Mr. Herriton. In some ways I should enjoy it; but--excuse the suggestion--I don t think we ought to go to cheap seats." "Good gracious me!" cried Harriet, "I should never have thought of that. As likely as not, we should have tried to save money and sat among the most awful people. One keeps on forgetting this is Italy." "Unfortunately I have no evening dress; and if the seats--" "Oh, that ll be all right," said Philip, smiling at his timorous, scrupulous women-kind. "We ll go as we are, and buy the best we can get. Monteriano is not formal." So this strenuous day of resolutions, plans, alarms, battles, victories, defeats, truces, ended at the opera. Miss Abbott and Harriet were both a little shame-faced. They thought of their friends at Sawston, who were supposing them to be now tilting against the powers of evil. What would Mrs. Herriton, or Irma, or the curates at the Back Kitchen say if they could see the rescue party at a place of amusement on the very first day of its mission? Philip, too, marvelled at his wish to go. He began to see that he was enjoying his time in Monteriano, in spite of the tiresomeness of his companions and the occasional contrariness of himself. He had been to this theatre many years before, on the occasion of a performance of "La Zia di Carlo." Since then it had been thoroughly done up, in the tints of the beet-root and the tomato, and was in many other ways a credit to the little town. The orchestra had been enlarged, some of the boxes had terra-cotta draperies, and over each box was now suspended an enormous tablet, neatly framed, bearing upon it the number of that box. There was also a drop-scene, representing a pink and purple landscape, wherein sported many a lady lightly clad, and two more ladies lay along the top of the proscenium to steady a large and pallid clock. So rich and so appalling was the effect, that Philip could scarcely suppress a cry. There is something majestic in the bad taste of Italy; it is not the bad taste of a country which knows no better; it has not the nervous vulgarity of England, or the blinded vulgarity of Germany. It observes beauty, and chooses to pass it by. But it attains to beauty s confidence. This tiny theatre of Monteriano spraddled and swaggered with the best of them, and these ladies with their clock would have nodded to the young men on the ceiling of the Sistine. Philip had tried for a | is there an opera? Right up here?" "Why, yes. These people know how to live. They would sooner have a thing bad than not have it at all. That is why they have got to have so much that is good. However bad the performance is tonight, it will be alive. Italians don t love music silently, like the beastly Germans. The audience takes its share--sometimes more." "Can t we go?" He turned on her, but not unkindly. "But we re here to rescue a child!" He cursed himself for the remark. All the pleasure and the light went out of her face, and she became again Miss Abbott of Sawston--good, oh, most undoubtedly good, but most appallingly dull. Dull and remorseful: it is a deadly combination, and he strove against it in vain till he was interrupted by the opening of the dining-room door. They started as guiltily as if they had been flirting. Their interview had taken such an unexpected course. Anger, cynicism, stubborn morality--all had ended in a feeling of good-will towards each other and towards the city which had received them. And now Harriet was here--acrid, indissoluble, large; the same in Italy as in England--changing her disposition never, and her atmosphere under protest. Yet even Harriet was human, and the better for a little tea. She did not scold Philip for finding Gino out, as she might reasonably have done. She showered civilities on Miss Abbott, exclaiming again and again that Caroline s visit was one of the most fortunate coincidences in the world. Caroline did not contradict her. "You see him tomorrow at ten, Philip. Well, don t forget the blank cheque. Say an hour for the business. No, Italians are so slow; say two. Twelve o clock. Lunch. Well--then it s no good going till the evening train. I can manage the baby as far as Florence--" "My dear sister, you can t run on like that. You don t buy a pair of gloves in two hours, much less a baby." "Three hours, then, or four; or make him learn English ways. At Florence we get a nurse--" "But, Harriet," said Miss Abbott,<|quote|>"what if at first he was to refuse?"</|quote|>"I don t know the meaning of the word," said Harriet impressively. "I ve told the landlady that Philip and I only want our rooms one night, and we shall keep to it." "I dare say it will be all right. But, as I told you, I thought the man I met on the Rocca a strange, difficult man." "He s insolent to ladies, we know. But my brother can be trusted to bring him to his senses. That woman, Philip, whom you saw will carry the baby to the hotel. Of course you must tip her for it. And try, if you can, to get poor Lilia s silver bangles. They were nice quiet things, and will do for Irma. And there is an inlaid box I lent her--lent, not gave--to keep her handkerchiefs in. It s of no real value; but this is our only chance. Don t ask for it; but if you see it lying about, just say--" "No, Harriet; I ll try for the baby, but for nothing else. I promise to do that tomorrow, and to do it in the way you wish. But tonight, as we re all tired, we want a change of topic. We want relaxation. We want to go to the theatre." "Theatres here? And at such a moment?" "We should hardly enjoy it, with the great interview impending," said Miss Abbott, with an anxious glance at Philip. He did not betray her, but said, "Don t you think it s better than sitting in all the evening and getting nervous?" His sister shook her head. "Mother wouldn t like it. It would be most unsuitable--almost irreverent. Besides all that, foreign theatres are notorious. Don t you remember those letters in the Church Family Newspaper ?" "But this is an opera-- Lucia di Lammermoor --Sir Walter Scott--classical, you know." Harriet s face grew resigned. "Certainly one has so few opportunities of hearing music. It is sure to be very bad. But it might be better than sitting idle all the evening. We have no book, and I lost my crochet at Florence." "Good. Miss Abbott, you are coming too?" "It is very kind of you, Mr. Herriton. In some ways I should enjoy it; but--excuse the suggestion--I don t think we ought to go to cheap seats." "Good gracious me!" cried Harriet, "I should never have thought of that. As likely as not, we should have tried to save money and sat among the most awful people. One keeps on forgetting this is Italy." "Unfortunately I have no evening dress; and if the seats--" "Oh, that ll be all right," said Philip, smiling at his timorous, scrupulous women-kind. "We ll go as we are, and buy the best we can get. Monteriano is not formal." So this strenuous day of resolutions, plans, alarms, battles, victories, defeats, truces, ended at the opera. Miss Abbott and Harriet were both a little shame-faced. They thought of their friends at Sawston, who were supposing them to be now tilting against the powers of evil. What would Mrs. Herriton, or Irma, or the curates at the Back Kitchen say if they could see the rescue party at a place of amusement on the very first day of its mission? Philip, too, marvelled at his wish to go. He began to see that he was enjoying his time in Monteriano, in spite of the tiresomeness of his companions and the occasional contrariness of himself. He had been to this theatre many years before, on the | Where Angels Fear To Tread |
"He calls her Circe," | Mike Campbell | Michael. Don't be an ass."<|quote|>"He calls her Circe,"</|quote|>Mike said. "He claims she | "I'll tell him." "You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass."<|quote|>"He calls her Circe,"</|quote|>Mike said. "He claims she turns men into swine. Damn | nice for me to tell him." "Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That is perfect, you know." "Oh, no. I can't." "Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake?" "I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous." "I'll tell him." "You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass."<|quote|>"He calls her Circe,"</|quote|>Mike said. "He claims she turns men into swine. Damn good. I wish I were one of these literary chaps." "He'd be good, you know," Brett said. "He writes a good letter." "I know," I said. "He wrote me from San Sebastian." "That was nothing," Brett said. "He can write | "Come on, Michael. Do buck up. You've got to go through with this thing now. He's here. Don't spoil the fiesta." "Well, let him behave, then." "He'll behave. I'll tell him." "You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out." "Yes," I said, "it would be nice for me to tell him." "Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That is perfect, you know." "Oh, no. I can't." "Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake?" "I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous." "I'll tell him." "You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass."<|quote|>"He calls her Circe,"</|quote|>Mike said. "He claims she turns men into swine. Damn good. I wish I were one of these literary chaps." "He'd be good, you know," Brett said. "He writes a good letter." "I know," I said. "He wrote me from San Sebastian." "That was nothing," Brett said. "He can write a damned amusing letter." "She made me write that. She was supposed to be ill." "I damned well was, too." "Come on," I said, "we must go in and eat." "How should I meet Cohn?" Mike said. "Just act as though nothing had happened." "It's quite all right with me," | wouldn't read them." "Damned noble of you." "No, listen, Jake. Brett's gone off with men. But they weren't ever Jews, and they didn't come and hang about afterward." "Damned good chaps," Brett said. "It's all rot to talk about it. Michael and I understand each other." "She gave me Robert Cohn's letters. I wouldn't read them." "You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't read mine." "I can't read letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?" "You can't read anything." "No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home." "You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Come on, Michael. Do buck up. You've got to go through with this thing now. He's here. Don't spoil the fiesta." "Well, let him behave, then." "He'll behave. I'll tell him." "You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out." "Yes," I said, "it would be nice for me to tell him." "Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That is perfect, you know." "Oh, no. I can't." "Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake?" "I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous." "I'll tell him." "You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass."<|quote|>"He calls her Circe,"</|quote|>Mike said. "He claims she turns men into swine. Damn good. I wish I were one of these literary chaps." "He'd be good, you know," Brett said. "He writes a good letter." "I know," I said. "He wrote me from San Sebastian." "That was nothing," Brett said. "He can write a damned amusing letter." "She made me write that. She was supposed to be ill." "I damned well was, too." "Come on," I said, "we must go in and eat." "How should I meet Cohn?" Mike said. "Just act as though nothing had happened." "It's quite all right with me," Mike said. "I'm not embarrassed." "If he says anything, just say you were tight." "Quite. And the funny thing is I think I was tight." "Come on," Brett said. "Are these poisonous things paid for? I must bathe before dinner." We walked across the square. It was dark and all around the square were the lights from the caf s under the arcades. We walked across the gravel under the trees to the hotel. They went up-stairs and I stopped to speak with Montoya. "Well, how did you like the bulls?" he asked. "Good. They were nice bulls." "They're all | to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners." "Come on, Robert," Bill said. "What do you follow her around for?" Bill stood up and took hold of Cohn. "Don't go," Mike said. "Robert Cohn's going to buy a drink." Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked disgusted. "I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody ass," she interrupted. "I'm not saying he's not right, you know." She turned to me. The emotion left Mike's voice. We were all friends together. "I'm not so damn drunk as I sounded," he said. "I know you're not," Brett said. "We're none of us sober," I said. "I didn't say anything I didn't mean." "But you put it so badly," Brett laughed. "He was an ass, though. He came down to San Sebastian where he damn well wasn't wanted. He hung around Brett and just _looked_ at her. It made me damned well sick." "He did behave very badly," Brett said. "Mark you. Brett's had affairs with men before. She tells me all about everything. She gave me this chap Cohn's letters to read. I wouldn't read them." "Damned noble of you." "No, listen, Jake. Brett's gone off with men. But they weren't ever Jews, and they didn't come and hang about afterward." "Damned good chaps," Brett said. "It's all rot to talk about it. Michael and I understand each other." "She gave me Robert Cohn's letters. I wouldn't read them." "You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't read mine." "I can't read letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?" "You can't read anything." "No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home." "You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Come on, Michael. Do buck up. You've got to go through with this thing now. He's here. Don't spoil the fiesta." "Well, let him behave, then." "He'll behave. I'll tell him." "You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out." "Yes," I said, "it would be nice for me to tell him." "Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That is perfect, you know." "Oh, no. I can't." "Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake?" "I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous." "I'll tell him." "You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass."<|quote|>"He calls her Circe,"</|quote|>Mike said. "He claims she turns men into swine. Damn good. I wish I were one of these literary chaps." "He'd be good, you know," Brett said. "He writes a good letter." "I know," I said. "He wrote me from San Sebastian." "That was nothing," Brett said. "He can write a damned amusing letter." "She made me write that. She was supposed to be ill." "I damned well was, too." "Come on," I said, "we must go in and eat." "How should I meet Cohn?" Mike said. "Just act as though nothing had happened." "It's quite all right with me," Mike said. "I'm not embarrassed." "If he says anything, just say you were tight." "Quite. And the funny thing is I think I was tight." "Come on," Brett said. "Are these poisonous things paid for? I must bathe before dinner." We walked across the square. It was dark and all around the square were the lights from the caf s under the arcades. We walked across the gravel under the trees to the hotel. They went up-stairs and I stopped to speak with Montoya. "Well, how did you like the bulls?" he asked. "Good. They were nice bulls." "They're all right" "--Montoya shook his head--" "but they're not too good." "What didn't you like about them?" "I don't know. They just didn't give me the feeling that they were so good." "I know what you mean." "They're all right." "Yes. They're all right." "How did your friends like them?" "Fine." "Good," Montoya said. I went up-stairs. Bill was in his room standing on the balcony looking out at the square. I stood beside him. "Where's Cohn?" "Up-stairs in his room." "How does he feel?" "Like hell, naturally. Mike was awful. He's terrible when he's tight." "He wasn't so tight." "The hell he wasn't. I know what we had before we came to the caf ." "He sobered up afterward." "Good. He was terrible. I don't like Cohn, God knows, and I think it was a silly trick for him to go down to San Sebastian, but nobody has any business to talk like Mike." "How'd you like the bulls?" "Grand. It's grand the way they bring them out." "To-morrow come the Miuras." "When does the fiesta start?" "Day after to-morrow." "We've got to keep Mike from getting so tight. That kind of stuff is terrible." "We'd better get cleaned up | the one hit that steer?" Mike asked. "That was extraordinary." "It's no life being a steer," Robert Cohn said. "Don't you think so?" Mike said. "I would have thought you'd loved being a steer, Robert." "What do you mean, Mike?" "They lead such a quiet life. They never say anything and they're always hanging about so." We were embarrassed. Bill laughed. Robert Cohn was angry. Mike went on talking. "I should think you'd love it. You'd never have to say a word. Come on, Robert. Do say something. Don't just sit there." "I said something, Mike. Don't you remember? About the steers." "Oh, say something more. Say something funny. Can't you see we're all having a good time here?" "Come off it, Michael. You're drunk," Brett said. "I'm not drunk. I'm quite serious. _Is_ Robert Cohn going to follow Brett around like a steer all the time?" "Shut up, Michael. Try and show a little breeding." "Breeding be damned. Who has any breeding, anyway, except the bulls? Aren't the bulls lovely? Don't you like them, Bill? Why don't you say something, Robert? Don't sit there looking like a bloody funeral. What if Brett did sleep with you? She's slept with lots of better people than you." "Shut up," Cohn said. He stood up. "Shut up, Mike." "Oh, don't stand up and act as though you were going to hit me. That won't make any difference to me. Tell me, Robert. Why do you follow Brett around like a poor bloody steer? Don't you know you're not wanted? I know when I'm not wanted. Why don't you know when you're not wanted? You came down to San Sebastian where you weren't wanted, and followed Brett around like a bloody steer. Do you think that's right?" "Shut up. You're drunk." "Perhaps I am drunk. Why aren't you drunk? Why don't you ever get drunk, Robert? You know you didn't have a good time at San Sebastian because none of our friends would invite you on any of the parties. You can't blame them hardly. Can you? I asked them to. They wouldn't do it. You can't blame them, now. Can you? Now, answer me. Can you blame them?" "Go to hell, Mike." "I can't blame them. Can you blame them? Why do you follow Brett around? Haven't you any manners? How do you think it makes _me_ feel?" "You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners." "Come on, Robert," Bill said. "What do you follow her around for?" Bill stood up and took hold of Cohn. "Don't go," Mike said. "Robert Cohn's going to buy a drink." Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked disgusted. "I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody ass," she interrupted. "I'm not saying he's not right, you know." She turned to me. The emotion left Mike's voice. We were all friends together. "I'm not so damn drunk as I sounded," he said. "I know you're not," Brett said. "We're none of us sober," I said. "I didn't say anything I didn't mean." "But you put it so badly," Brett laughed. "He was an ass, though. He came down to San Sebastian where he damn well wasn't wanted. He hung around Brett and just _looked_ at her. It made me damned well sick." "He did behave very badly," Brett said. "Mark you. Brett's had affairs with men before. She tells me all about everything. She gave me this chap Cohn's letters to read. I wouldn't read them." "Damned noble of you." "No, listen, Jake. Brett's gone off with men. But they weren't ever Jews, and they didn't come and hang about afterward." "Damned good chaps," Brett said. "It's all rot to talk about it. Michael and I understand each other." "She gave me Robert Cohn's letters. I wouldn't read them." "You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't read mine." "I can't read letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?" "You can't read anything." "No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home." "You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Come on, Michael. Do buck up. You've got to go through with this thing now. He's here. Don't spoil the fiesta." "Well, let him behave, then." "He'll behave. I'll tell him." "You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out." "Yes," I said, "it would be nice for me to tell him." "Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That is perfect, you know." "Oh, no. I can't." "Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake?" "I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous." "I'll tell him." "You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass."<|quote|>"He calls her Circe,"</|quote|>Mike said. "He claims she turns men into swine. Damn good. I wish I were one of these literary chaps." "He'd be good, you know," Brett said. "He writes a good letter." "I know," I said. "He wrote me from San Sebastian." "That was nothing," Brett said. "He can write a damned amusing letter." "She made me write that. She was supposed to be ill." "I damned well was, too." "Come on," I said, "we must go in and eat." "How should I meet Cohn?" Mike said. "Just act as though nothing had happened." "It's quite all right with me," Mike said. "I'm not embarrassed." "If he says anything, just say you were tight." "Quite. And the funny thing is I think I was tight." "Come on," Brett said. "Are these poisonous things paid for? I must bathe before dinner." We walked across the square. It was dark and all around the square were the lights from the caf s under the arcades. We walked across the gravel under the trees to the hotel. They went up-stairs and I stopped to speak with Montoya. "Well, how did you like the bulls?" he asked. "Good. They were nice bulls." "They're all right" "--Montoya shook his head--" "but they're not too good." "What didn't you like about them?" "I don't know. They just didn't give me the feeling that they were so good." "I know what you mean." "They're all right." "Yes. They're all right." "How did your friends like them?" "Fine." "Good," Montoya said. I went up-stairs. Bill was in his room standing on the balcony looking out at the square. I stood beside him. "Where's Cohn?" "Up-stairs in his room." "How does he feel?" "Like hell, naturally. Mike was awful. He's terrible when he's tight." "He wasn't so tight." "The hell he wasn't. I know what we had before we came to the caf ." "He sobered up afterward." "Good. He was terrible. I don't like Cohn, God knows, and I think it was a silly trick for him to go down to San Sebastian, but nobody has any business to talk like Mike." "How'd you like the bulls?" "Grand. It's grand the way they bring them out." "To-morrow come the Miuras." "When does the fiesta start?" "Day after to-morrow." "We've got to keep Mike from getting so tight. That kind of stuff is terrible." "We'd better get cleaned up for supper." "Yes. That will be a pleasant meal." "Won't it?" As a matter of fact, supper was a pleasant meal. Brett wore a black, sleeveless evening dress. She looked quite beautiful. Mike acted as though nothing had happened. I had to go up and bring Robert Cohn down. He was reserved and formal, and his face was still taut and sallow, but he cheered up finally. He could not stop looking at Brett. It seemed to make him happy. It must have been pleasant for him to see her looking so lovely, and know he had been away with her and that every one knew it. They could not take that away from him. Bill was very funny. So was Michael. They were good together. It was like certain dinners I remember from the war. There was much wine, an ignored tension, and a feeling of things coming that you could not prevent happening. Under the wine I lost the disgusted feeling and was happy. It seemed they were all such nice people. CHAPTER 14 I do not know what time I got to bed. I remember undressing, putting on a bathrobe, and standing out on the balcony. I knew I was quite drunk, and when I came in I put on the light over the head of the bed and started to read. I was reading a book by Turgenieff. Probably I read the same two pages over several times. It was one of the stories in "A Sportsman's Sketches." I had read it before, but it seemed quite new. The country became very clear and the feeling of pressure in my head seemed to loosen. I was very drunk and I did not want to shut my eyes because the room would go round and round. If I kept on reading that feeling would pass. I heard Brett and Robert Cohn come up the stairs. Cohn said good night outside the door and went on up to his room. I heard Brett go into the room next door. Mike was already in bed. He had come in with me an hour before. He woke as she came in, and they talked together. I heard them laugh. I turned off the light and tried to go to sleep. It was not necessary to read any more. I could shut my eyes without getting the wheeling sensation. But I | He stood up. "Shut up, Mike." "Oh, don't stand up and act as though you were going to hit me. That won't make any difference to me. Tell me, Robert. Why do you follow Brett around like a poor bloody steer? Don't you know you're not wanted? I know when I'm not wanted. Why don't you know when you're not wanted? You came down to San Sebastian where you weren't wanted, and followed Brett around like a bloody steer. Do you think that's right?" "Shut up. You're drunk." "Perhaps I am drunk. Why aren't you drunk? Why don't you ever get drunk, Robert? You know you didn't have a good time at San Sebastian because none of our friends would invite you on any of the parties. You can't blame them hardly. Can you? I asked them to. They wouldn't do it. You can't blame them, now. Can you? Now, answer me. Can you blame them?" "Go to hell, Mike." "I can't blame them. Can you blame them? Why do you follow Brett around? Haven't you any manners? How do you think it makes _me_ feel?" "You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners." "Come on, Robert," Bill said. "What do you follow her around for?" Bill stood up and took hold of Cohn. "Don't go," Mike said. "Robert Cohn's going to buy a drink." Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked disgusted. "I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody ass," she interrupted. "I'm not saying he's not right, you know." She turned to me. The emotion left Mike's voice. We were all friends together. "I'm not so damn drunk as I sounded," he said. "I know you're not," Brett said. "We're none of us sober," I said. "I didn't say anything I didn't mean." "But you put it so badly," Brett laughed. "He was an ass, though. He came down to San Sebastian where he damn well wasn't wanted. He hung around Brett and just _looked_ at her. It made me damned well sick." "He did behave very badly," Brett said. "Mark you. Brett's had affairs with men before. She tells me all about everything. She gave me this chap Cohn's letters to read. I wouldn't read them." "Damned noble of you." "No, listen, Jake. Brett's gone off with men. But they weren't ever Jews, and they didn't come and hang about afterward." "Damned good chaps," Brett said. "It's all rot to talk about it. Michael and I understand each other." "She gave me Robert Cohn's letters. I wouldn't read them." "You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't read mine." "I can't read letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?" "You can't read anything." "No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home." "You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Come on, Michael. Do buck up. You've got to go through with this thing now. He's here. Don't spoil the fiesta." "Well, let him behave, then." "He'll behave. I'll tell him." "You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out." "Yes," I said, "it would be nice for me to tell him." "Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That is perfect, you know." "Oh, no. I can't." "Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake?" "I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous." "I'll tell him." "You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass."<|quote|>"He calls her Circe,"</|quote|>Mike said. "He claims she turns men into swine. Damn good. I wish I were one of these literary chaps." "He'd be good, you know," Brett said. "He writes a good letter." "I know," I said. "He wrote me from San Sebastian." "That was nothing," Brett said. "He can write a damned amusing letter." "She made me write that. She was supposed to be ill." "I damned well was, too." "Come on," I said, "we must go in and eat." "How should I meet Cohn?" Mike said. "Just act as though nothing had happened." "It's quite all right with me," Mike said. "I'm not embarrassed." "If he says anything, just say you were tight." "Quite. And the funny thing is I think I was tight." "Come on," Brett said. "Are these poisonous things paid for? I must bathe before dinner." We walked across the square. It was dark and all around the square were the lights from the caf s under the arcades. We walked across the gravel under the trees to the hotel. They went up-stairs and I stopped to speak with Montoya. "Well, how did you like the bulls?" he asked. "Good. They were nice bulls." "They're all right" "--Montoya shook his head--" "but they're not too good." "What didn't you like about them?" "I don't know. They just didn't give me the feeling that they were so good." "I know what you mean." "They're all right." "Yes. They're all right." "How did your friends like them?" "Fine." "Good," Montoya said. I went up-stairs. Bill was in his room standing on the balcony looking out at the square. I stood beside him. "Where's Cohn?" "Up-stairs in his room." "How does he feel?" "Like hell, naturally. Mike was awful. He's terrible when he's tight." "He wasn't so tight." "The hell he wasn't. I know what we had before we came to the caf ." "He sobered up afterward." "Good. He was terrible. I don't like Cohn, God knows, and I think it was a silly trick for him to go down to San Sebastian, but nobody has any business to talk like Mike." "How'd you like the bulls?" "Grand. It's grand the way they bring them out." "To-morrow come the Miuras." "When does the fiesta start?" "Day after to-morrow." "We've got to keep Mike from getting so tight. That kind of stuff is terrible." "We'd better get cleaned up for supper." "Yes. That will be a pleasant meal." "Won't it?" As a matter of fact, supper was a pleasant meal. Brett wore a black, sleeveless evening dress. She looked quite beautiful. Mike acted as though nothing had happened. I had to go up and bring Robert Cohn down. He was reserved and formal, and his face was still taut and sallow, but he cheered up finally. He could not stop looking at Brett. It seemed to make him happy. It | The Sun Also Rises |
"I don t want you to meet him." | Basil Hallward | you didn t, Harry." "Why?"<|quote|>"I don t want you to meet him."</|quote|>"You don t want me | friend." "I am very glad you didn t, Harry." "Why?"<|quote|>"I don t want you to meet him."</|quote|>"You don t want me to meet him?" "No." "Mr. | 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?"<|quote|>"I don t want you to meet him."</|quote|>"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, | 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?"<|quote|>"I don t want you to meet him."</|quote|>"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. | 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?"<|quote|>"I don t want you to meet him."</|quote|>"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 | is exactly why I can feel it. Those who are faithful know only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless who know love s tragedies." And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty silver case and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and satisfied air, as if he had summed up the world in a phrase. There was a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the green lacquer leaves of the ivy, and the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like swallows. How pleasant it was in the garden! And how delightful other people s emotions were! much more delightful than their ideas, it seemed to him. One s own soul, and the 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?"<|quote|>"I don t want you to meet him."</|quote|>"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 | a few moments. "He likes me," he answered after a pause; "I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him dreadfully. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall be sorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer s day." "Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger," murmured Lord Henry. "Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. It is a sad thing to think of, but there is no doubt that genius lasts longer than beauty. That accounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate ourselves. In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have something that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and facts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. The thoroughly well-informed man that is the modern ideal. And the mind of the thoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing. It is like a _bric- -brac_ shop, all monsters and dust, with everything priced above its proper value. I think you will tire first, all the same. Some day you will look at your friend, and he will seem to you to be a little out of drawing, or you won t like his tone of colour, or something. You will bitterly reproach him in your own heart, and seriously think that he has behaved very badly to you. The next time he calls, you will be perfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for it will alter you. What you have told me is quite a romance, a romance of art one might call it, and the worst of having a romance of any kind is that it leaves one so unromantic." "Harry, don t talk like that. As long as I live, the personality of Dorian Gray will dominate me. You can t feel what I feel. You change too often." "Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it. Those who are faithful know only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless who know love s tragedies." And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty silver case and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and satisfied air, as if he had summed up the world in a phrase. There was a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the green lacquer leaves of the ivy, and the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like swallows. How pleasant it was in the garden! And how delightful other people s emotions were! much more delightful than their ideas, it seemed to him. One s own soul, and the 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?"<|quote|>"I don t want you to meet him."</|quote|>"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." "That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me," 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 | than their ideas, it seemed to him. One s own soul, and the 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?"<|quote|>"I don t want you to meet him."</|quote|>"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 | The Picture Of Dorian Gray |
answered Rose. | No speaker | girl. "I promise you solemnly,"<|quote|>answered Rose.</|quote|>"Every Sunday night, from eleven | watched or followed?" asked the girl. "I promise you solemnly,"<|quote|>answered Rose.</|quote|>"Every Sunday night, from eleven until the clock strikes twelve," | walking or passing at any settled period from this time?" "Will you promise me that you will have my secret strictly kept, and come alone, or with the only other person that knows it; and that I shall not be watched or followed?" asked the girl. "I promise you solemnly,"<|quote|>answered Rose.</|quote|>"Every Sunday night, from eleven until the clock strikes twelve," said the girl without hesitation, "I will walk on London Bridge if I am alive." "Stay another moment," interposed Rose, as the girl moved hurriedly towards the door. "Think once again on your own condition, and the opportunity you have | some kind gentleman about you that will hear it as a secret, and advise you what to do," rejoined the girl. "But where can I find you again when it is necessary?" asked Rose. "I do not seek to know where these dreadful people live, but where will you be walking or passing at any settled period from this time?" "Will you promise me that you will have my secret strictly kept, and come alone, or with the only other person that knows it; and that I shall not be watched or followed?" asked the girl. "I promise you solemnly,"<|quote|>answered Rose.</|quote|>"Every Sunday night, from eleven until the clock strikes twelve," said the girl without hesitation, "I will walk on London Bridge if I am alive." "Stay another moment," interposed Rose, as the girl moved hurriedly towards the door. "Think once again on your own condition, and the opportunity you have of escaping from it. You have a claim on me: not only as the voluntary bearer of this intelligence, but as a woman lost almost beyond redemption. Will you return to this gang of robbers, and to this man, when a word can save you? What fascination is it that | if I knew that I was to die by his hand at last." "What am I to do?" said Rose. "I should not let you depart from me thus." "You should, lady, and I know you will," rejoined the girl, rising. "You will not stop my going because I have trusted in your goodness, and forced no promise from you, as I might have done." "Of what use, then, is the communication you have made?" said Rose. "This mystery must be investigated, or how will its disclosure to me, benefit Oliver, whom you are anxious to serve?" "You must have some kind gentleman about you that will hear it as a secret, and advise you what to do," rejoined the girl. "But where can I find you again when it is necessary?" asked Rose. "I do not seek to know where these dreadful people live, but where will you be walking or passing at any settled period from this time?" "Will you promise me that you will have my secret strictly kept, and come alone, or with the only other person that knows it; and that I shall not be watched or followed?" asked the girl. "I promise you solemnly,"<|quote|>answered Rose.</|quote|>"Every Sunday night, from eleven until the clock strikes twelve," said the girl without hesitation, "I will walk on London Bridge if I am alive." "Stay another moment," interposed Rose, as the girl moved hurriedly towards the door. "Think once again on your own condition, and the opportunity you have of escaping from it. You have a claim on me: not only as the voluntary bearer of this intelligence, but as a woman lost almost beyond redemption. Will you return to this gang of robbers, and to this man, when a word can save you? What fascination is it that can take you back, and make you cling to wickedness and misery? Oh! is there no chord in your heart that I can touch! Is there nothing left, to which I can appeal against this terrible infatuation!" "When ladies as young, and good, and beautiful as you are," replied the girl steadily, "give away your hearts, love will carry you all lengths even such as you, who have home, friends, other admirers, everything, to fill them. When such as I, who have no certain roof but the coffinlid, and no friend in sickness or death but the hospital nurse, set | I had heard them years ago, they might have turned me from a life of sin and sorrow; but it is too late, it is too late!" "It is never too late," said Rose, "for penitence and atonement." "It is," cried the girl, writhing in agony of her mind; "I cannot leave him now! I could not be his death." "Why should you be?" asked Rose. "Nothing could save him," cried the girl. "If I told others what I have told you, and led to their being taken, he would be sure to die. He is the boldest, and has been so cruel!" "Is it possible," cried Rose, "that for such a man as this, you can resign every future hope, and the certainty of immediate rescue? It is madness." "I don't know what it is," answered the girl; "I only know that it is so, and not with me alone, but with hundreds of others as bad and wretched as myself. I must go back. Whether it is God's wrath for the wrong I have done, I do not know; but I am drawn back to him through every suffering and ill usage; and I should be, I believe, if I knew that I was to die by his hand at last." "What am I to do?" said Rose. "I should not let you depart from me thus." "You should, lady, and I know you will," rejoined the girl, rising. "You will not stop my going because I have trusted in your goodness, and forced no promise from you, as I might have done." "Of what use, then, is the communication you have made?" said Rose. "This mystery must be investigated, or how will its disclosure to me, benefit Oliver, whom you are anxious to serve?" "You must have some kind gentleman about you that will hear it as a secret, and advise you what to do," rejoined the girl. "But where can I find you again when it is necessary?" asked Rose. "I do not seek to know where these dreadful people live, but where will you be walking or passing at any settled period from this time?" "Will you promise me that you will have my secret strictly kept, and come alone, or with the only other person that knows it; and that I shall not be watched or followed?" asked the girl. "I promise you solemnly,"<|quote|>answered Rose.</|quote|>"Every Sunday night, from eleven until the clock strikes twelve," said the girl without hesitation, "I will walk on London Bridge if I am alive." "Stay another moment," interposed Rose, as the girl moved hurriedly towards the door. "Think once again on your own condition, and the opportunity you have of escaping from it. You have a claim on me: not only as the voluntary bearer of this intelligence, but as a woman lost almost beyond redemption. Will you return to this gang of robbers, and to this man, when a word can save you? What fascination is it that can take you back, and make you cling to wickedness and misery? Oh! is there no chord in your heart that I can touch! Is there nothing left, to which I can appeal against this terrible infatuation!" "When ladies as young, and good, and beautiful as you are," replied the girl steadily, "give away your hearts, love will carry you all lengths even such as you, who have home, friends, other admirers, everything, to fill them. When such as I, who have no certain roof but the coffinlid, and no friend in sickness or death but the hospital nurse, set our rotten hearts on any man, and let him fill the place that has been a blank through all our wretched lives, who can hope to cure us? Pity us, lady pity us for having only one feeling of the woman left, and for having that turned, by a heavy judgment, from a comfort and a pride, into a new means of violence and suffering." "You will," said Rose, after a pause, "take some money from me, which may enable you to live without dishonesty at all events until we meet again?" "Not a penny," replied the girl, waving her hand. "Do not close your heart against all my efforts to help you," said Rose, stepping gently forward. "I wish to serve you indeed." "You would serve me best, lady," replied the girl, wringing her hands, "if you could take my life at once; for I have felt more grief to think of what I am, to-night, than I ever did before, and it would be something not to die in the hell in which I have lived. God bless you, sweet lady, and send as much happiness on your head as I have brought shame on mine!" Thus speaking, | he laughed, and said there was some comfort in that too, for how many thousands and hundreds of thousands of pounds would you not give, if you had them, to know who your two-legged spaniel was." "You do not mean," said Rose, turning very pale, "to tell me that this was said in earnest?" "He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man ever did," replied the girl, shaking her head. "He is an earnest man when his hatred is up. I know many who do worse things; but I'd rather listen to them all a dozen times, than to that Monks once. It is growing late, and I have to reach home without suspicion of having been on such an errand as this. I must get back quickly." "But what can I do?" said Rose. "To what use can I turn this communication without you? Back! Why do you wish to return to companions you paint in such terrible colors? If you repeat this information to a gentleman whom I can summon in an instant from the next room, you can be consigned to some place of safety without half an hour's delay." "I wish to go back," said the girl. "I must go back, because how can I tell such things to an innocent lady like you? because among the men I have told you of, there is one: the most desperate among them all; that I can't leave: no, not even to be saved from the life I am leading now." "Your having interfered in this dear boy's behalf before," said Rose; "your coming here, at so great a risk, to tell me what you have heard; your manner, which convinces me of the truth of what you say; your evident contrition, and sense of shame; all lead me to believe that you might yet be reclaimed. Oh!" said the earnest girl, folding her hands as the tears coursed down her face, "do not turn a deaf ear to the entreaties of one of your own sex; the first the first, I do believe, who ever appealed to you in the voice of pity and compassion. Do hear my words, and let me save you yet, for better things." "Lady," cried the girl, sinking on her knees, "dear, sweet, angel lady, you _are_ the first that ever blessed me with such words as these, and if I had heard them years ago, they might have turned me from a life of sin and sorrow; but it is too late, it is too late!" "It is never too late," said Rose, "for penitence and atonement." "It is," cried the girl, writhing in agony of her mind; "I cannot leave him now! I could not be his death." "Why should you be?" asked Rose. "Nothing could save him," cried the girl. "If I told others what I have told you, and led to their being taken, he would be sure to die. He is the boldest, and has been so cruel!" "Is it possible," cried Rose, "that for such a man as this, you can resign every future hope, and the certainty of immediate rescue? It is madness." "I don't know what it is," answered the girl; "I only know that it is so, and not with me alone, but with hundreds of others as bad and wretched as myself. I must go back. Whether it is God's wrath for the wrong I have done, I do not know; but I am drawn back to him through every suffering and ill usage; and I should be, I believe, if I knew that I was to die by his hand at last." "What am I to do?" said Rose. "I should not let you depart from me thus." "You should, lady, and I know you will," rejoined the girl, rising. "You will not stop my going because I have trusted in your goodness, and forced no promise from you, as I might have done." "Of what use, then, is the communication you have made?" said Rose. "This mystery must be investigated, or how will its disclosure to me, benefit Oliver, whom you are anxious to serve?" "You must have some kind gentleman about you that will hear it as a secret, and advise you what to do," rejoined the girl. "But where can I find you again when it is necessary?" asked Rose. "I do not seek to know where these dreadful people live, but where will you be walking or passing at any settled period from this time?" "Will you promise me that you will have my secret strictly kept, and come alone, or with the only other person that knows it; and that I shall not be watched or followed?" asked the girl. "I promise you solemnly,"<|quote|>answered Rose.</|quote|>"Every Sunday night, from eleven until the clock strikes twelve," said the girl without hesitation, "I will walk on London Bridge if I am alive." "Stay another moment," interposed Rose, as the girl moved hurriedly towards the door. "Think once again on your own condition, and the opportunity you have of escaping from it. You have a claim on me: not only as the voluntary bearer of this intelligence, but as a woman lost almost beyond redemption. Will you return to this gang of robbers, and to this man, when a word can save you? What fascination is it that can take you back, and make you cling to wickedness and misery? Oh! is there no chord in your heart that I can touch! Is there nothing left, to which I can appeal against this terrible infatuation!" "When ladies as young, and good, and beautiful as you are," replied the girl steadily, "give away your hearts, love will carry you all lengths even such as you, who have home, friends, other admirers, everything, to fill them. When such as I, who have no certain roof but the coffinlid, and no friend in sickness or death but the hospital nurse, set our rotten hearts on any man, and let him fill the place that has been a blank through all our wretched lives, who can hope to cure us? Pity us, lady pity us for having only one feeling of the woman left, and for having that turned, by a heavy judgment, from a comfort and a pride, into a new means of violence and suffering." "You will," said Rose, after a pause, "take some money from me, which may enable you to live without dishonesty at all events until we meet again?" "Not a penny," replied the girl, waving her hand. "Do not close your heart against all my efforts to help you," said Rose, stepping gently forward. "I wish to serve you indeed." "You would serve me best, lady," replied the girl, wringing her hands, "if you could take my life at once; for I have felt more grief to think of what I am, to-night, than I ever did before, and it would be something not to die in the hell in which I have lived. God bless you, sweet lady, and send as much happiness on your head as I have brought shame on mine!" Thus speaking, and sobbing aloud, the unhappy creature turned away; while Rose Maylie, overpowered by this extraordinary interview, which had more the semblance of a rapid dream than an actual occurrence, sank into a chair, and endeavoured to collect her wandering thoughts. CHAPTER XLI. CONTAINING FRESH DISCOVERIES, AND SHOWING THAT SUPRISES, LIKE MISFORTUNES, SELDOM COME ALONE Her situation was, indeed, one of no common trial and difficulty. While she felt the most eager and burning desire to penetrate the mystery in which Oliver's history was enveloped, she could not but hold sacred the confidence which the miserable woman with whom she had just conversed, had reposed in her, as a young and guileless girl. Her words and manner had touched Rose Maylie's heart; and, mingled with her love for her young charge, and scarcely less intense in its truth and fervour, was her fond wish to win the outcast back to repentance and hope. They purposed remaining in London only three days, prior to departing for some weeks to a distant part of the coast. It was now midnight of the first day. What course of action could she determine upon, which could be adopted in eight-and-forty hours? Or how could she postpone the journey without exciting suspicion? Mr. Losberne was with them, and would be for the next two days; but Rose was too well acquainted with the excellent gentleman's impetuosity, and foresaw too clearly the wrath with which, in the first explosion of his indignation, he would regard the instrument of Oliver's recapture, to trust him with the secret, when her representations in the girl's behalf could be seconded by no experienced person. These were all reasons for the greatest caution and most circumspect behaviour in communicating it to Mrs. Maylie, whose first impulse would infallibly be to hold a conference with the worthy doctor on the subject. As to resorting to any legal adviser, even if she had known how to do so, it was scarcely to be thought of, for the same reason. Once the thought occurred to her of seeking assistance from Harry; but this awakened the recollection of their last parting, and it seemed unworthy of her to call him back, when the tears rose to her eyes as she pursued this train of reflection he might have by this time learnt to forget her, and to be happier away. Disturbed by these different reflections; inclining | before," said Rose; "your coming here, at so great a risk, to tell me what you have heard; your manner, which convinces me of the truth of what you say; your evident contrition, and sense of shame; all lead me to believe that you might yet be reclaimed. Oh!" said the earnest girl, folding her hands as the tears coursed down her face, "do not turn a deaf ear to the entreaties of one of your own sex; the first the first, I do believe, who ever appealed to you in the voice of pity and compassion. Do hear my words, and let me save you yet, for better things." "Lady," cried the girl, sinking on her knees, "dear, sweet, angel lady, you _are_ the first that ever blessed me with such words as these, and if I had heard them years ago, they might have turned me from a life of sin and sorrow; but it is too late, it is too late!" "It is never too late," said Rose, "for penitence and atonement." "It is," cried the girl, writhing in agony of her mind; "I cannot leave him now! I could not be his death." "Why should you be?" asked Rose. "Nothing could save him," cried the girl. "If I told others what I have told you, and led to their being taken, he would be sure to die. He is the boldest, and has been so cruel!" "Is it possible," cried Rose, "that for such a man as this, you can resign every future hope, and the certainty of immediate rescue? It is madness." "I don't know what it is," answered the girl; "I only know that it is so, and not with me alone, but with hundreds of others as bad and wretched as myself. I must go back. Whether it is God's wrath for the wrong I have done, I do not know; but I am drawn back to him through every suffering and ill usage; and I should be, I believe, if I knew that I was to die by his hand at last." "What am I to do?" said Rose. "I should not let you depart from me thus." "You should, lady, and I know you will," rejoined the girl, rising. "You will not stop my going because I have trusted in your goodness, and forced no promise from you, as I might have done." "Of what use, then, is the communication you have made?" said Rose. "This mystery must be investigated, or how will its disclosure to me, benefit Oliver, whom you are anxious to serve?" "You must have some kind gentleman about you that will hear it as a secret, and advise you what to do," rejoined the girl. "But where can I find you again when it is necessary?" asked Rose. "I do not seek to know where these dreadful people live, but where will you be walking or passing at any settled period from this time?" "Will you promise me that you will have my secret strictly kept, and come alone, or with the only other person that knows it; and that I shall not be watched or followed?" asked the girl. "I promise you solemnly,"<|quote|>answered Rose.</|quote|>"Every Sunday night, from eleven until the clock strikes twelve," said the girl without hesitation, "I will walk on London Bridge if I am alive." "Stay another moment," interposed Rose, as the girl moved hurriedly towards the door. "Think once again on your own condition, and the opportunity you have of escaping from it. You have a claim on me: not only as the voluntary bearer of this intelligence, but as a woman lost almost beyond redemption. Will you return to this gang of robbers, and to this man, when a word can save you? What fascination is it that can take you back, and make you cling to wickedness and misery? Oh! is there no chord in your heart that I can touch! Is there nothing left, to which I can appeal against this terrible infatuation!" "When ladies as young, and good, and beautiful as you are," replied the girl steadily, "give away your hearts, love will carry you all lengths even such as you, who have home, friends, other admirers, everything, to fill them. When such as I, who have no certain roof but the coffinlid, and no friend in sickness or death but the hospital nurse, set our rotten hearts on any man, and let him fill the place that has been a blank through all our wretched lives, who can hope to cure us? Pity us, lady pity us for having only one feeling of the woman left, and for having that turned, by a heavy judgment, from a comfort and a pride, into a new means of violence and suffering." "You will," said Rose, after a pause, "take some money from me, which may enable you to live without dishonesty at all events until we meet again?" "Not a penny," replied the girl, waving her hand. "Do not close your heart against all my efforts to help you," said Rose, stepping | Oliver Twist |
"Yet perhaps you know me better than any one else," | Katharine Hilbery | I ve never known you."<|quote|>"Yet perhaps you know me better than any one else,"</|quote|>she mused. Some detached instinct | "I don t know you. I ve never known you."<|quote|>"Yet perhaps you know me better than any one else,"</|quote|>she mused. Some detached instinct made her aware that she | her meaning, beautiful but so little aware of herself as to seem remote from him also, there was something distant and abstract about her which exalted him and chilled him at the same time. "No, you re right," he said. "I don t know you. I ve never known you."<|quote|>"Yet perhaps you know me better than any one else,"</|quote|>she mused. Some detached instinct made her aware that she was gazing at a book which belonged by rights to some other part of the house. She walked over to the shelf, took it down, and returned to her seat, placing the book on the table between them. Ralph opened | the person you think me. Until you realize that it s impossible" Placing her elbows on the table, she slid her ruby ring up and down her finger abstractedly. She frowned at the rows of leather-bound books opposite her. Ralph looked keenly at her. Very pale, but sternly concentrated upon her meaning, beautiful but so little aware of herself as to seem remote from him also, there was something distant and abstract about her which exalted him and chilled him at the same time. "No, you re right," he said. "I don t know you. I ve never known you."<|quote|>"Yet perhaps you know me better than any one else,"</|quote|>she mused. Some detached instinct made her aware that she was gazing at a book which belonged by rights to some other part of the house. She walked over to the shelf, took it down, and returned to her seat, placing the book on the table between them. Ralph opened it and looked at the portrait of a man with a voluminous white shirt-collar, which formed the frontispiece. "I say I do know you, Katharine," he affirmed, shutting the book. "It s only for moments that I go mad." "Do you call two whole nights a moment?" "I swear to | s done for me" Ralph made a sound of understanding. "You waited there last night too?" she asked. "Yes. I can wait," Denham replied. The words seemed to fill the room with an emotion which Katharine connected with the sound of distant wheels, the footsteps hurrying along the pavement, the cries of sirens hooting down the river, the darkness and the wind. She saw the upright figure standing beneath the lamp-post. "Waiting in the dark," she said, glancing at the window, as if he saw what she was seeing. "Ah, but it s different" She broke off. "I m not the person you think me. Until you realize that it s impossible" Placing her elbows on the table, she slid her ruby ring up and down her finger abstractedly. She frowned at the rows of leather-bound books opposite her. Ralph looked keenly at her. Very pale, but sternly concentrated upon her meaning, beautiful but so little aware of herself as to seem remote from him also, there was something distant and abstract about her which exalted him and chilled him at the same time. "No, you re right," he said. "I don t know you. I ve never known you."<|quote|>"Yet perhaps you know me better than any one else,"</|quote|>she mused. Some detached instinct made her aware that she was gazing at a book which belonged by rights to some other part of the house. She walked over to the shelf, took it down, and returned to her seat, placing the book on the table between them. Ralph opened it and looked at the portrait of a man with a voluminous white shirt-collar, which formed the frontispiece. "I say I do know you, Katharine," he affirmed, shutting the book. "It s only for moments that I go mad." "Do you call two whole nights a moment?" "I swear to you that now, at this instant, I see you precisely as you are. No one has ever known you as I know you.... Could you have taken down that book just now if I hadn t known you?" "That s true," she replied, "but you can t think how I m divided how I m at my ease with you, and how I m bewildered. The unreality the dark the waiting outside in the wind yes, when you look at me, not seeing me, and I don t see you either.... But I do see," she went on quickly, changing | as if to encourage her. "Katharine shall explain," he said, and giving a little nod to Denham, he left the room. Katharine sat down at once, and leant her chin upon her hands. So long as Rodney was in the room the proceedings of the evening had seemed to be in his charge, and had been marked by a certain unreality. Now that she was alone with Ralph she felt at once that a constraint had been taken from them both. She felt that they were alone at the bottom of the house, which rose, story upon story, upon the top of them. "Why were you waiting out there?" she asked. "For the chance of seeing you," he replied. "You would have waited all night if it hadn t been for William. It s windy too. You must have been cold. What could you see? Nothing but our windows." "It was worth it. I heard you call me." "I called you?" She had called unconsciously. "They were engaged this morning," she told him, after a pause. "You re glad?" he asked. She bent her head. "Yes, yes," she sighed. "But you don t know how good he is what he s done for me" Ralph made a sound of understanding. "You waited there last night too?" she asked. "Yes. I can wait," Denham replied. The words seemed to fill the room with an emotion which Katharine connected with the sound of distant wheels, the footsteps hurrying along the pavement, the cries of sirens hooting down the river, the darkness and the wind. She saw the upright figure standing beneath the lamp-post. "Waiting in the dark," she said, glancing at the window, as if he saw what she was seeing. "Ah, but it s different" She broke off. "I m not the person you think me. Until you realize that it s impossible" Placing her elbows on the table, she slid her ruby ring up and down her finger abstractedly. She frowned at the rows of leather-bound books opposite her. Ralph looked keenly at her. Very pale, but sternly concentrated upon her meaning, beautiful but so little aware of herself as to seem remote from him also, there was something distant and abstract about her which exalted him and chilled him at the same time. "No, you re right," he said. "I don t know you. I ve never known you."<|quote|>"Yet perhaps you know me better than any one else,"</|quote|>she mused. Some detached instinct made her aware that she was gazing at a book which belonged by rights to some other part of the house. She walked over to the shelf, took it down, and returned to her seat, placing the book on the table between them. Ralph opened it and looked at the portrait of a man with a voluminous white shirt-collar, which formed the frontispiece. "I say I do know you, Katharine," he affirmed, shutting the book. "It s only for moments that I go mad." "Do you call two whole nights a moment?" "I swear to you that now, at this instant, I see you precisely as you are. No one has ever known you as I know you.... Could you have taken down that book just now if I hadn t known you?" "That s true," she replied, "but you can t think how I m divided how I m at my ease with you, and how I m bewildered. The unreality the dark the waiting outside in the wind yes, when you look at me, not seeing me, and I don t see you either.... But I do see," she went on quickly, changing her position and frowning again, "heaps of things, only not you." "Tell me what you see," he urged. But she could not reduce her vision to words, since it was no single shape colored upon the dark, but rather a general excitement, an atmosphere, which, when she tried to visualize it, took form as a wind scouring the flanks of northern hills and flashing light upon cornfields and pools. "Impossible," she sighed, laughing at the ridiculous notion of putting any part of this into words. "Try, Katharine," Ralph urged her. "But I can t I m talking a sort of nonsense the sort of nonsense one talks to oneself." She was dismayed by the expression of longing and despair upon his face. "I was thinking about a mountain in the North of England," she attempted. "It s too silly I won t go on." "We were there together?" he pressed her. "No. I was alone." She seemed to be disappointing the desire of a child. His face fell. "You re always alone there?" "I can t explain." She could not explain that she was essentially alone there. "It s not a mountain in the North of England. It s an | side of the road, they did not notice a figure close to the railing which divided the garden from the street. But Denham had crossed the road and was standing there. They were startled by his voice close at hand. "Rodney!" "There you are! Come in, Denham." Rodney went to the front door and opened it. "Here he is," he said, bringing Ralph with him into the dining-room where Katharine stood, with her back to the open window. Their eyes met for a second. Denham looked half dazed by the strong light, and, buttoned in his overcoat, with his hair ruffled across his forehead by the wind, he seemed like somebody rescued from an open boat out at sea. William promptly shut the window and drew the curtains. He acted with a cheerful decision as if he were master of the situation, and knew exactly what he meant to do. "You re the first to hear the news, Denham," he said. "Katharine isn t going to marry me, after all." "Where shall I put" Ralph began vaguely, holding out his hat and glancing about him; he balanced it carefully against a silver bowl that stood upon the sideboard. He then sat himself down rather heavily at the head of the oval dinner-table. Rodney stood on one side of him and Katharine on the other. He appeared to be presiding over some meeting from which most of the members were absent. Meanwhile, he waited, and his eyes rested upon the glow of the beautifully polished mahogany table. "William is engaged to Cassandra," said Katharine briefly. At that Denham looked up quickly at Rodney. Rodney s expression changed. He lost his self-possession. He smiled a little nervously, and then his attention seemed to be caught by a fragment of melody from the floor above. He seemed for a moment to forget the presence of the others. He glanced towards the door. "I congratulate you," said Denham. "Yes, yes. We re all mad quite out of our minds, Denham," he said. "It s partly Katharine s doing partly mine." He looked oddly round the room as if he wished to make sure that the scene in which he played a part had some real existence. "Quite mad," he repeated. "Even Katharine" His gaze rested upon her finally, as if she, too, had changed from his old view of her. He smiled at her as if to encourage her. "Katharine shall explain," he said, and giving a little nod to Denham, he left the room. Katharine sat down at once, and leant her chin upon her hands. So long as Rodney was in the room the proceedings of the evening had seemed to be in his charge, and had been marked by a certain unreality. Now that she was alone with Ralph she felt at once that a constraint had been taken from them both. She felt that they were alone at the bottom of the house, which rose, story upon story, upon the top of them. "Why were you waiting out there?" she asked. "For the chance of seeing you," he replied. "You would have waited all night if it hadn t been for William. It s windy too. You must have been cold. What could you see? Nothing but our windows." "It was worth it. I heard you call me." "I called you?" She had called unconsciously. "They were engaged this morning," she told him, after a pause. "You re glad?" he asked. She bent her head. "Yes, yes," she sighed. "But you don t know how good he is what he s done for me" Ralph made a sound of understanding. "You waited there last night too?" she asked. "Yes. I can wait," Denham replied. The words seemed to fill the room with an emotion which Katharine connected with the sound of distant wheels, the footsteps hurrying along the pavement, the cries of sirens hooting down the river, the darkness and the wind. She saw the upright figure standing beneath the lamp-post. "Waiting in the dark," she said, glancing at the window, as if he saw what she was seeing. "Ah, but it s different" She broke off. "I m not the person you think me. Until you realize that it s impossible" Placing her elbows on the table, she slid her ruby ring up and down her finger abstractedly. She frowned at the rows of leather-bound books opposite her. Ralph looked keenly at her. Very pale, but sternly concentrated upon her meaning, beautiful but so little aware of herself as to seem remote from him also, there was something distant and abstract about her which exalted him and chilled him at the same time. "No, you re right," he said. "I don t know you. I ve never known you."<|quote|>"Yet perhaps you know me better than any one else,"</|quote|>she mused. Some detached instinct made her aware that she was gazing at a book which belonged by rights to some other part of the house. She walked over to the shelf, took it down, and returned to her seat, placing the book on the table between them. Ralph opened it and looked at the portrait of a man with a voluminous white shirt-collar, which formed the frontispiece. "I say I do know you, Katharine," he affirmed, shutting the book. "It s only for moments that I go mad." "Do you call two whole nights a moment?" "I swear to you that now, at this instant, I see you precisely as you are. No one has ever known you as I know you.... Could you have taken down that book just now if I hadn t known you?" "That s true," she replied, "but you can t think how I m divided how I m at my ease with you, and how I m bewildered. The unreality the dark the waiting outside in the wind yes, when you look at me, not seeing me, and I don t see you either.... But I do see," she went on quickly, changing her position and frowning again, "heaps of things, only not you." "Tell me what you see," he urged. But she could not reduce her vision to words, since it was no single shape colored upon the dark, but rather a general excitement, an atmosphere, which, when she tried to visualize it, took form as a wind scouring the flanks of northern hills and flashing light upon cornfields and pools. "Impossible," she sighed, laughing at the ridiculous notion of putting any part of this into words. "Try, Katharine," Ralph urged her. "But I can t I m talking a sort of nonsense the sort of nonsense one talks to oneself." She was dismayed by the expression of longing and despair upon his face. "I was thinking about a mountain in the North of England," she attempted. "It s too silly I won t go on." "We were there together?" he pressed her. "No. I was alone." She seemed to be disappointing the desire of a child. His face fell. "You re always alone there?" "I can t explain." She could not explain that she was essentially alone there. "It s not a mountain in the North of England. It s an imagination a story one tells oneself. You have yours too?" "You re with me in mine. You re the thing I make up, you see." "Oh, I see," she sighed. "That s why it s so impossible." She turned upon him almost fiercely. "You must try to stop it," she said. "I won t," he replied roughly, "because I" He stopped. He realized that the moment had come to impart that news of the utmost importance which he had tried to impart to Mary Datchet, to Rodney upon the Embankment, to the drunken tramp upon the seat. How should he offer it to Katharine? He looked quickly at her. He saw that she was only half attentive to him; only a section of her was exposed to him. The sight roused in him such desperation that he had much ado to control his impulse to rise and leave the house. Her hand lay loosely curled upon the table. He seized it and grasped it firmly as if to make sure of her existence and of his own. "Because I love you, Katharine," he said. Some roundness or warmth essential to that statement was absent from his voice, and she had merely to shake her head very slightly for him to drop her hand and turn away in shame at his own impotence. He thought that she had detected his wish to leave her. She had discerned the break in his resolution, the blankness in the heart of his vision. It was true that he had been happier out in the street, thinking of her, than now that he was in the same room with her. He looked at her with a guilty expression on his face. But her look expressed neither disappointment nor reproach. Her pose was easy, and she seemed to give effect to a mood of quiet speculation by the spinning of her ruby ring upon the polished table. Denham forgot his despair in wondering what thoughts now occupied her. "You don t believe me?" he said. His tone was humble, and made her smile at him. "As far as I understand you but what should you advise me to do with this ring?" she asked, holding it out. "I should advise you to let me keep it for you," he replied, in the same tone of half-humorous gravity. "After what you ve said, I can hardly trust | that she was alone with Ralph she felt at once that a constraint had been taken from them both. She felt that they were alone at the bottom of the house, which rose, story upon story, upon the top of them. "Why were you waiting out there?" she asked. "For the chance of seeing you," he replied. "You would have waited all night if it hadn t been for William. It s windy too. You must have been cold. What could you see? Nothing but our windows." "It was worth it. I heard you call me." "I called you?" She had called unconsciously. "They were engaged this morning," she told him, after a pause. "You re glad?" he asked. She bent her head. "Yes, yes," she sighed. "But you don t know how good he is what he s done for me" Ralph made a sound of understanding. "You waited there last night too?" she asked. "Yes. I can wait," Denham replied. The words seemed to fill the room with an emotion which Katharine connected with the sound of distant wheels, the footsteps hurrying along the pavement, the cries of sirens hooting down the river, the darkness and the wind. She saw the upright figure standing beneath the lamp-post. "Waiting in the dark," she said, glancing at the window, as if he saw what she was seeing. "Ah, but it s different" She broke off. "I m not the person you think me. Until you realize that it s impossible" Placing her elbows on the table, she slid her ruby ring up and down her finger abstractedly. She frowned at the rows of leather-bound books opposite her. Ralph looked keenly at her. Very pale, but sternly concentrated upon her meaning, beautiful but so little aware of herself as to seem remote from him also, there was something distant and abstract about her which exalted him and chilled him at the same time. "No, you re right," he said. "I don t know you. I ve never known you."<|quote|>"Yet perhaps you know me better than any one else,"</|quote|>she mused. Some detached instinct made her aware that she was gazing at a book which belonged by rights to some other part of the house. She walked over to the shelf, took it down, and returned to her seat, placing the book on the table between them. Ralph opened it and looked at the portrait of a man with a voluminous white shirt-collar, which formed the frontispiece. "I say I do know you, Katharine," he affirmed, shutting the book. "It s only for moments that I go mad." "Do you call two whole nights a moment?" "I swear to you that now, at this instant, I see you precisely as you are. No one has ever known you as I know you.... Could you have taken down that book just now if I hadn t known you?" "That s true," she replied, "but you can t think how I m divided how I m at my ease with you, and how I m bewildered. The unreality the dark the waiting outside in the wind yes, when you look at me, not seeing me, and I don t see you either.... But I do see," she went on quickly, changing her position and frowning again, "heaps of things, only not you." "Tell me what you see," he urged. But she could not reduce her vision to words, since it was no single shape colored upon the dark, but rather a general excitement, an atmosphere, which, when she tried to visualize it, took form as a wind scouring the flanks of northern hills and flashing light upon cornfields and pools. "Impossible," she sighed, laughing at the ridiculous notion of putting any part of this into words. "Try, Katharine," Ralph urged her. "But I can t I m talking a sort of nonsense the sort of nonsense one talks to oneself." She was dismayed by the expression of longing and despair upon his face. "I was thinking about a mountain in the North of England," she attempted. "It s too silly I won t go on." "We were there together?" he pressed her. "No. I was alone." She seemed to be disappointing the desire of a child. His face fell. "You re always alone there?" "I can t explain." She could not explain that she was essentially alone there. "It s not a mountain in the North of England. It s an imagination a story one tells oneself. You have yours too?" "You re with me in mine. You re the thing I make up, you see." "Oh, I see," she sighed. "That s why it s so impossible." She turned upon him almost fiercely. "You must try to stop it," she said. "I won t," he replied roughly, "because I" He stopped. He realized that the moment had come to impart that news of the utmost importance which he had tried to impart to Mary Datchet, to Rodney upon the Embankment, to the drunken tramp upon | Night And Day |
He glowed with his admiration. | No speaker | right and a straight one.”<|quote|>He glowed with his admiration.</|quote|>“You’re splendid!” That might be | ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.”<|quote|>He glowed with his admiration.</|quote|>“You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug | they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought out. “One _has_ to be a girl, naturally, to be a daughter of one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.”<|quote|>He glowed with his admiration.</|quote|>“You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case. “I see our situation.” “So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent | question from his mouth. “I believe in such a cause exactly as you do--and found a lesson, at Dedborough, in your frankness and your faith.” “Then you’ll help me no end,” he said all simply and sincerely. “You’ve helped _me_ already” --that she gave him straight back. And on it they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought out. “One _has_ to be a girl, naturally, to be a daughter of one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.”<|quote|>He glowed with his admiration.</|quote|>“You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case. “I see our situation.” “So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had been nothing of her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he | peace, for having joined so gallantly in my grand remonstrance.” She shook her head, turning from him, but then turned back again--as if accepting, as if even relieved by, this version of the prime cause of her state. “Why do you talk of it as ‘paying’--if it’s all to come back to my _being_ paid? I mean by your blest success--if you really do what you want.” “I have your word for it,” he searchingly said, “that our really pulling it off together will make up to you----?” “I should be ashamed if it didn’t, for everything!” --she took the question from his mouth. “I believe in such a cause exactly as you do--and found a lesson, at Dedborough, in your frankness and your faith.” “Then you’ll help me no end,” he said all simply and sincerely. “You’ve helped _me_ already” --that she gave him straight back. And on it they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought out. “One _has_ to be a girl, naturally, to be a daughter of one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.”<|quote|>He glowed with his admiration.</|quote|>“You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case. “I see our situation.” “So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had been nothing of her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,” she smiled, “though he _is_ a miserable peer.” “How should he not have rights,” said Hugh, “when he has really everything on earth?” “Ah, he doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.” “He lives all in his own, yes; but he does business all in ours--quite as much as the | incoming home by Paris, where I had a grand four days’ jaw with the fellows there and saw _their_ great specimen of our master: all of which has given him time.” “And now his time’s up?” the girl eagerly asked. “It _must_ be--and we shall see.” But Hugh postponed that question to a matter of more moment still. “The thing is that at last I’m able to tell you how I feel the trouble I’ve brought you.” It made her, quickly colouring, rest grave eyes on him. “What do you know--when I haven’t told you--about my ‘trouble’?” “Can’t I have guessed, with a ray of intelligence?” --he had his answer ready. “You’ve sought asylum with this good friend from the effects of your father’s resentment.” “‘Sought asylum’ is perhaps excessive,” Lady Grace returned-- “though it wasn’t pleasant with him after that hour, no,” she allowed. “And I couldn’t go, you see, to Kitty.” “No indeed, you couldn’t go to Kitty.” He smiled at her hard as he added: “I should have liked to see you go to Kitty! Therefore exactly is it that I’ve set you adrift--that I’ve darkened and poisoned your days. You’re paying with your comfort, with your peace, for having joined so gallantly in my grand remonstrance.” She shook her head, turning from him, but then turned back again--as if accepting, as if even relieved by, this version of the prime cause of her state. “Why do you talk of it as ‘paying’--if it’s all to come back to my _being_ paid? I mean by your blest success--if you really do what you want.” “I have your word for it,” he searchingly said, “that our really pulling it off together will make up to you----?” “I should be ashamed if it didn’t, for everything!” --she took the question from his mouth. “I believe in such a cause exactly as you do--and found a lesson, at Dedborough, in your frankness and your faith.” “Then you’ll help me no end,” he said all simply and sincerely. “You’ve helped _me_ already” --that she gave him straight back. And on it they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought out. “One _has_ to be a girl, naturally, to be a daughter of one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.”<|quote|>He glowed with his admiration.</|quote|>“You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case. “I see our situation.” “So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had been nothing of her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,” she smiled, “though he _is_ a miserable peer.” “How should he not have rights,” said Hugh, “when he has really everything on earth?” “Ah, he doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.” “He lives all in his own, yes; but he does business all in ours--quite as much as the people who come up to the city in the Tube.” With which Hugh had a still sharper recall of the stiff actual. “And he must be here to do business to-day.” “You know,” Lady Grace asked, “that he’s to meet Mr. Bender?” “Lady Sandgate kindly warned me, and,” her companion saw as he glanced at the clock on the chimney, “I’ve only ten minutes, at best. The ‘Journal’ won’t have been good for him,” he added-- “you doubtless have seen the ‘Journal’?” “No” --she was vague. “We live by the ‘Morning Post.’” “That’s why our friend here didn’t speak then,” Hugh said with a better light-- “which, out of a dim consideration for her, I didn’t do, either. But they’ve a leader this morning about Lady Lappington and her Longhi, and on Bender and his hauls, and on the certainty--if we don’t do something energetic--of more and more Benders to come: such a conquering horde as invaded the old civilisation, only armed now with huge cheque-books instead of with spears and battle-axes. They refer to the rumour current--as too horrific to believe--of Lord Theign’s putting up his Moretto; with the question of how properly to qualify any such sad purpose | if suddenly conceiving him a prig. “See here, Mr. Crimble, I’ve been--and this very first time I--charming to you.” “You have indeed,” he returned; “but you throw back on it a lurid light if it has all been for _that!_” “It has been--well, to keep things as I want them; and if I’ve given you precious information mightn’t you on your side--” “Estimate its value in cash?” --Hugh sharply took her up. “Ah, Lady Sandgate, I _am_ in your debt, but if you really bargain for your precious information I’d rather we assume that I haven’t enjoyed it.” She made him, however, in reply, a sign for silence; she had heard Lady Grace enter the other room from the back landing, and, reaching the nearer door, she disposed of the question with high gay bravery. “I won’t bargain with the Treasury!” --she had passed out by the time Lady Grace arrived. II As Hugh recognised in this friend’s entrance and face the light of welcome he went, full of his subject, straight to their main affair. “I haven’t been able to wait, I’ve wanted so much to tell you--I mean how I’ve just come back from Brussels, where I saw Pappen-dick, who was free and ready, by the happiest chance, to start for Verona, which he must have reached some time yesterday.” The girl’s responsive interest fairly broke into rapture. “Ah, the dear sweet thing!” “Yes, he’s a brick--but the question now hangs in the balance. Allowing him time to have got into relation with the picture, I’ve begun to expect his wire, which will probably come to my club; but my fidget, while I wait, has driven me” --he threw out and dropped his arms in expression of his soft surrender-- “well, just to do _this_: to come to you here, in my fever, at an unnatural hour and uninvited, and at least let you know I’ve ‘acted.’” “Oh, but I simply rejoice,” Lady Grace declared, “to be acting _with_ you.” “Then if you are, if you are,” the young man cried, “why everything’s beautiful and right!” “It’s all I care for and think of now,” she went on in her bright devotion, “and I’ve only wondered and hoped!” Well, Hugh found for it all a rapid, abundant lucidity. “He was away from home at first, and I had to wait--but I crossed last week, found him and settled incoming home by Paris, where I had a grand four days’ jaw with the fellows there and saw _their_ great specimen of our master: all of which has given him time.” “And now his time’s up?” the girl eagerly asked. “It _must_ be--and we shall see.” But Hugh postponed that question to a matter of more moment still. “The thing is that at last I’m able to tell you how I feel the trouble I’ve brought you.” It made her, quickly colouring, rest grave eyes on him. “What do you know--when I haven’t told you--about my ‘trouble’?” “Can’t I have guessed, with a ray of intelligence?” --he had his answer ready. “You’ve sought asylum with this good friend from the effects of your father’s resentment.” “‘Sought asylum’ is perhaps excessive,” Lady Grace returned-- “though it wasn’t pleasant with him after that hour, no,” she allowed. “And I couldn’t go, you see, to Kitty.” “No indeed, you couldn’t go to Kitty.” He smiled at her hard as he added: “I should have liked to see you go to Kitty! Therefore exactly is it that I’ve set you adrift--that I’ve darkened and poisoned your days. You’re paying with your comfort, with your peace, for having joined so gallantly in my grand remonstrance.” She shook her head, turning from him, but then turned back again--as if accepting, as if even relieved by, this version of the prime cause of her state. “Why do you talk of it as ‘paying’--if it’s all to come back to my _being_ paid? I mean by your blest success--if you really do what you want.” “I have your word for it,” he searchingly said, “that our really pulling it off together will make up to you----?” “I should be ashamed if it didn’t, for everything!” --she took the question from his mouth. “I believe in such a cause exactly as you do--and found a lesson, at Dedborough, in your frankness and your faith.” “Then you’ll help me no end,” he said all simply and sincerely. “You’ve helped _me_ already” --that she gave him straight back. And on it they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought out. “One _has_ to be a girl, naturally, to be a daughter of one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.”<|quote|>He glowed with his admiration.</|quote|>“You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case. “I see our situation.” “So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had been nothing of her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,” she smiled, “though he _is_ a miserable peer.” “How should he not have rights,” said Hugh, “when he has really everything on earth?” “Ah, he doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.” “He lives all in his own, yes; but he does business all in ours--quite as much as the people who come up to the city in the Tube.” With which Hugh had a still sharper recall of the stiff actual. “And he must be here to do business to-day.” “You know,” Lady Grace asked, “that he’s to meet Mr. Bender?” “Lady Sandgate kindly warned me, and,” her companion saw as he glanced at the clock on the chimney, “I’ve only ten minutes, at best. The ‘Journal’ won’t have been good for him,” he added-- “you doubtless have seen the ‘Journal’?” “No” --she was vague. “We live by the ‘Morning Post.’” “That’s why our friend here didn’t speak then,” Hugh said with a better light-- “which, out of a dim consideration for her, I didn’t do, either. But they’ve a leader this morning about Lady Lappington and her Longhi, and on Bender and his hauls, and on the certainty--if we don’t do something energetic--of more and more Benders to come: such a conquering horde as invaded the old civilisation, only armed now with huge cheque-books instead of with spears and battle-axes. They refer to the rumour current--as too horrific to believe--of Lord Theign’s putting up his Moretto; with the question of how properly to qualify any such sad purpose in him should the further report prove true of a new and momentous opinion about the picture entertained by several eminent authorities.” “Of whom,” said the girl, intensely attached to this recital, “you’re of course seen as not the least.” “Of whom, of course, Lady Grace, I’m as yet--however I’m ‘seen’--the whole collection. But we’ve time” --he rested on that “The fat, if you’ll allow me the expression, is on the fire--which, as I see the matter, is where this particular fat _should_ be.” “Is the article, then,” his companion appealed, “very severe?” “I prefer to call it very enlightened and very intelligent--and the great thing is that it immensely ‘marks,’ as they say. It will have made a big public difference--from this day; though it’s of course aimed not so much at persons as at conditions; which it calls upon us all somehow to tackle.” “Exactly” --she was full of the saving vision; “but as the conditions are directly embodied in persons----” “Oh, of course it here and there bells the cat; which means that it bells three or four.” “Yes,” she richly brooded-- “Lady Lappington _is_ a cat!” “She will have been ‘belled,’ at any rate, with your father,” Hugh amusedly went on, “to the certainty of a row; and a row can only be good for us--I mean for _us_ in particular.” Yet he had to bethink himself. “The case depends a good deal of course on how your father _takes_ such a resounding rap.” “Oh, I know how he’ll take it!” --her perception went all the way. “In the very highest and properest spirit?” “Well, you’ll see.” She was as brave as she was clear. “Or at least I shall!” Struck with all this in her he renewed his homage. “You _are_, yes, splendid!” “I even,” she laughed, “surprise myself.” But he was already back at his calculations. “How early do the papers get to you?” “At Dedborough? Oh, quite for breakfast--which isn’t, however, very early.” “Then that’s what has caused his wire to Bender.” “But how will such talk strike _him_?” the girl asked. Hugh meanwhile, visibly, had not only followed his train of thought, he had let it lead him to certainty. “It will have moved Mr. Bender to absolute rapture.” “Rather,” Lady Grace wondered, “than have put him off?” “It will have put him prodigiously _on!_ Mr. Bender--as he said to me at | I couldn’t go, you see, to Kitty.” “No indeed, you couldn’t go to Kitty.” He smiled at her hard as he added: “I should have liked to see you go to Kitty! Therefore exactly is it that I’ve set you adrift--that I’ve darkened and poisoned your days. You’re paying with your comfort, with your peace, for having joined so gallantly in my grand remonstrance.” She shook her head, turning from him, but then turned back again--as if accepting, as if even relieved by, this version of the prime cause of her state. “Why do you talk of it as ‘paying’--if it’s all to come back to my _being_ paid? I mean by your blest success--if you really do what you want.” “I have your word for it,” he searchingly said, “that our really pulling it off together will make up to you----?” “I should be ashamed if it didn’t, for everything!” --she took the question from his mouth. “I believe in such a cause exactly as you do--and found a lesson, at Dedborough, in your frankness and your faith.” “Then you’ll help me no end,” he said all simply and sincerely. “You’ve helped _me_ already” --that she gave him straight back. And on it they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought out. “One _has_ to be a girl, naturally, to be a daughter of one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.”<|quote|>He glowed with his admiration.</|quote|>“You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case. “I see our situation.” “So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had been nothing of her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,” she smiled, “though he _is_ a miserable peer.” “How should he not have rights,” said Hugh, “when he has really everything on earth?” “Ah, he doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.” “He lives all in his own, yes; but he does business all in ours--quite as much as the people who come up to the city in | The Outcry |
Lord Theign brought good-naturedly out, | No speaker | a fine work anyway.” “Then,”<|quote|>Lord Theign brought good-naturedly out,</|quote|>“what’s the matter with _you_, | course,” said Mr. Bender, “it’s a fine work anyway.” “Then,”<|quote|>Lord Theign brought good-naturedly out,</|quote|>“what’s the matter with _you_, Mr. Bender?” That gentleman was | the question!” The eyebrows continued to rise. “Does he pretend there’s a question of whether it _is_ a Moretto?” “That’s what he was up there trying to find out.” “But if the value’s, according to himself, ten thousand----?” “Why, of course,” said Mr. Bender, “it’s a fine work anyway.” “Then,”<|quote|>Lord Theign brought good-naturedly out,</|quote|>“what’s the matter with _you_, Mr. Bender?” That gentleman was perfectly clear. “The matter with me, Lord Theign, is that I’ve no use for a ten thousand picture.” “‘No use?’” --the expression had an oddity. “But what’s it your idea to do with such things?” “I mean,” Mr. Bender explained, | ten thousand?” The subject of his gay tribute considered. “There’s nothing the matter with ten thousand.” “Then,” Lord Theign asked, “is there anything the matter with the picture?” “Yes, sir--I guess there is.” It gave an upward push to his lordship’s eyebrows. “But what in the world----?” “Well, that’s just the question!” The eyebrows continued to rise. “Does he pretend there’s a question of whether it _is_ a Moretto?” “That’s what he was up there trying to find out.” “But if the value’s, according to himself, ten thousand----?” “Why, of course,” said Mr. Bender, “it’s a fine work anyway.” “Then,”<|quote|>Lord Theign brought good-naturedly out,</|quote|>“what’s the matter with _you_, Mr. Bender?” That gentleman was perfectly clear. “The matter with me, Lord Theign, is that I’ve no use for a ten thousand picture.” “‘No use?’” --the expression had an oddity. “But what’s it your idea to do with such things?” “I mean,” Mr. Bender explained, “that a picture of that rank is not what I’m after.” “The figure,” said his noble host--speaking thus, under pressure, commercially-- “is beyond what you see your way to?” But Lord John had jumped at the truth. “The matter with Mr. Bender is that he sees his way much further.” | thing, to their entertainer. “Am I aware of the value of the Moretto?” Lord Theign, who had meanwhile lighted another cigarette, appeared, a bit extravagantly smoking, to wish to put an end to his effect of hovering aloof. “That question needn’t trouble us--when I see how much Mr. Bender himself knows about it.” “Well, Lord Theign, I only know what that young man puts it at.” And then as the others waited, “Ten thousand,” said Mr. Bender. “Ten thousand?” The owner of the work showed no emotion. “Well,” said Lord John again in Mr. Bender’s style, “what’s the matter with ten thousand?” The subject of his gay tribute considered. “There’s nothing the matter with ten thousand.” “Then,” Lord Theign asked, “is there anything the matter with the picture?” “Yes, sir--I guess there is.” It gave an upward push to his lordship’s eyebrows. “But what in the world----?” “Well, that’s just the question!” The eyebrows continued to rise. “Does he pretend there’s a question of whether it _is_ a Moretto?” “That’s what he was up there trying to find out.” “But if the value’s, according to himself, ten thousand----?” “Why, of course,” said Mr. Bender, “it’s a fine work anyway.” “Then,”<|quote|>Lord Theign brought good-naturedly out,</|quote|>“what’s the matter with _you_, Mr. Bender?” That gentleman was perfectly clear. “The matter with me, Lord Theign, is that I’ve no use for a ten thousand picture.” “‘No use?’” --the expression had an oddity. “But what’s it your idea to do with such things?” “I mean,” Mr. Bender explained, “that a picture of that rank is not what I’m after.” “The figure,” said his noble host--speaking thus, under pressure, commercially-- “is beyond what you see your way to?” But Lord John had jumped at the truth. “The matter with Mr. Bender is that he sees his way much further.” “Further?” their companion echoed. “The matter with Mr. Bender is that he wants to give millions.” Lord Theign sounded this abyss with a smile. “Well, there would be no difficulty about _that_, I think!” “Ah,” said his guest, “you know the basis, sir, on which I’m ready to pay.” “On the basis then of the Sir Joshua,” Lord John inquired, “how far would you go?” Mr. Bender indicated by a gesture that on a question reduced to a moiety by its conditional form he could give but semi-satisfaction. “Well, I’d go all the way.” “He wants, you see,” Lord John | hadn’t dropped Mr. Bender mightn’t have been markedly impressed. “Then it must be the very first time such an offer has failed.” “Oh, it isn’t that we in the least press it!” Lord Theign quite naturally laughed. “Ah, I beg your pardon--I press it very hard!” And Lord John, as taking from his face and manner a cue for further humorous license, went so far as to emulate, though sympathetically enough, their companion’s native form. “You don’t mean to say you don’t feel the interest of that Moretto?” Mr. Bender, quietly confident, took his time to reply. “Well, if you had seen me up on that chair you’d have thought I did.” “Then you must have stepped down from the chair properly impressed.” “I stepped down quite impressed with that young man.” “Mr. Crimble?” --it came after an instant to Lord John. “With _his_ opinion, really? Then I hope he’s aware of the picture’s value.” “You had better ask him,” Mr. Bender observed. “Oh, we don’t depend here on the Mr. Crimbles!” Lord John returned. Mr. Bender took a longer look at him. “Are you aware of the value yourself?” His friend resorted again, as for the amusement of the thing, to their entertainer. “Am I aware of the value of the Moretto?” Lord Theign, who had meanwhile lighted another cigarette, appeared, a bit extravagantly smoking, to wish to put an end to his effect of hovering aloof. “That question needn’t trouble us--when I see how much Mr. Bender himself knows about it.” “Well, Lord Theign, I only know what that young man puts it at.” And then as the others waited, “Ten thousand,” said Mr. Bender. “Ten thousand?” The owner of the work showed no emotion. “Well,” said Lord John again in Mr. Bender’s style, “what’s the matter with ten thousand?” The subject of his gay tribute considered. “There’s nothing the matter with ten thousand.” “Then,” Lord Theign asked, “is there anything the matter with the picture?” “Yes, sir--I guess there is.” It gave an upward push to his lordship’s eyebrows. “But what in the world----?” “Well, that’s just the question!” The eyebrows continued to rise. “Does he pretend there’s a question of whether it _is_ a Moretto?” “That’s what he was up there trying to find out.” “But if the value’s, according to himself, ten thousand----?” “Why, of course,” said Mr. Bender, “it’s a fine work anyway.” “Then,”<|quote|>Lord Theign brought good-naturedly out,</|quote|>“what’s the matter with _you_, Mr. Bender?” That gentleman was perfectly clear. “The matter with me, Lord Theign, is that I’ve no use for a ten thousand picture.” “‘No use?’” --the expression had an oddity. “But what’s it your idea to do with such things?” “I mean,” Mr. Bender explained, “that a picture of that rank is not what I’m after.” “The figure,” said his noble host--speaking thus, under pressure, commercially-- “is beyond what you see your way to?” But Lord John had jumped at the truth. “The matter with Mr. Bender is that he sees his way much further.” “Further?” their companion echoed. “The matter with Mr. Bender is that he wants to give millions.” Lord Theign sounded this abyss with a smile. “Well, there would be no difficulty about _that_, I think!” “Ah,” said his guest, “you know the basis, sir, on which I’m ready to pay.” “On the basis then of the Sir Joshua,” Lord John inquired, “how far would you go?” Mr. Bender indicated by a gesture that on a question reduced to a moiety by its conditional form he could give but semi-satisfaction. “Well, I’d go all the way.” “He wants, you see,” Lord John elucidated, “an _ideally_ expensive thing.” Lord Theign appeared to decide after a moment to enter into the pleasant spirit of this; which he did by addressing his younger friend. “Then why shouldn’t I make even the Moretto as expensive as he desires?” “Because you can’t do violence to _that_ master’s natural modesty,” Mr. Bender declared before Lord John had time to speak. And conscious at this moment of the reappearance of his fellow-explorer, he at once supplied a further light. “I guess this gentleman at any rate can tell you.” VIII Hugh Crimble had come back from his voyage of discovery, and it was visible as he stood there flushed and quite radiant that he had caught in his approach Lord Theign’s last inquiry and Mr. Bender’s reply to it. You would have imputed to him on the spot the lively possession of a new idea, the sustaining sense of a message important enough to justify his irruption. He looked from one to the other of the three men, scattered a little by the sight of him, but attached eyes of recognition then to Lord Theign’s, whom he remained an instant longer communicatively smiling at. After which, as you might | John,” said that gentleman, always easy, but always too, as you would have felt, aware of everything-- “go ahead, but don’t sweetly hope to create me in any desire that doesn’t already exist in the germ. The attempt has often been made, over here--has in fact been organised on a considerable scale; but I guess I’ve got some peculiarity, for it doesn’t seem as if the thing could be done. If the germ is there, on the other hand,” Mr. Bender conceded, “it develops independently of all encouragement.” Lord John communicated again as in a particular sense with Lord Theign. “He thinks I really mean to _offer_ him something!” Lord Theign, who seemed to wish to advertise a degree of detachment from the issue, or from any other such, strolled off, in his restlessness, toward the door that opened to the terrace, only stopping on his way to light a cigarette from a matchbox on a small table. It was but after doing so that he made the remark: “Ah, Mr. Bender may easily be too much for you!” “That makes me the more sorry, sir,” said his visitor, “not to have been enough for _you!_” “I risk it, at any rate,” Lord John went on-- “I put you, Bender, the question of whether you wouldn’t Move,’ as you say, to acquire that Moretto.” Mr. Bender’s large face had a commensurate gaze. “As I say? I haven’t said anything of the sort!” “But you do ‘love’ you know,” Lord John slightly overgrimaced. “I don’t when I don’t want to. I’m different from most people--I can love or not as I like. The trouble with that Moretto,” Mr. Bender continued, “is that it ain’t what I’m after.” His “after” had somehow, for the ear, the vividness of a sharp whack on the resisting surface of things, and was concerned doubtless in Lord John’s speaking again across to their host. “The worst he can do for me, you see, is to refuse it.” Lord Theign, who practically had his back turned and was fairly dandling about in his impatience, tossed out to the terrace the cigarette he had but just lighted. Yet he faced round to reply: “It’s the very first time in the history of this house (a long one, Mr. Bender) that a picture, or anything else in it, has been offered----!” It was not imperceptible that even if he hadn’t dropped Mr. Bender mightn’t have been markedly impressed. “Then it must be the very first time such an offer has failed.” “Oh, it isn’t that we in the least press it!” Lord Theign quite naturally laughed. “Ah, I beg your pardon--I press it very hard!” And Lord John, as taking from his face and manner a cue for further humorous license, went so far as to emulate, though sympathetically enough, their companion’s native form. “You don’t mean to say you don’t feel the interest of that Moretto?” Mr. Bender, quietly confident, took his time to reply. “Well, if you had seen me up on that chair you’d have thought I did.” “Then you must have stepped down from the chair properly impressed.” “I stepped down quite impressed with that young man.” “Mr. Crimble?” --it came after an instant to Lord John. “With _his_ opinion, really? Then I hope he’s aware of the picture’s value.” “You had better ask him,” Mr. Bender observed. “Oh, we don’t depend here on the Mr. Crimbles!” Lord John returned. Mr. Bender took a longer look at him. “Are you aware of the value yourself?” His friend resorted again, as for the amusement of the thing, to their entertainer. “Am I aware of the value of the Moretto?” Lord Theign, who had meanwhile lighted another cigarette, appeared, a bit extravagantly smoking, to wish to put an end to his effect of hovering aloof. “That question needn’t trouble us--when I see how much Mr. Bender himself knows about it.” “Well, Lord Theign, I only know what that young man puts it at.” And then as the others waited, “Ten thousand,” said Mr. Bender. “Ten thousand?” The owner of the work showed no emotion. “Well,” said Lord John again in Mr. Bender’s style, “what’s the matter with ten thousand?” The subject of his gay tribute considered. “There’s nothing the matter with ten thousand.” “Then,” Lord Theign asked, “is there anything the matter with the picture?” “Yes, sir--I guess there is.” It gave an upward push to his lordship’s eyebrows. “But what in the world----?” “Well, that’s just the question!” The eyebrows continued to rise. “Does he pretend there’s a question of whether it _is_ a Moretto?” “That’s what he was up there trying to find out.” “But if the value’s, according to himself, ten thousand----?” “Why, of course,” said Mr. Bender, “it’s a fine work anyway.” “Then,”<|quote|>Lord Theign brought good-naturedly out,</|quote|>“what’s the matter with _you_, Mr. Bender?” That gentleman was perfectly clear. “The matter with me, Lord Theign, is that I’ve no use for a ten thousand picture.” “‘No use?’” --the expression had an oddity. “But what’s it your idea to do with such things?” “I mean,” Mr. Bender explained, “that a picture of that rank is not what I’m after.” “The figure,” said his noble host--speaking thus, under pressure, commercially-- “is beyond what you see your way to?” But Lord John had jumped at the truth. “The matter with Mr. Bender is that he sees his way much further.” “Further?” their companion echoed. “The matter with Mr. Bender is that he wants to give millions.” Lord Theign sounded this abyss with a smile. “Well, there would be no difficulty about _that_, I think!” “Ah,” said his guest, “you know the basis, sir, on which I’m ready to pay.” “On the basis then of the Sir Joshua,” Lord John inquired, “how far would you go?” Mr. Bender indicated by a gesture that on a question reduced to a moiety by its conditional form he could give but semi-satisfaction. “Well, I’d go all the way.” “He wants, you see,” Lord John elucidated, “an _ideally_ expensive thing.” Lord Theign appeared to decide after a moment to enter into the pleasant spirit of this; which he did by addressing his younger friend. “Then why shouldn’t I make even the Moretto as expensive as he desires?” “Because you can’t do violence to _that_ master’s natural modesty,” Mr. Bender declared before Lord John had time to speak. And conscious at this moment of the reappearance of his fellow-explorer, he at once supplied a further light. “I guess this gentleman at any rate can tell you.” VIII Hugh Crimble had come back from his voyage of discovery, and it was visible as he stood there flushed and quite radiant that he had caught in his approach Lord Theign’s last inquiry and Mr. Bender’s reply to it. You would have imputed to him on the spot the lively possession of a new idea, the sustaining sense of a message important enough to justify his irruption. He looked from one to the other of the three men, scattered a little by the sight of him, but attached eyes of recognition then to Lord Theign’s, whom he remained an instant longer communicatively smiling at. After which, as you might have gathered, he all confidently plunged, taking up the talk where the others had left it. “I should say, Lord Theign, if you’ll allow me, in regard to what you appear to have been discussing, that it depends a good deal on just that question--of what your Moretto, at any rate, may be presumed or proved to ‘be.’ Let me thank you,” he cheerfully went on, “for your kind leave to go over your treasures.” The personage he so addressed was, as we know, nothing if not generally affable; yet if that was just then apparent it was through a shade of coolness for the slightly heated familiarity of so plain, or at least so free, a young man in eye-glasses, now for the first time definitely apprehended. “Oh, I’ve scarcely ‘treasures’--but I’ve some things of interest.” Hugh, however, entering the opulent circle, as it were, clearly took account of no breath of a chill. “I think possible, my lord, that you’ve a great treasure--if you’ve really so high a rarity as a splendid Manto-vano.” “A ‘Mantovano’?” You wouldn’t have been sure that his lordship didn’t pronounce the word for the first time in his life. “There have been supposed to be only _seven_ real examples about the world; so that if by an extraordinary chance you find yourself the possessor of a magnificent eighth----” But Lord John had already broken in. “Why, there you _are_, Mr. Bender!” “Oh, Mr. Bender, with whom I’ve made acquaintance,” Hugh returned, “was there as it began to work in me--” “That your Moretto, Lord Theign” --Mr. Bender took their informant up-- “isn’t, after all, a Moretto at all.” And he continued amusedly to Hugh: “It began to work in you, sir, like very strong drink!” “Do I understand you to suggest,” Lord Theign asked of the startling young man, “that my precious picture isn’t genuine?” Well, Hugh knew exactly what he suggested. “As a picture, Lord Theign, as a great portrait, one of the most genuine things in Europe. But it strikes me as probable that from far back--for reasons!--there has been a wrong attribution; that the work has been, in other words, traditionally, obstinately miscalled. It has passed for a Moretto, and at first I quite took it for one; but I suddenly, as I looked and looked and saw and saw, began to doubt, and now I know _why_ I doubted.” | faced round to reply: “It’s the very first time in the history of this house (a long one, Mr. Bender) that a picture, or anything else in it, has been offered----!” It was not imperceptible that even if he hadn’t dropped Mr. Bender mightn’t have been markedly impressed. “Then it must be the very first time such an offer has failed.” “Oh, it isn’t that we in the least press it!” Lord Theign quite naturally laughed. “Ah, I beg your pardon--I press it very hard!” And Lord John, as taking from his face and manner a cue for further humorous license, went so far as to emulate, though sympathetically enough, their companion’s native form. “You don’t mean to say you don’t feel the interest of that Moretto?” Mr. Bender, quietly confident, took his time to reply. “Well, if you had seen me up on that chair you’d have thought I did.” “Then you must have stepped down from the chair properly impressed.” “I stepped down quite impressed with that young man.” “Mr. Crimble?” --it came after an instant to Lord John. “With _his_ opinion, really? Then I hope he’s aware of the picture’s value.” “You had better ask him,” Mr. Bender observed. “Oh, we don’t depend here on the Mr. Crimbles!” Lord John returned. Mr. Bender took a longer look at him. “Are you aware of the value yourself?” His friend resorted again, as for the amusement of the thing, to their entertainer. “Am I aware of the value of the Moretto?” Lord Theign, who had meanwhile lighted another cigarette, appeared, a bit extravagantly smoking, to wish to put an end to his effect of hovering aloof. “That question needn’t trouble us--when I see how much Mr. Bender himself knows about it.” “Well, Lord Theign, I only know what that young man puts it at.” And then as the others waited, “Ten thousand,” said Mr. Bender. “Ten thousand?” The owner of the work showed no emotion. “Well,” said Lord John again in Mr. Bender’s style, “what’s the matter with ten thousand?” The subject of his gay tribute considered. “There’s nothing the matter with ten thousand.” “Then,” Lord Theign asked, “is there anything the matter with the picture?” “Yes, sir--I guess there is.” It gave an upward push to his lordship’s eyebrows. “But what in the world----?” “Well, that’s just the question!” The eyebrows continued to rise. “Does he pretend there’s a question of whether it _is_ a Moretto?” “That’s what he was up there trying to find out.” “But if the value’s, according to himself, ten thousand----?” “Why, of course,” said Mr. Bender, “it’s a fine work anyway.” “Then,”<|quote|>Lord Theign brought good-naturedly out,</|quote|>“what’s the matter with _you_, Mr. Bender?” That gentleman was perfectly clear. “The matter with me, Lord Theign, is that I’ve no use for a ten thousand picture.” “‘No use?’” --the expression had an oddity. “But what’s it your idea to do with such things?” “I mean,” Mr. Bender explained, “that a picture of that rank is not what I’m after.” “The figure,” said his noble host--speaking thus, under pressure, commercially-- “is beyond what you see your way to?” But Lord John had jumped at the truth. “The matter with Mr. Bender is that he sees his way much further.” “Further?” their companion echoed. “The matter with Mr. Bender is that he wants to give millions.” Lord Theign sounded this abyss with a smile. “Well, there would be no difficulty about _that_, I think!” “Ah,” said his guest, “you know the basis, sir, on which I’m ready to pay.” “On the basis then of the Sir Joshua,” Lord John inquired, “how far would you go?” Mr. Bender indicated by a gesture that on a question reduced to a moiety by its conditional form he could give but semi-satisfaction. “Well, I’d go all the way.” “He wants, you see,” Lord John elucidated, “an _ideally_ expensive thing.” Lord Theign appeared to decide after a moment to enter into the pleasant spirit of this; which he did by addressing his younger friend. “Then why shouldn’t I make even the Moretto as expensive as he desires?” “Because you can’t do violence to _that_ master’s natural modesty,” Mr. Bender declared before Lord John had time to speak. And conscious at this moment of the reappearance of his fellow-explorer, he at once supplied a further light. “I guess this gentleman at any rate can tell you.” VIII Hugh Crimble had come back from his voyage of discovery, and it was visible as he stood there flushed and quite radiant that he had caught in his approach Lord Theign’s last inquiry and Mr. Bender’s reply to it. You would have imputed to him on the spot the lively possession of a new idea, the sustaining sense of a message important enough to justify his irruption. He looked from one to the other of the three men, scattered a little by the sight of him, but attached eyes of recognition then to Lord Theign’s, whom he remained an instant longer communicatively smiling at. After which, as you might have gathered, he all confidently plunged, taking up the talk where the others had left it. “I should say, Lord Theign, if you’ll allow me, in regard to what you appear to have been discussing, that it depends a good deal on just that question--of what your Moretto, at any rate, may be presumed or proved to ‘be.’ Let me thank you,” he cheerfully went on, “for your kind leave to go over your | The Outcry |
replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon. | No speaker | hour and twelve minutes, ma'am,"<|quote|>replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon.</|quote|>"He is always slow," remarked | lady, after a pause. "An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am,"<|quote|>replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon.</|quote|>"He is always slow," remarked the old lady. "Brittles always | her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her. "And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?" asked the old lady, after a pause. "An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am,"<|quote|>replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon.</|quote|>"He is always slow," remarked the old lady. "Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one. "He gets worse | all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside peace and happiness. She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her. "And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?" asked the old lady, after a pause. "An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am,"<|quote|>replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon.</|quote|>"He is always slow," remarked the old lady. "Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one. "He gets worse instead of better, I think," said the elder lady. "It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys," said the young lady, smiling. Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a respectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to the | enthroned in mortal forms, they may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in such as hers. She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould; so mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, nor its rough creatures her fit companions. The very intelligence that shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon her noble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of the world; and yet the changing expression of sweetness and good humour, the thousand lights that played about the face, and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside peace and happiness. She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her. "And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?" asked the old lady, after a pause. "An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am,"<|quote|>replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon.</|quote|>"He is always slow," remarked the old lady. "Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one. "He gets worse instead of better, I think," said the elder lady. "It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys," said the young lady, smiling. Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a respectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate: out of which there jumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door: and who, getting quickly into the house by some mysterious process, burst into the room, and nearly overturned Mr. Giles and the breakfast-table together. "I never heard of such a thing!" exclaimed the fat gentleman. "My dear Mrs. Maylie bless my soul in the silence of the night, too I _never_ heard of such a thing!" With these expressions of condolence, the fat gentleman shook hands with both ladies, and drawing up a chair, inquired how they found themselves. "You ought to be dead; | full suit of black, was in attendance upon them. He had taken his station some half-way between the side-board and the breakfast-table; and, with his body drawn up to its full height, his head thrown back, and inclined the merest trifle on one side, his left leg advanced, and his right hand thrust into his waist-coat, while his left hung down by his side, grasping a waiter, looked like one who laboured under a very agreeable sense of his own merits and importance. Of the two ladies, one was well advanced in years; but the high-backed oaken chair in which she sat, was not more upright than she. Dressed with the utmost nicety and precision, in a quaint mixture of by-gone costume, with some slight concessions to the prevailing taste, which rather served to point the old style pleasantly than to impair its effect, she sat, in a stately manner, with her hands folded on the table before her. Her eyes (and age had dimmed but little of their brightness) were attentively upon her young companion. The younger lady was in the lovely bloom and spring-time of womanhood; at that age, when, if ever angels be for God's good purposes enthroned in mortal forms, they may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in such as hers. She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould; so mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, nor its rough creatures her fit companions. The very intelligence that shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon her noble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of the world; and yet the changing expression of sweetness and good humour, the thousand lights that played about the face, and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside peace and happiness. She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her. "And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?" asked the old lady, after a pause. "An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am,"<|quote|>replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon.</|quote|>"He is always slow," remarked the old lady. "Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one. "He gets worse instead of better, I think," said the elder lady. "It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys," said the young lady, smiling. Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a respectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate: out of which there jumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door: and who, getting quickly into the house by some mysterious process, burst into the room, and nearly overturned Mr. Giles and the breakfast-table together. "I never heard of such a thing!" exclaimed the fat gentleman. "My dear Mrs. Maylie bless my soul in the silence of the night, too I _never_ heard of such a thing!" With these expressions of condolence, the fat gentleman shook hands with both ladies, and drawing up a chair, inquired how they found themselves. "You ought to be dead; positively dead with the fright," said the fat gentleman. "Why didn't you send? Bless me, my man should have come in a minute; and so would I; and my assistant would have been delighted; or anybody, I'm sure, under such circumstances. Dear, dear! So unexpected! In the silence of the night, too!" The doctor seemed especially troubled by the fact of the robbery having been unexpected, and attempted in the night-time; as if it were the established custom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact business at noon, and to make an appointment, by post, a day or two previous. "And you, Miss Rose," said the doctor, turning to the young lady, "I" "Oh! very much so, indeed," said Rose, interrupting him; "but there is a poor creature upstairs, whom aunt wishes you to see." "Ah! to be sure," replied the doctor, "so there is. That was your handiwork, Giles, I understand." Mr. Giles, who had been feverishly putting the tea-cups to rights, blushed very red, and said that he had had that honour. "Honour, eh?" said the doctor; "well, I don't know; perhaps it's as honourable to hit a thief in a back kitchen, as to hit your | one hand to the side of his mouth, so that his voice might travel the better. The two women-servants ran upstairs to carry the intelligence that Mr. Giles had captured a robber; and the tinker busied himself in endeavouring to restore Oliver, lest he should die before he could be hanged. In the midst of all this noise and commotion, there was heard a sweet female voice, which quelled it in an instant. "Giles!" whispered the voice from the stair-head. "I'm here, miss," replied Mr. Giles. "Don't be frightened, miss; I ain't much injured. He didn't make a very desperate resistance, miss! I was soon too many for him." "Hush!" replied the young lady; "you frighten my aunt as much as the thieves did. Is the poor creature much hurt?" "Wounded desperate, miss," replied Giles, with indescribable complacency. "He looks as if he was a-going, miss," bawled Brittles, in the same manner as before. "Wouldn't you like to come and look at him, miss, in case he should?" "Hush, pray; there's a good man!" rejoined the lady. "Wait quietly only one instant, while I speak to aunt." With a footstep as soft and gentle as the voice, the speaker tripped away. She soon returned, with the direction that the wounded person was to be carried, carefully, upstairs to Mr. Giles's room; and that Brittles was to saddle the pony and betake himself instantly to Chertsey: from which place, he was to despatch, with all speed, a constable and doctor. "But won't you take one look at him, first, miss?" asked Mr. Giles, with as much pride as if Oliver were some bird of rare plumage, that he had skilfully brought down. "Not one little peep, miss?" "Not now, for the world," replied the young lady. "Poor fellow! Oh! treat him kindly, Giles for my sake!" The old servant looked up at the speaker, as she turned away, with a glance as proud and admiring as if she had been his own child. Then, bending over Oliver, he helped to carry him upstairs, with the care and solicitude of a woman. CHAPTER XXIX. HAS AN INTRODUCTORY ACCOUNT OF THE INMATES OF THE HOUSE, TO WHICH OLIVER RESORTED In a handsome room: though its furniture had rather the air of old-fashioned comfort, than of modern elegance: there sat two ladies at a well-spread breakfast-table. Mr. Giles, dressed with scrupulous care in a full suit of black, was in attendance upon them. He had taken his station some half-way between the side-board and the breakfast-table; and, with his body drawn up to its full height, his head thrown back, and inclined the merest trifle on one side, his left leg advanced, and his right hand thrust into his waist-coat, while his left hung down by his side, grasping a waiter, looked like one who laboured under a very agreeable sense of his own merits and importance. Of the two ladies, one was well advanced in years; but the high-backed oaken chair in which she sat, was not more upright than she. Dressed with the utmost nicety and precision, in a quaint mixture of by-gone costume, with some slight concessions to the prevailing taste, which rather served to point the old style pleasantly than to impair its effect, she sat, in a stately manner, with her hands folded on the table before her. Her eyes (and age had dimmed but little of their brightness) were attentively upon her young companion. The younger lady was in the lovely bloom and spring-time of womanhood; at that age, when, if ever angels be for God's good purposes enthroned in mortal forms, they may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in such as hers. She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould; so mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, nor its rough creatures her fit companions. The very intelligence that shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon her noble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of the world; and yet the changing expression of sweetness and good humour, the thousand lights that played about the face, and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside peace and happiness. She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her. "And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?" asked the old lady, after a pause. "An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am,"<|quote|>replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon.</|quote|>"He is always slow," remarked the old lady. "Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one. "He gets worse instead of better, I think," said the elder lady. "It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys," said the young lady, smiling. Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a respectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate: out of which there jumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door: and who, getting quickly into the house by some mysterious process, burst into the room, and nearly overturned Mr. Giles and the breakfast-table together. "I never heard of such a thing!" exclaimed the fat gentleman. "My dear Mrs. Maylie bless my soul in the silence of the night, too I _never_ heard of such a thing!" With these expressions of condolence, the fat gentleman shook hands with both ladies, and drawing up a chair, inquired how they found themselves. "You ought to be dead; positively dead with the fright," said the fat gentleman. "Why didn't you send? Bless me, my man should have come in a minute; and so would I; and my assistant would have been delighted; or anybody, I'm sure, under such circumstances. Dear, dear! So unexpected! In the silence of the night, too!" The doctor seemed especially troubled by the fact of the robbery having been unexpected, and attempted in the night-time; as if it were the established custom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact business at noon, and to make an appointment, by post, a day or two previous. "And you, Miss Rose," said the doctor, turning to the young lady, "I" "Oh! very much so, indeed," said Rose, interrupting him; "but there is a poor creature upstairs, whom aunt wishes you to see." "Ah! to be sure," replied the doctor, "so there is. That was your handiwork, Giles, I understand." Mr. Giles, who had been feverishly putting the tea-cups to rights, blushed very red, and said that he had had that honour. "Honour, eh?" said the doctor; "well, I don't know; perhaps it's as honourable to hit a thief in a back kitchen, as to hit your man at twelve paces. Fancy that he fired in the air, and you've fought a duel, Giles." Mr. Giles, who thought this light treatment of the matter an unjust attempt at diminishing his glory, answered respectfully, that it was not for the like of him to judge about that; but he rather thought it was no joke to the opposite party. "Gad, that's true!" said the doctor. "Where is he? Show me the way. I'll look in again, as I come down, Mrs. Maylie. That's the little window that he got in at, eh? Well, I couldn't have believed it!" Talking all the way, he followed Mr. Giles upstairs; and while he is going upstairs, the reader may be informed, that Mr. Losberne, a surgeon in the neighbourhood, known through a circuit of ten miles round as "the doctor," had grown fat, more from good-humour than from good living: and was as kind and hearty, and withal as eccentric an old bachelor, as will be found in five times that space, by any explorer alive. The doctor was absent, much longer than either he or the ladies had anticipated. A large flat box was fetched out of the gig; and a bedroom bell was rung very often; and the servants ran up and down stairs perpetually; from which tokens it was justly concluded that something important was going on above. At length he returned; and in reply to an anxious inquiry after his patient; looked very mysterious, and closed the door, carefully. "This is a very extraordinary thing, Mrs. Maylie," said the doctor, standing with his back to the door, as if to keep it shut. "He is not in danger, I hope?" said the old lady. "Why, that would _not_ be an extraordinary thing, under the circumstances," replied the doctor; "though I don't think he is. Have you seen the thief?" "No," rejoined the old lady. "Nor heard anything about him?" "No." "I beg your pardon, ma'am," interposed Mr. Giles; "but I was going to tell you about him when Doctor Losberne came in." The fact was, that Mr. Giles had not, at first, been able to bring his mind to the avowal, that he had only shot a boy. Such commendations had been bestowed upon his bravery, that he could not, for the life of him, help postponing the explanation for a few delicious minutes; during which he | merits and importance. Of the two ladies, one was well advanced in years; but the high-backed oaken chair in which she sat, was not more upright than she. Dressed with the utmost nicety and precision, in a quaint mixture of by-gone costume, with some slight concessions to the prevailing taste, which rather served to point the old style pleasantly than to impair its effect, she sat, in a stately manner, with her hands folded on the table before her. Her eyes (and age had dimmed but little of their brightness) were attentively upon her young companion. The younger lady was in the lovely bloom and spring-time of womanhood; at that age, when, if ever angels be for God's good purposes enthroned in mortal forms, they may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in such as hers. She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould; so mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, nor its rough creatures her fit companions. The very intelligence that shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon her noble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of the world; and yet the changing expression of sweetness and good humour, the thousand lights that played about the face, and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside peace and happiness. She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her. "And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?" asked the old lady, after a pause. "An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am,"<|quote|>replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon.</|quote|>"He is always slow," remarked the old lady. "Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one. "He gets worse instead of better, I think," said the elder lady. "It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys," said the young lady, smiling. Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a respectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate: out of which there jumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door: and who, getting quickly into the house by some mysterious process, burst into the room, and nearly overturned Mr. Giles and the breakfast-table together. "I never heard of such a thing!" exclaimed the fat gentleman. "My dear Mrs. Maylie bless my soul in the silence of the night, too I _never_ heard of such a thing!" With these expressions of condolence, the fat gentleman shook hands with both ladies, and drawing up a chair, inquired how they found themselves. "You ought to be dead; positively dead with the fright," said the fat gentleman. "Why didn't you send? Bless me, my man should have come in a minute; and so would I; and my assistant would have been delighted; or anybody, I'm sure, under such circumstances. Dear, dear! So unexpected! In the silence of the night, too!" The doctor seemed especially troubled by the fact of the robbery having been unexpected, and attempted in the night-time; as if it were the established custom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact business at noon, and to make an appointment, by post, a day or two previous. "And you, Miss Rose," said the doctor, turning to the young lady, "I" "Oh! very much so, indeed," said Rose, interrupting him; "but there is a poor creature upstairs, whom aunt wishes you to see." "Ah! to be sure," replied the doctor, "so there is. That was your handiwork, Giles, I understand." Mr. Giles, who had been feverishly putting the tea-cups to rights, blushed very red, and said that he had had that honour. "Honour, eh?" said the doctor; "well, I don't know; perhaps it's as honourable to hit a thief in a back kitchen, as to hit your man at twelve paces. Fancy that he fired in the air, and you've fought a duel, Giles." Mr. Giles, who thought this light treatment of the matter an unjust attempt at diminishing his glory, answered respectfully, that it was not for the like of him to judge about | Oliver Twist |
"Oh, pipe down, Mike, for Christ's sake!" | Brett Ashley | Brett wants to come into----"<|quote|>"Oh, pipe down, Mike, for Christ's sake!"</|quote|>Romero looked up smiling. "Pipe | filling the glasses. "Tell him Brett wants to come into----"<|quote|>"Oh, pipe down, Mike, for Christ's sake!"</|quote|>Romero looked up smiling. "Pipe down! I know that," he | dying to know how he can get into those pants." "Pipe down." During this Romero was fingering his glass and talking with Brett. Brett was talking French and he was talking Spanish and a little English, and laughing. Bill was filling the glasses. "Tell him Brett wants to come into----"<|quote|>"Oh, pipe down, Mike, for Christ's sake!"</|quote|>Romero looked up smiling. "Pipe down! I know that," he said. Just then Montoya came into the room. He started to smile at me, then he saw Pedro Romero with a big glass of cognac in his hand, sitting laughing between me and a woman with bare shoulders, at a | table. "What does he say?" "He's drunk." "Jake," Mike called. "Tell him bulls have no balls!" "You understand?" I said. "Yes." I was sure he didn't, so it was all right. "Tell him Brett wants to see him put on those green pants." "Pipe down, Mike." "Tell him Brett is dying to know how he can get into those pants." "Pipe down." During this Romero was fingering his glass and talking with Brett. Brett was talking French and he was talking Spanish and a little English, and laughing. Bill was filling the glasses. "Tell him Brett wants to come into----"<|quote|>"Oh, pipe down, Mike, for Christ's sake!"</|quote|>Romero looked up smiling. "Pipe down! I know that," he said. Just then Montoya came into the room. He started to smile at me, then he saw Pedro Romero with a big glass of cognac in his hand, sitting laughing between me and a woman with bare shoulders, at a table full of drunks. He did not even nod. Montoya went out of the room. Mike was on his feet proposing a toast. "Let's all drink to--" he began. "Pedro Romero," I said. Everybody stood up. Romero took it very seriously, and we touched glasses and drank it down, I | listening to her. "Go on. Tell him!" Bill said. Romero looked up smiling. "This gentleman," I said, "is a writer." Romero was impressed. "This other one, too," I said, pointing at Cohn. "He looks like Villalta," Romero said, looking at Bill. "Rafael, doesn't he look like Villalta?" "I can't see it," the critic said. "Really," Romero said in Spanish. "He looks a lot like Villalta. What does the drunken one do?" "Nothing." "Is that why he drinks?" "No. He's waiting to marry this lady." "Tell him bulls have no balls!" Mike shouted, very drunk, from the other end of the table. "What does he say?" "He's drunk." "Jake," Mike called. "Tell him bulls have no balls!" "You understand?" I said. "Yes." I was sure he didn't, so it was all right. "Tell him Brett wants to see him put on those green pants." "Pipe down, Mike." "Tell him Brett is dying to know how he can get into those pants." "Pipe down." During this Romero was fingering his glass and talking with Brett. Brett was talking French and he was talking Spanish and a little English, and laughing. Bill was filling the glasses. "Tell him Brett wants to come into----"<|quote|>"Oh, pipe down, Mike, for Christ's sake!"</|quote|>Romero looked up smiling. "Pipe down! I know that," he said. Just then Montoya came into the room. He started to smile at me, then he saw Pedro Romero with a big glass of cognac in his hand, sitting laughing between me and a woman with bare shoulders, at a table full of drunks. He did not even nod. Montoya went out of the room. Mike was on his feet proposing a toast. "Let's all drink to--" he began. "Pedro Romero," I said. Everybody stood up. Romero took it very seriously, and we touched glasses and drank it down, I rushing it a little because Mike was trying to make it clear that that was not at all what he was going to drink to. But it went off all right, and Pedro Romero shook hands with every one and he and the critic went out together. "My God! he's a lovely boy," Brett said. "And how I would love to see him get into those clothes. He must use a shoe-horn." "I started to tell him," Mike began. "And Jake kept interrupting me. Why do you interrupt me? Do you think you talk Spanish better than I do?" "Oh, | call them bananas?" asked Romero. He turned to me and smiled. "_You_ wouldn't call them bananas?" "No," I said. "They're horns all right." "They're very short," said Pedro Romero. "Very, very short. Still, they aren't bananas." "I say, Jake," Brett called from the next table, "you _have_ deserted us." "Just temporarily," I said. "We're talking bulls." "You _are_ superior." "Tell him that bulls have no balls," Mike shouted. He was drunk. Romero looked at me inquiringly. "Drunk," I said. "Borracho! Muy borracho!" "You might introduce your friends," Brett said. She had not stopped looking at Pedro Romero. I asked them if they would like to have coffee with us. They both stood up. Romero's face was very brown. He had very nice manners. I introduced them all around and they started to sit down, but there was not enough room, so we all moved over to the big table by the wall to have coffee. Mike ordered a bottle of Fundador and glasses for everybody. There was a lot of drunken talking. "Tell him I think writing is lousy," Bill said. "Go on, tell him. Tell him I'm ashamed of being a writer." Pedro Romero was sitting beside Brett and listening to her. "Go on. Tell him!" Bill said. Romero looked up smiling. "This gentleman," I said, "is a writer." Romero was impressed. "This other one, too," I said, pointing at Cohn. "He looks like Villalta," Romero said, looking at Bill. "Rafael, doesn't he look like Villalta?" "I can't see it," the critic said. "Really," Romero said in Spanish. "He looks a lot like Villalta. What does the drunken one do?" "Nothing." "Is that why he drinks?" "No. He's waiting to marry this lady." "Tell him bulls have no balls!" Mike shouted, very drunk, from the other end of the table. "What does he say?" "He's drunk." "Jake," Mike called. "Tell him bulls have no balls!" "You understand?" I said. "Yes." I was sure he didn't, so it was all right. "Tell him Brett wants to see him put on those green pants." "Pipe down, Mike." "Tell him Brett is dying to know how he can get into those pants." "Pipe down." During this Romero was fingering his glass and talking with Brett. Brett was talking French and he was talking Spanish and a little English, and laughing. Bill was filling the glasses. "Tell him Brett wants to come into----"<|quote|>"Oh, pipe down, Mike, for Christ's sake!"</|quote|>Romero looked up smiling. "Pipe down! I know that," he said. Just then Montoya came into the room. He started to smile at me, then he saw Pedro Romero with a big glass of cognac in his hand, sitting laughing between me and a woman with bare shoulders, at a table full of drunks. He did not even nod. Montoya went out of the room. Mike was on his feet proposing a toast. "Let's all drink to--" he began. "Pedro Romero," I said. Everybody stood up. Romero took it very seriously, and we touched glasses and drank it down, I rushing it a little because Mike was trying to make it clear that that was not at all what he was going to drink to. But it went off all right, and Pedro Romero shook hands with every one and he and the critic went out together. "My God! he's a lovely boy," Brett said. "And how I would love to see him get into those clothes. He must use a shoe-horn." "I started to tell him," Mike began. "And Jake kept interrupting me. Why do you interrupt me? Do you think you talk Spanish better than I do?" "Oh, shut up, Mike! Nobody interrupted you." "No, I'd like to get this settled." He turned away from me. "Do you think you amount to something, Cohn? Do you think you belong here among us? People who are out to have a good time? For God's sake don't be so noisy, Cohn!" "Oh, cut it out, Mike," Cohn said. "Do you think Brett wants you here? Do you think you add to the party? Why don't you say something?" "I said all I had to say the other night, Mike." "I'm not one of you literary chaps." Mike stood shakily and leaned against the table. "I'm not clever. But I do know when I'm not wanted. Why don't you see when you're not wanted, Cohn? Go away. Go away, for God's sake. Take that sad Jewish face away. Don't you think I'm right?" He looked at us. "Sure," I said. "Let's all go over to the Iru a." "No. Don't you think I'm right? I love that woman." "Oh, don't start that again. Do shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "Don't you think I'm right, Jake?" Cohn still sat at the table. His face had the sallow, yellow look it got | translation is _Course de taureaux_. The critic put that in. There is no Spanish word for bull-fight. Pedro Romero said he had learned a little English in Gibraltar. He was born in Ronda. That is not far above Gibraltar. He started bull-fighting in Malaga in the bull-fighting school there. He had only been at it three years. The bull-fight critic joked him about the number of _Malague o_ expressions he used. He was nineteen years old, he said. His older brother was with him as a banderillero, but he did not live in this hotel. He lived in a smaller hotel with the other people who worked for Romero. He asked me how many times I had seen him in the ring. I told him only three. It was really only two, but I did not want to explain after I had made the mistake. "Where did you see me the other time? In Madrid?" "Yes," I lied. I had read the accounts of his two appearances in Madrid in the bull-fight papers, so I was all right. "The first or the second time?" "The first." "I was very bad," he said. "The second time I was better. You remember?" He turned to the critic. He was not at all embarrassed. He talked of his work as something altogether apart from himself. There was nothing conceited or braggartly about him. "I like it very much that you like my work," he said. "But you haven't seen it yet. To-morrow, if I get a good bull, I will try and show it to you." When he said this he smiled, anxious that neither the bull-fight critic nor I would think he was boasting. "I am anxious to see it," the critic said. "I would like to be convinced." "He doesn't like my work much." Romero turned to me. He was serious. The critic explained that he liked it very much, but that so far it had been incomplete. "Wait till to-morrow, if a good one comes out." "Have you seen the bulls for to-morrow?" the critic asked me. "Yes. I saw them unloaded." Pedro Romero leaned forward. "What did you think of them?" "Very nice," I said. "About twenty-six arrobas. Very short horns. Haven't you seen them?" "Oh, yes," said Romero. "They won't weigh twenty-six arrobas," said the critic. "No," said Romero. "They've got bananas for horns," the critic said. "You call them bananas?" asked Romero. He turned to me and smiled. "_You_ wouldn't call them bananas?" "No," I said. "They're horns all right." "They're very short," said Pedro Romero. "Very, very short. Still, they aren't bananas." "I say, Jake," Brett called from the next table, "you _have_ deserted us." "Just temporarily," I said. "We're talking bulls." "You _are_ superior." "Tell him that bulls have no balls," Mike shouted. He was drunk. Romero looked at me inquiringly. "Drunk," I said. "Borracho! Muy borracho!" "You might introduce your friends," Brett said. She had not stopped looking at Pedro Romero. I asked them if they would like to have coffee with us. They both stood up. Romero's face was very brown. He had very nice manners. I introduced them all around and they started to sit down, but there was not enough room, so we all moved over to the big table by the wall to have coffee. Mike ordered a bottle of Fundador and glasses for everybody. There was a lot of drunken talking. "Tell him I think writing is lousy," Bill said. "Go on, tell him. Tell him I'm ashamed of being a writer." Pedro Romero was sitting beside Brett and listening to her. "Go on. Tell him!" Bill said. Romero looked up smiling. "This gentleman," I said, "is a writer." Romero was impressed. "This other one, too," I said, pointing at Cohn. "He looks like Villalta," Romero said, looking at Bill. "Rafael, doesn't he look like Villalta?" "I can't see it," the critic said. "Really," Romero said in Spanish. "He looks a lot like Villalta. What does the drunken one do?" "Nothing." "Is that why he drinks?" "No. He's waiting to marry this lady." "Tell him bulls have no balls!" Mike shouted, very drunk, from the other end of the table. "What does he say?" "He's drunk." "Jake," Mike called. "Tell him bulls have no balls!" "You understand?" I said. "Yes." I was sure he didn't, so it was all right. "Tell him Brett wants to see him put on those green pants." "Pipe down, Mike." "Tell him Brett is dying to know how he can get into those pants." "Pipe down." During this Romero was fingering his glass and talking with Brett. Brett was talking French and he was talking Spanish and a little English, and laughing. Bill was filling the glasses. "Tell him Brett wants to come into----"<|quote|>"Oh, pipe down, Mike, for Christ's sake!"</|quote|>Romero looked up smiling. "Pipe down! I know that," he said. Just then Montoya came into the room. He started to smile at me, then he saw Pedro Romero with a big glass of cognac in his hand, sitting laughing between me and a woman with bare shoulders, at a table full of drunks. He did not even nod. Montoya went out of the room. Mike was on his feet proposing a toast. "Let's all drink to--" he began. "Pedro Romero," I said. Everybody stood up. Romero took it very seriously, and we touched glasses and drank it down, I rushing it a little because Mike was trying to make it clear that that was not at all what he was going to drink to. But it went off all right, and Pedro Romero shook hands with every one and he and the critic went out together. "My God! he's a lovely boy," Brett said. "And how I would love to see him get into those clothes. He must use a shoe-horn." "I started to tell him," Mike began. "And Jake kept interrupting me. Why do you interrupt me? Do you think you talk Spanish better than I do?" "Oh, shut up, Mike! Nobody interrupted you." "No, I'd like to get this settled." He turned away from me. "Do you think you amount to something, Cohn? Do you think you belong here among us? People who are out to have a good time? For God's sake don't be so noisy, Cohn!" "Oh, cut it out, Mike," Cohn said. "Do you think Brett wants you here? Do you think you add to the party? Why don't you say something?" "I said all I had to say the other night, Mike." "I'm not one of you literary chaps." Mike stood shakily and leaned against the table. "I'm not clever. But I do know when I'm not wanted. Why don't you see when you're not wanted, Cohn? Go away. Go away, for God's sake. Take that sad Jewish face away. Don't you think I'm right?" He looked at us. "Sure," I said. "Let's all go over to the Iru a." "No. Don't you think I'm right? I love that woman." "Oh, don't start that again. Do shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "Don't you think I'm right, Jake?" Cohn still sat at the table. His face had the sallow, yellow look it got when he was insulted, but somehow he seemed to be enjoying it. The childish, drunken heroics of it. It was his affair with a lady of title. "Jake," Mike said. He was almost crying. "You know I'm right. Listen, you!" He turned to Cohn: "Go away! Go away now!" "But I won't go, Mike," said Cohn. "Then I'll make you!" Mike started toward him around the table. Cohn stood up and took off his glasses. He stood waiting, his face sallow, his hands fairly low, proudly and firmly waiting for the assault, ready to do battle for his lady love. I grabbed Mike. "Come on to the caf ," I said. "You can't hit him here in the hotel." "Good!" said Mike. "Good idea!" We started off. I looked back as Mike stumbled up the stairs and saw Cohn putting his glasses on again. Bill was sitting at the table pouring another glass of Fundador. Brett was sitting looking straight ahead at nothing. Outside on the square it had stopped raining and the moon was trying to get through the clouds. There was a wind blowing. The military band was playing and the crowd was massed on the far side of the square where the fireworks specialist and his son were trying to send up fire balloons. A balloon would start up jerkily, on a great bias, and be torn by the wind or blown against the houses of the square. Some fell into the crowd. The magnesium flared and the fireworks exploded and chased about in the crowd. There was no one dancing in the square. The gravel was too wet. Brett came out with Bill and joined us. We stood in the crowd and watched Don Manuel Orquito, the fireworks king, standing on a little platform, carefully starting the balloons with sticks, standing above the heads of the crowd to launch the balloons off into the wind. The wind brought them all down, and Don Manuel Orquito's face was sweaty in the light of his complicated fireworks that fell into the crowd and charged and chased, sputtering and cracking, between the legs of the people. The people shouted as each new luminous paper bubble careened, caught fire, and fell. "They're razzing Don Manuel," Bill said. "How do you know he's Don Manuel?" Brett said. "His name's on the programme. Don Manuel Orquito, the pirotecnico of esta ciudad." "Globos | them all around and they started to sit down, but there was not enough room, so we all moved over to the big table by the wall to have coffee. Mike ordered a bottle of Fundador and glasses for everybody. There was a lot of drunken talking. "Tell him I think writing is lousy," Bill said. "Go on, tell him. Tell him I'm ashamed of being a writer." Pedro Romero was sitting beside Brett and listening to her. "Go on. Tell him!" Bill said. Romero looked up smiling. "This gentleman," I said, "is a writer." Romero was impressed. "This other one, too," I said, pointing at Cohn. "He looks like Villalta," Romero said, looking at Bill. "Rafael, doesn't he look like Villalta?" "I can't see it," the critic said. "Really," Romero said in Spanish. "He looks a lot like Villalta. What does the drunken one do?" "Nothing." "Is that why he drinks?" "No. He's waiting to marry this lady." "Tell him bulls have no balls!" Mike shouted, very drunk, from the other end of the table. "What does he say?" "He's drunk." "Jake," Mike called. "Tell him bulls have no balls!" "You understand?" I said. "Yes." I was sure he didn't, so it was all right. "Tell him Brett wants to see him put on those green pants." "Pipe down, Mike." "Tell him Brett is dying to know how he can get into those pants." "Pipe down." During this Romero was fingering his glass and talking with Brett. Brett was talking French and he was talking Spanish and a little English, and laughing. Bill was filling the glasses. "Tell him Brett wants to come into----"<|quote|>"Oh, pipe down, Mike, for Christ's sake!"</|quote|>Romero looked up smiling. "Pipe down! I know that," he said. Just then Montoya came into the room. He started to smile at me, then he saw Pedro Romero with a big glass of cognac in his hand, sitting laughing between me and a woman with bare shoulders, at a table full of drunks. He did not even nod. Montoya went out of the room. Mike was on his feet proposing a toast. "Let's all drink to--" he began. "Pedro Romero," I said. Everybody stood up. Romero took it very seriously, and we touched glasses and drank it down, I rushing it a little because Mike was trying to make it clear that that was not at all what he was going to drink to. But it went off all right, and Pedro Romero shook hands with every one and he and the critic went out together. "My God! he's a lovely boy," Brett said. "And how I would love to see him get into those clothes. He must use a shoe-horn." "I started to tell him," Mike began. "And Jake kept interrupting me. Why do you interrupt me? Do you think you talk Spanish better than I do?" "Oh, shut up, Mike! Nobody interrupted you." "No, I'd like to get this settled." He turned away from me. "Do you think you amount to something, Cohn? Do you think you belong here among us? People who are out to have a good time? For God's sake don't be so noisy, Cohn!" "Oh, cut it out, Mike," Cohn said. "Do you think Brett wants you here? Do you think you add to the | The Sun Also Rises |
He sighed impatiently, and said nothing for a moment. | No speaker | come more and more often?"<|quote|>He sighed impatiently, and said nothing for a moment.</|quote|>"But at least," he renewed, | and more?" "If our lapses come more and more often?"<|quote|>He sighed impatiently, and said nothing for a moment.</|quote|>"But at least," he renewed, "we ve established the fact | comment, but said: "Anyhow, there s no reason why we shouldn t see each other." "Or stay together. It s only marriage that s out of the question," Katharine replied. "But if I find myself coming to want you more and more?" "If our lapses come more and more often?"<|quote|>He sighed impatiently, and said nothing for a moment.</|quote|>"But at least," he renewed, "we ve established the fact that my lapses are still in some odd way connected with you; yours have nothing to do with me. Katharine," he added, his assumption of reason broken up by his agitation, "I assure you that we are in love what | They seemed to be continuing a conversation broken off in the middle, as if each remembered the precise point at which they had been interrupted, and was eager to go on as quickly as possible. Katharine, having interposed a short account of the interview with her father, Denham made no comment, but said: "Anyhow, there s no reason why we shouldn t see each other." "Or stay together. It s only marriage that s out of the question," Katharine replied. "But if I find myself coming to want you more and more?" "If our lapses come more and more often?"<|quote|>He sighed impatiently, and said nothing for a moment.</|quote|>"But at least," he renewed, "we ve established the fact that my lapses are still in some odd way connected with you; yours have nothing to do with me. Katharine," he added, his assumption of reason broken up by his agitation, "I assure you that we are in love what other people call love. Remember that night. We had no doubts whatever then. We were absolutely happy for half an hour. You had no lapse until the day after; I had no lapse until yesterday morning. We ve been happy at intervals all day until I went off my head, | flames. He seemed to speak to himself, and Rodney and Cassandra looked at him in silence. "Why don t you sit down?" he said suddenly. He spoke gruffly, but the force of his anger was evidently spent, or some preoccupation had turned his mood to other regions. While Cassandra accepted his invitation, Rodney remained standing. "I think Cassandra can explain matters better in my absence," he said, and left the room, Mr. Hilbery giving his assent by a slight nod of the head. Meanwhile, in the dining-room next door, Denham and Katharine were once more seated at the mahogany table. They seemed to be continuing a conversation broken off in the middle, as if each remembered the precise point at which they had been interrupted, and was eager to go on as quickly as possible. Katharine, having interposed a short account of the interview with her father, Denham made no comment, but said: "Anyhow, there s no reason why we shouldn t see each other." "Or stay together. It s only marriage that s out of the question," Katharine replied. "But if I find myself coming to want you more and more?" "If our lapses come more and more often?"<|quote|>He sighed impatiently, and said nothing for a moment.</|quote|>"But at least," he renewed, "we ve established the fact that my lapses are still in some odd way connected with you; yours have nothing to do with me. Katharine," he added, his assumption of reason broken up by his agitation, "I assure you that we are in love what other people call love. Remember that night. We had no doubts whatever then. We were absolutely happy for half an hour. You had no lapse until the day after; I had no lapse until yesterday morning. We ve been happy at intervals all day until I went off my head, and you, quite naturally, were bored." "Ah," she exclaimed, as if the subject chafed her, "I can t make you understand. It s not boredom I m never bored. Reality reality," she ejaculated, tapping her finger upon the table as if to emphasize and perhaps explain her isolated utterance of this word. "I cease to be real to you. It s the faces in a storm again the vision in a hurricane. We come together for a moment and we part. It s my fault, too. I m as bad as you are worse, perhaps." They were trying to explain, | remained standing as if they did not accept their dismissal, and the disappearance of Katharine had brought some change into the situation. So, in his secret heart, Mr. Hilbery felt that it had, for he could not explain his daughter s behavior to his own satisfaction. "Uncle Trevor," Cassandra exclaimed impulsively, "don t be angry, please. I couldn t help it; I do beg you to forgive me." Her uncle still refused to acknowledge her identity, and still talked over her head as if she did not exist. "I suppose you have communicated with the Otways," he said to Rodney grimly. "Uncle Trevor, we wanted to tell you," Cassandra replied for him. "We waited" she looked appealingly at Rodney, who shook his head ever so slightly. "Yes? What were you waiting for?" her uncle asked sharply, looking at her at last. The words died on her lips. It was apparent that she was straining her ears as if to catch some sound outside the room that would come to her help. He received no answer. He listened, too. "This is a most unpleasant business for all parties," he concluded, sinking into his chair again, hunching his shoulders and regarding the flames. He seemed to speak to himself, and Rodney and Cassandra looked at him in silence. "Why don t you sit down?" he said suddenly. He spoke gruffly, but the force of his anger was evidently spent, or some preoccupation had turned his mood to other regions. While Cassandra accepted his invitation, Rodney remained standing. "I think Cassandra can explain matters better in my absence," he said, and left the room, Mr. Hilbery giving his assent by a slight nod of the head. Meanwhile, in the dining-room next door, Denham and Katharine were once more seated at the mahogany table. They seemed to be continuing a conversation broken off in the middle, as if each remembered the precise point at which they had been interrupted, and was eager to go on as quickly as possible. Katharine, having interposed a short account of the interview with her father, Denham made no comment, but said: "Anyhow, there s no reason why we shouldn t see each other." "Or stay together. It s only marriage that s out of the question," Katharine replied. "But if I find myself coming to want you more and more?" "If our lapses come more and more often?"<|quote|>He sighed impatiently, and said nothing for a moment.</|quote|>"But at least," he renewed, "we ve established the fact that my lapses are still in some odd way connected with you; yours have nothing to do with me. Katharine," he added, his assumption of reason broken up by his agitation, "I assure you that we are in love what other people call love. Remember that night. We had no doubts whatever then. We were absolutely happy for half an hour. You had no lapse until the day after; I had no lapse until yesterday morning. We ve been happy at intervals all day until I went off my head, and you, quite naturally, were bored." "Ah," she exclaimed, as if the subject chafed her, "I can t make you understand. It s not boredom I m never bored. Reality reality," she ejaculated, tapping her finger upon the table as if to emphasize and perhaps explain her isolated utterance of this word. "I cease to be real to you. It s the faces in a storm again the vision in a hurricane. We come together for a moment and we part. It s my fault, too. I m as bad as you are worse, perhaps." They were trying to explain, not for the first time, as their weary gestures and frequent interruptions showed, what in their common language they had christened their "lapses"; a constant source of distress to them, in the past few days, and the immediate reason why Ralph was on his way to leave the house when Katharine, listening anxiously, heard him and prevented him. What was the cause of these lapses? Either because Katharine looked more beautiful, or more strange, because she wore something different, or said something unexpected, Ralph s sense of her romance welled up and overcame him either into silence or into inarticulate expressions, which Katharine, with unintentional but invariable perversity, interrupted or contradicted with some severity or assertion of prosaic fact. Then the vision disappeared, and Ralph expressed vehemently in his turn the conviction that he only loved her shadow and cared nothing for her reality. If the lapse was on her side it took the form of gradual detachment until she became completely absorbed in her own thoughts, which carried her away with such intensity that she sharply resented any recall to her companion s side. It was useless to assert that these trances were always originated by Ralph himself, however | at Katharine and then at Rodney. "You must know the truth," she said, a little lamely. "You have the impudence to tell me this in Katharine s presence?" Mr. Hilbery continued, speaking with complete disregard of Cassandra s interruption. "I am aware, quite aware" Rodney s words, which were broken in sense, spoken after a pause, and with his eyes upon the ground, nevertheless expressed an astonishing amount of resolution. "I am quite aware what you must think of me," he brought out, looking Mr. Hilbery directly in the eyes for the first time. "I could express my views on the subject more fully if we were alone," Mr. Hilbery returned. "But you forget me," said Katharine. She moved a little towards Rodney, and her movement seemed to testify mutely to her respect for him, and her alliance with him. "I think William has behaved perfectly rightly, and, after all, it is I who am concerned I and Cassandra." Cassandra, too, gave an indescribably slight movement which seemed to draw the three of them into alliance together. Katharine s tone and glance made Mr. Hilbery once more feel completely at a loss, and in addition, painfully and angrily obsolete; but in spite of an awful inner hollowness he was outwardly composed. "Cassandra and Rodney have a perfect right to settle their own affairs according to their own wishes; but I see no reason why they should do so either in my room or in my house.... I wish to be quite clear on this point, however; you are no longer engaged to Rodney." He paused, and his pause seemed to signify that he was extremely thankful for his daughter s deliverance. Cassandra turned to Katharine, who drew her breath as if to speak and checked herself; Rodney, too, seemed to await some movement on her part; her father glanced at her as if he half anticipated some further revelation. She remained perfectly silent. In the silence they heard distinctly steps descending the staircase, and Katharine went straight to the door. "Wait," Mr. Hilbery commanded. "I wish to speak to you alone," he added. She paused, holding the door ajar. "I ll come back," she said, and as she spoke she opened the door and went out. They could hear her immediately speak to some one outside, though the words were inaudible. Mr. Hilbery was left confronting the guilty couple, who remained standing as if they did not accept their dismissal, and the disappearance of Katharine had brought some change into the situation. So, in his secret heart, Mr. Hilbery felt that it had, for he could not explain his daughter s behavior to his own satisfaction. "Uncle Trevor," Cassandra exclaimed impulsively, "don t be angry, please. I couldn t help it; I do beg you to forgive me." Her uncle still refused to acknowledge her identity, and still talked over her head as if she did not exist. "I suppose you have communicated with the Otways," he said to Rodney grimly. "Uncle Trevor, we wanted to tell you," Cassandra replied for him. "We waited" she looked appealingly at Rodney, who shook his head ever so slightly. "Yes? What were you waiting for?" her uncle asked sharply, looking at her at last. The words died on her lips. It was apparent that she was straining her ears as if to catch some sound outside the room that would come to her help. He received no answer. He listened, too. "This is a most unpleasant business for all parties," he concluded, sinking into his chair again, hunching his shoulders and regarding the flames. He seemed to speak to himself, and Rodney and Cassandra looked at him in silence. "Why don t you sit down?" he said suddenly. He spoke gruffly, but the force of his anger was evidently spent, or some preoccupation had turned his mood to other regions. While Cassandra accepted his invitation, Rodney remained standing. "I think Cassandra can explain matters better in my absence," he said, and left the room, Mr. Hilbery giving his assent by a slight nod of the head. Meanwhile, in the dining-room next door, Denham and Katharine were once more seated at the mahogany table. They seemed to be continuing a conversation broken off in the middle, as if each remembered the precise point at which they had been interrupted, and was eager to go on as quickly as possible. Katharine, having interposed a short account of the interview with her father, Denham made no comment, but said: "Anyhow, there s no reason why we shouldn t see each other." "Or stay together. It s only marriage that s out of the question," Katharine replied. "But if I find myself coming to want you more and more?" "If our lapses come more and more often?"<|quote|>He sighed impatiently, and said nothing for a moment.</|quote|>"But at least," he renewed, "we ve established the fact that my lapses are still in some odd way connected with you; yours have nothing to do with me. Katharine," he added, his assumption of reason broken up by his agitation, "I assure you that we are in love what other people call love. Remember that night. We had no doubts whatever then. We were absolutely happy for half an hour. You had no lapse until the day after; I had no lapse until yesterday morning. We ve been happy at intervals all day until I went off my head, and you, quite naturally, were bored." "Ah," she exclaimed, as if the subject chafed her, "I can t make you understand. It s not boredom I m never bored. Reality reality," she ejaculated, tapping her finger upon the table as if to emphasize and perhaps explain her isolated utterance of this word. "I cease to be real to you. It s the faces in a storm again the vision in a hurricane. We come together for a moment and we part. It s my fault, too. I m as bad as you are worse, perhaps." They were trying to explain, not for the first time, as their weary gestures and frequent interruptions showed, what in their common language they had christened their "lapses"; a constant source of distress to them, in the past few days, and the immediate reason why Ralph was on his way to leave the house when Katharine, listening anxiously, heard him and prevented him. What was the cause of these lapses? Either because Katharine looked more beautiful, or more strange, because she wore something different, or said something unexpected, Ralph s sense of her romance welled up and overcame him either into silence or into inarticulate expressions, which Katharine, with unintentional but invariable perversity, interrupted or contradicted with some severity or assertion of prosaic fact. Then the vision disappeared, and Ralph expressed vehemently in his turn the conviction that he only loved her shadow and cared nothing for her reality. If the lapse was on her side it took the form of gradual detachment until she became completely absorbed in her own thoughts, which carried her away with such intensity that she sharply resented any recall to her companion s side. It was useless to assert that these trances were always originated by Ralph himself, however little in their later stages they had to do with him. The fact remained that she had no need of him and was very loath to be reminded of him. How, then, could they be in love? The fragmentary nature of their relationship was but too apparent. Thus they sat depressed to silence at the dining-room table, oblivious of everything, while Rodney paced the drawing-room overhead in such agitation and exaltation of mind as he had never conceived possible, and Cassandra remained alone with her uncle. Ralph, at length, rose and walked gloomily to the window. He pressed close to the pane. Outside were truth and freedom and the immensity only to be apprehended by the mind in loneliness, and never communicated to another. What worse sacrilege was there than to attempt to violate what he perceived by seeking to impart it? Some movement behind him made him reflect that Katharine had the power, if she chose, to be in person what he dreamed of her spirit. He turned sharply to implore her help, when again he was struck cold by her look of distance, her expression of intentness upon some far object. As if conscious of his look upon her she rose and came to him, standing close by his side, and looking with him out into the dusky atmosphere. Their physical closeness was to him a bitter enough comment upon the distance between their minds. Yet distant as she was, her presence by his side transformed the world. He saw himself performing wonderful deeds of courage; saving the drowning, rescuing the forlorn. Impatient with this form of egotism, he could not shake off the conviction that somehow life was wonderful, romantic, a master worth serving so long as she stood there. He had no wish that she should speak; he did not look at her or touch her; she was apparently deep in her own thoughts and oblivious of his presence. The door opened without their hearing the sound. Mr. Hilbery looked round the room, and for a moment failed to discover the two figures in the window. He started with displeasure when he saw them, and observed them keenly before he appeared able to make up his mind to say anything. He made a movement finally that warned them of his presence; they turned instantly. Without speaking, he beckoned to Katharine to come to him, and, keeping | no answer. He listened, too. "This is a most unpleasant business for all parties," he concluded, sinking into his chair again, hunching his shoulders and regarding the flames. He seemed to speak to himself, and Rodney and Cassandra looked at him in silence. "Why don t you sit down?" he said suddenly. He spoke gruffly, but the force of his anger was evidently spent, or some preoccupation had turned his mood to other regions. While Cassandra accepted his invitation, Rodney remained standing. "I think Cassandra can explain matters better in my absence," he said, and left the room, Mr. Hilbery giving his assent by a slight nod of the head. Meanwhile, in the dining-room next door, Denham and Katharine were once more seated at the mahogany table. They seemed to be continuing a conversation broken off in the middle, as if each remembered the precise point at which they had been interrupted, and was eager to go on as quickly as possible. Katharine, having interposed a short account of the interview with her father, Denham made no comment, but said: "Anyhow, there s no reason why we shouldn t see each other." "Or stay together. It s only marriage that s out of the question," Katharine replied. "But if I find myself coming to want you more and more?" "If our lapses come more and more often?"<|quote|>He sighed impatiently, and said nothing for a moment.</|quote|>"But at least," he renewed, "we ve established the fact that my lapses are still in some odd way connected with you; yours have nothing to do with me. Katharine," he added, his assumption of reason broken up by his agitation, "I assure you that we are in love what other people call love. Remember that night. We had no doubts whatever then. We were absolutely happy for half an hour. You had no lapse until the day after; I had no lapse until yesterday morning. We ve been happy at intervals all day until I went off my head, and you, quite naturally, were bored." "Ah," she exclaimed, as if the subject chafed her, "I can t make you understand. It s not boredom I m never bored. Reality reality," she ejaculated, tapping her finger upon the table as if to emphasize and perhaps explain her isolated utterance of this word. "I cease to be real to you. It s the faces in a storm again the vision in a hurricane. We come together for a moment and we part. It s my fault, too. I m as bad as you are worse, perhaps." They were trying to explain, not for the first time, as their weary gestures and frequent interruptions showed, what in their common language they had christened their "lapses"; a constant source of distress to them, in the past few days, and the immediate reason why Ralph was on his way to leave the house when Katharine, listening anxiously, heard him and prevented him. What was the cause of these lapses? Either because Katharine looked more beautiful, or more strange, because she wore something different, or said something unexpected, Ralph s sense of her romance welled up and overcame him either into silence or into inarticulate expressions, which Katharine, with unintentional but invariable perversity, interrupted or contradicted with some severity or assertion of prosaic fact. Then the vision disappeared, and Ralph expressed vehemently in his turn the conviction that he only loved her shadow and cared nothing for her reality. If the lapse was on her side it took the form of gradual detachment until she became completely absorbed in her own thoughts, which carried her away with such intensity that she sharply resented any recall to her companion s side. It was useless to assert that these trances were always originated by Ralph himself, however little in their later stages they had to do with him. The fact remained that she had no need of him and was very loath to be reminded of him. How, then, could they be in love? The fragmentary nature of their relationship was but too apparent. Thus they sat depressed to silence at the dining-room table, oblivious of everything, while Rodney paced the drawing-room overhead in such agitation and exaltation of mind as he had never conceived possible, and Cassandra remained alone with her uncle. Ralph, at length, rose and walked gloomily to the window. | Night And Day |
"Does no one cry here, either? I suppose there's no need to, in heaven," | Ellen Olenska | at him with wet lashes.<|quote|>"Does no one cry here, either? I suppose there's no need to, in heaven,"</|quote|>she said, straightening her loosened | freed herself, and looked up at him with wet lashes.<|quote|>"Does no one cry here, either? I suppose there's no need to, in heaven,"</|quote|>she said, straightening her loosened braids with a laugh, and | shaken by a sob. "Madame Olenska!--Oh, don't, Ellen," he cried, starting up and bending over her. He drew down one of her hands, clasping and chafing it like a child's while he murmured reassuring words; but in a moment she freed herself, and looked up at him with wet lashes.<|quote|>"Does no one cry here, either? I suppose there's no need to, in heaven,"</|quote|>she said, straightening her loosened braids with a laugh, and bending over the tea-kettle. It was burnt into his consciousness that he had called her "Ellen"--called her so twice; and that she had not noticed it. Far down the inverted telescope he saw the faint white figure of May Welland--in | Welland put it in those very words when I tried.... Does no one want to know the truth here, Mr. Archer? The real loneliness is living among all these kind people who only ask one to pretend!" She lifted her hands to her face, and he saw her thin shoulders shaken by a sob. "Madame Olenska!--Oh, don't, Ellen," he cried, starting up and bending over her. He drew down one of her hands, clasping and chafing it like a child's while he murmured reassuring words; but in a moment she freed herself, and looked up at him with wet lashes.<|quote|>"Does no one cry here, either? I suppose there's no need to, in heaven,"</|quote|>she said, straightening her loosened braids with a laugh, and bending over the tea-kettle. It was burnt into his consciousness that he had called her "Ellen"--called her so twice; and that she had not noticed it. Far down the inverted telescope he saw the faint white figure of May Welland--in New York. Suddenly Nastasia put her head in to say something in her rich Italian. Madame Olenska, again with a hand at her hair, uttered an exclamation of assent--a flashing "Gia--gia"--and the Duke of St. Austrey entered, piloting a tremendous blackwigged and red-plumed lady in overflowing furs. "My dear Countess, | must have lived that she still breathed more freely in their air. But since she felt that he understood her also, his business would be to make her see Beaufort as he really was, with all he represented--and abhor it. He answered gently: "I understand. But just at first don't let go of your old friends' hands: I mean the older women, your Granny Mingott, Mrs. Welland, Mrs. van der Luyden. They like and admire you--they want to help you." She shook her head and sighed. "Oh, I know--I know! But on condition that they don't hear anything unpleasant. Aunt Welland put it in those very words when I tried.... Does no one want to know the truth here, Mr. Archer? The real loneliness is living among all these kind people who only ask one to pretend!" She lifted her hands to her face, and he saw her thin shoulders shaken by a sob. "Madame Olenska!--Oh, don't, Ellen," he cried, starting up and bending over her. He drew down one of her hands, clasping and chafing it like a child's while he murmured reassuring words; but in a moment she freed herself, and looked up at him with wet lashes.<|quote|>"Does no one cry here, either? I suppose there's no need to, in heaven,"</|quote|>she said, straightening her loosened braids with a laugh, and bending over the tea-kettle. It was burnt into his consciousness that he had called her "Ellen"--called her so twice; and that she had not noticed it. Far down the inverted telescope he saw the faint white figure of May Welland--in New York. Suddenly Nastasia put her head in to say something in her rich Italian. Madame Olenska, again with a hand at her hair, uttered an exclamation of assent--a flashing "Gia--gia"--and the Duke of St. Austrey entered, piloting a tremendous blackwigged and red-plumed lady in overflowing furs. "My dear Countess, I've brought an old friend of mine to see you--Mrs. Struthers. She wasn't asked to the party last night, and she wants to know you." The Duke beamed on the group, and Madame Olenska advanced with a murmur of welcome toward the queer couple. She seemed to have no idea how oddly matched they were, nor what a liberty the Duke had taken in bringing his companion--and to do him justice, as Archer perceived, the Duke seemed as unaware of it himself. "Of course I want to know you, my dear," cried Mrs. Struthers in a round rolling voice that | moved by the thought of what must have given Madame Olenska this thirst for even the loneliest kind of freedom. But the idea of Beaufort gnawed him. "I think I understand how you feel," he said. "Still, your family can advise you; explain differences; show you the way." She lifted her thin black eyebrows. "Is New York such a labyrinth? I thought it so straight up and down--like Fifth Avenue. And with all the cross streets numbered!" She seemed to guess his faint disapproval of this, and added, with the rare smile that enchanted her whole face: "If you knew how I like it for just THAT--the straight-up-and-downness, and the big honest labels on everything!" He saw his chance. "Everything may be labelled--but everybody is not." "Perhaps. I may simplify too much--but you'll warn me if I do." She turned from the fire to look at him. "There are only two people here who make me feel as if they understood what I mean and could explain things to me: you and Mr. Beaufort." Archer winced at the joining of the names, and then, with a quick readjustment, understood, sympathised and pitied. So close to the powers of evil she must have lived that she still breathed more freely in their air. But since she felt that he understood her also, his business would be to make her see Beaufort as he really was, with all he represented--and abhor it. He answered gently: "I understand. But just at first don't let go of your old friends' hands: I mean the older women, your Granny Mingott, Mrs. Welland, Mrs. van der Luyden. They like and admire you--they want to help you." She shook her head and sighed. "Oh, I know--I know! But on condition that they don't hear anything unpleasant. Aunt Welland put it in those very words when I tried.... Does no one want to know the truth here, Mr. Archer? The real loneliness is living among all these kind people who only ask one to pretend!" She lifted her hands to her face, and he saw her thin shoulders shaken by a sob. "Madame Olenska!--Oh, don't, Ellen," he cried, starting up and bending over her. He drew down one of her hands, clasping and chafing it like a child's while he murmured reassuring words; but in a moment she freed herself, and looked up at him with wet lashes.<|quote|>"Does no one cry here, either? I suppose there's no need to, in heaven,"</|quote|>she said, straightening her loosened braids with a laugh, and bending over the tea-kettle. It was burnt into his consciousness that he had called her "Ellen"--called her so twice; and that she had not noticed it. Far down the inverted telescope he saw the faint white figure of May Welland--in New York. Suddenly Nastasia put her head in to say something in her rich Italian. Madame Olenska, again with a hand at her hair, uttered an exclamation of assent--a flashing "Gia--gia"--and the Duke of St. Austrey entered, piloting a tremendous blackwigged and red-plumed lady in overflowing furs. "My dear Countess, I've brought an old friend of mine to see you--Mrs. Struthers. She wasn't asked to the party last night, and she wants to know you." The Duke beamed on the group, and Madame Olenska advanced with a murmur of welcome toward the queer couple. She seemed to have no idea how oddly matched they were, nor what a liberty the Duke had taken in bringing his companion--and to do him justice, as Archer perceived, the Duke seemed as unaware of it himself. "Of course I want to know you, my dear," cried Mrs. Struthers in a round rolling voice that matched her bold feathers and her brazen wig. "I want to know everybody who's young and interesting and charming. And the Duke tells me you like music--didn't you, Duke? You're a pianist yourself, I believe? Well, do you want to hear Sarasate play tomorrow evening at my house? You know I've something going on every Sunday evening--it's the day when New York doesn't know what to do with itself, and so I say to it: 'Come and be amused.' And the Duke thought you'd be tempted by Sarasate. You'll find a number of your friends." Madame Olenska's face grew brilliant with pleasure. "How kind! How good of the Duke to think of me!" She pushed a chair up to the tea-table and Mrs. Struthers sank into it delectably. "Of course I shall be too happy to come." "That's all right, my dear. And bring your young gentleman with you." Mrs. Struthers extended a hail-fellow hand to Archer. "I can't put a name to you--but I'm sure I've met you--I've met everybody, here, or in Paris or London. Aren't you in diplomacy? All the diplomatists come to me. You like music too? Duke, you must be sure to bring him." The | He coloured a little, stared at her--and suddenly felt the penetration of the remark. At a stroke she had pricked the van der Luydens and they collapsed. He laughed, and sacrificed them. Nastasia brought the tea, with handleless Japanese cups and little covered dishes, placing the tray on a low table. "But you'll explain these things to me--you'll tell me all I ought to know," Madame Olenska continued, leaning forward to hand him his cup. "It's you who are telling me; opening my eyes to things I'd looked at so long that I'd ceased to see them." She detached a small gold cigarette-case from one of her bracelets, held it out to him, and took a cigarette herself. On the chimney were long spills for lighting them. "Ah, then we can both help each other. But I want help so much more. You must tell me just what to do." It was on the tip of his tongue to reply: "Don't be seen driving about the streets with Beaufort--" but he was being too deeply drawn into the atmosphere of the room, which was her atmosphere, and to give advice of that sort would have been like telling some one who was bargaining for attar-of-roses in Samarkand that one should always be provided with arctics for a New York winter. New York seemed much farther off than Samarkand, and if they were indeed to help each other she was rendering what might prove the first of their mutual services by making him look at his native city objectively. Viewed thus, as through the wrong end of a telescope, it looked disconcertingly small and distant; but then from Samarkand it would. A flame darted from the logs and she bent over the fire, stretching her thin hands so close to it that a faint halo shone about the oval nails. The light touched to russet the rings of dark hair escaping from her braids, and made her pale face paler. "There are plenty of people to tell you what to do," Archer rejoined, obscurely envious of them. "Oh--all my aunts? And my dear old Granny?" She considered the idea impartially. "They're all a little vexed with me for setting up for myself--poor Granny especially. She wanted to keep me with her; but I had to be free--" He was impressed by this light way of speaking of the formidable Catherine, and moved by the thought of what must have given Madame Olenska this thirst for even the loneliest kind of freedom. But the idea of Beaufort gnawed him. "I think I understand how you feel," he said. "Still, your family can advise you; explain differences; show you the way." She lifted her thin black eyebrows. "Is New York such a labyrinth? I thought it so straight up and down--like Fifth Avenue. And with all the cross streets numbered!" She seemed to guess his faint disapproval of this, and added, with the rare smile that enchanted her whole face: "If you knew how I like it for just THAT--the straight-up-and-downness, and the big honest labels on everything!" He saw his chance. "Everything may be labelled--but everybody is not." "Perhaps. I may simplify too much--but you'll warn me if I do." She turned from the fire to look at him. "There are only two people here who make me feel as if they understood what I mean and could explain things to me: you and Mr. Beaufort." Archer winced at the joining of the names, and then, with a quick readjustment, understood, sympathised and pitied. So close to the powers of evil she must have lived that she still breathed more freely in their air. But since she felt that he understood her also, his business would be to make her see Beaufort as he really was, with all he represented--and abhor it. He answered gently: "I understand. But just at first don't let go of your old friends' hands: I mean the older women, your Granny Mingott, Mrs. Welland, Mrs. van der Luyden. They like and admire you--they want to help you." She shook her head and sighed. "Oh, I know--I know! But on condition that they don't hear anything unpleasant. Aunt Welland put it in those very words when I tried.... Does no one want to know the truth here, Mr. Archer? The real loneliness is living among all these kind people who only ask one to pretend!" She lifted her hands to her face, and he saw her thin shoulders shaken by a sob. "Madame Olenska!--Oh, don't, Ellen," he cried, starting up and bending over her. He drew down one of her hands, clasping and chafing it like a child's while he murmured reassuring words; but in a moment she freed herself, and looked up at him with wet lashes.<|quote|>"Does no one cry here, either? I suppose there's no need to, in heaven,"</|quote|>she said, straightening her loosened braids with a laugh, and bending over the tea-kettle. It was burnt into his consciousness that he had called her "Ellen"--called her so twice; and that she had not noticed it. Far down the inverted telescope he saw the faint white figure of May Welland--in New York. Suddenly Nastasia put her head in to say something in her rich Italian. Madame Olenska, again with a hand at her hair, uttered an exclamation of assent--a flashing "Gia--gia"--and the Duke of St. Austrey entered, piloting a tremendous blackwigged and red-plumed lady in overflowing furs. "My dear Countess, I've brought an old friend of mine to see you--Mrs. Struthers. She wasn't asked to the party last night, and she wants to know you." The Duke beamed on the group, and Madame Olenska advanced with a murmur of welcome toward the queer couple. She seemed to have no idea how oddly matched they were, nor what a liberty the Duke had taken in bringing his companion--and to do him justice, as Archer perceived, the Duke seemed as unaware of it himself. "Of course I want to know you, my dear," cried Mrs. Struthers in a round rolling voice that matched her bold feathers and her brazen wig. "I want to know everybody who's young and interesting and charming. And the Duke tells me you like music--didn't you, Duke? You're a pianist yourself, I believe? Well, do you want to hear Sarasate play tomorrow evening at my house? You know I've something going on every Sunday evening--it's the day when New York doesn't know what to do with itself, and so I say to it: 'Come and be amused.' And the Duke thought you'd be tempted by Sarasate. You'll find a number of your friends." Madame Olenska's face grew brilliant with pleasure. "How kind! How good of the Duke to think of me!" She pushed a chair up to the tea-table and Mrs. Struthers sank into it delectably. "Of course I shall be too happy to come." "That's all right, my dear. And bring your young gentleman with you." Mrs. Struthers extended a hail-fellow hand to Archer. "I can't put a name to you--but I'm sure I've met you--I've met everybody, here, or in Paris or London. Aren't you in diplomacy? All the diplomatists come to me. You like music too? Duke, you must be sure to bring him." The Duke said "Rather" from the depths of his beard, and Archer withdrew with a stiffly circular bow that made him feel as full of spine as a self-conscious school-boy among careless and unnoticing elders. He was not sorry for the denouement of his visit: he only wished it had come sooner, and spared him a certain waste of emotion. As he went out into the wintry night, New York again became vast and imminent, and May Welland the loveliest woman in it. He turned into his florist's to send her the daily box of lilies-of-the-valley which, to his confusion, he found he had forgotten that morning. As he wrote a word on his card and waited for an envelope he glanced about the embowered shop, and his eye lit on a cluster of yellow roses. He had never seen any as sun-golden before, and his first impulse was to send them to May instead of the lilies. But they did not look like her--there was something too rich, too strong, in their fiery beauty. In a sudden revulsion of mood, and almost without knowing what he did, he signed to the florist to lay the roses in another long box, and slipped his card into a second envelope, on which he wrote the name of the Countess Olenska; then, just as he was turning away, he drew the card out again, and left the empty envelope on the box. "They'll go at once?" he enquired, pointing to the roses. The florist assured him that they would. X. The next day he persuaded May to escape for a walk in the Park after luncheon. As was the custom in old-fashioned Episcopalian New York, she usually accompanied her parents to church on Sunday afternoons; but Mrs. Welland condoned her truancy, having that very morning won her over to the necessity of a long engagement, with time to prepare a hand-embroidered trousseau containing the proper number of dozens. The day was delectable. The bare vaulting of trees along the Mall was ceiled with lapis lazuli, and arched above snow that shone like splintered crystals. It was the weather to call out May's radiance, and she burned like a young maple in the frost. Archer was proud of the glances turned on her, and the simple joy of possessorship cleared away his underlying perplexities. "It's so delicious--waking every morning to smell lilies-of-the-valley in one's | Granny?" She considered the idea impartially. "They're all a little vexed with me for setting up for myself--poor Granny especially. She wanted to keep me with her; but I had to be free--" He was impressed by this light way of speaking of the formidable Catherine, and moved by the thought of what must have given Madame Olenska this thirst for even the loneliest kind of freedom. But the idea of Beaufort gnawed him. "I think I understand how you feel," he said. "Still, your family can advise you; explain differences; show you the way." She lifted her thin black eyebrows. "Is New York such a labyrinth? I thought it so straight up and down--like Fifth Avenue. And with all the cross streets numbered!" She seemed to guess his faint disapproval of this, and added, with the rare smile that enchanted her whole face: "If you knew how I like it for just THAT--the straight-up-and-downness, and the big honest labels on everything!" He saw his chance. "Everything may be labelled--but everybody is not." "Perhaps. I may simplify too much--but you'll warn me if I do." She turned from the fire to look at him. "There are only two people here who make me feel as if they understood what I mean and could explain things to me: you and Mr. Beaufort." Archer winced at the joining of the names, and then, with a quick readjustment, understood, sympathised and pitied. So close to the powers of evil she must have lived that she still breathed more freely in their air. But since she felt that he understood her also, his business would be to make her see Beaufort as he really was, with all he represented--and abhor it. He answered gently: "I understand. But just at first don't let go of your old friends' hands: I mean the older women, your Granny Mingott, Mrs. Welland, Mrs. van der Luyden. They like and admire you--they want to help you." She shook her head and sighed. "Oh, I know--I know! But on condition that they don't hear anything unpleasant. Aunt Welland put it in those very words when I tried.... Does no one want to know the truth here, Mr. Archer? The real loneliness is living among all these kind people who only ask one to pretend!" She lifted her hands to her face, and he saw her thin shoulders shaken by a sob. "Madame Olenska!--Oh, don't, Ellen," he cried, starting up and bending over her. He drew down one of her hands, clasping and chafing it like a child's while he murmured reassuring words; but in a moment she freed herself, and looked up at him with wet lashes.<|quote|>"Does no one cry here, either? I suppose there's no need to, in heaven,"</|quote|>she said, straightening her loosened braids with a laugh, and bending over the tea-kettle. It was burnt into his consciousness that he had called her "Ellen"--called her so twice; and that she had not noticed it. Far down the inverted telescope he saw the faint white figure of May Welland--in New York. Suddenly Nastasia put her head in to say something in her rich Italian. Madame Olenska, again with a hand at her hair, uttered an exclamation of assent--a flashing "Gia--gia"--and the Duke of St. Austrey entered, piloting a tremendous blackwigged and red-plumed lady in overflowing furs. "My dear Countess, I've brought an old friend of mine to see you--Mrs. Struthers. She wasn't asked to the party last night, and she wants to know you." The Duke beamed on the group, and Madame Olenska advanced with a murmur of welcome toward the queer couple. She seemed to have no idea how oddly matched they were, nor what a liberty the Duke had taken in bringing his companion--and to do him justice, as Archer perceived, the Duke seemed as unaware of it himself. "Of course I want to know you, my dear," cried Mrs. Struthers in a round rolling voice that matched her bold feathers and her brazen wig. "I want to know everybody who's young and interesting and charming. And the Duke tells me you like music--didn't you, Duke? You're a pianist yourself, I believe? Well, do you want to hear Sarasate play tomorrow evening at my house? You know I've something going on every Sunday evening--it's the day when New York doesn't know what to do with itself, | The Age Of Innocence |
"I didn't mean it!" | Alice | me by talking such nonsense!"<|quote|>"I didn't mean it!"</|quote|>pleaded poor Alice. "But you're | and walking away. "You insult me by talking such nonsense!"<|quote|>"I didn't mean it!"</|quote|>pleaded poor Alice. "But you're so easily offended, you know!" | Mouse, sharply and very angrily. "A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall do nothing of the sort," said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. "You insult me by talking such nonsense!"<|quote|>"I didn't mean it!"</|quote|>pleaded poor Alice. "But you're so easily offended, you know!" The Mouse only growled in reply. "Please come back and finish your story!" Alice called after it; and the others all joined in chorus, "Yes, please do!" but the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker. | cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_" cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily. "A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall do nothing of the sort," said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. "You insult me by talking such nonsense!"<|quote|>"I didn't mean it!"</|quote|>pleaded poor Alice. "But you're so easily offended, you know!" The Mouse only growled in reply. "Please come back and finish your story!" Alice called after it; and the others all joined in chorus, "Yes, please do!" but the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker. "What a pity it wouldn't stay!" sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her daughter "Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose _your_ temper!" "Hold your tongue, Ma!" said | at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, 'Let us both go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.' 'I'll be judge, I'll be jury,' Said cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_" cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily. "A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall do nothing of the sort," said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. "You insult me by talking such nonsense!"<|quote|>"I didn't mean it!"</|quote|>pleaded poor Alice. "But you're so easily offended, you know!" The Mouse only growled in reply. "Please come back and finish your story!" Alice called after it; and the others all joined in chorus, "Yes, please do!" but the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker. "What a pity it wouldn't stay!" sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her daughter "Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose _your_ temper!" "Hold your tongue, Ma!" said the young Crab, a little snappishly. "You're enough to try the patience of an oyster!" "I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!" said Alice aloud, addressing nobody in particular. "She'd soon fetch it back!" "And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?" said the Lory. Alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to talk about her pet: "Dinah's our cat. And she's such a capital one for catching mice you can't think! And oh, I wish you could see her after the birds! Why, she'll eat a little bird as soon | Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying "We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble;" and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. "You promised to tell me your history, you know," said Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again. "Mine is a long and a sad tale!" said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing. "It _is_ a long tail, certainly," said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, 'Let us both go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.' 'I'll be judge, I'll be jury,' Said cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_" cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily. "A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall do nothing of the sort," said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. "You insult me by talking such nonsense!"<|quote|>"I didn't mean it!"</|quote|>pleaded poor Alice. "But you're so easily offended, you know!" The Mouse only growled in reply. "Please come back and finish your story!" Alice called after it; and the others all joined in chorus, "Yes, please do!" but the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker. "What a pity it wouldn't stay!" sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her daughter "Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose _your_ temper!" "Hold your tongue, Ma!" said the young Crab, a little snappishly. "You're enough to try the patience of an oyster!" "I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!" said Alice aloud, addressing nobody in particular. "She'd soon fetch it back!" "And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?" said the Lory. Alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to talk about her pet: "Dinah's our cat. And she's such a capital one for catching mice you can't think! And oh, I wish you could see her after the birds! Why, she'll eat a little bird as soon as look at it!" This speech caused a remarkable sensation among the party. Some of the birds hurried off at once: one old Magpie began wrapping itself up very carefully, remarking, "I really must be getting home; the night-air doesn't suit my throat!" and a Canary called out in a trembling voice to its children, "Come away, my dears! It's high time you were all in bed!" On various pretexts they all moved off, and Alice was soon left alone. "I wish I hadn't mentioned Dinah!" she said to herself in a melancholy tone. "Nobody seems to like her, down here, and I'm sure she's the best cat in the world! Oh, my dear Dinah! I wonder if I shall ever see you any more!" And here poor Alice began to cry again, for she felt very lonely and low-spirited. In a little while, however, she again heard a little pattering of footsteps in the distance, and she looked up eagerly, half hoping that the Mouse had changed his mind, and was coming back to finish his story. CHAPTER IV. The Rabbit Sends in a Little Bill It was the White Rabbit, trotting slowly back again, and looking anxiously about | the other birds tittered audibly. "What I was going to say," said the Dodo in an offended tone, "was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race." "What _is_ a Caucus-race?" said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that _somebody_ ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. "Why," said the Dodo, "the best way to explain it is to do it." (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.) First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (" "the exact shape doesn't matter," it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. There was no "One, two, three, and away," but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out "The race is over!" and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, "But who has won?" This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said, "_Everybody_ has won, and all must have prizes." "But who is to give the prizes?" quite a chorus of voices asked. "Why, _she_, of course," said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused way, "Prizes! Prizes!" Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one a-piece, all round. "But she must have a prize herself, you know," said the Mouse. "Of course," the Dodo replied very gravely. "What else have you got in your pocket?" he went on, turning to Alice. "Only a thimble," said Alice sadly. "Hand it over here," said the Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying "We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble;" and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. "You promised to tell me your history, you know," said Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again. "Mine is a long and a sad tale!" said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing. "It _is_ a long tail, certainly," said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, 'Let us both go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.' 'I'll be judge, I'll be jury,' Said cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_" cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily. "A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall do nothing of the sort," said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. "You insult me by talking such nonsense!"<|quote|>"I didn't mean it!"</|quote|>pleaded poor Alice. "But you're so easily offended, you know!" The Mouse only growled in reply. "Please come back and finish your story!" Alice called after it; and the others all joined in chorus, "Yes, please do!" but the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker. "What a pity it wouldn't stay!" sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her daughter "Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose _your_ temper!" "Hold your tongue, Ma!" said the young Crab, a little snappishly. "You're enough to try the patience of an oyster!" "I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!" said Alice aloud, addressing nobody in particular. "She'd soon fetch it back!" "And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?" said the Lory. Alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to talk about her pet: "Dinah's our cat. And she's such a capital one for catching mice you can't think! And oh, I wish you could see her after the birds! Why, she'll eat a little bird as soon as look at it!" This speech caused a remarkable sensation among the party. Some of the birds hurried off at once: one old Magpie began wrapping itself up very carefully, remarking, "I really must be getting home; the night-air doesn't suit my throat!" and a Canary called out in a trembling voice to its children, "Come away, my dears! It's high time you were all in bed!" On various pretexts they all moved off, and Alice was soon left alone. "I wish I hadn't mentioned Dinah!" she said to herself in a melancholy tone. "Nobody seems to like her, down here, and I'm sure she's the best cat in the world! Oh, my dear Dinah! I wonder if I shall ever see you any more!" And here poor Alice began to cry again, for she felt very lonely and low-spirited. In a little while, however, she again heard a little pattering of footsteps in the distance, and she looked up eagerly, half hoping that the Mouse had changed his mind, and was coming back to finish his story. CHAPTER IV. The Rabbit Sends in a Little Bill It was the White Rabbit, trotting slowly back again, and looking anxiously about as it went, as if it had lost something; and she heard it muttering to itself "The Duchess! The Duchess! Oh my dear paws! Oh my fur and whiskers! She'll get me executed, as sure as ferrets are ferrets! Where _can_ I have dropped them, I wonder?" Alice guessed in a moment that it was looking for the fan and the pair of white kid gloves, and she very good-naturedly began hunting about for them, but they were nowhere to be seen--everything seemed to have changed since her swim in the pool, and the great hall, with the glass table and the little door, had vanished completely. Very soon the Rabbit noticed Alice, as she went hunting about, and called out to her in an angry tone, "Why, Mary Ann, what _are_ you doing out here? Run home this moment, and fetch me a pair of gloves and a fan! Quick, now!" And Alice was so much frightened that she ran off at once in the direction it pointed to, without trying to explain the mistake it had made. "He took me for his housemaid," she said to herself as she ran. "How surprised he'll be when he finds out who I am! But I'd better take him his fan and gloves--that is, if I can find them." As she said this, she came upon a neat little house, on the door of which was a bright brass plate with the name "W. RABBIT," engraved upon it. She went in without knocking, and hurried upstairs, in great fear lest she should meet the real Mary Ann, and be turned out of the house before she had found the fan and gloves. "How queer it seems," Alice said to herself, "to be going messages for a rabbit! I suppose Dinah'll be sending me on messages next!" And she began fancying the sort of thing that would happen: "'Miss Alice! Come here directly, and get ready for your walk!' 'Coming in a minute, nurse! But I've got to see that the mouse doesn't get out.' Only I don't think," Alice went on, "that they'd let Dinah stop in the house if it began ordering people about like that!" By this time she had found her way into a tidy little room with a table in the window, and on it (as she had hoped) a fan and two or three pairs of | Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again. "Mine is a long and a sad tale!" said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing. "It _is_ a long tail, certainly," said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, 'Let us both go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.' 'I'll be judge, I'll be jury,' Said cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_" cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily. "A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall do nothing of the sort," said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. "You insult me by talking such nonsense!"<|quote|>"I didn't mean it!"</|quote|>pleaded poor Alice. "But you're so easily offended, you know!" The Mouse only growled in reply. "Please come back and finish your story!" Alice called after it; and the others all joined in chorus, "Yes, please do!" but the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker. "What a pity it wouldn't stay!" sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her daughter "Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose _your_ temper!" "Hold your tongue, Ma!" said the young Crab, a little snappishly. "You're enough to try the patience of an oyster!" "I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!" said Alice aloud, addressing nobody in particular. "She'd soon fetch it back!" "And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?" said the Lory. Alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to talk about her pet: "Dinah's our cat. And she's such a capital one for catching mice you can't think! And oh, I wish you could see her after the birds! Why, she'll eat a little bird as soon as look at it!" This speech caused a remarkable sensation among the party. Some of the birds hurried off at once: one old Magpie began wrapping itself up very carefully, remarking, "I really must be getting home; the night-air doesn't suit my throat!" and a Canary called out in a trembling voice to its children, "Come away, my dears! It's high time you were all in bed!" On various pretexts they all moved off, and Alice was soon left alone. "I wish I hadn't mentioned Dinah!" she said to herself in a melancholy tone. "Nobody seems to like her, down here, and I'm sure she's the best cat in the world! Oh, my dear Dinah! I wonder if I shall ever see you any more!" And here poor Alice began to cry again, for she felt | Alices Adventures In Wonderland |
“Rub off some of your gloomy pessimism and cultivate a little more healthy girlish vanity, and you will do very well,” | Aunt Helen | the contents of my bookshelf.<|quote|>“Rub off some of your gloomy pessimism and cultivate a little more healthy girlish vanity, and you will do very well,”</|quote|>she would say. I observed | to encroach upon it with the contents of my bookshelf.<|quote|>“Rub off some of your gloomy pessimism and cultivate a little more healthy girlish vanity, and you will do very well,”</|quote|>she would say. I observed these rites most religiously for | their serviettes. Aunt Helen’s treatment for making me presentable was the wearing of gloves and a shady hat every time I went outside; and she insisted upon me spending a proper time over my toilet, and would not allow me to encroach upon it with the contents of my bookshelf.<|quote|>“Rub off some of your gloomy pessimism and cultivate a little more healthy girlish vanity, and you will do very well,”</|quote|>she would say. I observed these rites most religiously for three days. Then I contracted a slight attack of influenza, and in poking around the kitchen, doing one of the things I oughtn’t at the time I shouldn’t, a servant-girl tipped a pot of boiling pot-liquor over my right foot, | of four of them, and then lost myself in Gordon, and sat on my dressing-table in my nightgown, regardless of cold, until brought to my senses by the breakfast-bell. I made great pace, scrambled into my clothes helter-skelter, and appeared at table when the others had been seated and unfolded their serviettes. Aunt Helen’s treatment for making me presentable was the wearing of gloves and a shady hat every time I went outside; and she insisted upon me spending a proper time over my toilet, and would not allow me to encroach upon it with the contents of my bookshelf.<|quote|>“Rub off some of your gloomy pessimism and cultivate a little more healthy girlish vanity, and you will do very well,”</|quote|>she would say. I observed these rites most religiously for three days. Then I contracted a slight attack of influenza, and in poking around the kitchen, doing one of the things I oughtn’t at the time I shouldn’t, a servant-girl tipped a pot of boiling pot-liquor over my right foot, scalding it rather severely. Aunt Helen and grannie put me to bed, where I yelled with pain for hours like a mad Red Indian, despite their applying every alleviative possible. The combined forces of the burn and influenza made me a trifle dicky, so a decree went forth that I | excruciatingly lovely little writing-desk. It was stuffed full with all kinds of paper of good quality—fancy, all colours, sizes, and shapes, plain, foreign note, pens, ink, and a generous supply of stamps. I felt like writing a dozen letters there and then, and was on the point of giving way to my inclination, when my attention was arrested by what I considered the gem of the whole turn-out. I refer to a nice little bookcase containing copies of all our Australian poets, and two or three dozen novels which I had often longed to read. I read the first chapters of four of them, and then lost myself in Gordon, and sat on my dressing-table in my nightgown, regardless of cold, until brought to my senses by the breakfast-bell. I made great pace, scrambled into my clothes helter-skelter, and appeared at table when the others had been seated and unfolded their serviettes. Aunt Helen’s treatment for making me presentable was the wearing of gloves and a shady hat every time I went outside; and she insisted upon me spending a proper time over my toilet, and would not allow me to encroach upon it with the contents of my bookshelf.<|quote|>“Rub off some of your gloomy pessimism and cultivate a little more healthy girlish vanity, and you will do very well,”</|quote|>she would say. I observed these rites most religiously for three days. Then I contracted a slight attack of influenza, and in poking around the kitchen, doing one of the things I oughtn’t at the time I shouldn’t, a servant-girl tipped a pot of boiling pot-liquor over my right foot, scalding it rather severely. Aunt Helen and grannie put me to bed, where I yelled with pain for hours like a mad Red Indian, despite their applying every alleviative possible. The combined forces of the burn and influenza made me a trifle dicky, so a decree went forth that I was to stay in bed until recovered from both complaints. This effectually prevented me from running in the way of any looking-glasses. I was not sufficiently ill to be miserable, and being a pampered invalid was therefore fine fun. Aunt Helen was a wonderful nurse. She dressed my foot splendidly every morning, and put it in a comfortable position many times throughout the day. Grannie brought me every dainty in the house, and sent special messengers to Gool-Gool for more. Had I been a professional glutton I would have been in paradise. Even Mr Hawden condescended so far as to | room; I have arranged it on purpose to suit you. And now good night, and happy dreams.” I awoke next morning in very fine spirits, and slithering out of my bed with alacrity, revelled—literally wallowed—in the appointments of my room. My poor old room at Possum Gully was lacking in barest necessaries. We could not afford even a wash-hand basin and jug; Gertie, the boys, and myself had to perform our morning ablutions in a leaky tin dish on a stool outside the kitchen door, which on cold frosty mornings was a pretty peppery performance: but this room contained everything dear to the heart of girlhood. A lovely bed, pretty slippers, dainty white China-matting and many soft skins on the floor, and in one corner a most artistic toilet set, and a wash-stand liberally supplied with a great variety of soap—some of it so exquisitely perfumed that I felt tempted to taste it. There were pretty pictures on the walls, and on a commodious dressing-table a big mirror and large hand-glasses, with their faces to the wall at present. Hairpins, fancy combs, ribbons galore, and a pretty work-basket greeted my sight, and with delight I swooped down upon the most excruciatingly lovely little writing-desk. It was stuffed full with all kinds of paper of good quality—fancy, all colours, sizes, and shapes, plain, foreign note, pens, ink, and a generous supply of stamps. I felt like writing a dozen letters there and then, and was on the point of giving way to my inclination, when my attention was arrested by what I considered the gem of the whole turn-out. I refer to a nice little bookcase containing copies of all our Australian poets, and two or three dozen novels which I had often longed to read. I read the first chapters of four of them, and then lost myself in Gordon, and sat on my dressing-table in my nightgown, regardless of cold, until brought to my senses by the breakfast-bell. I made great pace, scrambled into my clothes helter-skelter, and appeared at table when the others had been seated and unfolded their serviettes. Aunt Helen’s treatment for making me presentable was the wearing of gloves and a shady hat every time I went outside; and she insisted upon me spending a proper time over my toilet, and would not allow me to encroach upon it with the contents of my bookshelf.<|quote|>“Rub off some of your gloomy pessimism and cultivate a little more healthy girlish vanity, and you will do very well,”</|quote|>she would say. I observed these rites most religiously for three days. Then I contracted a slight attack of influenza, and in poking around the kitchen, doing one of the things I oughtn’t at the time I shouldn’t, a servant-girl tipped a pot of boiling pot-liquor over my right foot, scalding it rather severely. Aunt Helen and grannie put me to bed, where I yelled with pain for hours like a mad Red Indian, despite their applying every alleviative possible. The combined forces of the burn and influenza made me a trifle dicky, so a decree went forth that I was to stay in bed until recovered from both complaints. This effectually prevented me from running in the way of any looking-glasses. I was not sufficiently ill to be miserable, and being a pampered invalid was therefore fine fun. Aunt Helen was a wonderful nurse. She dressed my foot splendidly every morning, and put it in a comfortable position many times throughout the day. Grannie brought me every dainty in the house, and sent special messengers to Gool-Gool for more. Had I been a professional glutton I would have been in paradise. Even Mr Hawden condescended so far as to express his regret concerning the accident, and favoured me with visits throughout each day; and one Sunday his gallantry carried him to a gully where he plucked a bouquet of maidenhair fern—the first of the season—and put them in a bowl beside my bed. My uncle Julius, the only other member of the family besides the servants, was away “up the country” on some business or another, and was not expected home for a month or so. The Bossiers and Beechams were leaders of swelldom among the squattocracy up the country, and firm and intimate friends. The Beechams resided at Five-Bob Downs, twelve miles from Caddagat, and were a family composed of two maiden ladies and their nephew, Harold. One of these ladies was aunt Helen’s particular friend, and the other had stood in the same capacity to my mother in days gone by, but of late years, on account of her poverty, mother had been too proud to keep up communication with her. As for Harold Beecham, he was nearly as much at home at Caddagat as at Five-Bob Downs. He came and went with that pleasant familiarity practised between congenial spirits among squatterdom. The Bossiers and Beechams were | than a twelvemonth he tired of his lovely bride, and becoming enamoured of another woman, he tried to obtain a divorce. On account of his wife’s spotless character he was unable to do this; he therefore deserted her and openly lived with the other woman as his mistress. This forced aunt Helen to return to Caddagat, and her mother had induced her to sue for a judicial separation, which was easily obtained. When a woman is separated from her husband it is the religion of the world at large to cast the whole blame on the wife. By reason of her youth and purity Mrs Bell had not as much to suffer in this way as some others. But, comparatively speaking, her life was wrecked. She had been humiliated and outraged in the cruellest way by the man whom she loved and trusted. He had turned her adrift, neither a wife, widow, nor maid, and here she was, one of the most estimably lovable and noble women I have ever met. “Come, Sybylla,” she said, starting up brightly, “I have a plan—will you agree to it? Come and take one good long look at yourself in the glass, then I will turn it to the wall, and you must promise me that for three or four weeks you will not look in a mirror. I will put as many as I can out of your way, and you must avoid the remainder. During this time I will take you in hand, and you must follow my directions implicitly. Will you agree? You will be surprised what a nice-looking little girl I will make of you.” Of course I agreed. I took a long and critical survey of myself in the glass. There was reflected a pair of hands, red and coarsened with rough work, a round face, shiny and swollen with crying, and a small round figure enshrouded in masses of hair falling in thick waves to within an inch or two of the knees. A very ugly spectacle, I thought. Aunt Helen turned the face of the large mirror flat against the wall, while I remarked despondently, “you can make me only middling ugly, you must be a magician.” “Come now, part of my recipe is that you must not think of yourself at all. I’ll take you in hand in the morning. I hope you will like your room; I have arranged it on purpose to suit you. And now good night, and happy dreams.” I awoke next morning in very fine spirits, and slithering out of my bed with alacrity, revelled—literally wallowed—in the appointments of my room. My poor old room at Possum Gully was lacking in barest necessaries. We could not afford even a wash-hand basin and jug; Gertie, the boys, and myself had to perform our morning ablutions in a leaky tin dish on a stool outside the kitchen door, which on cold frosty mornings was a pretty peppery performance: but this room contained everything dear to the heart of girlhood. A lovely bed, pretty slippers, dainty white China-matting and many soft skins on the floor, and in one corner a most artistic toilet set, and a wash-stand liberally supplied with a great variety of soap—some of it so exquisitely perfumed that I felt tempted to taste it. There were pretty pictures on the walls, and on a commodious dressing-table a big mirror and large hand-glasses, with their faces to the wall at present. Hairpins, fancy combs, ribbons galore, and a pretty work-basket greeted my sight, and with delight I swooped down upon the most excruciatingly lovely little writing-desk. It was stuffed full with all kinds of paper of good quality—fancy, all colours, sizes, and shapes, plain, foreign note, pens, ink, and a generous supply of stamps. I felt like writing a dozen letters there and then, and was on the point of giving way to my inclination, when my attention was arrested by what I considered the gem of the whole turn-out. I refer to a nice little bookcase containing copies of all our Australian poets, and two or three dozen novels which I had often longed to read. I read the first chapters of four of them, and then lost myself in Gordon, and sat on my dressing-table in my nightgown, regardless of cold, until brought to my senses by the breakfast-bell. I made great pace, scrambled into my clothes helter-skelter, and appeared at table when the others had been seated and unfolded their serviettes. Aunt Helen’s treatment for making me presentable was the wearing of gloves and a shady hat every time I went outside; and she insisted upon me spending a proper time over my toilet, and would not allow me to encroach upon it with the contents of my bookshelf.<|quote|>“Rub off some of your gloomy pessimism and cultivate a little more healthy girlish vanity, and you will do very well,”</|quote|>she would say. I observed these rites most religiously for three days. Then I contracted a slight attack of influenza, and in poking around the kitchen, doing one of the things I oughtn’t at the time I shouldn’t, a servant-girl tipped a pot of boiling pot-liquor over my right foot, scalding it rather severely. Aunt Helen and grannie put me to bed, where I yelled with pain for hours like a mad Red Indian, despite their applying every alleviative possible. The combined forces of the burn and influenza made me a trifle dicky, so a decree went forth that I was to stay in bed until recovered from both complaints. This effectually prevented me from running in the way of any looking-glasses. I was not sufficiently ill to be miserable, and being a pampered invalid was therefore fine fun. Aunt Helen was a wonderful nurse. She dressed my foot splendidly every morning, and put it in a comfortable position many times throughout the day. Grannie brought me every dainty in the house, and sent special messengers to Gool-Gool for more. Had I been a professional glutton I would have been in paradise. Even Mr Hawden condescended so far as to express his regret concerning the accident, and favoured me with visits throughout each day; and one Sunday his gallantry carried him to a gully where he plucked a bouquet of maidenhair fern—the first of the season—and put them in a bowl beside my bed. My uncle Julius, the only other member of the family besides the servants, was away “up the country” on some business or another, and was not expected home for a month or so. The Bossiers and Beechams were leaders of swelldom among the squattocracy up the country, and firm and intimate friends. The Beechams resided at Five-Bob Downs, twelve miles from Caddagat, and were a family composed of two maiden ladies and their nephew, Harold. One of these ladies was aunt Helen’s particular friend, and the other had stood in the same capacity to my mother in days gone by, but of late years, on account of her poverty, mother had been too proud to keep up communication with her. As for Harold Beecham, he was nearly as much at home at Caddagat as at Five-Bob Downs. He came and went with that pleasant familiarity practised between congenial spirits among squatterdom. The Bossiers and Beechams were congenial spirits in every way—they lived in the one sphere and held the one set of ideas, the only difference between them, and that an unnoticeable one, being that the Bossiers, though in comfortable circumstances, were not at all rich, while Harold Beecham was immensely wealthy. When my installation in the role of invalid took place, one Miss Beecham was away in Melbourne, and the other not well enough to come and see me, but Harold came regularly to inquire how I was progressing. He always brought me a number of beautiful apples. This kindness was because the Caddagat orchard had been too infested with codlin moth for grannie to save any last season. Aunt Helen used to mischievously tease me about this attention. “Here comes Harry Beecham with some more apples,” she would say. “No doubt he is far more calculating and artful than I thought he was capable of being. He is taking time by the forelock and wooing you ere he sees you, and so will take the lead. Young ladies are in the minority up this way, and every one is snapped up as soon as she arrives.” “You’d better tell him how ugly I am, auntie, so that he will carry apples twelve miles on his own responsibility, and when he sees me won’t be vexed that all his work has been for nothing. Perhaps, though, it would be better not to describe me, or I will get no more apples,” I would reply. Aunt Helen was a clever needlewoman. She made all grannie’s dresses and her own. Now she was making some for me, which, however, I was not to see until I wore them. Aunt Helen had this as a pleasant surprise, and went to the trouble of blindfolding me while I was being fitted. While in bed, grannie and auntie being busy, I was often left hours alone, and during that time devoured the contents of my bookshelf. The pleasure, so exquisite as to be almost pain, which I derived from the books, and especially the Australian poets, is beyond description. In the narrow peasant life of Possum Gully I had been deprived of companionship with people of refinement and education who would talk of the things I loved; but, at last here was congeniality, here was companionship. The weird witchery of mighty bush, the breath of wide sunlit plains, the sound | the boys, and myself had to perform our morning ablutions in a leaky tin dish on a stool outside the kitchen door, which on cold frosty mornings was a pretty peppery performance: but this room contained everything dear to the heart of girlhood. A lovely bed, pretty slippers, dainty white China-matting and many soft skins on the floor, and in one corner a most artistic toilet set, and a wash-stand liberally supplied with a great variety of soap—some of it so exquisitely perfumed that I felt tempted to taste it. There were pretty pictures on the walls, and on a commodious dressing-table a big mirror and large hand-glasses, with their faces to the wall at present. Hairpins, fancy combs, ribbons galore, and a pretty work-basket greeted my sight, and with delight I swooped down upon the most excruciatingly lovely little writing-desk. It was stuffed full with all kinds of paper of good quality—fancy, all colours, sizes, and shapes, plain, foreign note, pens, ink, and a generous supply of stamps. I felt like writing a dozen letters there and then, and was on the point of giving way to my inclination, when my attention was arrested by what I considered the gem of the whole turn-out. I refer to a nice little bookcase containing copies of all our Australian poets, and two or three dozen novels which I had often longed to read. I read the first chapters of four of them, and then lost myself in Gordon, and sat on my dressing-table in my nightgown, regardless of cold, until brought to my senses by the breakfast-bell. I made great pace, scrambled into my clothes helter-skelter, and appeared at table when the others had been seated and unfolded their serviettes. Aunt Helen’s treatment for making me presentable was the wearing of gloves and a shady hat every time I went outside; and she insisted upon me spending a proper time over my toilet, and would not allow me to encroach upon it with the contents of my bookshelf.<|quote|>“Rub off some of your gloomy pessimism and cultivate a little more healthy girlish vanity, and you will do very well,”</|quote|>she would say. I observed these rites most religiously for three days. Then I contracted a slight attack of influenza, and in poking around the kitchen, doing one of the things I oughtn’t at the time I shouldn’t, a servant-girl tipped a pot of boiling pot-liquor over my right foot, scalding it rather severely. Aunt Helen and grannie put me to bed, where I yelled with pain for hours like a mad Red Indian, despite their applying every alleviative possible. The combined forces of the burn and influenza made me a trifle dicky, so a decree went forth that I was to stay in bed until recovered from both complaints. This effectually prevented me from running in the way of any looking-glasses. I was not sufficiently ill to be miserable, and being a pampered invalid was therefore fine fun. Aunt Helen was a wonderful nurse. She dressed my foot splendidly every morning, and put it in a comfortable position many times throughout the day. Grannie brought me every dainty in the house, and sent special messengers to Gool-Gool for more. Had I been a professional glutton I would have been in paradise. Even Mr Hawden condescended so far as to express his regret concerning the accident, and favoured me with visits throughout each day; and one Sunday his gallantry carried him to a gully where he plucked a bouquet of maidenhair fern—the first of the season—and put them in a bowl beside my bed. My uncle Julius, the only other member of the family besides the servants, was away “up the country” on some business or another, and was not expected home for a month or so. The Bossiers and Beechams were leaders of swelldom among the squattocracy up the country, and firm and intimate friends. The Beechams resided at Five-Bob Downs, twelve miles from Caddagat, and were a family composed of two maiden ladies and their nephew, Harold. One of these ladies was aunt Helen’s particular friend, and the other had stood in the same capacity to my mother in days gone by, but of late years, on account of her poverty, mother had been too proud to keep up communication with her. As for Harold Beecham, he was nearly as much at home at Caddagat as at Five-Bob Downs. He came and went with that pleasant familiarity practised between congenial spirits among squatterdom. The Bossiers and Beechams were congenial spirits in every way—they lived in the one sphere and held the one set of ideas, the only difference between them, and that an unnoticeable one, being that the Bossiers, though in comfortable circumstances, were not at all rich, while Harold Beecham was immensely wealthy. When my installation in the role of invalid took place, one Miss Beecham was away in Melbourne, and the other not well enough to come and see me, but Harold came regularly to inquire how I was progressing. He always brought me a number of beautiful apples. This kindness was because the Caddagat orchard had been too infested with codlin moth for grannie to save any last season. Aunt Helen used to mischievously tease me about this attention. “Here comes Harry Beecham with some | My Brilliant Career |
"Ronny, isn't that like your mother? While we talk about seeing the real India, she goes and sees it, and then forgets she's seen it." | Adela Quested | perfectly magnificent!" exclaimed Miss Quested.<|quote|>"Ronny, isn't that like your mother? While we talk about seeing the real India, she goes and sees it, and then forgets she's seen it."</|quote|>But Ronny was ruffled. From | all wrong." "A Mohammedan! How perfectly magnificent!" exclaimed Miss Quested.<|quote|>"Ronny, isn't that like your mother? While we talk about seeing the real India, she goes and sees it, and then forgets she's seen it."</|quote|>But Ronny was ruffled. From his mother's description he had | didn't come into the club. He said he wasn't allowed to." Thereupon the truth struck him, and he cried "Oh, good gracious! Not a Mohammedan? Why ever didn't you tell me you'd been talking to a native? I was going all wrong." "A Mohammedan! How perfectly magnificent!" exclaimed Miss Quested.<|quote|>"Ronny, isn't that like your mother? While we talk about seeing the real India, she goes and sees it, and then forgets she's seen it."</|quote|>But Ronny was ruffled. From his mother's description he had thought the doctor might be young Muggins from over the Ganges, and had brought out all the comradely emotions. What a mix-up! Why hadn't she indicated by the tone of her voice that she was talking about an Indian? Scratchy | how we began talking. He was afraid I had them on, but I remembered luckily. He told me about his children, and then we walked back to the club. He knows you well." "I wish you had pointed him out to me. I can't make out who he is." "He didn't come into the club. He said he wasn't allowed to." Thereupon the truth struck him, and he cried "Oh, good gracious! Not a Mohammedan? Why ever didn't you tell me you'd been talking to a native? I was going all wrong." "A Mohammedan! How perfectly magnificent!" exclaimed Miss Quested.<|quote|>"Ronny, isn't that like your mother? While we talk about seeing the real India, she goes and sees it, and then forgets she's seen it."</|quote|>But Ronny was ruffled. From his mother's description he had thought the doctor might be young Muggins from over the Ganges, and had brought out all the comradely emotions. What a mix-up! Why hadn't she indicated by the tone of her voice that she was talking about an Indian? Scratchy and dictatorial, he began to question her. "He called to you in the mosque, did he? How? Impudently? What was he doing there himself at that time of night? No, it's not their prayer time." This in answer to a suggestion of Miss Quested's, who showed the keenest interest. "So | "You meet a young man in a mosque, and then never let me know!" "I was going to tell you, Adela, but something changed the conversation and I forgot. My memory grows deplorable." "Was he nice?" She paused, then said emphatically: "Very nice." "Who was he?" Ronny enquired. "A doctor. I don't know his name." "A doctor? I know of no young doctor in Chandrapore. How odd! What was he like?" "Rather small, with a little moustache and quick eyes. He called out to me when I was in the dark part of the mosque about my shoes. That was how we began talking. He was afraid I had them on, but I remembered luckily. He told me about his children, and then we walked back to the club. He knows you well." "I wish you had pointed him out to me. I can't make out who he is." "He didn't come into the club. He said he wasn't allowed to." Thereupon the truth struck him, and he cried "Oh, good gracious! Not a Mohammedan? Why ever didn't you tell me you'd been talking to a native? I was going all wrong." "A Mohammedan! How perfectly magnificent!" exclaimed Miss Quested.<|quote|>"Ronny, isn't that like your mother? While we talk about seeing the real India, she goes and sees it, and then forgets she's seen it."</|quote|>But Ronny was ruffled. From his mother's description he had thought the doctor might be young Muggins from over the Ganges, and had brought out all the comradely emotions. What a mix-up! Why hadn't she indicated by the tone of her voice that she was talking about an Indian? Scratchy and dictatorial, he began to question her. "He called to you in the mosque, did he? How? Impudently? What was he doing there himself at that time of night? No, it's not their prayer time." This in answer to a suggestion of Miss Quested's, who showed the keenest interest. "So he called to you over your shoes. Then it was impudence. It's an old trick. I wish you had had them on." "I think it was impudence, but I don't know about a trick," said Mrs. Moore. "His nerves were all on edge I could tell from his voice. As soon as I answered he altered." "You oughtn't to have answered." "Now look here," said the logical girl, "wouldn't you expect a Mohammedan to answer if you asked him to take off his hat in church?" "It's different, it's different; you don't understand." "I know I don't, and I want | whose radiance stained with primrose the purple of the surrounding sky. In England the moon had seemed dead and alien; here she was caught in the shawl of night together with earth and all the other stars. A sudden sense of unity, of kinship with the heavenly bodies, passed into the old woman and out, like water through a tank, leaving a strange freshness behind. She did not dislike _Cousin Kate_ or the National Anthem, but their note had died into a new one, just as cocktails and cigars had died into invisible flowers. When the mosque, long and domeless, gleamed at the turn of the road, she exclaimed, "Oh, yes that's where I got to that's where I've been." "Been there when?" asked her son. "Between the acts." "But, mother, you can't do that sort of thing." "Can't mother?" she replied. "No, really not in this country. It's not done. There's the danger from snakes for one thing. They are apt to lie out in the evening." "Ah yes, so the young man there said." "This sounds very romantic," said Miss Quested, who was exceedingly fond of Mrs. Moore, and was glad she should have had this little escapade. "You meet a young man in a mosque, and then never let me know!" "I was going to tell you, Adela, but something changed the conversation and I forgot. My memory grows deplorable." "Was he nice?" She paused, then said emphatically: "Very nice." "Who was he?" Ronny enquired. "A doctor. I don't know his name." "A doctor? I know of no young doctor in Chandrapore. How odd! What was he like?" "Rather small, with a little moustache and quick eyes. He called out to me when I was in the dark part of the mosque about my shoes. That was how we began talking. He was afraid I had them on, but I remembered luckily. He told me about his children, and then we walked back to the club. He knows you well." "I wish you had pointed him out to me. I can't make out who he is." "He didn't come into the club. He said he wasn't allowed to." Thereupon the truth struck him, and he cried "Oh, good gracious! Not a Mohammedan? Why ever didn't you tell me you'd been talking to a native? I was going all wrong." "A Mohammedan! How perfectly magnificent!" exclaimed Miss Quested.<|quote|>"Ronny, isn't that like your mother? While we talk about seeing the real India, she goes and sees it, and then forgets she's seen it."</|quote|>But Ronny was ruffled. From his mother's description he had thought the doctor might be young Muggins from over the Ganges, and had brought out all the comradely emotions. What a mix-up! Why hadn't she indicated by the tone of her voice that she was talking about an Indian? Scratchy and dictatorial, he began to question her. "He called to you in the mosque, did he? How? Impudently? What was he doing there himself at that time of night? No, it's not their prayer time." This in answer to a suggestion of Miss Quested's, who showed the keenest interest. "So he called to you over your shoes. Then it was impudence. It's an old trick. I wish you had had them on." "I think it was impudence, but I don't know about a trick," said Mrs. Moore. "His nerves were all on edge I could tell from his voice. As soon as I answered he altered." "You oughtn't to have answered." "Now look here," said the logical girl, "wouldn't you expect a Mohammedan to answer if you asked him to take off his hat in church?" "It's different, it's different; you don't understand." "I know I don't, and I want to. What is the difference, please?" He wished she wouldn't interfere. His mother did not signify she was just a globe-trotter, a temporary escort, who could retire to England with what impressions she chose. But Adela, who meditated spending her life in the country, was a more serious matter; it would be tiresome if she started crooked over the native question. Pulling up the mare, he said, "There's your Ganges." Their attention was diverted. Below them a radiance had suddenly appeared. It belonged neither to water nor moonlight, but stood like a luminous sheaf upon the fields of darkness. He told them that it was where the new sand-bank was forming, and that the dark ravelled bit at the top was the sand, and that the dead bodies floated down that way from Benares, or would if the crocodiles let them. "It's not much of a dead body that gets down to Chandrapore." "Crocodiles down in it too, how terrible!" his mother murmured. The young people glanced at each other and smiled; it amused them when the old lady got these gentle creeps, and harmony was restored between them consequently. She continued: "What a terrible river! what a wonderful river!" | bungalow in the civil station, with a sunk soup plate of a lawn, and they had one drink more, this time of barley water, and went to bed. Their withdrawal from the club had broken up the evening, which, like all gatherings, had an official tinge. A community that bows the knee to a Viceroy and believes that the divinity that hedges a king can be transplanted, must feel some reverence for any viceregal substitute. At Chandrapore the Turtons were little gods; soon they would retire to some suburban villa, and die exiled from glory. "It's decent of the Burra Sahib," chattered Ronny, much gratified at the civility that had been shown to his guests. "Do you know he's never given a Bridge Party before? Coming on top of the dinner too! I wish I could have arranged something myself, but when you know the natives better you'll realize it's easier for the Burra Sahib than for me. They know him they know he can't be fooled I'm still fresh comparatively. No one can even begin to think of knowing this country until he has been in it twenty years. Hullo, the mater! Here's your cloak. Well: for an example of the mistakes one makes. Soon after I came out I asked one of the Pleaders to have a smoke with me only a cigarette, mind. I found afterwards that he had sent touts all over the bazaar to announce the fact told all the litigants," 'Oh, you'd better come to my Vakil Mahmoud Ali he's in with the City Magistrate.' "Ever since then I've dropped on him in Court as hard as I could. It's taught me a lesson, and I hope him." "Isn't the lesson that you should invite all the Pleaders to have a smoke with you?" "Perhaps, but time's limited and the flesh weak. I prefer my smoke at the club amongst my own sort, I'm afraid." "Why not ask the Pleaders to the club?" Miss Quested persisted. "Not allowed." He was pleasant and patient, and evidently understood why she did not understand. He implied that he had once been as she, though not for long. Going to the verandah, he called firmly to the moon. His sais answered, and without lowering his head, he ordered his trap to be brought round. Mrs. Moore, whom the club had stupefied, woke up outside. She watched the moon, whose radiance stained with primrose the purple of the surrounding sky. In England the moon had seemed dead and alien; here she was caught in the shawl of night together with earth and all the other stars. A sudden sense of unity, of kinship with the heavenly bodies, passed into the old woman and out, like water through a tank, leaving a strange freshness behind. She did not dislike _Cousin Kate_ or the National Anthem, but their note had died into a new one, just as cocktails and cigars had died into invisible flowers. When the mosque, long and domeless, gleamed at the turn of the road, she exclaimed, "Oh, yes that's where I got to that's where I've been." "Been there when?" asked her son. "Between the acts." "But, mother, you can't do that sort of thing." "Can't mother?" she replied. "No, really not in this country. It's not done. There's the danger from snakes for one thing. They are apt to lie out in the evening." "Ah yes, so the young man there said." "This sounds very romantic," said Miss Quested, who was exceedingly fond of Mrs. Moore, and was glad she should have had this little escapade. "You meet a young man in a mosque, and then never let me know!" "I was going to tell you, Adela, but something changed the conversation and I forgot. My memory grows deplorable." "Was he nice?" She paused, then said emphatically: "Very nice." "Who was he?" Ronny enquired. "A doctor. I don't know his name." "A doctor? I know of no young doctor in Chandrapore. How odd! What was he like?" "Rather small, with a little moustache and quick eyes. He called out to me when I was in the dark part of the mosque about my shoes. That was how we began talking. He was afraid I had them on, but I remembered luckily. He told me about his children, and then we walked back to the club. He knows you well." "I wish you had pointed him out to me. I can't make out who he is." "He didn't come into the club. He said he wasn't allowed to." Thereupon the truth struck him, and he cried "Oh, good gracious! Not a Mohammedan? Why ever didn't you tell me you'd been talking to a native? I was going all wrong." "A Mohammedan! How perfectly magnificent!" exclaimed Miss Quested.<|quote|>"Ronny, isn't that like your mother? While we talk about seeing the real India, she goes and sees it, and then forgets she's seen it."</|quote|>But Ronny was ruffled. From his mother's description he had thought the doctor might be young Muggins from over the Ganges, and had brought out all the comradely emotions. What a mix-up! Why hadn't she indicated by the tone of her voice that she was talking about an Indian? Scratchy and dictatorial, he began to question her. "He called to you in the mosque, did he? How? Impudently? What was he doing there himself at that time of night? No, it's not their prayer time." This in answer to a suggestion of Miss Quested's, who showed the keenest interest. "So he called to you over your shoes. Then it was impudence. It's an old trick. I wish you had had them on." "I think it was impudence, but I don't know about a trick," said Mrs. Moore. "His nerves were all on edge I could tell from his voice. As soon as I answered he altered." "You oughtn't to have answered." "Now look here," said the logical girl, "wouldn't you expect a Mohammedan to answer if you asked him to take off his hat in church?" "It's different, it's different; you don't understand." "I know I don't, and I want to. What is the difference, please?" He wished she wouldn't interfere. His mother did not signify she was just a globe-trotter, a temporary escort, who could retire to England with what impressions she chose. But Adela, who meditated spending her life in the country, was a more serious matter; it would be tiresome if she started crooked over the native question. Pulling up the mare, he said, "There's your Ganges." Their attention was diverted. Below them a radiance had suddenly appeared. It belonged neither to water nor moonlight, but stood like a luminous sheaf upon the fields of darkness. He told them that it was where the new sand-bank was forming, and that the dark ravelled bit at the top was the sand, and that the dead bodies floated down that way from Benares, or would if the crocodiles let them. "It's not much of a dead body that gets down to Chandrapore." "Crocodiles down in it too, how terrible!" his mother murmured. The young people glanced at each other and smiled; it amused them when the old lady got these gentle creeps, and harmony was restored between them consequently. She continued: "What a terrible river! what a wonderful river!" and sighed. The radiance was already altering, whether through shifting of the moon or of the sand; soon the bright sheaf would be gone, and a circlet, itself to alter, be burnished upon the streaming void. The women discussed whether they would wait for the change or not, while the silence broke into patches of unquietness and the mare shivered. On her account they did not wait, but drove on to the City Magistrate's bungalow, where Miss Quested went to bed, and Mrs. Moore had a short interview with her son. He wanted to enquire about the Mohammedan doctor in the mosque. It was his duty to report suspicious characters and conceivably it was some disreputable hakim who had prowled up from the bazaar. When she told him that it was someone connected with the Minto Hospital, he was relieved, and said that the fellow's name must be Aziz, and that he was quite all right, nothing against him at all. "Aziz! what a charming name!" "So you and he had a talk. Did you gather he was well disposed?" Ignorant of the force of this question, she replied, "Yes, quite, after the first moment." "I meant, generally. Did he seem to tolerate us the brutal conqueror, the sundried bureaucrat, that sort of thing?" "Oh, yes, I think so, except the Callendars he doesn't care for the Callendars at all." "Oh. So he told you that, did he? The Major will be interested. I wonder what was the aim of the remark." "Ronny, Ronny! you're never going to pass it on to Major Callendar?" "Yes, rather. I must, in fact!" "But, my dear boy" "If the Major heard I was disliked by any native subordinate of mine, I should expect him to pass it on to me." "But, my dear boy a private conversation!" "Nothing's private in India. Aziz knew that when he spoke out, so don't you worry. He had some motive in what he said. My personal belief is that the remark wasn't true." "How not true?" "He abused the Major in order to impress you." "I don't know what you mean, dear." "It's the educated native's latest dodge. They used to cringe, but the younger generation believe in a show of manly independence. They think it will pay better with the itinerant M.P. But whether the native swaggers or cringes, there's always something behind every remark he | She did not dislike _Cousin Kate_ or the National Anthem, but their note had died into a new one, just as cocktails and cigars had died into invisible flowers. When the mosque, long and domeless, gleamed at the turn of the road, she exclaimed, "Oh, yes that's where I got to that's where I've been." "Been there when?" asked her son. "Between the acts." "But, mother, you can't do that sort of thing." "Can't mother?" she replied. "No, really not in this country. It's not done. There's the danger from snakes for one thing. They are apt to lie out in the evening." "Ah yes, so the young man there said." "This sounds very romantic," said Miss Quested, who was exceedingly fond of Mrs. Moore, and was glad she should have had this little escapade. "You meet a young man in a mosque, and then never let me know!" "I was going to tell you, Adela, but something changed the conversation and I forgot. My memory grows deplorable." "Was he nice?" She paused, then said emphatically: "Very nice." "Who was he?" Ronny enquired. "A doctor. I don't know his name." "A doctor? I know of no young doctor in Chandrapore. How odd! What was he like?" "Rather small, with a little moustache and quick eyes. He called out to me when I was in the dark part of the mosque about my shoes. That was how we began talking. He was afraid I had them on, but I remembered luckily. He told me about his children, and then we walked back to the club. He knows you well." "I wish you had pointed him out to me. I can't make out who he is." "He didn't come into the club. He said he wasn't allowed to." Thereupon the truth struck him, and he cried "Oh, good gracious! Not a Mohammedan? Why ever didn't you tell me you'd been talking to a native? I was going all wrong." "A Mohammedan! How perfectly magnificent!" exclaimed Miss Quested.<|quote|>"Ronny, isn't that like your mother? While we talk about seeing the real India, she goes and sees it, and then forgets she's seen it."</|quote|>But Ronny was ruffled. From his mother's description he had thought the doctor might be young Muggins from over the Ganges, and had brought out all the comradely emotions. What a mix-up! Why hadn't she indicated by the tone of her voice that she was talking about an Indian? Scratchy and dictatorial, he began to question her. "He called to you in the mosque, did he? How? Impudently? What was he doing there himself at that time of night? No, it's not their prayer time." This in answer to a suggestion of Miss Quested's, who showed the keenest interest. "So he called to you over your shoes. Then it was impudence. It's an old trick. I wish you had had them on." "I think it was impudence, but I don't know about a trick," said Mrs. Moore. "His nerves were all on edge I could tell from his voice. As soon as I answered he altered." "You oughtn't to have answered." "Now look here," said the logical girl, "wouldn't you expect a Mohammedan to answer if you asked him to take off his hat in church?" "It's different, it's different; you don't understand." "I know I don't, and I want to. What is the difference, please?" He wished she wouldn't interfere. His mother did not signify she | A Passage To India |
"Unfortunately I have no evening dress; and if the seats--" | Caroline Abbott | on forgetting this is Italy."<|quote|>"Unfortunately I have no evening dress; and if the seats--"</|quote|>"Oh, that ll be all | most awful people. One keeps on forgetting this is Italy."<|quote|>"Unfortunately I have no evening dress; and if the seats--"</|quote|>"Oh, that ll be all right," said Philip, smiling at | but--excuse the suggestion--I don t think we ought to go to cheap seats." "Good gracious me!" cried Harriet, "I should never have thought of that. As likely as not, we should have tried to save money and sat among the most awful people. One keeps on forgetting this is Italy."<|quote|>"Unfortunately I have no evening dress; and if the seats--"</|quote|>"Oh, that ll be all right," said Philip, smiling at his timorous, scrupulous women-kind. "We ll go as we are, and buy the best we can get. Monteriano is not formal." So this strenuous day of resolutions, plans, alarms, battles, victories, defeats, truces, ended at the opera. Miss Abbott and | is sure to be very bad. But it might be better than sitting idle all the evening. We have no book, and I lost my crochet at Florence." "Good. Miss Abbott, you are coming too?" "It is very kind of you, Mr. Herriton. In some ways I should enjoy it; but--excuse the suggestion--I don t think we ought to go to cheap seats." "Good gracious me!" cried Harriet, "I should never have thought of that. As likely as not, we should have tried to save money and sat among the most awful people. One keeps on forgetting this is Italy."<|quote|>"Unfortunately I have no evening dress; and if the seats--"</|quote|>"Oh, that ll be all right," said Philip, smiling at his timorous, scrupulous women-kind. "We ll go as we are, and buy the best we can get. Monteriano is not formal." So this strenuous day of resolutions, plans, alarms, battles, victories, defeats, truces, ended at the opera. Miss Abbott and Harriet were both a little shame-faced. They thought of their friends at Sawston, who were supposing them to be now tilting against the powers of evil. What would Mrs. Herriton, or Irma, or the curates at the Back Kitchen say if they could see the rescue party at a place | with the great interview impending," said Miss Abbott, with an anxious glance at Philip. He did not betray her, but said, "Don t you think it s better than sitting in all the evening and getting nervous?" His sister shook her head. "Mother wouldn t like it. It would be most unsuitable--almost irreverent. Besides all that, foreign theatres are notorious. Don t you remember those letters in the Church Family Newspaper ?" "But this is an opera-- Lucia di Lammermoor --Sir Walter Scott--classical, you know." Harriet s face grew resigned. "Certainly one has so few opportunities of hearing music. It is sure to be very bad. But it might be better than sitting idle all the evening. We have no book, and I lost my crochet at Florence." "Good. Miss Abbott, you are coming too?" "It is very kind of you, Mr. Herriton. In some ways I should enjoy it; but--excuse the suggestion--I don t think we ought to go to cheap seats." "Good gracious me!" cried Harriet, "I should never have thought of that. As likely as not, we should have tried to save money and sat among the most awful people. One keeps on forgetting this is Italy."<|quote|>"Unfortunately I have no evening dress; and if the seats--"</|quote|>"Oh, that ll be all right," said Philip, smiling at his timorous, scrupulous women-kind. "We ll go as we are, and buy the best we can get. Monteriano is not formal." So this strenuous day of resolutions, plans, alarms, battles, victories, defeats, truces, ended at the opera. Miss Abbott and Harriet were both a little shame-faced. They thought of their friends at Sawston, who were supposing them to be now tilting against the powers of evil. What would Mrs. Herriton, or Irma, or the curates at the Back Kitchen say if they could see the rescue party at a place of amusement on the very first day of its mission? Philip, too, marvelled at his wish to go. He began to see that he was enjoying his time in Monteriano, in spite of the tiresomeness of his companions and the occasional contrariness of himself. He had been to this theatre many years before, on the occasion of a performance of "La Zia di Carlo." Since then it had been thoroughly done up, in the tints of the beet-root and the tomato, and was in many other ways a credit to the little town. The orchestra had been enlarged, some of | rooms one night, and we shall keep to it." "I dare say it will be all right. But, as I told you, I thought the man I met on the Rocca a strange, difficult man." "He s insolent to ladies, we know. But my brother can be trusted to bring him to his senses. That woman, Philip, whom you saw will carry the baby to the hotel. Of course you must tip her for it. And try, if you can, to get poor Lilia s silver bangles. They were nice quiet things, and will do for Irma. And there is an inlaid box I lent her--lent, not gave--to keep her handkerchiefs in. It s of no real value; but this is our only chance. Don t ask for it; but if you see it lying about, just say--" "No, Harriet; I ll try for the baby, but for nothing else. I promise to do that tomorrow, and to do it in the way you wish. But tonight, as we re all tired, we want a change of topic. We want relaxation. We want to go to the theatre." "Theatres here? And at such a moment?" "We should hardly enjoy it, with the great interview impending," said Miss Abbott, with an anxious glance at Philip. He did not betray her, but said, "Don t you think it s better than sitting in all the evening and getting nervous?" His sister shook her head. "Mother wouldn t like it. It would be most unsuitable--almost irreverent. Besides all that, foreign theatres are notorious. Don t you remember those letters in the Church Family Newspaper ?" "But this is an opera-- Lucia di Lammermoor --Sir Walter Scott--classical, you know." Harriet s face grew resigned. "Certainly one has so few opportunities of hearing music. It is sure to be very bad. But it might be better than sitting idle all the evening. We have no book, and I lost my crochet at Florence." "Good. Miss Abbott, you are coming too?" "It is very kind of you, Mr. Herriton. In some ways I should enjoy it; but--excuse the suggestion--I don t think we ought to go to cheap seats." "Good gracious me!" cried Harriet, "I should never have thought of that. As likely as not, we should have tried to save money and sat among the most awful people. One keeps on forgetting this is Italy."<|quote|>"Unfortunately I have no evening dress; and if the seats--"</|quote|>"Oh, that ll be all right," said Philip, smiling at his timorous, scrupulous women-kind. "We ll go as we are, and buy the best we can get. Monteriano is not formal." So this strenuous day of resolutions, plans, alarms, battles, victories, defeats, truces, ended at the opera. Miss Abbott and Harriet were both a little shame-faced. They thought of their friends at Sawston, who were supposing them to be now tilting against the powers of evil. What would Mrs. Herriton, or Irma, or the curates at the Back Kitchen say if they could see the rescue party at a place of amusement on the very first day of its mission? Philip, too, marvelled at his wish to go. He began to see that he was enjoying his time in Monteriano, in spite of the tiresomeness of his companions and the occasional contrariness of himself. He had been to this theatre many years before, on the occasion of a performance of "La Zia di Carlo." Since then it had been thoroughly done up, in the tints of the beet-root and the tomato, and was in many other ways a credit to the little town. The orchestra had been enlarged, some of the boxes had terra-cotta draperies, and over each box was now suspended an enormous tablet, neatly framed, bearing upon it the number of that box. There was also a drop-scene, representing a pink and purple landscape, wherein sported many a lady lightly clad, and two more ladies lay along the top of the proscenium to steady a large and pallid clock. So rich and so appalling was the effect, that Philip could scarcely suppress a cry. There is something majestic in the bad taste of Italy; it is not the bad taste of a country which knows no better; it has not the nervous vulgarity of England, or the blinded vulgarity of Germany. It observes beauty, and chooses to pass it by. But it attains to beauty s confidence. This tiny theatre of Monteriano spraddled and swaggered with the best of them, and these ladies with their clock would have nodded to the young men on the ceiling of the Sistine. Philip had tried for a box, but all the best were taken: it was rather a grand performance, and he had to be content with stalls. Harriet was fretful and insular. Miss Abbott was pleasant, and insisted on praising | the Master Donizetti. Unique representation. This evening." "But is there an opera? Right up here?" "Why, yes. These people know how to live. They would sooner have a thing bad than not have it at all. That is why they have got to have so much that is good. However bad the performance is tonight, it will be alive. Italians don t love music silently, like the beastly Germans. The audience takes its share--sometimes more." "Can t we go?" He turned on her, but not unkindly. "But we re here to rescue a child!" He cursed himself for the remark. All the pleasure and the light went out of her face, and she became again Miss Abbott of Sawston--good, oh, most undoubtedly good, but most appallingly dull. Dull and remorseful: it is a deadly combination, and he strove against it in vain till he was interrupted by the opening of the dining-room door. They started as guiltily as if they had been flirting. Their interview had taken such an unexpected course. Anger, cynicism, stubborn morality--all had ended in a feeling of good-will towards each other and towards the city which had received them. And now Harriet was here--acrid, indissoluble, large; the same in Italy as in England--changing her disposition never, and her atmosphere under protest. Yet even Harriet was human, and the better for a little tea. She did not scold Philip for finding Gino out, as she might reasonably have done. She showered civilities on Miss Abbott, exclaiming again and again that Caroline s visit was one of the most fortunate coincidences in the world. Caroline did not contradict her. "You see him tomorrow at ten, Philip. Well, don t forget the blank cheque. Say an hour for the business. No, Italians are so slow; say two. Twelve o clock. Lunch. Well--then it s no good going till the evening train. I can manage the baby as far as Florence--" "My dear sister, you can t run on like that. You don t buy a pair of gloves in two hours, much less a baby." "Three hours, then, or four; or make him learn English ways. At Florence we get a nurse--" "But, Harriet," said Miss Abbott, "what if at first he was to refuse?" "I don t know the meaning of the word," said Harriet impressively. "I ve told the landlady that Philip and I only want our rooms one night, and we shall keep to it." "I dare say it will be all right. But, as I told you, I thought the man I met on the Rocca a strange, difficult man." "He s insolent to ladies, we know. But my brother can be trusted to bring him to his senses. That woman, Philip, whom you saw will carry the baby to the hotel. Of course you must tip her for it. And try, if you can, to get poor Lilia s silver bangles. They were nice quiet things, and will do for Irma. And there is an inlaid box I lent her--lent, not gave--to keep her handkerchiefs in. It s of no real value; but this is our only chance. Don t ask for it; but if you see it lying about, just say--" "No, Harriet; I ll try for the baby, but for nothing else. I promise to do that tomorrow, and to do it in the way you wish. But tonight, as we re all tired, we want a change of topic. We want relaxation. We want to go to the theatre." "Theatres here? And at such a moment?" "We should hardly enjoy it, with the great interview impending," said Miss Abbott, with an anxious glance at Philip. He did not betray her, but said, "Don t you think it s better than sitting in all the evening and getting nervous?" His sister shook her head. "Mother wouldn t like it. It would be most unsuitable--almost irreverent. Besides all that, foreign theatres are notorious. Don t you remember those letters in the Church Family Newspaper ?" "But this is an opera-- Lucia di Lammermoor --Sir Walter Scott--classical, you know." Harriet s face grew resigned. "Certainly one has so few opportunities of hearing music. It is sure to be very bad. But it might be better than sitting idle all the evening. We have no book, and I lost my crochet at Florence." "Good. Miss Abbott, you are coming too?" "It is very kind of you, Mr. Herriton. In some ways I should enjoy it; but--excuse the suggestion--I don t think we ought to go to cheap seats." "Good gracious me!" cried Harriet, "I should never have thought of that. As likely as not, we should have tried to save money and sat among the most awful people. One keeps on forgetting this is Italy."<|quote|>"Unfortunately I have no evening dress; and if the seats--"</|quote|>"Oh, that ll be all right," said Philip, smiling at his timorous, scrupulous women-kind. "We ll go as we are, and buy the best we can get. Monteriano is not formal." So this strenuous day of resolutions, plans, alarms, battles, victories, defeats, truces, ended at the opera. Miss Abbott and Harriet were both a little shame-faced. They thought of their friends at Sawston, who were supposing them to be now tilting against the powers of evil. What would Mrs. Herriton, or Irma, or the curates at the Back Kitchen say if they could see the rescue party at a place of amusement on the very first day of its mission? Philip, too, marvelled at his wish to go. He began to see that he was enjoying his time in Monteriano, in spite of the tiresomeness of his companions and the occasional contrariness of himself. He had been to this theatre many years before, on the occasion of a performance of "La Zia di Carlo." Since then it had been thoroughly done up, in the tints of the beet-root and the tomato, and was in many other ways a credit to the little town. The orchestra had been enlarged, some of the boxes had terra-cotta draperies, and over each box was now suspended an enormous tablet, neatly framed, bearing upon it the number of that box. There was also a drop-scene, representing a pink and purple landscape, wherein sported many a lady lightly clad, and two more ladies lay along the top of the proscenium to steady a large and pallid clock. So rich and so appalling was the effect, that Philip could scarcely suppress a cry. There is something majestic in the bad taste of Italy; it is not the bad taste of a country which knows no better; it has not the nervous vulgarity of England, or the blinded vulgarity of Germany. It observes beauty, and chooses to pass it by. But it attains to beauty s confidence. This tiny theatre of Monteriano spraddled and swaggered with the best of them, and these ladies with their clock would have nodded to the young men on the ceiling of the Sistine. Philip had tried for a box, but all the best were taken: it was rather a grand performance, and he had to be content with stalls. Harriet was fretful and insular. Miss Abbott was pleasant, and insisted on praising everything: her only regret was that she had no pretty clothes with her. "We do all right," said Philip, amused at her unwonted vanity. "Yes, I know; but pretty things pack as easily as ugly ones. We had no need to come to Italy like guys." This time he did not reply, "But we re here to rescue a baby." For he saw a charming picture, as charming a picture as he had seen for years--the hot red theatre; outside the theatre, towers and dark gates and mediaeval walls; beyond the walls olive-trees in the starlight and white winding roads and fireflies and untroubled dust; and here in the middle of it all, Miss Abbott, wishing she had not come looking like a guy. She had made the right remark. Most undoubtedly she had made the right remark. This stiff suburban woman was unbending before the shrine. "Don t you like it at all?" he asked her. "Most awfully." And by this bald interchange they convinced each other that Romance was here. Harriet, meanwhile, had been coughing ominously at the drop-scene, which presently rose on the grounds of Ravenswood, and the chorus of Scotch retainers burst into cry. The audience accompanied with tappings and drummings, swaying in the melody like corn in the wind. Harriet, though she did not care for music, knew how to listen to it. She uttered an acid "Shish!" "Shut it," whispered her brother. "We must make a stand from the beginning. They re talking." "It is tiresome," murmured Miss Abbott; "but perhaps it isn t for us to interfere." Harriet shook her head and shished again. The people were quiet, not because it is wrong to talk during a chorus, but because it is natural to be civil to a visitor. For a little time she kept the whole house in order, and could smile at her brother complacently. Her success annoyed him. He had grasped the principle of opera in Italy--it aims not at illusion but at entertainment--and he did not want this great evening-party to turn into a prayer-meeting. But soon the boxes began to fill, and Harriet s power was over. Families greeted each other across the auditorium. People in the pit hailed their brothers and sons in the chorus, and told them how well they were singing. When Lucia appeared by the fountain there was loud applause, and cries of "Welcome | nice quiet things, and will do for Irma. And there is an inlaid box I lent her--lent, not gave--to keep her handkerchiefs in. It s of no real value; but this is our only chance. Don t ask for it; but if you see it lying about, just say--" "No, Harriet; I ll try for the baby, but for nothing else. I promise to do that tomorrow, and to do it in the way you wish. But tonight, as we re all tired, we want a change of topic. We want relaxation. We want to go to the theatre." "Theatres here? And at such a moment?" "We should hardly enjoy it, with the great interview impending," said Miss Abbott, with an anxious glance at Philip. He did not betray her, but said, "Don t you think it s better than sitting in all the evening and getting nervous?" His sister shook her head. "Mother wouldn t like it. It would be most unsuitable--almost irreverent. Besides all that, foreign theatres are notorious. Don t you remember those letters in the Church Family Newspaper ?" "But this is an opera-- Lucia di Lammermoor --Sir Walter Scott--classical, you know." Harriet s face grew resigned. "Certainly one has so few opportunities of hearing music. It is sure to be very bad. But it might be better than sitting idle all the evening. We have no book, and I lost my crochet at Florence." "Good. Miss Abbott, you are coming too?" "It is very kind of you, Mr. Herriton. In some ways I should enjoy it; but--excuse the suggestion--I don t think we ought to go to cheap seats." "Good gracious me!" cried Harriet, "I should never have thought of that. As likely as not, we should have tried to save money and sat among the most awful people. One keeps on forgetting this is Italy."<|quote|>"Unfortunately I have no evening dress; and if the seats--"</|quote|>"Oh, that ll be all right," said Philip, smiling at his timorous, scrupulous women-kind. "We ll go as we are, and buy the best we can get. Monteriano is not formal." So this strenuous day of resolutions, plans, alarms, battles, victories, defeats, truces, ended at the opera. Miss Abbott and Harriet were both a little shame-faced. They thought of their friends at Sawston, who were supposing them to be now tilting against the powers of evil. What would Mrs. Herriton, or Irma, or the curates at the Back Kitchen say if they could see the rescue party at a place of amusement on the very first day of its mission? Philip, too, marvelled at his wish to go. He began to see that he was enjoying his time in Monteriano, in spite of the tiresomeness of his companions and the occasional contrariness of himself. He had been to this theatre many years before, on the occasion of a performance of "La Zia di Carlo." Since then it had been thoroughly done up, in the tints of the beet-root and the tomato, and was in many other ways a credit to the little town. The orchestra had been enlarged, some of the boxes had terra-cotta draperies, and over each box was now suspended an enormous tablet, neatly framed, bearing upon it the number of that box. There was also a drop-scene, representing a pink and purple landscape, wherein sported many a lady lightly clad, and two more ladies lay along the top of the proscenium to steady a large and pallid clock. So rich and so appalling was the effect, that Philip could scarcely suppress a cry. There is something majestic in the bad taste of Italy; it is not the bad taste of a country which knows no better; it has not the nervous vulgarity of England, or the blinded vulgarity of Germany. It observes beauty, and chooses to pass it by. But it attains to beauty s confidence. This tiny theatre of Monteriano spraddled and swaggered with the best of them, and these ladies with their clock would have nodded to the young men on the ceiling of the Sistine. Philip had tried for a box, but all the best were taken: it was rather a grand performance, and he had to be content with stalls. Harriet was fretful and insular. Miss Abbott was pleasant, and | Where Angels Fear To Tread |
"_Please_, Brenda," | John Beaver | she drew back. He said,<|quote|>"_Please_, Brenda,"</|quote|>but she turned away and | when he was quite near, she drew back. He said,<|quote|>"_Please_, Brenda,"</|quote|>but she turned away and looked out of the window, | the taxi door. But there was still a constraint between them and Beaver began to wonder, "Does she expect me to pounce?" So, as they waited in a traffic block by the Marble Arch, he leaned forward to kiss her; when he was quite near, she drew back. He said,<|quote|>"_Please_, Brenda,"</|quote|>but she turned away and looked out of the window, shaking her head several times quickly. Then, her eyes still fixed on the window, she put out her hand to his and they sat in silence till they reached the restaurant. Beaver was thoroughly puzzled. Once they were in public | Espinosa's." "Yes, lovely. Only listen. I want you to understand right away that it's _my_ dinner." "Of course not... nothing of the sort." "Yes it is. I'm a year older than you and an old married woman and quite rich, so, please, I'm going to pay." Beaver continued protesting to the taxi door. But there was still a constraint between them and Beaver began to wonder, "Does she expect me to pounce?" So, as they waited in a traffic block by the Marble Arch, he leaned forward to kiss her; when he was quite near, she drew back. He said,<|quote|>"_Please_, Brenda,"</|quote|>but she turned away and looked out of the window, shaking her head several times quickly. Then, her eyes still fixed on the window, she put out her hand to his and they sat in silence till they reached the restaurant. Beaver was thoroughly puzzled. Once they were in public again, his confidence returned. Espinosa led them to their table; it was the one by itself on the right of the door, the only table in the restaurant at which one's conversation was not overheard. Brenda handed him the card. "You choose. Very little for me, but it must only | were the elder sister, seeing Brenda timid and expectant at the beginning of an adventure. They were awkward when Marjorie left, for in the week that they had been apart, each had, in thought, grown more intimate with the other than any actual occurrence warranted. Had Beaver been more experienced, he might have crossed to where Brenda was sitting on the arm of a chair, and made love to her at once; and probably he would have got away with it. Instead he remarked in an easy manner, "I suppose we ought to be going too." "Yes, where?" "I thought Espinosa's." "Yes, lovely. Only listen. I want you to understand right away that it's _my_ dinner." "Of course not... nothing of the sort." "Yes it is. I'm a year older than you and an old married woman and quite rich, so, please, I'm going to pay." Beaver continued protesting to the taxi door. But there was still a constraint between them and Beaver began to wonder, "Does she expect me to pounce?" So, as they waited in a traffic block by the Marble Arch, he leaned forward to kiss her; when he was quite near, she drew back. He said,<|quote|>"_Please_, Brenda,"</|quote|>but she turned away and looked out of the window, shaking her head several times quickly. Then, her eyes still fixed on the window, she put out her hand to his and they sat in silence till they reached the restaurant. Beaver was thoroughly puzzled. Once they were in public again, his confidence returned. Espinosa led them to their table; it was the one by itself on the right of the door, the only table in the restaurant at which one's conversation was not overheard. Brenda handed him the card. "You choose. Very little for me, but it must only have starch, no protein." The bill at Espinosa's was, as a rule, roughly the same whatever one ate, but Brenda would not know this, so, since it was now understood that she was paying, Beaver felt constrained from ordering anything that looked obviously expensive. However, she insisted on champagne, and later a ballon of liqueur brandy for him. "You can't think how exciting it is for me to take a young man out. I've never done it before." They stayed at Espinosa's until it was time to go to the party, dancing once or twice, but most of the time | your Mr Beaver properly," said Marjorie. "Let's make him take off his coat and drink something." The two sisters were a little shy as they came downstairs, but Beaver was perfectly at his ease. He looked very elegant and rather more than his age. "Oh, he's not so bad, your Mr Beaver," Marjorie's look seemed to say, "not by any means," and he, seeing the two women together, who were both beautiful, though in a manner so different that, although it was apparent that they were sisters, they might have belonged each to a separate race, began to understand what had perplexed him all the week; why, contrary to all habit and principle, he had telegraphed to Brenda asking her to dine. "Mrs Jimmy Deane's very upset that she couldn't get you for to-night. I didn't give away what you were doing." "Give her my love," said Beaver. "Anyway we'll all meet at Polly's." "I must go, we're dining at nine." "Stay a bit," said Brenda. "She's sure to be late." Now that it was inevitable, she did not want to be left alone with Beaver. "No, I must go. Enjoy yourselves, bless you both." She felt as though she were the elder sister, seeing Brenda timid and expectant at the beginning of an adventure. They were awkward when Marjorie left, for in the week that they had been apart, each had, in thought, grown more intimate with the other than any actual occurrence warranted. Had Beaver been more experienced, he might have crossed to where Brenda was sitting on the arm of a chair, and made love to her at once; and probably he would have got away with it. Instead he remarked in an easy manner, "I suppose we ought to be going too." "Yes, where?" "I thought Espinosa's." "Yes, lovely. Only listen. I want you to understand right away that it's _my_ dinner." "Of course not... nothing of the sort." "Yes it is. I'm a year older than you and an old married woman and quite rich, so, please, I'm going to pay." Beaver continued protesting to the taxi door. But there was still a constraint between them and Beaver began to wonder, "Does she expect me to pounce?" So, as they waited in a traffic block by the Marble Arch, he leaned forward to kiss her; when he was quite near, she drew back. He said,<|quote|>"_Please_, Brenda,"</|quote|>but she turned away and looked out of the window, shaking her head several times quickly. Then, her eyes still fixed on the window, she put out her hand to his and they sat in silence till they reached the restaurant. Beaver was thoroughly puzzled. Once they were in public again, his confidence returned. Espinosa led them to their table; it was the one by itself on the right of the door, the only table in the restaurant at which one's conversation was not overheard. Brenda handed him the card. "You choose. Very little for me, but it must only have starch, no protein." The bill at Espinosa's was, as a rule, roughly the same whatever one ate, but Brenda would not know this, so, since it was now understood that she was paying, Beaver felt constrained from ordering anything that looked obviously expensive. However, she insisted on champagne, and later a ballon of liqueur brandy for him. "You can't think how exciting it is for me to take a young man out. I've never done it before." They stayed at Espinosa's until it was time to go to the party, dancing once or twice, but most of the time sitting at the table, talking. Their interest in each other had so far outdistanced their knowledge that there was a great deal to say. Presently Beaver said, "I'm sorry I was an ass in the taxi just now." "Eh?" He changed it and said, "Did you mind when I tried to kiss you just now?" "Me? No, not particularly." "Then why wouldn't you let me?" "Oh dear, you've got a lot to learn." "How d'you mean?" "You mustn't ever ask questions like that. Will you try and remember?" Then he was sulky. "You talk to me as if I was an undergraduate having his first walk out." "Oh, is this a walk out?" "Not as far as I am concerned." There was a pause in which Brenda said, "I am not sure it hasn't been a mistake, taking you out to dinner. Let's ask for the bill and go to Polly's." But they took ten minutes to bring the bill, and in that time Beaver and Brenda had to say something, so he said he was sorry. "You've got to _learn_ to be nicer," she said soberly. "I don't believe you'd find it impossible." When the bill eventually came, she | "Is she nice?" "Mummy thinks so. I don't." "Why?" "Because she looks like a monkey." "I should love to see her. Does she live in a cage? Has she got a tail? Ben saw a woman who looked like a fish, with scales all over instead of skin. It was in a circus in Cairo. Smelt like a fish too, Ben says." They were having tea together on the afternoon of Brenda's departure. "Daddy, what does Lady Cockpurse eat?" "Oh, nuts and things." "Nuts and what things?" "Different kinds of nuts." For days to come the image of this hairy, mischievous Countess occupied John Andrew's mind. She became one of the inhabitants of his world, like Peppermint, the mule who died of rum. When kindly people spoke to him in the village he would tell them about her and how she swung head down from a tree throwing nutshells at passers-by. "You mustn't say things like that about real people," said nanny. "Whatever would Lady Cockpurse do if she heard about it?" "She'd gibber and chatter and lash round with her tail, and then I expect she'd catch some nice, big, juicy fleas and forget all about it." * * * * * Brenda was staying at Marjorie's for the night. She was dressed first and came into her sister's room. "Lovely, darling. New?" "Fairly." Marjorie was rung up by the woman at whose house she was dining. (" "Look here, are you absolutely sure you can't make Allan come to-night?" "Absolutely. He's got a meeting in Camberwell. He may not even come to Polly's." "Is there _any_ man you can bring?" "Can't think of anybody." "Well, we shall have to be one short, that's all. I can't think what's happened to-night. I rang up John Beaver but even _he_ won't come." ") "You know," said Marjorie, putting down the telephone, "you're causing a great deal of trouble. You've taken London's only spare man." "Oh dear, I didn't realize..." Beaver arrived at quarter to nine in a state of high self-approval; he had refused two invitations to dinner while dressing that evening; he had cashed a cheque for ten pounds at his club; he had booked a divan table at Espinosa's. It was almost the first time in his life that he had taken anyone out to dinner, but he knew perfectly well how it was done. "I must see your Mr Beaver properly," said Marjorie. "Let's make him take off his coat and drink something." The two sisters were a little shy as they came downstairs, but Beaver was perfectly at his ease. He looked very elegant and rather more than his age. "Oh, he's not so bad, your Mr Beaver," Marjorie's look seemed to say, "not by any means," and he, seeing the two women together, who were both beautiful, though in a manner so different that, although it was apparent that they were sisters, they might have belonged each to a separate race, began to understand what had perplexed him all the week; why, contrary to all habit and principle, he had telegraphed to Brenda asking her to dine. "Mrs Jimmy Deane's very upset that she couldn't get you for to-night. I didn't give away what you were doing." "Give her my love," said Beaver. "Anyway we'll all meet at Polly's." "I must go, we're dining at nine." "Stay a bit," said Brenda. "She's sure to be late." Now that it was inevitable, she did not want to be left alone with Beaver. "No, I must go. Enjoy yourselves, bless you both." She felt as though she were the elder sister, seeing Brenda timid and expectant at the beginning of an adventure. They were awkward when Marjorie left, for in the week that they had been apart, each had, in thought, grown more intimate with the other than any actual occurrence warranted. Had Beaver been more experienced, he might have crossed to where Brenda was sitting on the arm of a chair, and made love to her at once; and probably he would have got away with it. Instead he remarked in an easy manner, "I suppose we ought to be going too." "Yes, where?" "I thought Espinosa's." "Yes, lovely. Only listen. I want you to understand right away that it's _my_ dinner." "Of course not... nothing of the sort." "Yes it is. I'm a year older than you and an old married woman and quite rich, so, please, I'm going to pay." Beaver continued protesting to the taxi door. But there was still a constraint between them and Beaver began to wonder, "Does she expect me to pounce?" So, as they waited in a traffic block by the Marble Arch, he leaned forward to kiss her; when he was quite near, she drew back. He said,<|quote|>"_Please_, Brenda,"</|quote|>but she turned away and looked out of the window, shaking her head several times quickly. Then, her eyes still fixed on the window, she put out her hand to his and they sat in silence till they reached the restaurant. Beaver was thoroughly puzzled. Once they were in public again, his confidence returned. Espinosa led them to their table; it was the one by itself on the right of the door, the only table in the restaurant at which one's conversation was not overheard. Brenda handed him the card. "You choose. Very little for me, but it must only have starch, no protein." The bill at Espinosa's was, as a rule, roughly the same whatever one ate, but Brenda would not know this, so, since it was now understood that she was paying, Beaver felt constrained from ordering anything that looked obviously expensive. However, she insisted on champagne, and later a ballon of liqueur brandy for him. "You can't think how exciting it is for me to take a young man out. I've never done it before." They stayed at Espinosa's until it was time to go to the party, dancing once or twice, but most of the time sitting at the table, talking. Their interest in each other had so far outdistanced their knowledge that there was a great deal to say. Presently Beaver said, "I'm sorry I was an ass in the taxi just now." "Eh?" He changed it and said, "Did you mind when I tried to kiss you just now?" "Me? No, not particularly." "Then why wouldn't you let me?" "Oh dear, you've got a lot to learn." "How d'you mean?" "You mustn't ever ask questions like that. Will you try and remember?" Then he was sulky. "You talk to me as if I was an undergraduate having his first walk out." "Oh, is this a walk out?" "Not as far as I am concerned." There was a pause in which Brenda said, "I am not sure it hasn't been a mistake, taking you out to dinner. Let's ask for the bill and go to Polly's." But they took ten minutes to bring the bill, and in that time Beaver and Brenda had to say something, so he said he was sorry. "You've got to _learn_ to be nicer," she said soberly. "I don't believe you'd find it impossible." When the bill eventually came, she said, "How much do I tip him?" and Beaver showed her. "Are you sure that's enough? I should have given twice as much." "It's exactly right," said Beaver, feeling older again, just as Brenda had meant him to feel. When they sat in the taxi Beaver knew at once that Brenda wished him to make love to her. But he decided it was time she took the lead. So he sat at a distance from her and commented on an old house that was being demolished to make way for a block of flats. "Shut up," said Brenda. "Come here." When he had kissed her, she rubbed against his cheek in the way she had. * * * * * Polly's party was exactly what she wished it to be, an accurate replica of all the best parties she had been to in the last year; the same band, the same supper and, above all, the same guests. Hers was not the ambition to create a sensation, to have the party talked about in months to come for any unusual feature, to hunt out shy celebrities or introduce exotic strangers. She wanted a perfectly straight, smart party and she had got it. Practically everyone she asked had come. If there were other, more remote worlds upon which she did not impinge, Polly did not know about them. These were the people she was after, and here they were. And looking round on her guests, with Lord Cockpurse, who was for the evening loyally putting in one of his rare appearances, at her side, she was able to congratulate herself that there were very few people present whom she did not want. In other years people had taken her hospitality more casually and brought on with them anyone with whom they happened to have been dining. This year, without any conscious effort on her part, there had been more formality. Those who wanted to bring friends had rung up in the morning and asked whether they might do so, and on the whole they had been cautious of even so much presumption. People who, only eighteen months before, would have pretended to be ignorant of her existence were now crowding up her stairs. She had got herself in line with the other married women of her world. As they started to go up, Brenda said, "You're not to leave me, please. | though in a manner so different that, although it was apparent that they were sisters, they might have belonged each to a separate race, began to understand what had perplexed him all the week; why, contrary to all habit and principle, he had telegraphed to Brenda asking her to dine. "Mrs Jimmy Deane's very upset that she couldn't get you for to-night. I didn't give away what you were doing." "Give her my love," said Beaver. "Anyway we'll all meet at Polly's." "I must go, we're dining at nine." "Stay a bit," said Brenda. "She's sure to be late." Now that it was inevitable, she did not want to be left alone with Beaver. "No, I must go. Enjoy yourselves, bless you both." She felt as though she were the elder sister, seeing Brenda timid and expectant at the beginning of an adventure. They were awkward when Marjorie left, for in the week that they had been apart, each had, in thought, grown more intimate with the other than any actual occurrence warranted. Had Beaver been more experienced, he might have crossed to where Brenda was sitting on the arm of a chair, and made love to her at once; and probably he would have got away with it. Instead he remarked in an easy manner, "I suppose we ought to be going too." "Yes, where?" "I thought Espinosa's." "Yes, lovely. Only listen. I want you to understand right away that it's _my_ dinner." "Of course not... nothing of the sort." "Yes it is. I'm a year older than you and an old married woman and quite rich, so, please, I'm going to pay." Beaver continued protesting to the taxi door. But there was still a constraint between them and Beaver began to wonder, "Does she expect me to pounce?" So, as they waited in a traffic block by the Marble Arch, he leaned forward to kiss her; when he was quite near, she drew back. He said,<|quote|>"_Please_, Brenda,"</|quote|>but she turned away and looked out of the window, shaking her head several times quickly. Then, her eyes still fixed on the window, she put out her hand to his and they sat in silence till they reached the restaurant. Beaver was thoroughly puzzled. Once they were in public again, his confidence returned. Espinosa led them to their table; it was the one by itself on the right of the door, the only table in the restaurant at which one's conversation was not overheard. Brenda handed him the card. "You choose. Very little for me, but it must only have starch, no protein." The bill at Espinosa's was, as a rule, roughly the same whatever one ate, but Brenda would not know this, so, since it was now understood that she was paying, Beaver felt constrained from ordering anything that looked obviously expensive. However, she insisted on champagne, and later a ballon of liqueur brandy for him. "You can't think how exciting it is for me to take a young man out. I've never done it before." They stayed at Espinosa's until it was time to go to the party, dancing once or twice, but most of the time sitting at the table, talking. Their interest in each other had so far outdistanced their knowledge that there was a great deal to say. Presently Beaver said, "I'm sorry I was an ass in the taxi just now." "Eh?" He changed it and said, "Did you mind when I tried to kiss you just now?" "Me? No, not particularly." "Then why wouldn't you let me?" "Oh dear, you've got a lot to learn." "How d'you mean?" "You mustn't ever ask questions like that. Will you try and remember?" Then he was sulky. "You talk to me as if I was an undergraduate having his first walk out." "Oh, is this a walk out?" "Not as far as I am concerned." There was a pause in which Brenda said, "I am not sure it hasn't been a mistake, taking you out to dinner. Let's ask for the bill and go to Polly's." But they took ten minutes to bring the bill, and in that time Beaver and Brenda had to say something, so he said he was sorry. "You've got to _learn_ to be | A Handful Of Dust |
Mrs. Hilbery, her eyes growing blank, peered down the enormously long corridor of days at the far end of which the little figures of herself and her husband appeared fantastically attired, clasping hands upon a moonlit beach, with roses swinging in the dusk. | No speaker | tell me what you felt."<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery, her eyes growing blank, peered down the enormously long corridor of days at the far end of which the little figures of herself and her husband appeared fantastically attired, clasping hands upon a moonlit beach, with roses swinging in the dusk.</|quote|>"We were in a little | of what I felt" "Yes, tell me what you felt."<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery, her eyes growing blank, peered down the enormously long corridor of days at the far end of which the little figures of herself and her husband appeared fantastically attired, clasping hands upon a moonlit beach, with roses swinging in the dusk.</|quote|>"We were in a little boat going out to a | he doesn t ask it of you?" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Not that grave young man with the steady brown eyes?" "He doesn t ask anything we neither of us ask anything." "If I could help you, Katharine, by the memory of what I felt" "Yes, tell me what you felt."<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery, her eyes growing blank, peered down the enormously long corridor of days at the far end of which the little figures of herself and her husband appeared fantastically attired, clasping hands upon a moonlit beach, with roses swinging in the dusk.</|quote|>"We were in a little boat going out to a ship at night," she began. "The sun had set and the moon was rising over our heads. There were lovely silver lights upon the waves and three green lights upon the steamer in the middle of the bay. Your father | s what I feel so dreadfully ugly." Katharine took the sheets from her mother s hand and began shuffling them absent-mindedly together, for her fixed gaze seemed to show that her thoughts were intent upon some other matter. "Well, I don t know about ugliness," she said at length. "But he doesn t ask it of you?" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Not that grave young man with the steady brown eyes?" "He doesn t ask anything we neither of us ask anything." "If I could help you, Katharine, by the memory of what I felt" "Yes, tell me what you felt."<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery, her eyes growing blank, peered down the enormously long corridor of days at the far end of which the little figures of herself and her husband appeared fantastically attired, clasping hands upon a moonlit beach, with roses swinging in the dusk.</|quote|>"We were in a little boat going out to a ship at night," she began. "The sun had set and the moon was rising over our heads. There were lovely silver lights upon the waves and three green lights upon the steamer in the middle of the bay. Your father s head looked so grand against the mast. It was life, it was death. The great sea was round us. It was the voyage for ever and ever." The ancient fairy-tale fell roundly and harmoniously upon Katharine s ears. Yes, there was the enormous space of the sea; there were | Registry Office nowadays, if you think the Church service a little florid which it is, though there are noble things in it." "But we don t want to be married," Katharine replied emphatically, and added, "Why, after all, isn t it perfectly possible to live together without being married?" Again Mrs. Hilbery looked discomposed, and, in her trouble, took up the sheets which were lying upon the table, and began turning them over this way and that, and muttering to herself as she glanced: "A plus B minus C equals _x y z_. It s so dreadfully ugly, Katharine. That s what I feel so dreadfully ugly." Katharine took the sheets from her mother s hand and began shuffling them absent-mindedly together, for her fixed gaze seemed to show that her thoughts were intent upon some other matter. "Well, I don t know about ugliness," she said at length. "But he doesn t ask it of you?" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Not that grave young man with the steady brown eyes?" "He doesn t ask anything we neither of us ask anything." "If I could help you, Katharine, by the memory of what I felt" "Yes, tell me what you felt."<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery, her eyes growing blank, peered down the enormously long corridor of days at the far end of which the little figures of herself and her husband appeared fantastically attired, clasping hands upon a moonlit beach, with roses swinging in the dusk.</|quote|>"We were in a little boat going out to a ship at night," she began. "The sun had set and the moon was rising over our heads. There were lovely silver lights upon the waves and three green lights upon the steamer in the middle of the bay. Your father s head looked so grand against the mast. It was life, it was death. The great sea was round us. It was the voyage for ever and ever." The ancient fairy-tale fell roundly and harmoniously upon Katharine s ears. Yes, there was the enormous space of the sea; there were the three green lights upon the steamer; the cloaked figures climbed up on deck. And so, voyaging over the green and purple waters, past the cliffs and the sandy lagoons and through pools crowded with the masts of ships and the steeples of churches here they were. The river seemed to have brought them and deposited them here at this precise point. She looked admiringly at her mother, that ancient voyager. "Who knows," exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, continuing her reveries, "where we are bound for, or why, or who has sent us, or what we shall find who knows anything, except | ought not to have said, and shook her head. Hastily Mrs. Hilbery asked for further details of this extraordinary house, and interposed a few speculations about the meeting between Keats and Coleridge in a lane, which tided over the discomfort of the moment, and drew Katharine on to further descriptions and indiscretions. In truth, she found an extraordinary pleasure in being thus free to talk to some one who was equally wise and equally benignant, the mother of her earliest childhood, whose silence seemed to answer questions that were never asked. Mrs. Hilbery listened without making any remark for a considerable time. She seemed to draw her conclusions rather by looking at her daughter than by listening to her, and, if cross-examined, she would probably have given a highly inaccurate version of Ralph Denham s life-history except that he was penniless, fatherless, and lived at Highgate all of which was much in his favor. But by means of these furtive glances she had assured herself that Katharine was in a state which gave her, alternately, the most exquisite pleasure and the most profound alarm. She could not help ejaculating at last: "It s all done in five minutes at a Registry Office nowadays, if you think the Church service a little florid which it is, though there are noble things in it." "But we don t want to be married," Katharine replied emphatically, and added, "Why, after all, isn t it perfectly possible to live together without being married?" Again Mrs. Hilbery looked discomposed, and, in her trouble, took up the sheets which were lying upon the table, and began turning them over this way and that, and muttering to herself as she glanced: "A plus B minus C equals _x y z_. It s so dreadfully ugly, Katharine. That s what I feel so dreadfully ugly." Katharine took the sheets from her mother s hand and began shuffling them absent-mindedly together, for her fixed gaze seemed to show that her thoughts were intent upon some other matter. "Well, I don t know about ugliness," she said at length. "But he doesn t ask it of you?" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Not that grave young man with the steady brown eyes?" "He doesn t ask anything we neither of us ask anything." "If I could help you, Katharine, by the memory of what I felt" "Yes, tell me what you felt."<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery, her eyes growing blank, peered down the enormously long corridor of days at the far end of which the little figures of herself and her husband appeared fantastically attired, clasping hands upon a moonlit beach, with roses swinging in the dusk.</|quote|>"We were in a little boat going out to a ship at night," she began. "The sun had set and the moon was rising over our heads. There were lovely silver lights upon the waves and three green lights upon the steamer in the middle of the bay. Your father s head looked so grand against the mast. It was life, it was death. The great sea was round us. It was the voyage for ever and ever." The ancient fairy-tale fell roundly and harmoniously upon Katharine s ears. Yes, there was the enormous space of the sea; there were the three green lights upon the steamer; the cloaked figures climbed up on deck. And so, voyaging over the green and purple waters, past the cliffs and the sandy lagoons and through pools crowded with the masts of ships and the steeples of churches here they were. The river seemed to have brought them and deposited them here at this precise point. She looked admiringly at her mother, that ancient voyager. "Who knows," exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, continuing her reveries, "where we are bound for, or why, or who has sent us, or what we shall find who knows anything, except that love is our faith love" she crooned, and the soft sound beating through the dim words was heard by her daughter as the breaking of waves solemnly in order upon the vast shore that she gazed upon. She would have been content for her mother to repeat that word almost indefinitely a soothing word when uttered by another, a riveting together of the shattered fragments of the world. But Mrs. Hilbery, instead of repeating the word love, said pleadingly: "And you won t think those ugly thoughts again, will you, Katharine?" at which words the ship which Katharine had been considering seemed to put into harbor and have done with its seafaring. Yet she was in great need, if not exactly of sympathy, of some form of advice, or, at least, of the opportunity of setting forth her problems before a third person so as to renew them in her own eyes. "But then," she said, ignoring the difficult problem of ugliness, "you knew you were in love; but we re different. It seems," she continued, frowning a little as she tried to fix the difficult feeling, "as if something came to an end suddenly gave out faded an | s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes. "I m not in love with Ralph Denham," she said. "Don t marry unless you re in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she had her sources of information, and, indeed, her bag was stuffed with what she called "kind letters" from the pen of her sister-in-law. "Yes. Or to stay away in the country," Katharine concluded. Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window. "What a comfort he was in that shop how he took me and found the ruins at once how _safe_ I felt with him" "Safe? Oh, no, he s fearfully rash he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired. "Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair." Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with a wonderful view over London, and a rook. "A wretched old bird in a corner, with half its feathers out," she said, with a tenderness in her voice that seemed to commiserate the sufferings of humanity while resting assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them, so that Mrs. Hilbery could not help exclaiming: "But, Katharine, you _are_ in love!" at which Katharine flushed, looked startled, as if she had said something that she ought not to have said, and shook her head. Hastily Mrs. Hilbery asked for further details of this extraordinary house, and interposed a few speculations about the meeting between Keats and Coleridge in a lane, which tided over the discomfort of the moment, and drew Katharine on to further descriptions and indiscretions. In truth, she found an extraordinary pleasure in being thus free to talk to some one who was equally wise and equally benignant, the mother of her earliest childhood, whose silence seemed to answer questions that were never asked. Mrs. Hilbery listened without making any remark for a considerable time. She seemed to draw her conclusions rather by looking at her daughter than by listening to her, and, if cross-examined, she would probably have given a highly inaccurate version of Ralph Denham s life-history except that he was penniless, fatherless, and lived at Highgate all of which was much in his favor. But by means of these furtive glances she had assured herself that Katharine was in a state which gave her, alternately, the most exquisite pleasure and the most profound alarm. She could not help ejaculating at last: "It s all done in five minutes at a Registry Office nowadays, if you think the Church service a little florid which it is, though there are noble things in it." "But we don t want to be married," Katharine replied emphatically, and added, "Why, after all, isn t it perfectly possible to live together without being married?" Again Mrs. Hilbery looked discomposed, and, in her trouble, took up the sheets which were lying upon the table, and began turning them over this way and that, and muttering to herself as she glanced: "A plus B minus C equals _x y z_. It s so dreadfully ugly, Katharine. That s what I feel so dreadfully ugly." Katharine took the sheets from her mother s hand and began shuffling them absent-mindedly together, for her fixed gaze seemed to show that her thoughts were intent upon some other matter. "Well, I don t know about ugliness," she said at length. "But he doesn t ask it of you?" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Not that grave young man with the steady brown eyes?" "He doesn t ask anything we neither of us ask anything." "If I could help you, Katharine, by the memory of what I felt" "Yes, tell me what you felt."<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery, her eyes growing blank, peered down the enormously long corridor of days at the far end of which the little figures of herself and her husband appeared fantastically attired, clasping hands upon a moonlit beach, with roses swinging in the dusk.</|quote|>"We were in a little boat going out to a ship at night," she began. "The sun had set and the moon was rising over our heads. There were lovely silver lights upon the waves and three green lights upon the steamer in the middle of the bay. Your father s head looked so grand against the mast. It was life, it was death. The great sea was round us. It was the voyage for ever and ever." The ancient fairy-tale fell roundly and harmoniously upon Katharine s ears. Yes, there was the enormous space of the sea; there were the three green lights upon the steamer; the cloaked figures climbed up on deck. And so, voyaging over the green and purple waters, past the cliffs and the sandy lagoons and through pools crowded with the masts of ships and the steeples of churches here they were. The river seemed to have brought them and deposited them here at this precise point. She looked admiringly at her mother, that ancient voyager. "Who knows," exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, continuing her reveries, "where we are bound for, or why, or who has sent us, or what we shall find who knows anything, except that love is our faith love" she crooned, and the soft sound beating through the dim words was heard by her daughter as the breaking of waves solemnly in order upon the vast shore that she gazed upon. She would have been content for her mother to repeat that word almost indefinitely a soothing word when uttered by another, a riveting together of the shattered fragments of the world. But Mrs. Hilbery, instead of repeating the word love, said pleadingly: "And you won t think those ugly thoughts again, will you, Katharine?" at which words the ship which Katharine had been considering seemed to put into harbor and have done with its seafaring. Yet she was in great need, if not exactly of sympathy, of some form of advice, or, at least, of the opportunity of setting forth her problems before a third person so as to renew them in her own eyes. "But then," she said, ignoring the difficult problem of ugliness, "you knew you were in love; but we re different. It seems," she continued, frowning a little as she tried to fix the difficult feeling, "as if something came to an end suddenly gave out faded an illusion as if when we think we re in love we make it up we imagine what doesn t exist. That s why it s impossible that we should ever marry. Always to be finding the other an illusion, and going off and forgetting about them, never to be certain that you cared, or that he wasn t caring for some one not you at all, the horror of changing from one state to the other, being happy one moment and miserable the next that s the reason why we can t possibly marry. At the same time," she continued, "we can t live without each other, because" Mrs. Hilbery waited patiently for the sentence to be completed, but Katharine fell silent and fingered her sheet of figures. "We have to have faith in our vision," Mrs. Hilbery resumed, glancing at the figures, which distressed her vaguely, and had some connection in her mind with the household accounts, "otherwise, as you say" She cast a lightning glance into the depths of disillusionment which were, perhaps, not altogether unknown to her. "Believe me, Katharine, it s the same for every one for me, too for your father," she said earnestly, and sighed. They looked together into the abyss and, as the elder of the two, she recovered herself first and asked: "But where is Ralph? Why isn t he here to see me?" Katharine s expression changed instantly. "Because he s not allowed to come here," she replied bitterly. Mrs. Hilbery brushed this aside. "Would there be time to send for him before luncheon?" she asked. Katharine looked at her as if, indeed, she were some magician. Once more she felt that instead of being a grown woman, used to advise and command, she was only a foot or two raised above the long grass and the little flowers and entirely dependent upon the figure of indefinite size whose head went up into the sky, whose hand was in hers, for guidance. "I m not happy without him," she said simply. Mrs. Hilbery nodded her head in a manner which indicated complete understanding, and the immediate conception of certain plans for the future. She swept up her flowers, breathed in their sweetness, and, humming a little song about a miller s daughter, left the room. The case upon which Ralph Denham was engaged that afternoon was not apparently receiving his full | lady, with white hair." Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with a wonderful view over London, and a rook. "A wretched old bird in a corner, with half its feathers out," she said, with a tenderness in her voice that seemed to commiserate the sufferings of humanity while resting assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them, so that Mrs. Hilbery could not help exclaiming: "But, Katharine, you _are_ in love!" at which Katharine flushed, looked startled, as if she had said something that she ought not to have said, and shook her head. Hastily Mrs. Hilbery asked for further details of this extraordinary house, and interposed a few speculations about the meeting between Keats and Coleridge in a lane, which tided over the discomfort of the moment, and drew Katharine on to further descriptions and indiscretions. In truth, she found an extraordinary pleasure in being thus free to talk to some one who was equally wise and equally benignant, the mother of her earliest childhood, whose silence seemed to answer questions that were never asked. Mrs. Hilbery listened without making any remark for a considerable time. She seemed to draw her conclusions rather by looking at her daughter than by listening to her, and, if cross-examined, she would probably have given a highly inaccurate version of Ralph Denham s life-history except that he was penniless, fatherless, and lived at Highgate all of which was much in his favor. But by means of these furtive glances she had assured herself that Katharine was in a state which gave her, alternately, the most exquisite pleasure and the most profound alarm. She could not help ejaculating at last: "It s all done in five minutes at a Registry Office nowadays, if you think the Church service a little florid which it is, though there are noble things in it." "But we don t want to be married," Katharine replied emphatically, and added, "Why, after all, isn t it perfectly possible to live together without being married?" Again Mrs. Hilbery looked discomposed, and, in her trouble, took up the sheets which were lying upon the table, and began turning them over this way and that, and muttering to herself as she glanced: "A plus B minus C equals _x y z_. It s so dreadfully ugly, Katharine. That s what I feel so dreadfully ugly." Katharine took the sheets from her mother s hand and began shuffling them absent-mindedly together, for her fixed gaze seemed to show that her thoughts were intent upon some other matter. "Well, I don t know about ugliness," she said at length. "But he doesn t ask it of you?" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Not that grave young man with the steady brown eyes?" "He doesn t ask anything we neither of us ask anything." "If I could help you, Katharine, by the memory of what I felt" "Yes, tell me what you felt."<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery, her eyes growing blank, peered down the enormously long corridor of days at the far end of which the little figures of herself and her husband appeared fantastically attired, clasping hands upon a moonlit beach, with roses swinging in the dusk.</|quote|>"We were in a little boat going out to a ship at night," she began. "The sun had set and the moon was rising over our heads. There were lovely silver lights upon the waves and three green lights upon the steamer in the middle of the bay. Your father s head looked so grand against the mast. It was life, it was death. The great sea was round us. It was the voyage for ever and ever." The ancient fairy-tale fell roundly and harmoniously upon Katharine s ears. Yes, there was the enormous space of the sea; there were the three green lights upon the steamer; the cloaked figures climbed up on deck. And so, voyaging over the green and purple waters, past the cliffs and the sandy lagoons and through pools crowded with the masts of ships and the steeples of churches here they were. The river seemed to have brought them and deposited them here at this precise point. She looked admiringly at her mother, that ancient voyager. "Who knows," exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, continuing her reveries, "where we are bound for, or why, or who has sent us, or what we shall find who knows anything, except that love is our faith love" she crooned, and the soft sound beating through the dim words was heard by her daughter as the breaking of waves solemnly in order upon the vast shore that she gazed upon. She would have been content for her mother to repeat that word almost indefinitely a soothing word when uttered by another, a riveting together of the shattered fragments of the world. But Mrs. Hilbery, instead of repeating the word love, said pleadingly: "And you won t think those ugly thoughts again, will you, Katharine?" at which words the ship which Katharine had been considering seemed to put into harbor and have done with its seafaring. Yet she was in great need, if not exactly of sympathy, of some form of advice, or, at least, of the opportunity of setting forth her problems before a | Night And Day |
Eeyore shook his head slowly. | No speaker | you to the party. To-morrow."<|quote|>Eeyore shook his head slowly.</|quote|>"You mean Piglet. The little | anything to eat, it's asking you to the party. To-morrow."<|quote|>Eeyore shook his head slowly.</|quote|>"You mean Piglet. The little fellow with the excited ears. | be sending me down the odd bits which got trodden on. Kind and Thoughtful. Not at all, don't mention it." "There is an Invitation for you." "What's that like?" "An Invitation!" "Yes, I heard you. Who dropped it?" "This isn't anything to eat, it's asking you to the party. To-morrow."<|quote|>Eeyore shook his head slowly.</|quote|>"You mean Piglet. The little fellow with the excited ears. That's Piglet. I'll tell him." "No, no!" said Owl, getting quite fussy. "It's you!" "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure. Christopher Robin said 'All of them! Tell all of them.'" "All of them, except Eeyore?" "All of them," said | 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- 3 Cheers for the wonderful Winnie-the-Pooh! (_Just tell me, somebody_--WHAT DID HE DO?) While this was going on inside him, Owl was talking to Eeyore. "Eeyore," said Owl, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Very interesting," said Eeyore. "I suppose they will be sending me down the odd bits which got trodden on. Kind and Thoughtful. Not at all, don't mention it." "There is an Invitation for you." "What's that like?" "An Invitation!" "Yes, I heard you. Who dropped it?" "This isn't anything to eat, it's asking you to the party. To-morrow."<|quote|>Eeyore shook his head slowly.</|quote|>"You mean Piglet. The little fellow with the excited ears. That's Piglet. I'll tell him." "No, no!" said Owl, getting quite fussy. "It's you!" "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure. Christopher Robin said 'All of them! Tell all of them.'" "All of them, except Eeyore?" "All of them," said Owl sulkily. "Ah!" said Eeyore. "A mistake, no doubt, but still, I shall come. Only don't blame _me_ if it rains." But it didn't rain. Christopher Robin had made a long table out of some long pieces of wood, and they all sat round it. Christopher Robin sat at one | (_I'm sorry I keep forgetting_). Well, Pooh was a Bear of Enormous Brain (_Just say it again!_) Of enormous brain-- (_Of enormous what?_) Well, he ate a lot, And I don't know if he could swim or not, But he managed to float On a sort of boat (_On a sort of what?_) Well, a sort of pot-- So now let's give him three hearty cheers (_So now let's give him three hearty whiches?_) And hope he'll be with us for years and years, And grow in health and wisdom and riches! 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For who?_) For Pooh-- 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- 3 Cheers for the wonderful Winnie-the-Pooh! (_Just tell me, somebody_--WHAT DID HE DO?) While this was going on inside him, Owl was talking to Eeyore. "Eeyore," said Owl, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Very interesting," said Eeyore. "I suppose they will be sending me down the odd bits which got trodden on. Kind and Thoughtful. Not at all, don't mention it." "There is an Invitation for you." "What's that like?" "An Invitation!" "Yes, I heard you. Who dropped it?" "This isn't anything to eat, it's asking you to the party. To-morrow."<|quote|>Eeyore shook his head slowly.</|quote|>"You mean Piglet. The little fellow with the excited ears. That's Piglet. I'll tell him." "No, no!" said Owl, getting quite fussy. "It's you!" "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure. Christopher Robin said 'All of them! Tell all of them.'" "All of them, except Eeyore?" "All of them," said Owl sulkily. "Ah!" said Eeyore. "A mistake, no doubt, but still, I shall come. Only don't blame _me_ if it rains." But it didn't rain. Christopher Robin had made a long table out of some long pieces of wood, and they all sat round it. Christopher Robin sat at one end, and Pooh sat at the other, and between them on one side were Owl and Eeyore and Piglet, and between them on the other side were Rabbit, and Roo and Kanga. And all Rabbit's friends and relations spread themselves about on the grass, and waited hopefully in case anybody spoke to them, or dropped anything, or asked them the time. It was the first party to which Roo had ever been, and he was very excited. As soon as ever they had sat down he began to talk. "Hallo, Pooh!" he squeaked. "Hallo, Roo!" said Pooh. Roo jumped up | pink sugar icing, so he told Pooh exactly what Christopher Robin had said, and flew off to Eeyore. "A party for Me?" thought Pooh to himself. "How grand!" And he began to wonder if all the other animals would know that it was a special Pooh Party, and if Christopher Robin had told them about _The Floating Bear_ and the _Brain of Pooh_ and all the wonderful ships he had invented and sailed on, and he began to think how awful it would be if everybody had forgotten about it, and nobody quite knew what the party was for; and the more he thought like this, the more the party got muddled in his mind, like a dream when nothing goes right. And the dream began to sing itself over in his head until it became a sort of song. It was an ANXIOUS POOH SONG. 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For Who?_) For Pooh-- (_Why what did he do?_) I thought you knew; He saved his friend from a wetting! 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- He couldn't swim, But he rescued him! (_He rescued who?_) Oh, listen, do! I am talking of Pooh-- (_Of who?_) Of Pooh! (_I'm sorry I keep forgetting_). Well, Pooh was a Bear of Enormous Brain (_Just say it again!_) Of enormous brain-- (_Of enormous what?_) Well, he ate a lot, And I don't know if he could swim or not, But he managed to float On a sort of boat (_On a sort of what?_) Well, a sort of pot-- So now let's give him three hearty cheers (_So now let's give him three hearty whiches?_) And hope he'll be with us for years and years, And grow in health and wisdom and riches! 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For who?_) For Pooh-- 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- 3 Cheers for the wonderful Winnie-the-Pooh! (_Just tell me, somebody_--WHAT DID HE DO?) While this was going on inside him, Owl was talking to Eeyore. "Eeyore," said Owl, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Very interesting," said Eeyore. "I suppose they will be sending me down the odd bits which got trodden on. Kind and Thoughtful. Not at all, don't mention it." "There is an Invitation for you." "What's that like?" "An Invitation!" "Yes, I heard you. Who dropped it?" "This isn't anything to eat, it's asking you to the party. To-morrow."<|quote|>Eeyore shook his head slowly.</|quote|>"You mean Piglet. The little fellow with the excited ears. That's Piglet. I'll tell him." "No, no!" said Owl, getting quite fussy. "It's you!" "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure. Christopher Robin said 'All of them! Tell all of them.'" "All of them, except Eeyore?" "All of them," said Owl sulkily. "Ah!" said Eeyore. "A mistake, no doubt, but still, I shall come. Only don't blame _me_ if it rains." But it didn't rain. Christopher Robin had made a long table out of some long pieces of wood, and they all sat round it. Christopher Robin sat at one end, and Pooh sat at the other, and between them on one side were Owl and Eeyore and Piglet, and between them on the other side were Rabbit, and Roo and Kanga. And all Rabbit's friends and relations spread themselves about on the grass, and waited hopefully in case anybody spoke to them, or dropped anything, or asked them the time. It was the first party to which Roo had ever been, and he was very excited. As soon as ever they had sat down he began to talk. "Hallo, Pooh!" he squeaked. "Hallo, Roo!" said Pooh. Roo jumped up and down in his seat for a little while and then began again. "Hallo, Piglet!" he squeaked. Piglet waved a paw at him, being too busy to say anything. "Hallo, Eeyore!" said Roo. Eeyore nodded gloomily at him. "It will rain soon, you see if it doesn't," he said. Roo looked to see if it didn't, and it didn't, so he said "Hallo, Owl!" "--and Owl said "Hallo, my little fellow," in a kindly way, and went on telling Christopher Robin about an accident which had nearly happened to a friend of his whom Christopher Robin didn't know, and Kanga said to Roo, "Drink up your milk first, dear, and talk afterwards." So Roo, who was drinking his milk, tried to say that he could do both at once ... and had to be patted on the back and dried for quite a long time afterwards. When they had all nearly eaten enough, Christopher Robin banged on the table with his spoon, and everybody stopped talking and was very silent, except Roo who was just finishing a loud attack of hiccups and trying to look as if it was one of Rabbit's relations. "This party," said Christopher Robin, "is a | just gave him time to jerk himself back into safety and say, "How interesting, and did she?" when--well, you can imagine his joy when at last he saw the good ship, _Brain of Pooh_ (_Captain_, C. Robin; _1st Mate_, P. Bear) coming over the sea to rescue him. Christopher Robin and Pooh again.... And that is really the end of the story, and I am very tired after that last sentence, I think I shall stop there. CHAPTER X IN WHICH CHRISTOPHER ROBIN GIVES POOH A PARTY, AND WE SAY GOOD-BYE One day when the sun had come back over the Forest, bringing with it the scent of may, and all the streams of the Forest were tinkling happily to find themselves their own pretty shape again, and the little pools lay dreaming of the life they had seen and the big things they had done, and in the warmth and quiet of the Forest the cuckoo was trying over his voice carefully and listening to see if he liked it, and wood-pigeons were complaining gently to themselves in their lazy comfortable way that it was the other fellow's fault, but it didn't matter very much; on such a day as this Christopher Robin whistled in a special way he had, and Owl came flying out of the Hundred Acre Wood to see what was wanted. "Owl," said Christopher Robin, "I am going to give a party." "You are, are you?" said Owl. "And it's to be a special sort of party, because it's because of what Pooh did when he did what he did to save Piglet from the flood." "Oh, that's what it's for, is it?" said Owl. "Yes, so will you tell Pooh as quickly as you can, and all the others, because it will be to-morrow." "Oh, it will, will it?" said Owl, still being as helpful as possible. "So will you go and tell them, Owl?" Owl tried to think of something very wise to say, but couldn't, so he flew off to tell the others. And the first person he told was Pooh. "Pooh," he said, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Oh!" said Pooh. And then seeing that Owl expected him to say something else, he said "Will there be those little cake things with pink sugar icing?" Owl felt that it was rather beneath him to talk about little cake things with pink sugar icing, so he told Pooh exactly what Christopher Robin had said, and flew off to Eeyore. "A party for Me?" thought Pooh to himself. "How grand!" And he began to wonder if all the other animals would know that it was a special Pooh Party, and if Christopher Robin had told them about _The Floating Bear_ and the _Brain of Pooh_ and all the wonderful ships he had invented and sailed on, and he began to think how awful it would be if everybody had forgotten about it, and nobody quite knew what the party was for; and the more he thought like this, the more the party got muddled in his mind, like a dream when nothing goes right. And the dream began to sing itself over in his head until it became a sort of song. It was an ANXIOUS POOH SONG. 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For Who?_) For Pooh-- (_Why what did he do?_) I thought you knew; He saved his friend from a wetting! 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- He couldn't swim, But he rescued him! (_He rescued who?_) Oh, listen, do! I am talking of Pooh-- (_Of who?_) Of Pooh! (_I'm sorry I keep forgetting_). Well, Pooh was a Bear of Enormous Brain (_Just say it again!_) Of enormous brain-- (_Of enormous what?_) Well, he ate a lot, And I don't know if he could swim or not, But he managed to float On a sort of boat (_On a sort of what?_) Well, a sort of pot-- So now let's give him three hearty cheers (_So now let's give him three hearty whiches?_) And hope he'll be with us for years and years, And grow in health and wisdom and riches! 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For who?_) For Pooh-- 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- 3 Cheers for the wonderful Winnie-the-Pooh! (_Just tell me, somebody_--WHAT DID HE DO?) While this was going on inside him, Owl was talking to Eeyore. "Eeyore," said Owl, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Very interesting," said Eeyore. "I suppose they will be sending me down the odd bits which got trodden on. Kind and Thoughtful. Not at all, don't mention it." "There is an Invitation for you." "What's that like?" "An Invitation!" "Yes, I heard you. Who dropped it?" "This isn't anything to eat, it's asking you to the party. To-morrow."<|quote|>Eeyore shook his head slowly.</|quote|>"You mean Piglet. The little fellow with the excited ears. That's Piglet. I'll tell him." "No, no!" said Owl, getting quite fussy. "It's you!" "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure. Christopher Robin said 'All of them! Tell all of them.'" "All of them, except Eeyore?" "All of them," said Owl sulkily. "Ah!" said Eeyore. "A mistake, no doubt, but still, I shall come. Only don't blame _me_ if it rains." But it didn't rain. Christopher Robin had made a long table out of some long pieces of wood, and they all sat round it. Christopher Robin sat at one end, and Pooh sat at the other, and between them on one side were Owl and Eeyore and Piglet, and between them on the other side were Rabbit, and Roo and Kanga. And all Rabbit's friends and relations spread themselves about on the grass, and waited hopefully in case anybody spoke to them, or dropped anything, or asked them the time. It was the first party to which Roo had ever been, and he was very excited. As soon as ever they had sat down he began to talk. "Hallo, Pooh!" he squeaked. "Hallo, Roo!" said Pooh. Roo jumped up and down in his seat for a little while and then began again. "Hallo, Piglet!" he squeaked. Piglet waved a paw at him, being too busy to say anything. "Hallo, Eeyore!" said Roo. Eeyore nodded gloomily at him. "It will rain soon, you see if it doesn't," he said. Roo looked to see if it didn't, and it didn't, so he said "Hallo, Owl!" "--and Owl said "Hallo, my little fellow," in a kindly way, and went on telling Christopher Robin about an accident which had nearly happened to a friend of his whom Christopher Robin didn't know, and Kanga said to Roo, "Drink up your milk first, dear, and talk afterwards." So Roo, who was drinking his milk, tried to say that he could do both at once ... and had to be patted on the back and dried for quite a long time afterwards. When they had all nearly eaten enough, Christopher Robin banged on the table with his spoon, and everybody stopped talking and was very silent, except Roo who was just finishing a loud attack of hiccups and trying to look as if it was one of Rabbit's relations. "This party," said Christopher Robin, "is a party because of what someone did, and we all know who it was, and it's his party, because of what he did, and I've got a present for him and here it is." Then he felt about a little and whispered, "Where is it?" While he was looking, Eeyore coughed in an impressive way and began to speak. "Friends," he said, "including oddments, it is a great pleasure, or perhaps I had better say it has been a pleasure so far, to see you at my party. What I did was nothing. Any of you--except Rabbit and Owl and Kanga--would have done the same. Oh, and Pooh. My remarks do not, of course, apply to Piglet and Roo, because they are too small. Any of you would have done the same. But it just happened to be Me. It was not, I need hardly say, with an idea of getting what Christopher Robin is looking for now" "--and he put his front leg to his mouth and said in a loud whisper, "Try under the table" "--" "that I did what I did--but because I feel that we should all do what we can to help. I feel that we should all----" "H--hup!" said Roo accidentally. "Roo, dear!" said Kanga reproachfully. "Was it me?" asked Roo, a little surprised. "What's Eeyore talking about?" Piglet whispered to Pooh. "I don't know," said Pooh rather dolefully. "I thought this was _your_ party." "I thought it was _once_. But I suppose it isn't." "I'd sooner it was yours than Eeyore's," said Piglet. "So would I," said Pooh. "H--hup!" said Roo again. "AS--I--WAS--SAYING," said Eeyore loudly and sternly, "as I was saying when I was interrupted by various Loud Sounds, I feel that----" "Here it is!" cried Christopher Robin excitedly. "Pass it down to silly old Pooh. It's for Pooh." "For Pooh?" said Eeyore. "Of course it is. The best bear in all the world." "I might have known," said Eeyore. "After all, one can't complain. I have my friends. Somebody spoke to me only yesterday. And was it last week or the week before that Rabbit bumped into me and said 'Bother!' The Social Round. Always something going on." Nobody was listening, for they were all saying "Open it, Pooh," "What is it, Pooh?" "I know what it is," "No, you don't" and other helpful remarks of this sort. And of course Pooh | wonderful ships he had invented and sailed on, and he began to think how awful it would be if everybody had forgotten about it, and nobody quite knew what the party was for; and the more he thought like this, the more the party got muddled in his mind, like a dream when nothing goes right. And the dream began to sing itself over in his head until it became a sort of song. It was an ANXIOUS POOH SONG. 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For Who?_) For Pooh-- (_Why what did he do?_) I thought you knew; He saved his friend from a wetting! 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- He couldn't swim, But he rescued him! (_He rescued who?_) Oh, listen, do! I am talking of Pooh-- (_Of who?_) Of Pooh! (_I'm sorry I keep forgetting_). Well, Pooh was a Bear of Enormous Brain (_Just say it again!_) Of enormous brain-- (_Of enormous what?_) Well, he ate a lot, And I don't know if he could swim or not, But he managed to float On a sort of boat (_On a sort of what?_) Well, a sort of pot-- So now let's give him three hearty cheers (_So now let's give him three hearty whiches?_) And hope he'll be with us for years and years, And grow in health and wisdom and riches! 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For who?_) For Pooh-- 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- 3 Cheers for the wonderful Winnie-the-Pooh! (_Just tell me, somebody_--WHAT DID HE DO?) While this was going on inside him, Owl was talking to Eeyore. "Eeyore," said Owl, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Very interesting," said Eeyore. "I suppose they will be sending me down the odd bits which got trodden on. Kind and Thoughtful. Not at all, don't mention it." "There is an Invitation for you." "What's that like?" "An Invitation!" "Yes, I heard you. Who dropped it?" "This isn't anything to eat, it's asking you to the party. To-morrow."<|quote|>Eeyore shook his head slowly.</|quote|>"You mean Piglet. The little fellow with the excited ears. That's Piglet. I'll tell him." "No, no!" said Owl, getting quite fussy. "It's you!" "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure. Christopher Robin said 'All of them! Tell all of them.'" "All of them, except Eeyore?" "All of them," said Owl sulkily. "Ah!" said Eeyore. "A mistake, no doubt, but still, I shall come. Only don't blame _me_ if it rains." But it didn't rain. Christopher Robin had made a long table out of some long pieces of wood, and they all sat round it. Christopher Robin sat at one end, and Pooh sat at the other, and between them on one side were Owl and Eeyore and Piglet, and between them on the other side were Rabbit, and Roo and Kanga. And all Rabbit's friends and relations spread themselves about on the grass, and waited hopefully in case anybody spoke to them, or dropped anything, or asked them the time. It was the first party to which Roo had ever been, and he was very excited. As soon as ever they had sat down he began to talk. "Hallo, Pooh!" he squeaked. "Hallo, Roo!" said Pooh. Roo jumped up and down in his seat for a little while and then began again. "Hallo, Piglet!" he squeaked. Piglet waved a paw at him, being too busy to say anything. "Hallo, Eeyore!" said Roo. Eeyore nodded gloomily at him. "It will rain soon, you see if it doesn't," he said. Roo looked to see if it didn't, and it didn't, so he said "Hallo, Owl!" "--and Owl said "Hallo, my little fellow," in a kindly way, and went on telling Christopher Robin about an accident which had nearly happened to a friend of his whom Christopher Robin didn't know, and Kanga said to Roo, "Drink up your milk first, dear, and talk afterwards." So Roo, who was drinking his milk, tried to say that he could do both at once ... and had to be patted on the back and dried for quite a long time afterwards. When they had all nearly eaten enough, Christopher Robin banged on the table | Winnie The Pooh |
"move with especial care at present" | The General | circumstances which compelled him to<|quote|>"move with especial care at present"</|quote|>", and that the fact | considerations as these, there were circumstances which compelled him to<|quote|>"move with especial care at present"</|quote|>", and that the fact had actually made him poor-spirited | behaviour which has once and for all become accepted and established. This they will follow slavishly whether in hotels, on promenades, at meetings, or when on a journey. But the General had avowed to me that, over and above such considerations as these, there were circumstances which compelled him to<|quote|>"move with especial care at present"</|quote|>", and that the fact had actually made him poor-spirited and a coward it had made him altogether change his tone towards me. This fact I took into my calculations, and duly noted it, for, of course, he _might_ apply to the authorities tomorrow, and it behoved me to go | play the poltroon, to watch all their words, and to wonder what people are thinking of their conduct, or whether such and such a thing is _comme il faut_. In short, they are over-apt to cosset themselves, and to lay claim to great importance. Always they prefer the form of behaviour which has once and for all become accepted and established. This they will follow slavishly whether in hotels, on promenades, at meetings, or when on a journey. But the General had avowed to me that, over and above such considerations as these, there were circumstances which compelled him to<|quote|>"move with especial care at present"</|quote|>", and that the fact had actually made him poor-spirited and a coward it had made him altogether change his tone towards me. This fact I took into my calculations, and duly noted it, for, of course, he _might_ apply to the authorities tomorrow, and it behoved me to go carefully. Yet it was not the General but Polina that I wanted to anger. She had treated me with such cruelty, and had got me into such a hole, that I felt a longing to force her to beseech me to stop. Of course, my tomfoolery might compromise her; yet | sure, that at present I ought to move with especial care yes, with very especial care. You cannot be fully aware of how I am situated. When we leave this place I shall be ready to receive you back into my household; but, for the time being I Well, I cannot tell you all my reasons." With that he wound up in a despairing voice: "O Alexis Ivanovitch, Alexis Ivanovitch!" I moved towards the door begging him to be calm, and promising that everything should be done decently and in order; whereafter I departed. Russians, when abroad, are over-apt to play the poltroon, to watch all their words, and to wonder what people are thinking of their conduct, or whether such and such a thing is _comme il faut_. In short, they are over-apt to cosset themselves, and to lay claim to great importance. Always they prefer the form of behaviour which has once and for all become accepted and established. This they will follow slavishly whether in hotels, on promenades, at meetings, or when on a journey. But the General had avowed to me that, over and above such considerations as these, there were circumstances which compelled him to<|quote|>"move with especial care at present"</|quote|>", and that the fact had actually made him poor-spirited and a coward it had made him altogether change his tone towards me. This fact I took into my calculations, and duly noted it, for, of course, he _might_ apply to the authorities tomorrow, and it behoved me to go carefully. Yet it was not the General but Polina that I wanted to anger. She had treated me with such cruelty, and had got me into such a hole, that I felt a longing to force her to beseech me to stop. Of course, my tomfoolery might compromise her; yet certain other feelings and desires had begun to form themselves in my brain. If I was never to rank in her eyes as anything but a nonentity, it would not greatly matter if I figured as a draggle-tailed cockerel, and the Baron were to give me a good thrashing; but, the fact was that I desired to have the laugh of them all, and to come out myself unscathed. Let people see what they _would_ see. Let Polina, for once, have a good fright, and be forced to whistle me to heel again. But, however much she might whistle, she | sir, I swear to you that I will have you arrested, and marched out of the place, to prevent any further brawling on your part. Do you understand what I say?" He was almost breathless with anger, as well as in a terrible fright. "General," I replied with that calmness which he never could abide, "one cannot arrest a man for brawling until he has brawled. I have not so much as begun my explanations to the Baron, and you are altogether ignorant as to the form and time which my intended procedure is likely to assume. I wish but to disabuse the Baron of what is, to me, a shameful supposition namely, that I am under the guardianship of a person who is qualified to exercise control over my free will. It is vain for you to disturb and alarm yourself." "For God s sake, Alexis Ivanovitch, do put an end to this senseless scheme of yours!" he muttered, but with a sudden change from a truculent tone to one of entreaty as he caught me by the hand. "Do you know what is likely to come of it? Merely further unpleasantness. You will agree with me, I am sure, that at present I ought to move with especial care yes, with very especial care. You cannot be fully aware of how I am situated. When we leave this place I shall be ready to receive you back into my household; but, for the time being I Well, I cannot tell you all my reasons." With that he wound up in a despairing voice: "O Alexis Ivanovitch, Alexis Ivanovitch!" I moved towards the door begging him to be calm, and promising that everything should be done decently and in order; whereafter I departed. Russians, when abroad, are over-apt to play the poltroon, to watch all their words, and to wonder what people are thinking of their conduct, or whether such and such a thing is _comme il faut_. In short, they are over-apt to cosset themselves, and to lay claim to great importance. Always they prefer the form of behaviour which has once and for all become accepted and established. This they will follow slavishly whether in hotels, on promenades, at meetings, or when on a journey. But the General had avowed to me that, over and above such considerations as these, there were circumstances which compelled him to<|quote|>"move with especial care at present"</|quote|>", and that the fact had actually made him poor-spirited and a coward it had made him altogether change his tone towards me. This fact I took into my calculations, and duly noted it, for, of course, he _might_ apply to the authorities tomorrow, and it behoved me to go carefully. Yet it was not the General but Polina that I wanted to anger. She had treated me with such cruelty, and had got me into such a hole, that I felt a longing to force her to beseech me to stop. Of course, my tomfoolery might compromise her; yet certain other feelings and desires had begun to form themselves in my brain. If I was never to rank in her eyes as anything but a nonentity, it would not greatly matter if I figured as a draggle-tailed cockerel, and the Baron were to give me a good thrashing; but, the fact was that I desired to have the laugh of them all, and to come out myself unscathed. Let people see what they _would_ see. Let Polina, for once, have a good fright, and be forced to whistle me to heel again. But, however much she might whistle, she should see that I was at least no draggle-tailed cockerel! I have just received a surprising piece of news. I have just met our chambermaid on the stairs, and been informed by her that Maria Philipovna departed today, by the night train, to stay with a cousin at Carlsbad. What can that mean? The maid declares that Madame packed her trunks early in the day. Yet how is it that no one else seems to have been aware of the circumstance? Or is it that _I_ have been the only person to be unaware of it? Also, the maid has just told me that, three days ago, Maria Philipovna had some high words with the General. I understand, then! Probably the words were concerning Mlle. Blanche. Certainly something decisive is approaching. VII In the morning I sent for the ma tre d h tel, and explained to him that, in future, my bill was to be rendered to me personally. As a matter of fact, my expenses had never been so large as to alarm me, nor to lead me to quit the hotel; while, moreover, I still had 160 g lden left to me, and in them yes, in | low to the General, said to him very gravely: "The matter cannot end here. I regret very much that you should have been put to unpleasantness at the Baron s hands; but, the fault (pardon me) is your own. How came you to answer for me to the Baron? And what did you mean by saying that I formed part of your household? I am merely your family tutor not a son of yours, nor yet your ward, nor a person of any kind for whose acts you need be responsible. I am a judicially competent person, a man of twenty-five years of age, a university graduate, a gentleman, and, until I met yourself, a complete stranger to you. Only my boundless respect for your merits restrains me from demanding satisfaction at your hands, as well as a further explanation as to the reasons which have led you to take it upon yourself to answer for my conduct." So struck was he with my words that, spreading out his hands, he turned to the Frenchman, and interpreted to him that I had challenged himself (the General) to a duel. The Frenchman laughed aloud. "Nor do I intend to let the Baron off," I continued calmly, but with not a little discomfiture at De Griers merriment. "And since you, General, have today been so good as to listen to the Baron s complaints, and to enter into his concerns since you have made yourself a participator in the affair I have the honour to inform you that, tomorrow morning at the latest, I shall, in my own name, demand of the said Baron a formal explanation as to the reasons which have led him to disregard the fact that the matter lies between him and myself alone, and to put a slight upon me by referring it to another person, as though I were unworthy to answer for my own conduct." Then there happened what I had foreseen. The General on hearing of this further intended outrage, showed the white feather. "What?" he cried. "Do you intend to go on with this damned nonsense? Do you not realise the harm that it is doing me? I beg of you not to laugh at me, sir not to laugh at me, for we have police authorities here who, out of respect for my rank, and for that of the Baron... In short, sir, I swear to you that I will have you arrested, and marched out of the place, to prevent any further brawling on your part. Do you understand what I say?" He was almost breathless with anger, as well as in a terrible fright. "General," I replied with that calmness which he never could abide, "one cannot arrest a man for brawling until he has brawled. I have not so much as begun my explanations to the Baron, and you are altogether ignorant as to the form and time which my intended procedure is likely to assume. I wish but to disabuse the Baron of what is, to me, a shameful supposition namely, that I am under the guardianship of a person who is qualified to exercise control over my free will. It is vain for you to disturb and alarm yourself." "For God s sake, Alexis Ivanovitch, do put an end to this senseless scheme of yours!" he muttered, but with a sudden change from a truculent tone to one of entreaty as he caught me by the hand. "Do you know what is likely to come of it? Merely further unpleasantness. You will agree with me, I am sure, that at present I ought to move with especial care yes, with very especial care. You cannot be fully aware of how I am situated. When we leave this place I shall be ready to receive you back into my household; but, for the time being I Well, I cannot tell you all my reasons." With that he wound up in a despairing voice: "O Alexis Ivanovitch, Alexis Ivanovitch!" I moved towards the door begging him to be calm, and promising that everything should be done decently and in order; whereafter I departed. Russians, when abroad, are over-apt to play the poltroon, to watch all their words, and to wonder what people are thinking of their conduct, or whether such and such a thing is _comme il faut_. In short, they are over-apt to cosset themselves, and to lay claim to great importance. Always they prefer the form of behaviour which has once and for all become accepted and established. This they will follow slavishly whether in hotels, on promenades, at meetings, or when on a journey. But the General had avowed to me that, over and above such considerations as these, there were circumstances which compelled him to<|quote|>"move with especial care at present"</|quote|>", and that the fact had actually made him poor-spirited and a coward it had made him altogether change his tone towards me. This fact I took into my calculations, and duly noted it, for, of course, he _might_ apply to the authorities tomorrow, and it behoved me to go carefully. Yet it was not the General but Polina that I wanted to anger. She had treated me with such cruelty, and had got me into such a hole, that I felt a longing to force her to beseech me to stop. Of course, my tomfoolery might compromise her; yet certain other feelings and desires had begun to form themselves in my brain. If I was never to rank in her eyes as anything but a nonentity, it would not greatly matter if I figured as a draggle-tailed cockerel, and the Baron were to give me a good thrashing; but, the fact was that I desired to have the laugh of them all, and to come out myself unscathed. Let people see what they _would_ see. Let Polina, for once, have a good fright, and be forced to whistle me to heel again. But, however much she might whistle, she should see that I was at least no draggle-tailed cockerel! I have just received a surprising piece of news. I have just met our chambermaid on the stairs, and been informed by her that Maria Philipovna departed today, by the night train, to stay with a cousin at Carlsbad. What can that mean? The maid declares that Madame packed her trunks early in the day. Yet how is it that no one else seems to have been aware of the circumstance? Or is it that _I_ have been the only person to be unaware of it? Also, the maid has just told me that, three days ago, Maria Philipovna had some high words with the General. I understand, then! Probably the words were concerning Mlle. Blanche. Certainly something decisive is approaching. VII In the morning I sent for the ma tre d h tel, and explained to him that, in future, my bill was to be rendered to me personally. As a matter of fact, my expenses had never been so large as to alarm me, nor to lead me to quit the hotel; while, moreover, I still had 160 g lden left to me, and in them yes, in them, perhaps, riches awaited me. It was a curious fact, that, though I had not yet won anything at play, I nevertheless acted, thought, and felt as though I were sure, before long, to become wealthy since I could not imagine myself otherwise. Next, I bethought me, despite the earliness of the hour, of going to see Mr. Astley, who was staying at the H tel de l Angleterre (a hostelry at no great distance from our own). But suddenly De Griers entered my room. This had never before happened, for of late that gentleman and I had stood on the most strained and distant of terms he attempting no concealment of his contempt for me (he even made an express point of showing it), and I having no reason to desire his company. In short, I detested him. Consequently, his entry at the present moment the more astounded me. At once I divined that something out of the way was on the carpet. He entered with marked affability, and began by complimenting me on my room. Then, perceiving that I had my hat in my hands, he inquired whither I was going so early; and, no sooner did he hear that I was bound for Mr. Astley s than he stopped, looked grave, and seemed plunged in thought. He was a true Frenchman insofar as that, though he could be lively and engaging when it suited him, he became insufferably dull and wearisome as soon as ever the need for being lively and engaging had passed. Seldom is a Frenchman _naturally_ civil: he is civil only as though to order and of set purpose. Also, if he thinks it incumbent upon him to be fanciful, original, and out of the way, his fancy always assumes a foolish, unnatural vein, for the reason that it is compounded of trite, hackneyed forms. In short, the natural Frenchman is a conglomeration of commonplace, petty, everyday positiveness, so that he is the most tedious person in the world. Indeed, I believe that none but greenhorns and excessively Russian people feel an attraction towards the French; for, to any man of sensibility, such a compendium of outworn forms a compendium which is built up of drawing-room manners, expansiveness, and gaiety becomes at once over-noticeable and unbearable. "I have come to see you on business," De Griers began in a very off-hand, yet polite, tone; | my rank, and for that of the Baron... In short, sir, I swear to you that I will have you arrested, and marched out of the place, to prevent any further brawling on your part. Do you understand what I say?" He was almost breathless with anger, as well as in a terrible fright. "General," I replied with that calmness which he never could abide, "one cannot arrest a man for brawling until he has brawled. I have not so much as begun my explanations to the Baron, and you are altogether ignorant as to the form and time which my intended procedure is likely to assume. I wish but to disabuse the Baron of what is, to me, a shameful supposition namely, that I am under the guardianship of a person who is qualified to exercise control over my free will. It is vain for you to disturb and alarm yourself." "For God s sake, Alexis Ivanovitch, do put an end to this senseless scheme of yours!" he muttered, but with a sudden change from a truculent tone to one of entreaty as he caught me by the hand. "Do you know what is likely to come of it? Merely further unpleasantness. You will agree with me, I am sure, that at present I ought to move with especial care yes, with very especial care. You cannot be fully aware of how I am situated. When we leave this place I shall be ready to receive you back into my household; but, for the time being I Well, I cannot tell you all my reasons." With that he wound up in a despairing voice: "O Alexis Ivanovitch, Alexis Ivanovitch!" I moved towards the door begging him to be calm, and promising that everything should be done decently and in order; whereafter I departed. Russians, when abroad, are over-apt to play the poltroon, to watch all their words, and to wonder what people are thinking of their conduct, or whether such and such a thing is _comme il faut_. In short, they are over-apt to cosset themselves, and to lay claim to great importance. Always they prefer the form of behaviour which has once and for all become accepted and established. This they will follow slavishly whether in hotels, on promenades, at meetings, or when on a journey. But the General had avowed to me that, over and above such considerations as these, there were circumstances which compelled him to<|quote|>"move with especial care at present"</|quote|>", and that the fact had actually made him poor-spirited and a coward it had made him altogether change his tone towards me. This fact I took into my calculations, and duly noted it, for, of course, he _might_ apply to the authorities tomorrow, and it behoved me to go carefully. Yet it was not the General but Polina that I wanted to anger. She had treated me with such cruelty, and had got me into such a hole, that I felt a longing to force her to beseech me to stop. Of course, my tomfoolery might compromise her; yet certain other feelings and desires had begun to form themselves in my brain. If I was never to rank in her eyes as anything but a nonentity, it would not greatly matter if I figured as a draggle-tailed cockerel, and the Baron were to give me a good thrashing; but, the fact was that I desired to have the laugh of them all, and to come out myself unscathed. Let people see what they _would_ see. Let Polina, for once, have a good fright, and be forced to whistle me to heel again. But, however much she might whistle, she should see that | The Gambler |
“But I should like to take off mine to _him_,” | Grace | was Lady Grace’s proud opinion.<|quote|>“But I should like to take off mine to _him_,”</|quote|>she added; “which I seem | off yours to nobody!” --such was Lady Grace’s proud opinion.<|quote|>“But I should like to take off mine to _him_,”</|quote|>she added; “which I seem to have put on--to get | that in his opinion, for my career--” “Your reputation,” she cried, “blazes out and your fortune’s made?” He did a happy violence to his modesty. “Well, Bardi adores intelligence and takes off his hat to me.” “Then you need take off yours to nobody!” --such was Lady Grace’s proud opinion.<|quote|>“But I should like to take off mine to _him_,”</|quote|>she added; “which I seem to have put on--to get out and away with you--expressly for that.” Hugh, as he looked her over, took it up in bliss. “Ah, we’ll go forth together to him then--thanks to your happy, splendid impulse!--and you’ll back him gorgeously up in the good he | at least-he doesn’t think _he’s_ one: that that eminent judge couldn’t, even with such a leg up, rise to my level or seize my point. And if you really want to know,” Hugh went on in his gladness, “what for _us_ has most particularly and preciously taken place, it is that in his opinion, for my career--” “Your reputation,” she cried, “blazes out and your fortune’s made?” He did a happy violence to his modesty. “Well, Bardi adores intelligence and takes off his hat to me.” “Then you need take off yours to nobody!” --such was Lady Grace’s proud opinion.<|quote|>“But I should like to take off mine to _him_,”</|quote|>she added; “which I seem to have put on--to get out and away with you--expressly for that.” Hugh, as he looked her over, took it up in bliss. “Ah, we’ll go forth together to him then--thanks to your happy, splendid impulse!--and you’ll back him gorgeously up in the good he thinks of me.” His friend yet had on this a sombre second thought. “The only thing is that our awful American----!” But he warned her with a raised hand. “Not to speak of our awful Briton!” For the door had opened from the lobby, admitting Lord Theign, unattended, who, at | with the place, by good luck, for those great moments, practically to ourselves--without Macintosh to take in what was happening or any one else at all to speak of--it was but a matter of ten minutes: he had come, he had seen, and _I_ had conquered.” “Naturally you had!” --the girl hung on him for it; “and what was happening beyond everything else was that for your original dear divination, one of the divinations of genius--with every creature all these ages so stupid--you were being baptized on the spot a great man.” “Well, he did let poor Pappendick have it at least-he doesn’t think _he’s_ one: that that eminent judge couldn’t, even with such a leg up, rise to my level or seize my point. And if you really want to know,” Hugh went on in his gladness, “what for _us_ has most particularly and preciously taken place, it is that in his opinion, for my career--” “Your reputation,” she cried, “blazes out and your fortune’s made?” He did a happy violence to his modesty. “Well, Bardi adores intelligence and takes off his hat to me.” “Then you need take off yours to nobody!” --such was Lady Grace’s proud opinion.<|quote|>“But I should like to take off mine to _him_,”</|quote|>she added; “which I seem to have put on--to get out and away with you--expressly for that.” Hugh, as he looked her over, took it up in bliss. “Ah, we’ll go forth together to him then--thanks to your happy, splendid impulse!--and you’ll back him gorgeously up in the good he thinks of me.” His friend yet had on this a sombre second thought. “The only thing is that our awful American----!” But he warned her with a raised hand. “Not to speak of our awful Briton!” For the door had opened from the lobby, admitting Lord Theign, unattended, who, at sight of his daughter and her companion, pulled up and held them a minute in reprehensive view--all at least till Hugh undauntedly, indeed quite cheerfully, greeted him. “Since you find me again in your path, my lord, it’s because I’ve a small, but precious document to deliver you, if you’ll allow me to do so; which I feel it important myself to place in your hand.” He drew from his breast a pocket-book and extracted thence a small unsealed envelope; retaining the latter a trifle helplessly in his hand while Lord Theign only opposed to this demonstration an unmitigated blankness. | her bracelet watch, but only at once to wail for alarm. “Ah, it _is_ that, and I’m not dressed!” She hurried off through the other room. Mr. Bender, quite accepting her retreat, addressed himself again unabashed to Hugh: “It’s your blest Bardi I want first--I’ll take the Prince after.” The young man clearly could afford indulgence now. “Then I left him at Long’s Hotel.” “Why, right near! I’ll come back.” And Mr. Bender’s flight was on the wings of optimism. But it all gave Hugh a quick question for Lady Grace. “Why does the Prince come, and what in the world’s happening?” “My father has suddenly returned--it may have to do with that.” The shadow of his surprise darkened visibly to that of his fear. “Mayn’t it be more than anything else to give you and me his final curse?” “I don’t know--and I think I don’t care. I don’t care,” she said, “so long as you’re right and as the greatest light of all declares you are.” “He _is_ the greatest” --Hugh was vividly of that opinion now: “I could see it as soon as I got there with him, the charming creature! There, _before_ the holy thing, and with the place, by good luck, for those great moments, practically to ourselves--without Macintosh to take in what was happening or any one else at all to speak of--it was but a matter of ten minutes: he had come, he had seen, and _I_ had conquered.” “Naturally you had!” --the girl hung on him for it; “and what was happening beyond everything else was that for your original dear divination, one of the divinations of genius--with every creature all these ages so stupid--you were being baptized on the spot a great man.” “Well, he did let poor Pappendick have it at least-he doesn’t think _he’s_ one: that that eminent judge couldn’t, even with such a leg up, rise to my level or seize my point. And if you really want to know,” Hugh went on in his gladness, “what for _us_ has most particularly and preciously taken place, it is that in his opinion, for my career--” “Your reputation,” she cried, “blazes out and your fortune’s made?” He did a happy violence to his modesty. “Well, Bardi adores intelligence and takes off his hat to me.” “Then you need take off yours to nobody!” --such was Lady Grace’s proud opinion.<|quote|>“But I should like to take off mine to _him_,”</|quote|>she added; “which I seem to have put on--to get out and away with you--expressly for that.” Hugh, as he looked her over, took it up in bliss. “Ah, we’ll go forth together to him then--thanks to your happy, splendid impulse!--and you’ll back him gorgeously up in the good he thinks of me.” His friend yet had on this a sombre second thought. “The only thing is that our awful American----!” But he warned her with a raised hand. “Not to speak of our awful Briton!” For the door had opened from the lobby, admitting Lord Theign, unattended, who, at sight of his daughter and her companion, pulled up and held them a minute in reprehensive view--all at least till Hugh undauntedly, indeed quite cheerfully, greeted him. “Since you find me again in your path, my lord, it’s because I’ve a small, but precious document to deliver you, if you’ll allow me to do so; which I feel it important myself to place in your hand.” He drew from his breast a pocket-book and extracted thence a small unsealed envelope; retaining the latter a trifle helplessly in his hand while Lord Theign only opposed to this demonstration an unmitigated blankness. He went none the less bravely on. “I mentioned to you the last time we somewhat infelicitously met that I intended to appeal to another and probably more closely qualified artistic authority on the subject of your so-called Moretto; and I in fact saw the picture half an hour ago with Bardi of Milan, who, there in presence of it, did absolute, did ideal justice, as I had hoped, to the claim I’ve been making. I then went with him to his hotel, close at hand, where he dashed me off this brief and rapid, but quite conclusive, Declaration, which, if you’ll be so good as to read it, will enable you perhaps to join us in regarding the vexed question as settled.” His lordship, having faced this speech without a sign, rested on the speaker a somewhat more confessed intelligence, then looked hard at the offered note and hard at the floor--all to avert himself actively afterward and, with his head a good deal elevated, add to his distance, as it were, from every one and everything so indelicately thrust on his attention. This movement had an ambiguous makeshift air, yet his companions, under the impression of it, exchanged | solemnly still, however, like some high-priest circled with ceremonies; in consonance with which, the next moment, both her hands held out to him the open and immaculate page of the oblong series much as they might have presented a royal infant at the christening-font. He failed, in his preoccupation, to receive it; so she placed it before him on the table, coming away with a brave gay “Well, I leave it to you!” She had not, restlessly revolving, kept her discreet distance for many minutes before she found herself almost face to face with the recurrent Gotch, upright at the door with a fresh announcement. “Mr. Crimble, please--for Lady Grace.” “Mr. Crimble _again?_” --she took it discomposedly. It reached Mr. Bender at the secretary, but to a different effect. “Mr. Crimble? Why he’s just the man I want to see!” Gotch, turning to the lobby, had only to make way for him. “Here he is, my lady.” “Then tell her ladyship.” “She has come down,” said Gotch while Hugh arrived and his companion withdrew, and while Lady Grace, reaching the scene from the other quarter, emerged in bright equipment--in her hat, scarf and gloves. IV These young persons were thus at once confronted across the room, and the girl explained her preparation. “I was listening hard--for your knock and your voice.” “Then know that, thank God, it’s all right!” --Hugh was breathless, jubilant, radiant. “A Mantovano?” she delightedly cried. “A Mantovano!” he proudly gave back. “A Mantovano!” --it carried even Lady Sandgate away. “A Mantovano--a sure thing?” Mr. Bender jumped up from his business, all gaping attention to Hugh. “I’ve just left our blest Bardi,” said that young man-- “who hasn’t the shadow of a doubt and is delighted to publish it everywhere.” “Will he publish it right here to _me?_” Mr. Bender hungrily asked. “Well,” Hugh smiled, “you can try him.” “But try him how, where?” The great collector, straining to instant action, cast about for his hat “Where _is_ he, hey?” “Don’t you wish I’d tell you?” Hugh, in his personal elation, almost cynically answered. “Won’t you wait for the Prince?” Lady Sandgate had meanwhile asked of her friend; but had turned more inspectingly to Lady Grace before he could reply. “My dear child--though you’re lovely!--are you sure you’re ready for him?” “For the Prince!” --the girl was vague. “Is he coming?” “At five-forty-five.” With which she consulted her bracelet watch, but only at once to wail for alarm. “Ah, it _is_ that, and I’m not dressed!” She hurried off through the other room. Mr. Bender, quite accepting her retreat, addressed himself again unabashed to Hugh: “It’s your blest Bardi I want first--I’ll take the Prince after.” The young man clearly could afford indulgence now. “Then I left him at Long’s Hotel.” “Why, right near! I’ll come back.” And Mr. Bender’s flight was on the wings of optimism. But it all gave Hugh a quick question for Lady Grace. “Why does the Prince come, and what in the world’s happening?” “My father has suddenly returned--it may have to do with that.” The shadow of his surprise darkened visibly to that of his fear. “Mayn’t it be more than anything else to give you and me his final curse?” “I don’t know--and I think I don’t care. I don’t care,” she said, “so long as you’re right and as the greatest light of all declares you are.” “He _is_ the greatest” --Hugh was vividly of that opinion now: “I could see it as soon as I got there with him, the charming creature! There, _before_ the holy thing, and with the place, by good luck, for those great moments, practically to ourselves--without Macintosh to take in what was happening or any one else at all to speak of--it was but a matter of ten minutes: he had come, he had seen, and _I_ had conquered.” “Naturally you had!” --the girl hung on him for it; “and what was happening beyond everything else was that for your original dear divination, one of the divinations of genius--with every creature all these ages so stupid--you were being baptized on the spot a great man.” “Well, he did let poor Pappendick have it at least-he doesn’t think _he’s_ one: that that eminent judge couldn’t, even with such a leg up, rise to my level or seize my point. And if you really want to know,” Hugh went on in his gladness, “what for _us_ has most particularly and preciously taken place, it is that in his opinion, for my career--” “Your reputation,” she cried, “blazes out and your fortune’s made?” He did a happy violence to his modesty. “Well, Bardi adores intelligence and takes off his hat to me.” “Then you need take off yours to nobody!” --such was Lady Grace’s proud opinion.<|quote|>“But I should like to take off mine to _him_,”</|quote|>she added; “which I seem to have put on--to get out and away with you--expressly for that.” Hugh, as he looked her over, took it up in bliss. “Ah, we’ll go forth together to him then--thanks to your happy, splendid impulse!--and you’ll back him gorgeously up in the good he thinks of me.” His friend yet had on this a sombre second thought. “The only thing is that our awful American----!” But he warned her with a raised hand. “Not to speak of our awful Briton!” For the door had opened from the lobby, admitting Lord Theign, unattended, who, at sight of his daughter and her companion, pulled up and held them a minute in reprehensive view--all at least till Hugh undauntedly, indeed quite cheerfully, greeted him. “Since you find me again in your path, my lord, it’s because I’ve a small, but precious document to deliver you, if you’ll allow me to do so; which I feel it important myself to place in your hand.” He drew from his breast a pocket-book and extracted thence a small unsealed envelope; retaining the latter a trifle helplessly in his hand while Lord Theign only opposed to this demonstration an unmitigated blankness. He went none the less bravely on. “I mentioned to you the last time we somewhat infelicitously met that I intended to appeal to another and probably more closely qualified artistic authority on the subject of your so-called Moretto; and I in fact saw the picture half an hour ago with Bardi of Milan, who, there in presence of it, did absolute, did ideal justice, as I had hoped, to the claim I’ve been making. I then went with him to his hotel, close at hand, where he dashed me off this brief and rapid, but quite conclusive, Declaration, which, if you’ll be so good as to read it, will enable you perhaps to join us in regarding the vexed question as settled.” His lordship, having faced this speech without a sign, rested on the speaker a somewhat more confessed intelligence, then looked hard at the offered note and hard at the floor--all to avert himself actively afterward and, with his head a good deal elevated, add to his distance, as it were, from every one and everything so indelicately thrust on his attention. This movement had an ambiguous makeshift air, yet his companions, under the impression of it, exchanged a hopeless look. His daughter none the less lifted her voice. “If you won’t take what he has for you from Mr. Crimble, father, will you take it from me?” And then as after some apparent debate he appeared to decide to heed her, “It may be so long again,” she said, “before you’ve a chance to do a thing I ask.” “The chance will depend on yourself!” he returned with high dry emphasis. But he held out his hand for the note Hugh had given her and with which she approached him; and though face to face they seemed more separated than brought near by this contact without commerce. She turned away on one side when he had taken the missive, as Hugh had turned away on the other; Lord Theign drew forth the contents of the envelope and broodingly and inexpressively read the few lines; after which, as having done justice to their sense, he thrust the paper forth again till his daughter became aware and received it. She restored it to her friend while her father dandled off anew, but coming round this time, almost as by a circuit of the room, and meeting Hugh, who took advantage of it to repeat by a frank gesture his offer of Bardi’s attestation. Lord Theign passed with the young man on this a couple of mute minutes of the same order as those he had passed with Lady Grace in the same connection; their eyes dealt deeply with their eyes--but to the effect of his lordship’s accepting the gift, which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself--then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed, “does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.” “Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window. “Will you write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with | that opinion now: “I could see it as soon as I got there with him, the charming creature! There, _before_ the holy thing, and with the place, by good luck, for those great moments, practically to ourselves--without Macintosh to take in what was happening or any one else at all to speak of--it was but a matter of ten minutes: he had come, he had seen, and _I_ had conquered.” “Naturally you had!” --the girl hung on him for it; “and what was happening beyond everything else was that for your original dear divination, one of the divinations of genius--with every creature all these ages so stupid--you were being baptized on the spot a great man.” “Well, he did let poor Pappendick have it at least-he doesn’t think _he’s_ one: that that eminent judge couldn’t, even with such a leg up, rise to my level or seize my point. And if you really want to know,” Hugh went on in his gladness, “what for _us_ has most particularly and preciously taken place, it is that in his opinion, for my career--” “Your reputation,” she cried, “blazes out and your fortune’s made?” He did a happy violence to his modesty. “Well, Bardi adores intelligence and takes off his hat to me.” “Then you need take off yours to nobody!” --such was Lady Grace’s proud opinion.<|quote|>“But I should like to take off mine to _him_,”</|quote|>she added; “which I seem to have put on--to get out and away with you--expressly for that.” Hugh, as he looked her over, took it up in bliss. “Ah, we’ll go forth together to him then--thanks to your happy, splendid impulse!--and you’ll back him gorgeously up in the good he thinks of me.” His friend yet had on this a sombre second thought. “The only thing is that our awful American----!” But he warned her with a raised hand. “Not to speak of our awful Briton!” For the door had opened from the lobby, admitting Lord Theign, unattended, who, at sight of his daughter and her companion, pulled up and held them a minute in reprehensive view--all at least till Hugh undauntedly, indeed quite cheerfully, greeted him. “Since you find me again in your path, my lord, it’s because I’ve a small, but precious document to deliver you, if you’ll allow me to do so; which I feel it important myself to place in your hand.” He drew from his breast a pocket-book and extracted thence a small unsealed envelope; retaining the latter a trifle helplessly in his hand while Lord Theign only opposed to this demonstration an unmitigated blankness. He went none the less bravely on. “I mentioned to you the last time we somewhat infelicitously met that I intended to appeal to another and probably more closely qualified artistic authority on the subject of your so-called Moretto; and I in fact saw the picture half an hour ago with Bardi of Milan, who, there in presence of it, did absolute, did ideal justice, as I had hoped, to the claim I’ve been making. I then went with him to his hotel, close at hand, where he dashed me off this brief and rapid, but quite conclusive, Declaration, which, if you’ll be so good as to read it, will enable you perhaps to join us in regarding the vexed question as settled.” His lordship, having faced this speech without a sign, rested on the speaker a somewhat more confessed intelligence, then looked hard at the offered note and hard at the floor--all to avert himself actively afterward and, with his head a good deal elevated, add to his distance, as it were, from every one and everything so indelicately thrust on his attention. This movement had an ambiguous makeshift air, yet his companions, under the impression of it, exchanged a hopeless look. His daughter none the less lifted her voice. “If you won’t take what he has for you from Mr. Crimble, father, will you take it from me?” And then as after some apparent debate he appeared to decide to heed her, “It may be so long again,” she said, “before you’ve a chance to do a thing I ask.” “The chance will depend on yourself!” he returned with high dry emphasis. But he held out his hand for the note Hugh had given her and with which she approached him; and though face to face they seemed more separated than brought near by this contact without commerce. She turned away on one side when he had taken the missive, as Hugh had turned away on the other; Lord Theign drew forth the contents of the envelope and broodingly and inexpressively read the few lines; | The Outcry |
"You recognized my voice?" | Tony Last | Well, what do you want?"<|quote|>"You recognized my voice?"</|quote|>"I did." "Well, I only | Grant-Menzies." "Oh, it's you, Tony. Well, what do you want?"<|quote|>"You recognized my voice?"</|quote|>"I did." "Well, I only wanted to give a message | or the gentlemen's?" Milly asked. "No, the telephone." "Upstairs in the office." Tony rang up Brenda. It was some time before she answered, then, "Yes, who is it?" "I have a message here from Mr Anthony Last and Mr Jocelyn Grant-Menzies." "Oh, it's you, Tony. Well, what do you want?"<|quote|>"You recognized my voice?"</|quote|>"I did." "Well, I only wanted to give a message but as I am speaking to you I can give it myself, can't I?" "Yes." "Well, Jock and I are terribly sorry but we can't come round this evening after all." "Oh." "You don't think it very rude, I hope, | think it's nice for a girl to be interested in things." The waiter said, "What will you be taking for supper?" "Why, we've only just had dinner." "How about a nice haddock?" "I tell you what I must do is to telephone. Where is it?" "D'you mean really the telephone or the gentlemen's?" Milly asked. "No, the telephone." "Upstairs in the office." Tony rang up Brenda. It was some time before she answered, then, "Yes, who is it?" "I have a message here from Mr Anthony Last and Mr Jocelyn Grant-Menzies." "Oh, it's you, Tony. Well, what do you want?"<|quote|>"You recognized my voice?"</|quote|>"I did." "Well, I only wanted to give a message but as I am speaking to you I can give it myself, can't I?" "Yes." "Well, Jock and I are terribly sorry but we can't come round this evening after all." "Oh." "You don't think it very rude, I hope, but we have a lot to attend to." "That's all right, Tony." "Did I wake you up by any chance?" "That's all right, Tony." "Well, good night." Tony went down to the table. "I've been talking to Brenda. She sounded rather annoyed. D'you think we _ought_ to go round there?" | The waiter said, "Will you buy a ticket in a raffle for a box of chocolates?" "No." "Buy one for me," said Babs. Jock began to describe the specifications of the Basic Pig. ...Milly said, "You're married, aren't you?" "No," said Jock. "Oh, I can always tell," said Milly. "Your friend is too." "Yes, _he_ is." "You'd be surprised how many gentlemen come here just to talk about their wives." "He hasn't." Tony was leaning across the table and saying to Babs, "You see, the trouble is my wife is studious. She's taking a course in economics." Babs said, "I think it's nice for a girl to be interested in things." The waiter said, "What will you be taking for supper?" "Why, we've only just had dinner." "How about a nice haddock?" "I tell you what I must do is to telephone. Where is it?" "D'you mean really the telephone or the gentlemen's?" Milly asked. "No, the telephone." "Upstairs in the office." Tony rang up Brenda. It was some time before she answered, then, "Yes, who is it?" "I have a message here from Mr Anthony Last and Mr Jocelyn Grant-Menzies." "Oh, it's you, Tony. Well, what do you want?"<|quote|>"You recognized my voice?"</|quote|>"I did." "Well, I only wanted to give a message but as I am speaking to you I can give it myself, can't I?" "Yes." "Well, Jock and I are terribly sorry but we can't come round this evening after all." "Oh." "You don't think it very rude, I hope, but we have a lot to attend to." "That's all right, Tony." "Did I wake you up by any chance?" "That's all right, Tony." "Well, good night." Tony went down to the table. "I've been talking to Brenda. She sounded rather annoyed. D'you think we _ought_ to go round there?" "We promised we would," said Jock. "You should never disappoint a lady," said Milly. "Oh, it's too late now." Babs said, "You two are officers, aren't you?" "No, why?" "I thought you were." Milly said, "I like business gentlemen best, myself. They've more to say." "What d'you do?" "I design postmen's hats," said Jock. "Oh, go on." "And my friend here trains sea-lions." "Tell us another." Babs said, "I've got a gentleman friend who works on a newspaper." After a time Jock said, "I say, ought we to do something about Brenda?" "I told her we weren't coming, didn't I?" | 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 called Milly and Babs. Milly said, "Are you in town for long?" Babs said, "Have you got such a thing as a cigarette?" Tony danced with Babs. She said, "Are you fond of dancing?" "No, are you?" "So-so." "Well, let's sit down." The waiter said, "Will you buy a ticket in a raffle for a box of chocolates?" "No." "Buy one for me," said Babs. Jock began to describe the specifications of the Basic Pig. ...Milly said, "You're married, aren't you?" "No," said Jock. "Oh, I can always tell," said Milly. "Your friend is too." "Yes, _he_ is." "You'd be surprised how many gentlemen come here just to talk about their wives." "He hasn't." Tony was leaning across the table and saying to Babs, "You see, the trouble is my wife is studious. She's taking a course in economics." Babs said, "I think it's nice for a girl to be interested in things." The waiter said, "What will you be taking for supper?" "Why, we've only just had dinner." "How about a nice haddock?" "I tell you what I must do is to telephone. Where is it?" "D'you mean really the telephone or the gentlemen's?" Milly asked. "No, the telephone." "Upstairs in the office." Tony rang up Brenda. It was some time before she answered, then, "Yes, who is it?" "I have a message here from Mr Anthony Last and Mr Jocelyn Grant-Menzies." "Oh, it's you, Tony. Well, what do you want?"<|quote|>"You recognized my voice?"</|quote|>"I did." "Well, I only wanted to give a message but as I am speaking to you I can give it myself, can't I?" "Yes." "Well, Jock and I are terribly sorry but we can't come round this evening after all." "Oh." "You don't think it very rude, I hope, but we have a lot to attend to." "That's all right, Tony." "Did I wake you up by any chance?" "That's all right, Tony." "Well, good night." Tony went down to the table. "I've been talking to Brenda. She sounded rather annoyed. D'you think we _ought_ to go round there?" "We promised we would," said Jock. "You should never disappoint a lady," said Milly. "Oh, it's too late now." Babs said, "You two are officers, aren't you?" "No, why?" "I thought you were." Milly said, "I like business gentlemen best, myself. They've more to say." "What d'you do?" "I design postmen's hats," said Jock. "Oh, go on." "And my friend here trains sea-lions." "Tell us another." Babs said, "I've got a gentleman friend who works on a newspaper." After a time Jock said, "I say, ought we to do something about Brenda?" "I told her we weren't coming, didn't I?" "Yes... but she might still be _hoping_." "I tell you what, you go and ring her up and find out if she really wants us." "All right." He came back ten minutes later. "_I_ thought she sounded rather annoyed," he reported. "But I said in the end we wouldn't come." "She may be tired," said Tony. "Has to get up early to do economics. Now I come to think of it someone _did_ say she was tired, earlier on in the evening." "I say, what's this frightful piece of fish?" "The waiter said you ordered it." "Perhaps I did." "I'll give it to the club cat," said Babs. "She's a dear called Blackberry." They danced once or twice. Then Jock said, "D'you think we ought to ring up Brenda again?" "Perhaps we ought. She sounded annoyed with us." "Let's go now and ring her up on the way out." "Aren't you coming home with us?" said Babs. "Not to-night, I'm afraid." "Be a sport," said Milly. "No, we can't really." "All right. Well, how about a little present? We're professional dancing partners, you know," said Babs. "Oh yes, sorry, how much?" "Oh, we leave that to the gentlemen." Tony gave | 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 called Milly and Babs. Milly said, "Are you in town for long?" Babs said, "Have you got such a thing as a cigarette?" Tony danced with Babs. She said, "Are you fond of dancing?" "No, are you?" "So-so." "Well, let's sit down." The waiter said, "Will you buy a ticket in a raffle for a box of chocolates?" "No." "Buy one for me," said Babs. Jock began to describe the specifications of the Basic Pig. ...Milly said, "You're married, aren't you?" "No," said Jock. "Oh, I can always tell," said Milly. "Your friend is too." "Yes, _he_ is." "You'd be surprised how many gentlemen come here just to talk about their wives." "He hasn't." Tony was leaning across the table and saying to Babs, "You see, the trouble is my wife is studious. She's taking a course in economics." Babs said, "I think it's nice for a girl to be interested in things." The waiter said, "What will you be taking for supper?" "Why, we've only just had dinner." "How about a nice haddock?" "I tell you what I must do is to telephone. Where is it?" "D'you mean really the telephone or the gentlemen's?" Milly asked. "No, the telephone." "Upstairs in the office." Tony rang up Brenda. It was some time before she answered, then, "Yes, who is it?" "I have a message here from Mr Anthony Last and Mr Jocelyn Grant-Menzies." "Oh, it's you, Tony. Well, what do you want?"<|quote|>"You recognized my voice?"</|quote|>"I did." "Well, I only wanted to give a message but as I am speaking to you I can give it myself, can't I?" "Yes." "Well, Jock and I are terribly sorry but we can't come round this evening after all." "Oh." "You don't think it very rude, I hope, but we have a lot to attend to." "That's all right, Tony." "Did I wake you up by any chance?" "That's all right, Tony." "Well, good night." Tony went down to the table. "I've been talking to Brenda. She sounded rather annoyed. D'you think we _ought_ to go round there?" "We promised we would," said Jock. "You should never disappoint a lady," said Milly. "Oh, it's too late now." Babs said, "You two are officers, aren't you?" "No, why?" "I thought you were." Milly said, "I like business gentlemen best, myself. They've more to say." "What d'you do?" "I design postmen's hats," said Jock. "Oh, go on." "And my friend here trains sea-lions." "Tell us another." Babs said, "I've got a gentleman friend who works on a newspaper." After a time Jock said, "I say, ought we to do something about Brenda?" "I told her we weren't coming, didn't I?" "Yes... but she might still be _hoping_." "I tell you what, you go and ring her up and find out if she really wants us." "All right." He came back ten minutes later. "_I_ thought she sounded rather annoyed," he reported. "But I said in the end we wouldn't come." "She may be tired," said Tony. "Has to get up early to do economics. Now I come to think of it someone _did_ say she was tired, earlier on in the evening." "I say, what's this frightful piece of fish?" "The waiter said you ordered it." "Perhaps I did." "I'll give it to the club cat," said Babs. "She's a dear called Blackberry." They danced once or twice. Then Jock said, "D'you think we ought to ring up Brenda again?" "Perhaps we ought. She sounded annoyed with us." "Let's go now and ring her up on the way out." "Aren't you coming home with us?" said Babs. "Not to-night, I'm afraid." "Be a sport," said Milly. "No, we can't really." "All right. Well, how about a little present? We're professional dancing partners, you know," said Babs. "Oh yes, sorry, how much?" "Oh, we leave that to the gentlemen." Tony gave them a pound. "You might make it a bit more," said Babs. "We've sat with you two hours." Jock gave another pound. "Come and see us again one evening when you've got more time," said Milly. "I'm feeling rather ill," said Tony on the way upstairs. "Don't think I shall bother to ring up Brenda." "Send a message." "That's a good idea... Look here," he said to the seedy commissionaire. "Will you ring up this Sloane number and speak to her ladyship and say Mr Grant-Menzies and Mr Last are very sorry but they cannot call this evening? Got that?" He gave the man half a crown and they sauntered out into Sink Street. "Brenda can't expect us to do more than that," he said. "I tell you what I'll do. I go almost past her door, so I'll ring the bell a bit just in case she's awake and still waiting up for us." "Yes, you do that. What a good friend you are, Jock." "Oh, I'm fond of Brenda... a grand girl." "Grand girl... I wish I didn't feel ill." Tony was awake at eight next morning, miserably articulating in his mind the fragmentary memories of the preceding night. The more he remembered, the baser his conduct appeared to him. At nine he had his bath and some tea. At ten he was wondering whether he should ring Brenda up when the difficulty was solved by her ringing him. "Well, Tony, how do you feel?" "Awful. I _was_ tight." "You were." "I'm feeling pretty guilty too." "I'm not surprised." "I don't remember everything very clearly but I have the impression that Jock and I were rather bores." "You were." "Are you in a rage?" "Well, I was last night. What made you do it, Tony, grown up men like you two?" "We felt low." "I bet you feel lower this morning... A box of white roses has just arrived from Jock." "I wish I'd thought of that." "You're such infants, both of you." "You aren't really in a rage?" "Of course I'm not, darling. Now just you go straight back to the country. You'll feel all right again to-morrow." "Am I not going to see you?" "Not to-day, I'm afraid. I've got lectures all the morning and I'm lunching out. But I'll be coming down on Friday evening or anyway Saturday morning." "I see. You couldn't possibly chuck | and Babs. Milly said, "Are you in town for long?" Babs said, "Have you got such a thing as a cigarette?" Tony danced with Babs. She said, "Are you fond of dancing?" "No, are you?" "So-so." "Well, let's sit down." The waiter said, "Will you buy a ticket in a raffle for a box of chocolates?" "No." "Buy one for me," said Babs. Jock began to describe the specifications of the Basic Pig. ...Milly said, "You're married, aren't you?" "No," said Jock. "Oh, I can always tell," said Milly. "Your friend is too." "Yes, _he_ is." "You'd be surprised how many gentlemen come here just to talk about their wives." "He hasn't." Tony was leaning across the table and saying to Babs, "You see, the trouble is my wife is studious. She's taking a course in economics." Babs said, "I think it's nice for a girl to be interested in things." The waiter said, "What will you be taking for supper?" "Why, we've only just had dinner." "How about a nice haddock?" "I tell you what I must do is to telephone. Where is it?" "D'you mean really the telephone or the gentlemen's?" Milly asked. "No, the telephone." "Upstairs in the office." Tony rang up Brenda. It was some time before she answered, then, "Yes, who is it?" "I have a message here from Mr Anthony Last and Mr Jocelyn Grant-Menzies." "Oh, it's you, Tony. Well, what do you want?"<|quote|>"You recognized my voice?"</|quote|>"I did." "Well, I only wanted to give a message but as I am speaking to you I can give it myself, can't I?" "Yes." "Well, Jock and I are terribly sorry but we can't come round this evening after all." "Oh." "You don't think it very rude, I hope, but we have a lot to attend to." "That's all right, Tony." "Did I wake you up by any chance?" "That's all right, Tony." "Well, good night." Tony went down to the table. "I've been talking to Brenda. She sounded rather annoyed. D'you think we _ought_ to go round there?" "We promised we would," said Jock. "You should never disappoint a lady," said Milly. "Oh, it's too late now." Babs said, "You two are officers, aren't you?" "No, why?" "I thought you were." Milly said, "I like business gentlemen best, myself. They've more to say." "What d'you do?" "I design postmen's hats," said Jock. "Oh, go on." "And my friend here trains sea-lions." "Tell us another." Babs said, "I've got a gentleman friend who works on a newspaper." After a time Jock said, "I say, ought we to do something about Brenda?" "I told her we weren't coming, didn't I?" "Yes... but she might still be _hoping_." "I tell you what, you go and ring her up and find out if she really wants us." "All right." He came back ten minutes later. "_I_ thought she sounded rather annoyed," he reported. "But I said in the end we wouldn't come." "She may be tired," said Tony. "Has to get up early to do economics. Now I come to think of it someone _did_ say she was tired, earlier on in the evening." "I say, what's this frightful piece of fish?" "The waiter said you ordered it." "Perhaps I did." "I'll give it to the club cat," said Babs. "She's a dear called Blackberry." They danced once or twice. Then Jock said, "D'you think we ought to ring up Brenda again?" "Perhaps we ought. She sounded annoyed with us." "Let's go now and ring her up on the way out." "Aren't you coming home with us?" said Babs. "Not to-night, I'm afraid." "Be a sport," said Milly. "No, we can't really." "All right. Well, how about a little present? We're professional dancing partners, you know," said Babs. "Oh yes, sorry, how much?" "Oh, we leave that to the gentlemen." Tony gave them a pound. "You might make it a bit more," said Babs. "We've sat with you two hours." Jock gave another pound. "Come and see us again one evening when you've got more time," said Milly. "I'm feeling rather ill," said Tony on the way upstairs. "Don't think I shall bother to ring up Brenda." "Send a message." "That's a good idea... Look here," he said to the seedy commissionaire. "Will you ring up this Sloane number and speak to her ladyship and say Mr Grant-Menzies and Mr Last are very sorry but they cannot call this evening? Got that?" He gave the man half a crown and they sauntered out into Sink Street. "Brenda can't expect us to do more than that," he said. "I tell you what I'll do. I go almost past her door, so I'll ring the bell a bit just in case she's awake and still waiting up for us." "Yes, you do | A Handful Of Dust |
"Because it is true. I am charming to my friends one day, and forget all about them the next." | Mary Cavendish | "Why do you say that?"<|quote|>"Because it is true. I am charming to my friends one day, and forget all about them the next."</|quote|>I don't know what impelled | am a very bad friend." "Why do you say that?"<|quote|>"Because it is true. I am charming to my friends one day, and forget all about them the next."</|quote|>I don't know what impelled me, but I was nettled, | out: "Old John's an awfully good sort." She studied me curiously for a minute or two, and then said, to my great surprise: "You are loyal to your friend. I like you for that." "Aren't you my friend too?" "I am a very bad friend." "Why do you say that?"<|quote|>"Because it is true. I am charming to my friends one day, and forget all about them the next."</|quote|>I don't know what impelled me, but I was nettled, and I said foolishly and not in the best of taste: "Yet you seem to be invariably charming to Dr. Bauerstein!" Instantly I regretted my words. Her face stiffened. I had the impression of a steel curtain coming down and | way. "I should like to see a good flare up. It would clear the air. At present we are all thinking so much, and saying so little." "John doesn't think so," I remarked. "He's anxious to keep them apart." "Oh, John!" Something in her tone fired me, and I blurted out: "Old John's an awfully good sort." She studied me curiously for a minute or two, and then said, to my great surprise: "You are loyal to your friend. I like you for that." "Aren't you my friend too?" "I am a very bad friend." "Why do you say that?"<|quote|>"Because it is true. I am charming to my friends one day, and forget all about them the next."</|quote|>I don't know what impelled me, but I was nettled, and I said foolishly and not in the best of taste: "Yet you seem to be invariably charming to Dr. Bauerstein!" Instantly I regretted my words. Her face stiffened. I had the impression of a steel curtain coming down and blotting out the real woman. Without a word, she turned and went swiftly up the stairs, whilst I stood like an idiot gaping after her. I was recalled to other matters by a frightful row going on below. I could hear Poirot shouting and expounding. I was vexed to think | just rushed past me like a mad bull." "He's rather upset about something," I remarked feebly. I really did not know how much Poirot would wish me to disclose. As I saw a faint smile gather on Mrs. Cavendish's expressive mouth, I endeavoured to try and turn the conversation by saying: "They haven't met yet, have they?" "Who?" "Mr. Inglethorp and Miss Howard." She looked at me in rather a disconcerting manner. "Do you think it would be such a disaster if they did meet?" "Well, don't you?" I said, rather taken aback. "No." She was smiling in her quiet way. "I should like to see a good flare up. It would clear the air. At present we are all thinking so much, and saying so little." "John doesn't think so," I remarked. "He's anxious to keep them apart." "Oh, John!" Something in her tone fired me, and I blurted out: "Old John's an awfully good sort." She studied me curiously for a minute or two, and then said, to my great surprise: "You are loyal to your friend. I like you for that." "Aren't you my friend too?" "I am a very bad friend." "Why do you say that?"<|quote|>"Because it is true. I am charming to my friends one day, and forget all about them the next."</|quote|>I don't know what impelled me, but I was nettled, and I said foolishly and not in the best of taste: "Yet you seem to be invariably charming to Dr. Bauerstein!" Instantly I regretted my words. Her face stiffened. I had the impression of a steel curtain coming down and blotting out the real woman. Without a word, she turned and went swiftly up the stairs, whilst I stood like an idiot gaping after her. I was recalled to other matters by a frightful row going on below. I could hear Poirot shouting and expounding. I was vexed to think that my diplomacy had been in vain. The little man appeared to be taking the whole house into his confidence, a proceeding of which I, for one, doubted the wisdom. Once again I could not help regretting that my friend was so prone to lose his head in moments of excitement. I stepped briskly down the stairs. The sight of me calmed Poirot almost immediately. I drew him aside. "My dear fellow," I said, "is this wise? Surely you don't want the whole house to know of this occurrence? You are actually playing into the criminal's hands." "You think so, | here. Finding the case locked, he was obliged to force it, thus betraying his presence. For him to take that risk, it must have been something of great importance." "But what was it?" "Ah!" cried Poirot, with a gesture of anger. "That, I do not know! A document of some kind, without doubt, possibly the scrap of paper Dorcas saw in her hand yesterday afternoon. And I" his anger burst forth freely "miserable animal that I am! I guessed nothing! I have behaved like an imbecile! I should never have left that case here. I should have carried it away with me. Ah, triple pig! And now it is gone. It is destroyed but is it destroyed? Is there not yet a chance we must leave no stone unturned" He rushed like a madman from the room, and I followed him as soon as I had sufficiently recovered my wits. But, by the time I had reached the top of the stairs, he was out of sight. Mary Cavendish was standing where the staircase branched, staring down into the hall in the direction in which he had disappeared. "What has happened to your extraordinary little friend, Mr. Hastings? He has just rushed past me like a mad bull." "He's rather upset about something," I remarked feebly. I really did not know how much Poirot would wish me to disclose. As I saw a faint smile gather on Mrs. Cavendish's expressive mouth, I endeavoured to try and turn the conversation by saying: "They haven't met yet, have they?" "Who?" "Mr. Inglethorp and Miss Howard." She looked at me in rather a disconcerting manner. "Do you think it would be such a disaster if they did meet?" "Well, don't you?" I said, rather taken aback. "No." She was smiling in her quiet way. "I should like to see a good flare up. It would clear the air. At present we are all thinking so much, and saying so little." "John doesn't think so," I remarked. "He's anxious to keep them apart." "Oh, John!" Something in her tone fired me, and I blurted out: "Old John's an awfully good sort." She studied me curiously for a minute or two, and then said, to my great surprise: "You are loyal to your friend. I like you for that." "Aren't you my friend too?" "I am a very bad friend." "Why do you say that?"<|quote|>"Because it is true. I am charming to my friends one day, and forget all about them the next."</|quote|>I don't know what impelled me, but I was nettled, and I said foolishly and not in the best of taste: "Yet you seem to be invariably charming to Dr. Bauerstein!" Instantly I regretted my words. Her face stiffened. I had the impression of a steel curtain coming down and blotting out the real woman. Without a word, she turned and went swiftly up the stairs, whilst I stood like an idiot gaping after her. I was recalled to other matters by a frightful row going on below. I could hear Poirot shouting and expounding. I was vexed to think that my diplomacy had been in vain. The little man appeared to be taking the whole house into his confidence, a proceeding of which I, for one, doubted the wisdom. Once again I could not help regretting that my friend was so prone to lose his head in moments of excitement. I stepped briskly down the stairs. The sight of me calmed Poirot almost immediately. I drew him aside. "My dear fellow," I said, "is this wise? Surely you don't want the whole house to know of this occurrence? You are actually playing into the criminal's hands." "You think so, Hastings?" "I am sure of it." "Well, well, my friend, I will be guided by you." "Good. Although, unfortunately, it is a little too late now." "Sure." He looked so crestfallen and abashed that I felt quite sorry, though I still thought my rebuke a just and wise one. "Well," he said at last, "let us go, _mon ami_." "You have finished here?" "For the moment, yes. You will walk back with me to the village?" "Willingly." He picked up his little suit-case, and we went out through the open window in the drawing-room. Cynthia Murdoch was just coming in, and Poirot stood aside to let her pass. "Excuse me, mademoiselle, one minute." "Yes?" she turned inquiringly. "Did you ever make up Mrs. Inglethorp's medicines?" A slight flush rose in her face, as she answered rather constrainedly: "No." "Only her powders?" The flush deepened as Cynthia replied: "Oh, yes, I did make up some sleeping powders for her once." "These?" Poirot produced the empty box which had contained powders. She nodded. "Can you tell me what they were? Sulphonal? Veronal?" "No, they were bromide powders." "Ah! Thank you, mademoiselle; good morning." As we walked briskly away from the house, I | in at this juncture, and invited us both to come up to Mrs. Inglethorp's room, as he and Mr. Wells had finished looking through the desk in the boudoir. As we went up the stairs, John looked back to the dining-room door, and lowered his voice confidentially: "Look here, what's going to happen when these two meet?" I shook my head helplessly. "I've told Mary to keep them apart if she can." "Will she be able to do so?" "The Lord only knows. There's one thing, Inglethorp himself won't be too keen on meeting her." "You've got the keys still, haven't you, Poirot?" I asked, as we reached the door of the locked room. Taking the keys from Poirot, John unlocked it, and we all passed in. The lawyer went straight to the desk, and John followed him. "My mother kept most of her important papers in this despatch-case, I believe," he said. Poirot drew out the small bunch of keys. "Permit me. I locked it, out of precaution, this morning." "But it's not locked now." "Impossible!" "See." And John lifted the lid as he spoke. "_Milles tonnerres!_" cried Poirot, dumbfounded. "And I who have both the keys in my pocket!" He flung himself upon the case. Suddenly he stiffened. "_Eh voil une affaire!_ This lock has been forced." "What?" Poirot laid down the case again. "But who forced it? Why should they? When? But the door was locked?" These exclamations burst from us disjointedly. Poirot answered them categorically almost mechanically. "Who? That is the question. Why? Ah, if I only knew. When? Since I was here an hour ago. As to the door being locked, it is a very ordinary lock. Probably any other of the doorkeys in this passage would fit it." We stared at one another blankly. Poirot had walked over to the mantelpiece. He was outwardly calm, but I noticed his hands, which from long force of habit were mechanically straightening the spill vases on the mantelpiece, were shaking violently. "See here, it was like this," he said at last. "There was something in that case some piece of evidence, slight in itself perhaps, but still enough of a clue to connect the murderer with the crime. It was vital to him that it should be destroyed before it was discovered and its significance appreciated. Therefore, he took the risk, the great risk, of coming in here. Finding the case locked, he was obliged to force it, thus betraying his presence. For him to take that risk, it must have been something of great importance." "But what was it?" "Ah!" cried Poirot, with a gesture of anger. "That, I do not know! A document of some kind, without doubt, possibly the scrap of paper Dorcas saw in her hand yesterday afternoon. And I" his anger burst forth freely "miserable animal that I am! I guessed nothing! I have behaved like an imbecile! I should never have left that case here. I should have carried it away with me. Ah, triple pig! And now it is gone. It is destroyed but is it destroyed? Is there not yet a chance we must leave no stone unturned" He rushed like a madman from the room, and I followed him as soon as I had sufficiently recovered my wits. But, by the time I had reached the top of the stairs, he was out of sight. Mary Cavendish was standing where the staircase branched, staring down into the hall in the direction in which he had disappeared. "What has happened to your extraordinary little friend, Mr. Hastings? He has just rushed past me like a mad bull." "He's rather upset about something," I remarked feebly. I really did not know how much Poirot would wish me to disclose. As I saw a faint smile gather on Mrs. Cavendish's expressive mouth, I endeavoured to try and turn the conversation by saying: "They haven't met yet, have they?" "Who?" "Mr. Inglethorp and Miss Howard." She looked at me in rather a disconcerting manner. "Do you think it would be such a disaster if they did meet?" "Well, don't you?" I said, rather taken aback. "No." She was smiling in her quiet way. "I should like to see a good flare up. It would clear the air. At present we are all thinking so much, and saying so little." "John doesn't think so," I remarked. "He's anxious to keep them apart." "Oh, John!" Something in her tone fired me, and I blurted out: "Old John's an awfully good sort." She studied me curiously for a minute or two, and then said, to my great surprise: "You are loyal to your friend. I like you for that." "Aren't you my friend too?" "I am a very bad friend." "Why do you say that?"<|quote|>"Because it is true. I am charming to my friends one day, and forget all about them the next."</|quote|>I don't know what impelled me, but I was nettled, and I said foolishly and not in the best of taste: "Yet you seem to be invariably charming to Dr. Bauerstein!" Instantly I regretted my words. Her face stiffened. I had the impression of a steel curtain coming down and blotting out the real woman. Without a word, she turned and went swiftly up the stairs, whilst I stood like an idiot gaping after her. I was recalled to other matters by a frightful row going on below. I could hear Poirot shouting and expounding. I was vexed to think that my diplomacy had been in vain. The little man appeared to be taking the whole house into his confidence, a proceeding of which I, for one, doubted the wisdom. Once again I could not help regretting that my friend was so prone to lose his head in moments of excitement. I stepped briskly down the stairs. The sight of me calmed Poirot almost immediately. I drew him aside. "My dear fellow," I said, "is this wise? Surely you don't want the whole house to know of this occurrence? You are actually playing into the criminal's hands." "You think so, Hastings?" "I am sure of it." "Well, well, my friend, I will be guided by you." "Good. Although, unfortunately, it is a little too late now." "Sure." He looked so crestfallen and abashed that I felt quite sorry, though I still thought my rebuke a just and wise one. "Well," he said at last, "let us go, _mon ami_." "You have finished here?" "For the moment, yes. You will walk back with me to the village?" "Willingly." He picked up his little suit-case, and we went out through the open window in the drawing-room. Cynthia Murdoch was just coming in, and Poirot stood aside to let her pass. "Excuse me, mademoiselle, one minute." "Yes?" she turned inquiringly. "Did you ever make up Mrs. Inglethorp's medicines?" A slight flush rose in her face, as she answered rather constrainedly: "No." "Only her powders?" The flush deepened as Cynthia replied: "Oh, yes, I did make up some sleeping powders for her once." "These?" Poirot produced the empty box which had contained powders. She nodded. "Can you tell me what they were? Sulphonal? Veronal?" "No, they were bromide powders." "Ah! Thank you, mademoiselle; good morning." As we walked briskly away from the house, I glanced at him more than once. I had often before noticed that, if anything excited him, his eyes turned green like a cat's. They were shining like emeralds now. "My friend," he broke out at last, "I have a little idea, a very strange, and probably utterly impossible idea. And yet it fits in." I shrugged my shoulders. I privately thought that Poirot was rather too much given to these fantastic ideas. In this case, surely, the truth was only too plain and apparent. "So that is the explanation of the blank label on the box," I remarked. "Very simple, as you said. I really wonder that I did not think of it myself." Poirot did not appear to be listening to me. "They have made one more discovery, _l -bas_," he observed, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Styles. "Mr. Wells told me as we were going upstairs." "What was it?" "Locked up in the desk in the boudoir, they found a will of Mrs. Inglethorp's, dated before her marriage, leaving her fortune to Alfred Inglethorp. It must have been made just at the time they were engaged. It came quite as a surprise to Wells and to John Cavendish also. It was written on one of those printed will forms, and witnessed by two of the servants not Dorcas." "Did Mr. Inglethorp know of it?" "He says not." "One might take that with a grain of salt," I remarked sceptically. "All these wills are very confusing. Tell me, how did those scribbled words on the envelope help you to discover that a will was made yesterday afternoon?" Poirot smiled. "_Mon ami_, have you ever, when writing a letter, been arrested by the fact that you did not know how to spell a certain word?" "Yes, often. I suppose everyone has." "Exactly. And have you not, in such a case, tried the word once or twice on the edge of the blotting-paper, or a spare scrap of paper, to see if it looked right? Well, that is what Mrs. Inglethorp did. You will notice that the word possessed' is spelt first with one s' and subsequently with two correctly. To make sure, she had further tried it in a sentence, thus:" I am possessed.' "Now, what did that tell me? It told me that Mrs. Inglethorp had been writing the word possessed' that afternoon, and, | have left that case here. I should have carried it away with me. Ah, triple pig! And now it is gone. It is destroyed but is it destroyed? Is there not yet a chance we must leave no stone unturned" He rushed like a madman from the room, and I followed him as soon as I had sufficiently recovered my wits. But, by the time I had reached the top of the stairs, he was out of sight. Mary Cavendish was standing where the staircase branched, staring down into the hall in the direction in which he had disappeared. "What has happened to your extraordinary little friend, Mr. Hastings? He has just rushed past me like a mad bull." "He's rather upset about something," I remarked feebly. I really did not know how much Poirot would wish me to disclose. As I saw a faint smile gather on Mrs. Cavendish's expressive mouth, I endeavoured to try and turn the conversation by saying: "They haven't met yet, have they?" "Who?" "Mr. Inglethorp and Miss Howard." She looked at me in rather a disconcerting manner. "Do you think it would be such a disaster if they did meet?" "Well, don't you?" I said, rather taken aback. "No." She was smiling in her quiet way. "I should like to see a good flare up. It would clear the air. At present we are all thinking so much, and saying so little." "John doesn't think so," I remarked. "He's anxious to keep them apart." "Oh, John!" Something in her tone fired me, and I blurted out: "Old John's an awfully good sort." She studied me curiously for a minute or two, and then said, to my great surprise: "You are loyal to your friend. I like you for that." "Aren't you my friend too?" "I am a very bad friend." "Why do you say that?"<|quote|>"Because it is true. I am charming to my friends one day, and forget all about them the next."</|quote|>I don't know what impelled me, but I was nettled, and I said foolishly and not in the best of taste: "Yet you seem to be invariably charming to Dr. Bauerstein!" Instantly I regretted my words. Her face stiffened. I had the impression of a steel curtain coming down and blotting out the real woman. Without a word, she turned and went swiftly up the stairs, whilst I stood like an idiot gaping after her. I was recalled to other matters by a frightful row going on below. I could hear Poirot shouting and expounding. I was vexed to think that my diplomacy had been in vain. The little man appeared to be taking the whole house into his confidence, a proceeding of which I, for one, doubted the wisdom. Once again I could not help regretting that my friend was so prone to lose his head in moments of excitement. I stepped briskly down the stairs. The sight of me calmed Poirot almost immediately. I drew him aside. "My dear fellow," I said, "is this wise? Surely you don't want the whole house to know of this occurrence? You are actually playing into the criminal's hands." "You think so, Hastings?" "I am sure of it." "Well, well, my friend, I will be guided by you." "Good. Although, unfortunately, it is a little too late now." "Sure." He looked so crestfallen and abashed that I felt quite sorry, though I still thought my rebuke a just and wise one. "Well," he said at last, "let us go, _mon ami_." "You have finished here?" "For the moment, yes. You will walk back with me to the village?" "Willingly." He picked up his little suit-case, and we went out through the open window in the drawing-room. Cynthia Murdoch was just coming in, and Poirot stood aside to let her pass. "Excuse me, mademoiselle, one minute." "Yes?" she turned inquiringly. "Did you ever make up Mrs. Inglethorp's medicines?" A slight flush rose in her face, as she answered rather constrainedly: "No." "Only her powders?" The flush deepened as Cynthia replied: "Oh, yes, I did make up some sleeping powders for her once." "These?" Poirot produced the empty box which had contained powders. She nodded. "Can you tell me what they were? Sulphonal? Veronal?" "No, they were bromide powders." "Ah! Thank you, mademoiselle; good morning." As we walked briskly away from the house, I glanced | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
"There's no need to talk." | Tony Last | "Nothing to say, is there?"<|quote|>"There's no need to talk."</|quote|>"No. I suppose there'll have | a chair in the hall. "Nothing to say, is there?"<|quote|>"There's no need to talk."</|quote|>"No. I suppose there'll have to be a funeral." "Well, | from the Sunday suit he had worn at the inquest and went about his duties. Thunderclap, too, had been kicked yesterday and was very slightly lame in the off fore. Brenda took off her hat and threw it down on a chair in the hall. "Nothing to say, is there?"<|quote|>"There's no need to talk."</|quote|>"No. I suppose there'll have to be a funeral." "Well, of course." "Yes: to-morrow?" She looked into the morning-room. "They've done quite a lot, haven't they?" All Brenda's movements were slower than usual and her voice was flat and expressionless. She sank down into one of the armchairs in the | his study attending to the correspondence that had become necessary. A day of fitful sunshine and blustering wind; white and grey clouds were scarcely moving, high overhead, but the bare trees round the house swayed and shook and there were swift whirlpools of straw in the stable yard. Ben changed from the Sunday suit he had worn at the inquest and went about his duties. Thunderclap, too, had been kicked yesterday and was very slightly lame in the off fore. Brenda took off her hat and threw it down on a chair in the hall. "Nothing to say, is there?"<|quote|>"There's no need to talk."</|quote|>"No. I suppose there'll have to be a funeral." "Well, of course." "Yes: to-morrow?" She looked into the morning-room. "They've done quite a lot, haven't they?" All Brenda's movements were slower than usual and her voice was flat and expressionless. She sank down into one of the armchairs in the centre of the hall, which nobody ever used. She sat there doing nothing. Tony put his hand on her shoulder but she said "Don't" ", not impatiently or nervously but without any expression. Tony said, "I'll go and finish those letters." "Yes." "See you at luncheon." "Yes." She rose, looked | you do all day?" "There was the Shameless Blonde... we played animal snap some of the time." "Animal snap? Was that any good?" "Not much... It's odd to think that yesterday this time it hadn't happened." "Poor little boy," said Brenda. They had scarcely spoken to each other since Brenda's arrival. Tony had driven to the station to meet her; by the time they reached the house Mrs Rattery had gone to bed; that morning she left in her aeroplane without seeing either of them. They heard the machine pass over the house, Brenda in her bath, Tony downstairs in his study attending to the correspondence that had become necessary. A day of fitful sunshine and blustering wind; white and grey clouds were scarcely moving, high overhead, but the bare trees round the house swayed and shook and there were swift whirlpools of straw in the stable yard. Ben changed from the Sunday suit he had worn at the inquest and went about his duties. Thunderclap, too, had been kicked yesterday and was very slightly lame in the off fore. Brenda took off her hat and threw it down on a chair in the hall. "Nothing to say, is there?"<|quote|>"There's no need to talk."</|quote|>"No. I suppose there'll have to be a funeral." "Well, of course." "Yes: to-morrow?" She looked into the morning-room. "They've done quite a lot, haven't they?" All Brenda's movements were slower than usual and her voice was flat and expressionless. She sank down into one of the armchairs in the centre of the hall, which nobody ever used. She sat there doing nothing. Tony put his hand on her shoulder but she said "Don't" ", not impatiently or nervously but without any expression. Tony said, "I'll go and finish those letters." "Yes." "See you at luncheon." "Yes." She rose, looked round listlessly for her hat, found it and went very slowly upstairs, the sunlight through the stained-glass windows glowing and sparkling all about her. In her room she sat on the window seat, looking out across the meadows and dun ploughland, the naked tossing trees, the church towers, the maelstroms of dust and leaf which eddied about the terrace below; she still held her hat and fidgeted with her fingers on the brooch which was clipped to one side of it. Nanny knocked at the door and came in, red eyed. "If you please, my lady, I've been going through | not here," said Jock. [VIII] The inquest was held at eleven o'clock next morning; it was soon over. The doctor, the bus-driver, Ben and Miss Ripon gave evidence. Miss Ripon was allowed to remain seated. She was very white and spoke in a trembling voice; her father glared at her from a nearby seat; under her hat was a small bare patch, where they had shaved off her hair to clean her cut. In his summary the coroner remarked that it was clear from the evidence that nobody was in any way to blame for the misadventure; it only remained to express the deep sympathy of the court to Mr Last and Lady Brenda in their terrible loss. The people fell back to allow Tony and Brenda to leave the room. Colonel Inch and the hunt secretary were both present. Everything was done with delicacy and to show respect for their sorrow. Brenda said, "Wait a minute. I must just speak to that poor Ripon girl." She did it charmingly. When everyone had gone. Tony said, "I wish you had been here yesterday. There were so many people about and I didn't know what to say to them." "What did you do all day?" "There was the Shameless Blonde... we played animal snap some of the time." "Animal snap? Was that any good?" "Not much... It's odd to think that yesterday this time it hadn't happened." "Poor little boy," said Brenda. They had scarcely spoken to each other since Brenda's arrival. Tony had driven to the station to meet her; by the time they reached the house Mrs Rattery had gone to bed; that morning she left in her aeroplane without seeing either of them. They heard the machine pass over the house, Brenda in her bath, Tony downstairs in his study attending to the correspondence that had become necessary. A day of fitful sunshine and blustering wind; white and grey clouds were scarcely moving, high overhead, but the bare trees round the house swayed and shook and there were swift whirlpools of straw in the stable yard. Ben changed from the Sunday suit he had worn at the inquest and went about his duties. Thunderclap, too, had been kicked yesterday and was very slightly lame in the off fore. Brenda took off her hat and threw it down on a chair in the hall. "Nothing to say, is there?"<|quote|>"There's no need to talk."</|quote|>"No. I suppose there'll have to be a funeral." "Well, of course." "Yes: to-morrow?" She looked into the morning-room. "They've done quite a lot, haven't they?" All Brenda's movements were slower than usual and her voice was flat and expressionless. She sank down into one of the armchairs in the centre of the hall, which nobody ever used. She sat there doing nothing. Tony put his hand on her shoulder but she said "Don't" ", not impatiently or nervously but without any expression. Tony said, "I'll go and finish those letters." "Yes." "See you at luncheon." "Yes." She rose, looked round listlessly for her hat, found it and went very slowly upstairs, the sunlight through the stained-glass windows glowing and sparkling all about her. In her room she sat on the window seat, looking out across the meadows and dun ploughland, the naked tossing trees, the church towers, the maelstroms of dust and leaf which eddied about the terrace below; she still held her hat and fidgeted with her fingers on the brooch which was clipped to one side of it. Nanny knocked at the door and came in, red eyed. "If you please, my lady, I've been going through John's things. There's this handkerchief doesn't belong to him." The heavy scent and crowned cipher at the corner proclaimed its origin. "I know whose it is. I'll send it back to her." "Can't think how it came to be there," said nanny. "Poor little boy. Poor little boy," said Brenda to herself, when nanny had left her, and gazed out across the troubled landscape. * * * * * "I was thinking about the pony, sir." "Oh yes, Ben?" "Will you want to be keeping her now?" "I hadn't thought... no, I suppose not." "Mr Westmacott over at Restall was asking about her. He thought she might do for his little girl." "Yes." "How much shall we be asking?" "Oh, I don't know... whatever you think is right." "She's a good little pony and she's always been treated well. I don't think she ought to go under twenty-five quid, sir." "All right, Ben, you see about it." "I'll ask thirty, shall I, sir, and come down a bit?" "Do just what you think best." "Very good, sir." * * * * * At luncheon Tony said, "Jock rang up. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do." | of time really. Tell me exactly what happened." Jock told her. "Poor little boy," she said. "Poor little boy." Then she opened her cupboard and began to put a few things into a suitcase; she went in and out from the bathroom once or twice. "That's everything," she said. "There's still too much time." "Would you like anything to eat?" "Oh no, nothing to eat." She sat down again and looked at herself in the glass. She did not attempt to do anything to her face. "When you first told me," she said. "I didn't understand. I didn't know what I was saying." "I know." "I didn't say anything, did I?" "You know what you said." "Yes, I know... I didn't mean... I don't think it's any good trying to explain." Jock said, "Are you sure you've got everything?" "Yes, that's everything," she nodded towards the little case on the bed. She looked quite hopeless. "Well, we'd better go to the station." "All right. It's early. But it doesn't matter." Jock took her to the train. As it was Wednesday the carriages were full of women returning after their day's shopping. "Why not go first-class?" "No, no. I always go third." She sat in the middle of a row. The women on either side looked at her curiously, wondering if she were ill. "Don't you want anything to read?" "Nothing to read." "Or eat?" "Or eat." "Then I'll say good-bye." "Good-bye." Another woman pushed past Jock into the carriage, laden with light parcels. * * * * * When the news became known, Marjorie said to Allan, "Well, anyway, this will mean the end of Mr Beaver." But Polly Cockpurse said to Veronica, "That's the end of Tony so far as Brenda is concerned." The impoverished Lasts were stunned by the telegram. They lived on an extensive but unprofitable chicken farm near Princes Risborough. It did not enter the heads of any of them that now, if anything happened, they were the heirs to Hetton. Had it done so, their grief would have been just as keen. Jock drove from Paddington to Bratt's. One of the men by the bar said, "Ghastly thing about Tony Last's boy." "Yes, I was there." "No, were you? What a ghastly thing." Later a telephone message came: "Princess Abdul Akbar wishes to know whether you are in the club." "No, no, tell her I'm not here," said Jock. [VIII] The inquest was held at eleven o'clock next morning; it was soon over. The doctor, the bus-driver, Ben and Miss Ripon gave evidence. Miss Ripon was allowed to remain seated. She was very white and spoke in a trembling voice; her father glared at her from a nearby seat; under her hat was a small bare patch, where they had shaved off her hair to clean her cut. In his summary the coroner remarked that it was clear from the evidence that nobody was in any way to blame for the misadventure; it only remained to express the deep sympathy of the court to Mr Last and Lady Brenda in their terrible loss. The people fell back to allow Tony and Brenda to leave the room. Colonel Inch and the hunt secretary were both present. Everything was done with delicacy and to show respect for their sorrow. Brenda said, "Wait a minute. I must just speak to that poor Ripon girl." She did it charmingly. When everyone had gone. Tony said, "I wish you had been here yesterday. There were so many people about and I didn't know what to say to them." "What did you do all day?" "There was the Shameless Blonde... we played animal snap some of the time." "Animal snap? Was that any good?" "Not much... It's odd to think that yesterday this time it hadn't happened." "Poor little boy," said Brenda. They had scarcely spoken to each other since Brenda's arrival. Tony had driven to the station to meet her; by the time they reached the house Mrs Rattery had gone to bed; that morning she left in her aeroplane without seeing either of them. They heard the machine pass over the house, Brenda in her bath, Tony downstairs in his study attending to the correspondence that had become necessary. A day of fitful sunshine and blustering wind; white and grey clouds were scarcely moving, high overhead, but the bare trees round the house swayed and shook and there were swift whirlpools of straw in the stable yard. Ben changed from the Sunday suit he had worn at the inquest and went about his duties. Thunderclap, too, had been kicked yesterday and was very slightly lame in the off fore. Brenda took off her hat and threw it down on a chair in the hall. "Nothing to say, is there?"<|quote|>"There's no need to talk."</|quote|>"No. I suppose there'll have to be a funeral." "Well, of course." "Yes: to-morrow?" She looked into the morning-room. "They've done quite a lot, haven't they?" All Brenda's movements were slower than usual and her voice was flat and expressionless. She sank down into one of the armchairs in the centre of the hall, which nobody ever used. She sat there doing nothing. Tony put his hand on her shoulder but she said "Don't" ", not impatiently or nervously but without any expression. Tony said, "I'll go and finish those letters." "Yes." "See you at luncheon." "Yes." She rose, looked round listlessly for her hat, found it and went very slowly upstairs, the sunlight through the stained-glass windows glowing and sparkling all about her. In her room she sat on the window seat, looking out across the meadows and dun ploughland, the naked tossing trees, the church towers, the maelstroms of dust and leaf which eddied about the terrace below; she still held her hat and fidgeted with her fingers on the brooch which was clipped to one side of it. Nanny knocked at the door and came in, red eyed. "If you please, my lady, I've been going through John's things. There's this handkerchief doesn't belong to him." The heavy scent and crowned cipher at the corner proclaimed its origin. "I know whose it is. I'll send it back to her." "Can't think how it came to be there," said nanny. "Poor little boy. Poor little boy," said Brenda to herself, when nanny had left her, and gazed out across the troubled landscape. * * * * * "I was thinking about the pony, sir." "Oh yes, Ben?" "Will you want to be keeping her now?" "I hadn't thought... no, I suppose not." "Mr Westmacott over at Restall was asking about her. He thought she might do for his little girl." "Yes." "How much shall we be asking?" "Oh, I don't know... whatever you think is right." "She's a good little pony and she's always been treated well. I don't think she ought to go under twenty-five quid, sir." "All right, Ben, you see about it." "I'll ask thirty, shall I, sir, and come down a bit?" "Do just what you think best." "Very good, sir." * * * * * At luncheon Tony said, "Jock rang up. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do." "How sweet of him. Why don't you have him down for the week-end?" "Would you like that?" "I shan't be here. I'm going to Veronica's." "You're going to Veronica's?" "Yes, don't you remember?" There were servants in the room so that they said nothing more until later, when they were alone in the library. Then, "Are you really going away?" "Yes. I can't stay here. You understand that, don't you?" "Yes, of course. I was thinking we might both go away, abroad somewhere." Brenda did not answer him but continued in her own line. "I couldn't stay here. It's all over, don't you see, our life down here." "Darling, what _do_ you mean?" "Don't ask me to explain... not just now." "But, Brenda, sweet, I don't understand. We're both young. Of course, we can never forget John. He'll always be our eldest son, but..." "Don't go on, Tony, please don't go on." So Tony stopped and after a time said, "So you're going to Veronica's to-morrow?" "Mmmm." "I think I will ask Jock to come." "Yes, I should." "And we can think about plans later when we've got more used to things." "Yes, later." Next morning. "A sweet letter from mother," said Brenda, handing it across. Lady St Cloud had written: ...I shall not come down to Hetton for the funeral, but I shall be thinking of you both all the time and of my dear grandson. I shall think of you as I saw you all three, together, at Christmas. Dear children, at a time like this only yourselves can be any help to each other. Love is the only thing that is stronger than sorrow... "I got a telegram from Jock," said Tony, "he _can_ come." "It's really rather embarrassing for us all, Brenda coming," said Veronica. "I do think she might have chucked. I shan't in the least know what to say to her." * * * * * Tony said to Jock, as they sat alone after dinner, "I've been trying to understand, and I think I do now. It's not how I feel myself, but Brenda and I are quite different in lots of ways. It's _because_ they were strangers and didn't know John, and were never in our life here, that she wants to be with them. That's it, don't you think? She wants to be absolutely alone and away from everything that reminds | I'll say good-bye." "Good-bye." Another woman pushed past Jock into the carriage, laden with light parcels. * * * * * When the news became known, Marjorie said to Allan, "Well, anyway, this will mean the end of Mr Beaver." But Polly Cockpurse said to Veronica, "That's the end of Tony so far as Brenda is concerned." The impoverished Lasts were stunned by the telegram. They lived on an extensive but unprofitable chicken farm near Princes Risborough. It did not enter the heads of any of them that now, if anything happened, they were the heirs to Hetton. Had it done so, their grief would have been just as keen. Jock drove from Paddington to Bratt's. One of the men by the bar said, "Ghastly thing about Tony Last's boy." "Yes, I was there." "No, were you? What a ghastly thing." Later a telephone message came: "Princess Abdul Akbar wishes to know whether you are in the club." "No, no, tell her I'm not here," said Jock. [VIII] The inquest was held at eleven o'clock next morning; it was soon over. The doctor, the bus-driver, Ben and Miss Ripon gave evidence. Miss Ripon was allowed to remain seated. She was very white and spoke in a trembling voice; her father glared at her from a nearby seat; under her hat was a small bare patch, where they had shaved off her hair to clean her cut. In his summary the coroner remarked that it was clear from the evidence that nobody was in any way to blame for the misadventure; it only remained to express the deep sympathy of the court to Mr Last and Lady Brenda in their terrible loss. The people fell back to allow Tony and Brenda to leave the room. Colonel Inch and the hunt secretary were both present. Everything was done with delicacy and to show respect for their sorrow. Brenda said, "Wait a minute. I must just speak to that poor Ripon girl." She did it charmingly. When everyone had gone. Tony said, "I wish you had been here yesterday. There were so many people about and I didn't know what to say to them." "What did you do all day?" "There was the Shameless Blonde... we played animal snap some of the time." "Animal snap? Was that any good?" "Not much... It's odd to think that yesterday this time it hadn't happened." "Poor little boy," said Brenda. They had scarcely spoken to each other since Brenda's arrival. Tony had driven to the station to meet her; by the time they reached the house Mrs Rattery had gone to bed; that morning she left in her aeroplane without seeing either of them. They heard the machine pass over the house, Brenda in her bath, Tony downstairs in his study attending to the correspondence that had become necessary. A day of fitful sunshine and blustering wind; white and grey clouds were scarcely moving, high overhead, but the bare trees round the house swayed and shook and there were swift whirlpools of straw in the stable yard. Ben changed from the Sunday suit he had worn at the inquest and went about his duties. Thunderclap, too, had been kicked yesterday and was very slightly lame in the off fore. Brenda took off her hat and threw it down on a chair in the hall. "Nothing to say, is there?"<|quote|>"There's no need to talk."</|quote|>"No. I suppose there'll have to be a funeral." "Well, of course." "Yes: to-morrow?" She looked into the morning-room. "They've done quite a lot, haven't they?" All Brenda's movements were slower than usual and her voice was flat and expressionless. She sank down into one of the armchairs in the centre of the hall, which nobody ever used. She sat there doing nothing. Tony put his hand on her shoulder but she said "Don't" ", not impatiently or nervously but without any expression. Tony said, "I'll go and finish those letters." "Yes." "See you at luncheon." "Yes." She rose, looked round listlessly for her hat, found it and went very slowly upstairs, the sunlight through the stained-glass windows glowing and sparkling all about her. In her room she sat on the window seat, looking out across the meadows and dun ploughland, the naked tossing trees, the church towers, the maelstroms of dust and leaf which eddied about the terrace below; she still held her hat and fidgeted with her fingers on the brooch which was clipped to one side of it. Nanny knocked at the door and came in, red eyed. "If you please, my lady, I've been going through John's things. There's this handkerchief doesn't belong to him." The heavy scent and crowned cipher at the corner proclaimed its origin. "I know whose it is. I'll send it back to her." "Can't think how it came to be there," said nanny. "Poor little boy. Poor little boy," said Brenda to herself, when nanny had left her, and gazed out across the troubled landscape. * * * * * "I was thinking about the pony, sir." "Oh yes, Ben?" "Will you want to be keeping her now?" "I hadn't thought... no, I suppose not." "Mr Westmacott over at Restall was asking about her. He thought she might do for his little girl." "Yes." "How much shall we be asking?" "Oh, I don't know... whatever you think is right." "She's a good little pony and she's always been treated well. I don't think she | A Handful Of Dust |
"But I didn't blab it; did I, Fagin?" | Mr. Chitling | my dear," replied the Jew.<|quote|>"But I didn't blab it; did I, Fagin?"</|quote|>demanded Tom, pouring question upon | "To be sure it would, my dear," replied the Jew.<|quote|>"But I didn't blab it; did I, Fagin?"</|quote|>demanded Tom, pouring question upon question with great volubility. "No, | it besides you; not one of 'em, my dear." "I might have got clear off, if I'd split upon her; mightn't I, Fagin?" angrily pursued the poor half-witted dupe. "A word from me would have done it; wouldn't it, Fagin?" "To be sure it would, my dear," replied the Jew.<|quote|>"But I didn't blab it; did I, Fagin?"</|quote|>demanded Tom, pouring question upon question with great volubility. "No, no, to be sure," replied the Jew; "you were too stout-hearted for that. A deal too stout, my dear!" "Perhaps I was," rejoined Tom, looking round; "and if I was, what's to laugh at, in that; eh, Fagin?" The Jew, | "if Bet was all right?" "I mean to say that I shouldn't," replied Tom, angrily. "There, now. Ah! Who'll say as much as that, I should like to know; eh, Fagin?" "Nobody, my dear," replied the Jew; "not a soul, Tom. I don't know one of 'em that would do it besides you; not one of 'em, my dear." "I might have got clear off, if I'd split upon her; mightn't I, Fagin?" angrily pursued the poor half-witted dupe. "A word from me would have done it; wouldn't it, Fagin?" "To be sure it would, my dear," replied the Jew.<|quote|>"But I didn't blab it; did I, Fagin?"</|quote|>demanded Tom, pouring question upon question with great volubility. "No, no, to be sure," replied the Jew; "you were too stout-hearted for that. A deal too stout, my dear!" "Perhaps I was," rejoined Tom, looking round; "and if I was, what's to laugh at, in that; eh, Fagin?" The Jew, perceiving that Mr. Chitling was considerably roused, hastened to assure him that nobody was laughing; and to prove the gravity of the company, appealed to Master Bates, the principal offender. But, unfortunately, Charley, in opening his mouth to reply that he was never more serious in his life, was unable | Tom, and you will make your fortune." "So I _do_ do as she bids me," replied Mr. Chitling; "I shouldn't have been milled, if it hadn't been for her advice. But it turned out a good job for you; didn't it, Fagin! And what's six weeks of it? It must come, some time or another, and why not in the winter time when you don't want to go out a-walking so much; eh, Fagin?" "Ah, to be sure, my dear," replied the Jew. "You wouldn't mind it again, Tom, would you," asked the Dodger, winking upon Charley and the Jew, "if Bet was all right?" "I mean to say that I shouldn't," replied Tom, angrily. "There, now. Ah! Who'll say as much as that, I should like to know; eh, Fagin?" "Nobody, my dear," replied the Jew; "not a soul, Tom. I don't know one of 'em that would do it besides you; not one of 'em, my dear." "I might have got clear off, if I'd split upon her; mightn't I, Fagin?" angrily pursued the poor half-witted dupe. "A word from me would have done it; wouldn't it, Fagin?" "To be sure it would, my dear," replied the Jew.<|quote|>"But I didn't blab it; did I, Fagin?"</|quote|>demanded Tom, pouring question upon question with great volubility. "No, no, to be sure," replied the Jew; "you were too stout-hearted for that. A deal too stout, my dear!" "Perhaps I was," rejoined Tom, looking round; "and if I was, what's to laugh at, in that; eh, Fagin?" The Jew, perceiving that Mr. Chitling was considerably roused, hastened to assure him that nobody was laughing; and to prove the gravity of the company, appealed to Master Bates, the principal offender. But, unfortunately, Charley, in opening his mouth to reply that he was never more serious in his life, was unable to prevent the escape of such a violent roar, that the abused Mr. Chitling, without any preliminary ceremonies, rushed across the room and aimed a blow at the offender; who, being skilful in evading pursuit, ducked to avoid it, and chose his time so well that it lighted on the chest of the merry old gentleman, and caused him to stagger to the wall, where he stood panting for breath, while Mr. Chitling looked on in intense dismay. "Hark!" cried the Dodger at this moment, "I heard the tinkler." Catching up the light, he crept softly upstairs. The bell was | as Mr. Chitling was about to reply. "What do _you_ say, Charley?" "_I_ should say," replied Master Bates, with a grin, "that he was uncommon sweet upon Betsy. See how he's a-blushing! Oh, my eye! here's a merry-go-rounder! Tommy Chitling's in love! Oh, Fagin, Fagin! what a spree!" Thoroughly overpowered with the notion of Mr. Chitling being the victim of the tender passion, Master Bates threw himself back in his chair with such violence, that he lost his balance, and pitched over upon the floor; where (the accident abating nothing of his merriment) he lay at full length until his laugh was over, when he resumed his former position, and began another laugh. "Never mind him, my dear," said the Jew, winking at Mr. Dawkins, and giving Master Bates a reproving tap with the nozzle of the bellows. "Betsy's a fine girl. Stick up to her, Tom. Stick up to her." "What I mean to say, Fagin," replied Mr. Chitling, very red in the face, "is, that that isn't anything to anybody here." "No more it is," replied the Jew; "Charley will talk. Don't mind him, my dear; don't mind him. Betsy's a fine girl. Do as she bids you, Tom, and you will make your fortune." "So I _do_ do as she bids me," replied Mr. Chitling; "I shouldn't have been milled, if it hadn't been for her advice. But it turned out a good job for you; didn't it, Fagin! And what's six weeks of it? It must come, some time or another, and why not in the winter time when you don't want to go out a-walking so much; eh, Fagin?" "Ah, to be sure, my dear," replied the Jew. "You wouldn't mind it again, Tom, would you," asked the Dodger, winking upon Charley and the Jew, "if Bet was all right?" "I mean to say that I shouldn't," replied Tom, angrily. "There, now. Ah! Who'll say as much as that, I should like to know; eh, Fagin?" "Nobody, my dear," replied the Jew; "not a soul, Tom. I don't know one of 'em that would do it besides you; not one of 'em, my dear." "I might have got clear off, if I'd split upon her; mightn't I, Fagin?" angrily pursued the poor half-witted dupe. "A word from me would have done it; wouldn't it, Fagin?" "To be sure it would, my dear," replied the Jew.<|quote|>"But I didn't blab it; did I, Fagin?"</|quote|>demanded Tom, pouring question upon question with great volubility. "No, no, to be sure," replied the Jew; "you were too stout-hearted for that. A deal too stout, my dear!" "Perhaps I was," rejoined Tom, looking round; "and if I was, what's to laugh at, in that; eh, Fagin?" The Jew, perceiving that Mr. Chitling was considerably roused, hastened to assure him that nobody was laughing; and to prove the gravity of the company, appealed to Master Bates, the principal offender. But, unfortunately, Charley, in opening his mouth to reply that he was never more serious in his life, was unable to prevent the escape of such a violent roar, that the abused Mr. Chitling, without any preliminary ceremonies, rushed across the room and aimed a blow at the offender; who, being skilful in evading pursuit, ducked to avoid it, and chose his time so well that it lighted on the chest of the merry old gentleman, and caused him to stagger to the wall, where he stood panting for breath, while Mr. Chitling looked on in intense dismay. "Hark!" cried the Dodger at this moment, "I heard the tinkler." Catching up the light, he crept softly upstairs. The bell was rung again, with some impatience, while the party were in darkness. After a short pause, the Dodger reappeared, and whispered Fagin mysteriously. "What!" cried the Jew, "alone?" The Dodger nodded in the affirmative, and, shading the flame of the candle with his hand, gave Charley Bates a private intimation, in dumb show, that he had better not be funny just then. Having performed this friendly office, he fixed his eyes on the Jew's face, and awaited his directions. The old man bit his yellow fingers, and meditated for some seconds; his face working with agitation the while, as if he dreaded something, and feared to know the worst. At length he raised his head. "Where is he?" he asked. The Dodger pointed to the floor above, and made a gesture, as if to leave the room. "Yes," said the Jew, answering the mute inquiry; "bring him down. Hush! Quiet, Charley! Gently, Tom! Scarce, scarce!" This brief direction to Charley Bates, and his recent antagonist, was softly and immediately obeyed. There was no sound of their whereabout, when the Dodger descended the stairs, bearing the light in his hand, and followed by a man in a coarse smock-frock; who, after casting | at the end of every deal, and protested that he had never seen such a jolly game in all his born days. "That's two doubles and the rub," said Mr. Chitling, with a very long face, as he drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket. "I never see such a feller as you, Jack; you win everything. Even when we've good cards, Charley and I can't make nothing of 'em." Either the master or the manner of this remark, which was made very ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that his consequent shout of laughter roused the Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire what was the matter. "Matter, Fagin!" cried Charley. "I wish you had watched the play. Tommy Chitling hasn't won a point; and I went partners with him against the Artfull and dumb." "Ay, ay!" said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated that he was at no loss to understand the reason. "Try 'em again, Tom; try 'em again." "No more of it for me, thank 'ee, Fagin," replied Mr. Chitling; "I've had enough. That 'ere Dodger has such a run of luck that there's no standing again' him." "Ha! ha! my dear," replied the Jew, "you must get up very early in the morning, to win against the Dodger." "Morning!" said Charley Bates; "you must put your boots on over-night, and have a telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass between your shoulders, if you want to come over him." Mr. Dawkins received these handsome compliments with much philosophy, and offered to cut any gentleman in company, for the first picture-card, at a shilling at a time. Nobody accepting the challenge, and his pipe being by this time smoked out, he proceeded to amuse himself by sketching a ground-plan of Newgate on the table with the piece of chalk which had served him in lieu of counters; whistling, meantime, with peculiar shrillness. "How precious dull you are, Tommy!" said the Dodger, stopping short when there had been a long silence; and addressing Mr. Chitling. "What do you think he's thinking of, Fagin?" "How should I know, my dear?" replied the Jew, looking round as he plied the bellows. "About his losses, maybe; or the little retirement in the country that he's just left, eh? Ha! ha! Is that it, my dear?" "Not a bit of it," replied the Dodger, stopping the subject of discourse as Mr. Chitling was about to reply. "What do _you_ say, Charley?" "_I_ should say," replied Master Bates, with a grin, "that he was uncommon sweet upon Betsy. See how he's a-blushing! Oh, my eye! here's a merry-go-rounder! Tommy Chitling's in love! Oh, Fagin, Fagin! what a spree!" Thoroughly overpowered with the notion of Mr. Chitling being the victim of the tender passion, Master Bates threw himself back in his chair with such violence, that he lost his balance, and pitched over upon the floor; where (the accident abating nothing of his merriment) he lay at full length until his laugh was over, when he resumed his former position, and began another laugh. "Never mind him, my dear," said the Jew, winking at Mr. Dawkins, and giving Master Bates a reproving tap with the nozzle of the bellows. "Betsy's a fine girl. Stick up to her, Tom. Stick up to her." "What I mean to say, Fagin," replied Mr. Chitling, very red in the face, "is, that that isn't anything to anybody here." "No more it is," replied the Jew; "Charley will talk. Don't mind him, my dear; don't mind him. Betsy's a fine girl. Do as she bids you, Tom, and you will make your fortune." "So I _do_ do as she bids me," replied Mr. Chitling; "I shouldn't have been milled, if it hadn't been for her advice. But it turned out a good job for you; didn't it, Fagin! And what's six weeks of it? It must come, some time or another, and why not in the winter time when you don't want to go out a-walking so much; eh, Fagin?" "Ah, to be sure, my dear," replied the Jew. "You wouldn't mind it again, Tom, would you," asked the Dodger, winking upon Charley and the Jew, "if Bet was all right?" "I mean to say that I shouldn't," replied Tom, angrily. "There, now. Ah! Who'll say as much as that, I should like to know; eh, Fagin?" "Nobody, my dear," replied the Jew; "not a soul, Tom. I don't know one of 'em that would do it besides you; not one of 'em, my dear." "I might have got clear off, if I'd split upon her; mightn't I, Fagin?" angrily pursued the poor half-witted dupe. "A word from me would have done it; wouldn't it, Fagin?" "To be sure it would, my dear," replied the Jew.<|quote|>"But I didn't blab it; did I, Fagin?"</|quote|>demanded Tom, pouring question upon question with great volubility. "No, no, to be sure," replied the Jew; "you were too stout-hearted for that. A deal too stout, my dear!" "Perhaps I was," rejoined Tom, looking round; "and if I was, what's to laugh at, in that; eh, Fagin?" The Jew, perceiving that Mr. Chitling was considerably roused, hastened to assure him that nobody was laughing; and to prove the gravity of the company, appealed to Master Bates, the principal offender. But, unfortunately, Charley, in opening his mouth to reply that he was never more serious in his life, was unable to prevent the escape of such a violent roar, that the abused Mr. Chitling, without any preliminary ceremonies, rushed across the room and aimed a blow at the offender; who, being skilful in evading pursuit, ducked to avoid it, and chose his time so well that it lighted on the chest of the merry old gentleman, and caused him to stagger to the wall, where he stood panting for breath, while Mr. Chitling looked on in intense dismay. "Hark!" cried the Dodger at this moment, "I heard the tinkler." Catching up the light, he crept softly upstairs. The bell was rung again, with some impatience, while the party were in darkness. After a short pause, the Dodger reappeared, and whispered Fagin mysteriously. "What!" cried the Jew, "alone?" The Dodger nodded in the affirmative, and, shading the flame of the candle with his hand, gave Charley Bates a private intimation, in dumb show, that he had better not be funny just then. Having performed this friendly office, he fixed his eyes on the Jew's face, and awaited his directions. The old man bit his yellow fingers, and meditated for some seconds; his face working with agitation the while, as if he dreaded something, and feared to know the worst. At length he raised his head. "Where is he?" he asked. The Dodger pointed to the floor above, and made a gesture, as if to leave the room. "Yes," said the Jew, answering the mute inquiry; "bring him down. Hush! Quiet, Charley! Gently, Tom! Scarce, scarce!" This brief direction to Charley Bates, and his recent antagonist, was softly and immediately obeyed. There was no sound of their whereabout, when the Dodger descended the stairs, bearing the light in his hand, and followed by a man in a coarse smock-frock; who, after casting a hurried glance round the room, pulled off a large wrapper which had concealed the lower portion of his face, and disclosed: all haggard, unwashed, and unshorn: the features of flash Toby Crackit. "How are you, Faguey?" said this worthy, nodding to the Jew. "Pop that shawl away in my castor, Dodger, so that I may know where to find it when I cut; that's the time of day! You'll be a fine young cracksman afore the old file now." With these words he pulled up the smock-frock; and, winding it round his middle, drew a chair to the fire, and placed his feet upon the hob. "See there, Faguey," he said, pointing disconsolately to his top boots; "not a drop of Day and Martin since you know when; not a bubble of blacking, by Jove! But don't look at me in that way, man. All in good time. I can't talk about business till I've eat and drank; so produce the sustainance, and let's have a quiet fill-out for the first time these three days!" The Jew motioned to the Dodger to place what eatables there were, upon the table; and, seating himself opposite the housebreaker, waited his leisure. To judge from appearances, Toby was by no means in a hurry to open the conversation. At first, the Jew contented himself with patiently watching his countenance, as if to gain from its expression some clue to the intelligence he brought; but in vain. He looked tired and worn, but there was the same complacent repose upon his features that they always wore: and through dirt, and beard, and whisker, there still shone, unimpaired, the self-satisfied smirk of flash Toby Crackit. Then the Jew, in an agony of impatience, watched every morsel he put into his mouth; pacing up and down the room, meanwhile, in irrepressible excitement. It was all of no use. Toby continued to eat with the utmost outward indifference, until he could eat no more; then, ordering the Dodger out, he closed the door, mixed a glass of spirits and water, and composed himself for talking. "First and foremost, Faguey," said Toby. "Yes, yes!" interposed the Jew, drawing up his chair. Mr. Crackit stopped to take a draught of spirits and water, and to declare that the gin was excellent; then placing his feet against the low mantelpiece, so as to bring his boots to about the | by sketching a ground-plan of Newgate on the table with the piece of chalk which had served him in lieu of counters; whistling, meantime, with peculiar shrillness. "How precious dull you are, Tommy!" said the Dodger, stopping short when there had been a long silence; and addressing Mr. Chitling. "What do you think he's thinking of, Fagin?" "How should I know, my dear?" replied the Jew, looking round as he plied the bellows. "About his losses, maybe; or the little retirement in the country that he's just left, eh? Ha! ha! Is that it, my dear?" "Not a bit of it," replied the Dodger, stopping the subject of discourse as Mr. Chitling was about to reply. "What do _you_ say, Charley?" "_I_ should say," replied Master Bates, with a grin, "that he was uncommon sweet upon Betsy. See how he's a-blushing! Oh, my eye! here's a merry-go-rounder! Tommy Chitling's in love! Oh, Fagin, Fagin! what a spree!" Thoroughly overpowered with the notion of Mr. Chitling being the victim of the tender passion, Master Bates threw himself back in his chair with such violence, that he lost his balance, and pitched over upon the floor; where (the accident abating nothing of his merriment) he lay at full length until his laugh was over, when he resumed his former position, and began another laugh. "Never mind him, my dear," said the Jew, winking at Mr. Dawkins, and giving Master Bates a reproving tap with the nozzle of the bellows. "Betsy's a fine girl. Stick up to her, Tom. Stick up to her." "What I mean to say, Fagin," replied Mr. Chitling, very red in the face, "is, that that isn't anything to anybody here." "No more it is," replied the Jew; "Charley will talk. Don't mind him, my dear; don't mind him. Betsy's a fine girl. Do as she bids you, Tom, and you will make your fortune." "So I _do_ do as she bids me," replied Mr. Chitling; "I shouldn't have been milled, if it hadn't been for her advice. But it turned out a good job for you; didn't it, Fagin! And what's six weeks of it? It must come, some time or another, and why not in the winter time when you don't want to go out a-walking so much; eh, Fagin?" "Ah, to be sure, my dear," replied the Jew. "You wouldn't mind it again, Tom, would you," asked the Dodger, winking upon Charley and the Jew, "if Bet was all right?" "I mean to say that I shouldn't," replied Tom, angrily. "There, now. Ah! Who'll say as much as that, I should like to know; eh, Fagin?" "Nobody, my dear," replied the Jew; "not a soul, Tom. I don't know one of 'em that would do it besides you; not one of 'em, my dear." "I might have got clear off, if I'd split upon her; mightn't I, Fagin?" angrily pursued the poor half-witted dupe. "A word from me would have done it; wouldn't it, Fagin?" "To be sure it would, my dear," replied the Jew.<|quote|>"But I didn't blab it; did I, Fagin?"</|quote|>demanded Tom, pouring question upon question with great volubility. "No, no, to be sure," replied the Jew; "you were too stout-hearted for that. A deal too stout, my dear!" "Perhaps I was," rejoined Tom, looking round; "and if I was, what's to laugh at, in that; eh, Fagin?" The Jew, perceiving that Mr. Chitling was considerably roused, hastened to assure him that nobody was laughing; and to prove the gravity of the company, appealed to Master Bates, the principal offender. But, unfortunately, Charley, in opening his mouth to reply that he was never more serious in his life, was unable to prevent the escape of such a violent roar, that the abused Mr. Chitling, without any preliminary ceremonies, rushed across the room and aimed a blow at the offender; who, being skilful in evading pursuit, ducked to avoid it, and chose his time so well that it lighted on the chest of the merry old gentleman, and caused him to stagger to the wall, where he stood panting for breath, while Mr. Chitling looked on in intense dismay. "Hark!" cried the Dodger at this moment, "I heard the tinkler." Catching up the light, he crept softly upstairs. The bell was rung again, with some impatience, while the party were in darkness. After a short pause, the Dodger reappeared, and whispered Fagin mysteriously. "What!" cried the Jew, "alone?" The Dodger nodded in the affirmative, and, shading the flame of the candle with his hand, gave Charley Bates a private intimation, in dumb show, that he had better not be funny just then. Having performed this friendly office, he fixed his eyes on the Jew's face, and awaited his directions. The old man bit his yellow fingers, and meditated for some seconds; his face working with agitation the while, as if he dreaded something, and feared to know the worst. At length he raised his head. "Where is he?" he asked. The Dodger pointed to the floor above, and made a gesture, as if to leave the room. "Yes," said the Jew, answering the mute inquiry; "bring him down. Hush! Quiet, Charley! Gently, Tom! Scarce, scarce!" This brief direction to Charley Bates, and his recent antagonist, was softly and immediately obeyed. There was no sound of their whereabout, when the Dodger descended the stairs, bearing the light in his hand, and followed by a man in a coarse smock-frock; who, after casting a hurried glance round the room, pulled off a large wrapper which had concealed the lower portion of his face, and disclosed: all haggard, unwashed, and unshorn: the features of flash Toby Crackit. "How are you, Faguey?" said this worthy, nodding to the Jew. "Pop that shawl away in my castor, Dodger, so that I may know where to find it when I cut; that's the time of day! You'll be a fine young cracksman afore the old file now." With these words he pulled | Oliver Twist |
"Well, what am I to tell Poirot?" | Mr. Hastings | even to look at it."<|quote|>"Well, what am I to tell Poirot?"</|quote|>"Tell him I don't know | delight to handle it, or even to look at it."<|quote|>"Well, what am I to tell Poirot?"</|quote|>"Tell him I don't know what he's talking about. It's | except that we've got some that are never used, which are a perfect dream! Old Worcester. You're not a connoisseur, are you, Hastings?" I shook my head. "You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old china it's pure delight to handle it, or even to look at it."<|quote|>"Well, what am I to tell Poirot?"</|quote|>"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, | "Don't you know?" "Not in the least. Do you?" I was compelled to shake my head. "What extra coffee-cup?" "I don't know." "He'd better ask Dorcas, or one of the maids, if he wants to know about coffee-cups. It's their business, not mine. I don't know anything about the coffee-cups, except that we've got some that are never used, which are a perfect dream! Old Worcester. You're not a connoisseur, are you, Hastings?" I shook my head. "You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old china it's pure delight to handle it, or even to look at it."<|quote|>"Well, what am I to tell Poirot?"</|quote|>"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 | told me to wait until I was alone with you," I said, dropping my voice significantly, and watching him intently out of the corner of my eye. I have always been rather good at what is called, I believe, creating an atmosphere. "Well?" There was no change of expression in the dark melancholic face. Had he any idea of what I was about to say? "This is the message." I dropped my voice still lower. " Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.'" "What on earth does he mean?" Lawrence stared at me in quite unaffected astonishment. "Don't you know?" "Not in the least. Do you?" I was compelled to shake my head. "What extra coffee-cup?" "I don't know." "He'd better ask Dorcas, or one of the maids, if he wants to know about coffee-cups. It's their business, not mine. I don't know anything about the coffee-cups, except that we've got some that are never used, which are a perfect dream! Old Worcester. You're not a connoisseur, are you, Hastings?" I shook my head. "You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old china it's pure delight to handle it, or even to look at it."<|quote|>"Well, what am I to tell Poirot?"</|quote|>"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 | enigmatically. The remark seemed so utterly irrelevant that I did not even take the trouble to answer it. But I decided that if I made any interesting and important discoveries as no doubt I should I would keep them to myself, and surprise Poirot with the ultimate result. There are times when it is one's duty to assert oneself. CHAPTER IX. DR. BAUERSTEIN I had had no opportunity as yet of passing on Poirot's message to Lawrence. But now, as I strolled out on the lawn, still nursing a grudge against my friend's high-handedness, I saw Lawrence on the croquet lawn, aimlessly knocking a couple of very ancient balls about, with a still more ancient mallet. It struck me that it would be a good opportunity to deliver my message. Otherwise, Poirot himself might relieve me of it. It was true that I did not quite gather its purport, but I flattered myself that by Lawrence's reply, and perhaps a little skillful cross-examination on my part, I should soon perceive its significance. Accordingly I accosted him. "I've been looking for you," I remarked untruthfully. "Have you?" "Yes. The truth is, I've got a message for you from Poirot." "Yes?" "He told me to wait until I was alone with you," I said, dropping my voice significantly, and watching him intently out of the corner of my eye. I have always been rather good at what is called, I believe, creating an atmosphere. "Well?" There was no change of expression in the dark melancholic face. Had he any idea of what I was about to say? "This is the message." I dropped my voice still lower. " Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.'" "What on earth does he mean?" Lawrence stared at me in quite unaffected astonishment. "Don't you know?" "Not in the least. Do you?" I was compelled to shake my head. "What extra coffee-cup?" "I don't know." "He'd better ask Dorcas, or one of the maids, if he wants to know about coffee-cups. It's their business, not mine. I don't know anything about the coffee-cups, except that we've got some that are never used, which are a perfect dream! Old Worcester. You're not a connoisseur, are you, Hastings?" I shook my head. "You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old china it's pure delight to handle it, or even to look at it."<|quote|>"Well, what am I to tell Poirot?"</|quote|>"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 | 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. "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?"</|quote|>"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 very chirp of the birds was faint | had had no opportunity as yet of passing on Poirot's message to Lawrence. But now, as I strolled out on the lawn, still nursing a grudge against my friend's high-handedness, I saw Lawrence on the croquet lawn, aimlessly knocking a couple of very ancient balls about, with a still more ancient mallet. It struck me that it would be a good opportunity to deliver my message. Otherwise, Poirot himself might relieve me of it. It was true that I did not quite gather its purport, but I flattered myself that by Lawrence's reply, and perhaps a little skillful cross-examination on my part, I should soon perceive its significance. Accordingly I accosted him. "I've been looking for you," I remarked untruthfully. "Have you?" "Yes. The truth is, I've got a message for you from Poirot." "Yes?" "He told me to wait until I was alone with you," I said, dropping my voice significantly, and watching him intently out of the corner of my eye. I have always been rather good at what is called, I believe, creating an atmosphere. "Well?" There was no change of expression in the dark melancholic face. Had he any idea of what I was about to say? "This is the message." I dropped my voice still lower. " Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.'" "What on earth does he mean?" Lawrence stared at me in quite unaffected astonishment. "Don't you know?" "Not in the least. Do you?" I was compelled to shake my head. "What extra coffee-cup?" "I don't know." "He'd better ask Dorcas, or one of the maids, if he wants to know about coffee-cups. It's their business, not mine. I don't know anything about the coffee-cups, except that we've got some that are never used, which are a perfect dream! Old Worcester. You're not a connoisseur, are you, Hastings?" I shook my head. "You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old china it's pure delight to handle it, or even to look at it."<|quote|>"Well, what am I to tell Poirot?"</|quote|>"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 | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
“Is this not rather sudden? You have given me no intimation of your intentions,” | Sybylla Melvyn | His matter-of-fact coolness flabbergasted me.<|quote|>“Is this not rather sudden? You have given me no intimation of your intentions,”</|quote|>I stammered. “I didn’t think | curious feeling—disappointment, perhaps—stole over me. His matter-of-fact coolness flabbergasted me.<|quote|>“Is this not rather sudden? You have given me no intimation of your intentions,”</|quote|>I stammered. “I didn’t think it wise to dawdle any | more emotion than had he been inviting me to a picnic. This was not as I had pictured a man would tell his love, or as I had read of it, heard of it, or wished it should be. A curious feeling—disappointment, perhaps—stole over me. His matter-of-fact coolness flabbergasted me.<|quote|>“Is this not rather sudden? You have given me no intimation of your intentions,”</|quote|>I stammered. “I didn’t think it wise to dawdle any longer,” he replied. “Surely you have known what I’ve been driving at ever since I first clapped eyes on you. There’s plenty of time. I don’t want to hurry you, only I want you to be engaged to me for | or no?” This was an experience in love. He did not turn red or white, or yellow or green, nor did he tremble or stammer, or cry or laugh, or become fierce or passionate, or tender or anything but just himself, as I had always known him. He displayed no more emotion than had he been inviting me to a picnic. This was not as I had pictured a man would tell his love, or as I had read of it, heard of it, or wished it should be. A curious feeling—disappointment, perhaps—stole over me. His matter-of-fact coolness flabbergasted me.<|quote|>“Is this not rather sudden? You have given me no intimation of your intentions,”</|quote|>I stammered. “I didn’t think it wise to dawdle any longer,” he replied. “Surely you have known what I’ve been driving at ever since I first clapped eyes on you. There’s plenty of time. I don’t want to hurry you, only I want you to be engaged to me for safety.” He spoke as usual in his slow twangy drawl, which would have proclaimed his Colonial nationality anywhere. No word of love was uttered to me and none requested from me. I put it down to his conceit. I thought that he fancied he could win any woman, and me | was a sort of sitting-room, containing a piano, facilities for washing, a table, easy-chairs, and other things. As we entered I noticed the lamp, burning brightly on the table, gleamed on the face of a clock on the wall, which pointed to half past ten. We stood beside the table, some distance apart, and, facing me, he said: “It is no use of me making a long yarn about nothing. I’m sure you know what I want to say better than I do myself. You always are wonderfully smart at seeing through a fellow. Tell me, will it be yes or no?” This was an experience in love. He did not turn red or white, or yellow or green, nor did he tremble or stammer, or cry or laugh, or become fierce or passionate, or tender or anything but just himself, as I had always known him. He displayed no more emotion than had he been inviting me to a picnic. This was not as I had pictured a man would tell his love, or as I had read of it, heard of it, or wished it should be. A curious feeling—disappointment, perhaps—stole over me. His matter-of-fact coolness flabbergasted me.<|quote|>“Is this not rather sudden? You have given me no intimation of your intentions,”</|quote|>I stammered. “I didn’t think it wise to dawdle any longer,” he replied. “Surely you have known what I’ve been driving at ever since I first clapped eyes on you. There’s plenty of time. I don’t want to hurry you, only I want you to be engaged to me for safety.” He spoke as usual in his slow twangy drawl, which would have proclaimed his Colonial nationality anywhere. No word of love was uttered to me and none requested from me. I put it down to his conceit. I thought that he fancied he could win any woman, and me without the least palaver or trouble. I felt annoyed. I said aloud, “I will become engaged to you;” to myself I added, “Just for a little while, the more to surprise and take the conceit out of you when the time comes.” Now that I understand his character I know that it was not conceit, but just his quiet unpretending way. He had meant all his actions towards me, and had taken mine in return. “Thank you, Sybylla, that is all I want. We will talk about the matter more some other time. I will go up to Caddagat next | now and have a song or two, but no more dancing for a while,” said some of them; but Harold Beecham said, “One more turn, and then we will have a long spell and a change of programme.” He ordered Joe Archer to play a waltz, and the floor soon held several whirling couples. Harold “requested the pleasure” of me—the first time that night. I demurred. He would not take a refusal. “Believe me, if I felt competent, Mr Beecham, I would not refuse. I cannot dance. It will be no pleasure to you.” “Allow me to be the best judge of what is a pleasure to me,” he said, quietly placing me in position. He swung me once round the room, and then through an open window into the garden. “I am sorry that I haven’t had more time to look after you today. Come round into my room. I want to strike a bargain with you,” were his words. I followed him in the direction of a detached building in the garden. This was Harold’s particular domain. It contained three rooms—one a library and office, another an arsenal and deed-room, and the third, into which he led me, was a sort of sitting-room, containing a piano, facilities for washing, a table, easy-chairs, and other things. As we entered I noticed the lamp, burning brightly on the table, gleamed on the face of a clock on the wall, which pointed to half past ten. We stood beside the table, some distance apart, and, facing me, he said: “It is no use of me making a long yarn about nothing. I’m sure you know what I want to say better than I do myself. You always are wonderfully smart at seeing through a fellow. Tell me, will it be yes or no?” This was an experience in love. He did not turn red or white, or yellow or green, nor did he tremble or stammer, or cry or laugh, or become fierce or passionate, or tender or anything but just himself, as I had always known him. He displayed no more emotion than had he been inviting me to a picnic. This was not as I had pictured a man would tell his love, or as I had read of it, heard of it, or wished it should be. A curious feeling—disappointment, perhaps—stole over me. His matter-of-fact coolness flabbergasted me.<|quote|>“Is this not rather sudden? You have given me no intimation of your intentions,”</|quote|>I stammered. “I didn’t think it wise to dawdle any longer,” he replied. “Surely you have known what I’ve been driving at ever since I first clapped eyes on you. There’s plenty of time. I don’t want to hurry you, only I want you to be engaged to me for safety.” He spoke as usual in his slow twangy drawl, which would have proclaimed his Colonial nationality anywhere. No word of love was uttered to me and none requested from me. I put it down to his conceit. I thought that he fancied he could win any woman, and me without the least palaver or trouble. I felt annoyed. I said aloud, “I will become engaged to you;” to myself I added, “Just for a little while, the more to surprise and take the conceit out of you when the time comes.” Now that I understand his character I know that it was not conceit, but just his quiet unpretending way. He had meant all his actions towards me, and had taken mine in return. “Thank you, Sybylla, that is all I want. We will talk about the matter more some other time. I will go up to Caddagat next Sunday. You have surprised me nearly out of my wits,” here he laughed. “I never dreamt you would say yes so easily, just like any other girl. I thought I would have a lot of trouble with you.” He approached me and was stooping to kiss me. I cannot account for my action or condemn it sufficiently. It was hysterical—the outcome of an overstrung, highly excitable, and nervous temperament. Perhaps my vanity was wounded, and my tendency to strike when touched was up in arms. The calm air of ownership with which Harold drew near annoyed me, or, as Sunday-school teachers would explain it, Satan got hold of me. He certainly placed a long strong riding-whip on the table beneath my hand! As Harold stooped with the intention of pressing his lips to mine, I quickly raised the whip and brought it with all my strength right across his face. The instant the whip had descended I would have smashed my arm on the door-post to recall that blow. But that was impossible. It had left a great weal on the healthy sun-tanned skin. His moustache had saved his lips, but it had caught his nose, the left cheek, had | Helen got one seat of honour near the head of the table and Miss Derrick another. I drifted to the foot among the unimportant younger fry, where we had no end of fun and idle chatter. We had to wait on ourselves, and as all formality was dispensed with, it was something like a picnic. The heat was excessive. Every window and door were open, and the balmy, almost imperceptible, zephyrs which faintly rustled the curtains and kissed our perspiration-beaded brows were rich with many scents from the wide old flower-garden, which, despite the drought, brought forth a wealth of blossom. When done eating we had to wash the dishes. Such a scamper ensued back and forwards to the kitchen, which rang with noise, and merriment. Everyone was helping, hindering, laughing, joking, teasing, and brimming over with fun and enjoyment. When we had completed this task, dancing was proposed. Some of the elderly and more sensible people said it was too hot, but all the young folks did not care a rap for the temperature. Harold had no objections, Miss Derrick was agreeable, Miss Benson announced herself ready and willing, and Joe Archer said he was “leppin’” to begin, so we adjourned to the dancing-room and commenced operations. I played the piano for the first quadrille, and aunt Helen for the second dance. It was most enjoyable. There was a table at one end of the room on which was any amount of cherries, lollies, cake, dainties, beers, syrups, and glasses, where all could regale themselves without ceremony or bother every time the inclination seized them. Several doors and windows of the long room opened into the garden, and, provided one had no fear of snakes, it was delightful to walk amid the flowers and cool oneself between dances. A little exertion on such a night made us very hot. After the third dance the two old squatters, the horse-buyer, the clergyman, and Mr Benson disappeared. Judging from the hilarity of their demeanour and the killing odour of their breaths when they returned an hour or so later, during their absence they must have conscientiously sampled the contents of every whisky decanter on the dining-room sideboard. I could not dance, but had no lack of partners, as, ladies being in the minority, the gentlemen had to occasionally put up with their own sex in a dance. “Let’s take a breeze now and have a song or two, but no more dancing for a while,” said some of them; but Harold Beecham said, “One more turn, and then we will have a long spell and a change of programme.” He ordered Joe Archer to play a waltz, and the floor soon held several whirling couples. Harold “requested the pleasure” of me—the first time that night. I demurred. He would not take a refusal. “Believe me, if I felt competent, Mr Beecham, I would not refuse. I cannot dance. It will be no pleasure to you.” “Allow me to be the best judge of what is a pleasure to me,” he said, quietly placing me in position. He swung me once round the room, and then through an open window into the garden. “I am sorry that I haven’t had more time to look after you today. Come round into my room. I want to strike a bargain with you,” were his words. I followed him in the direction of a detached building in the garden. This was Harold’s particular domain. It contained three rooms—one a library and office, another an arsenal and deed-room, and the third, into which he led me, was a sort of sitting-room, containing a piano, facilities for washing, a table, easy-chairs, and other things. As we entered I noticed the lamp, burning brightly on the table, gleamed on the face of a clock on the wall, which pointed to half past ten. We stood beside the table, some distance apart, and, facing me, he said: “It is no use of me making a long yarn about nothing. I’m sure you know what I want to say better than I do myself. You always are wonderfully smart at seeing through a fellow. Tell me, will it be yes or no?” This was an experience in love. He did not turn red or white, or yellow or green, nor did he tremble or stammer, or cry or laugh, or become fierce or passionate, or tender or anything but just himself, as I had always known him. He displayed no more emotion than had he been inviting me to a picnic. This was not as I had pictured a man would tell his love, or as I had read of it, heard of it, or wished it should be. A curious feeling—disappointment, perhaps—stole over me. His matter-of-fact coolness flabbergasted me.<|quote|>“Is this not rather sudden? You have given me no intimation of your intentions,”</|quote|>I stammered. “I didn’t think it wise to dawdle any longer,” he replied. “Surely you have known what I’ve been driving at ever since I first clapped eyes on you. There’s plenty of time. I don’t want to hurry you, only I want you to be engaged to me for safety.” He spoke as usual in his slow twangy drawl, which would have proclaimed his Colonial nationality anywhere. No word of love was uttered to me and none requested from me. I put it down to his conceit. I thought that he fancied he could win any woman, and me without the least palaver or trouble. I felt annoyed. I said aloud, “I will become engaged to you;” to myself I added, “Just for a little while, the more to surprise and take the conceit out of you when the time comes.” Now that I understand his character I know that it was not conceit, but just his quiet unpretending way. He had meant all his actions towards me, and had taken mine in return. “Thank you, Sybylla, that is all I want. We will talk about the matter more some other time. I will go up to Caddagat next Sunday. You have surprised me nearly out of my wits,” here he laughed. “I never dreamt you would say yes so easily, just like any other girl. I thought I would have a lot of trouble with you.” He approached me and was stooping to kiss me. I cannot account for my action or condemn it sufficiently. It was hysterical—the outcome of an overstrung, highly excitable, and nervous temperament. Perhaps my vanity was wounded, and my tendency to strike when touched was up in arms. The calm air of ownership with which Harold drew near annoyed me, or, as Sunday-school teachers would explain it, Satan got hold of me. He certainly placed a long strong riding-whip on the table beneath my hand! As Harold stooped with the intention of pressing his lips to mine, I quickly raised the whip and brought it with all my strength right across his face. The instant the whip had descended I would have smashed my arm on the door-post to recall that blow. But that was impossible. It had left a great weal on the healthy sun-tanned skin. His moustache had saved his lips, but it had caught his nose, the left cheek, had blinded the left eye, and had left a cut on the temple from which drops of blood were rolling down his cheek and staining his white coat. A momentary gleam of anger shot into his eyes and he gave a gasp, whether of surprise, pain, or annoyance, I know not. He made a gesture towards me. I half expected and fervently wished he would strike. The enormity of what I had done paralysed me. The whip fell from my fingers and I dropped on to a low lounge behind me, and placing my elbows on my knees crouchingly buried my face in my hands; my hair tumbled softly over my shoulders and reached the floor, as though to sympathetically curtain my humiliation. Oh, that Harold would thrash me severely! It would have infinitely relieved me. I had done a mean unwomanly thing in thus striking a man, who by his great strength and sex was debarred retaliation. I had committed a violation of self-respect and common decency; I had given a man an ignominious blow in the face with a riding-whip. And that man was Harold Beecham, who with all his strength and great stature was so wondrously gentle—who had always treated my whims and nonsense with something like the amused tolerance held by a great Newfoundland for the pranks of a kitten. The clock struck eleven. “A less stinging rebuke would have served your purpose. I had no idea that a simple caress from the man whose proposal of marriage you had just accepted would be considered such an unpardonable familiarity.” Harold’s voice fell clearly, calmly, cuttingly on the silence. He moved away to the other end of the room and I heard the sound of water. A desire filled me to tell him that I did not think he had attempted a familiarity, but that I had been mad. I wished to say I could not account for my action, but I was dumb. My tongue refused to work, and I felt as though I would choke. The splash of the water came from the other end of the room. I knew he must be suffering acute pain in his eye. A far lighter blow had kept me sleepless a whole night. A fear possessed me that I might have permanently injured his sight. The splash of water ceased. His footfall stopped beside me. I could feel he | which he led me, was a sort of sitting-room, containing a piano, facilities for washing, a table, easy-chairs, and other things. As we entered I noticed the lamp, burning brightly on the table, gleamed on the face of a clock on the wall, which pointed to half past ten. We stood beside the table, some distance apart, and, facing me, he said: “It is no use of me making a long yarn about nothing. I’m sure you know what I want to say better than I do myself. You always are wonderfully smart at seeing through a fellow. Tell me, will it be yes or no?” This was an experience in love. He did not turn red or white, or yellow or green, nor did he tremble or stammer, or cry or laugh, or become fierce or passionate, or tender or anything but just himself, as I had always known him. He displayed no more emotion than had he been inviting me to a picnic. This was not as I had pictured a man would tell his love, or as I had read of it, heard of it, or wished it should be. A curious feeling—disappointment, perhaps—stole over me. His matter-of-fact coolness flabbergasted me.<|quote|>“Is this not rather sudden? You have given me no intimation of your intentions,”</|quote|>I stammered. “I didn’t think it wise to dawdle any longer,” he replied. “Surely you have known what I’ve been driving at ever since I first clapped eyes on you. There’s plenty of time. I don’t want to hurry you, only I want you to be engaged to me for safety.” He spoke as usual in his slow twangy drawl, which would have proclaimed his Colonial nationality anywhere. No word of love was uttered to me and none requested from me. I put it down to his conceit. I thought that he fancied he could win any woman, and me without the least palaver or trouble. I felt annoyed. I said aloud, “I will become engaged to you;” to myself I added, “Just for a little while, the more to surprise and take the conceit out of you when the time comes.” Now that I understand his character I know that it was not conceit, but just his quiet unpretending way. He had meant all his actions towards me, and had taken mine in return. “Thank you, Sybylla, that is all I want. We will talk about the matter more some other time. I will go up to Caddagat next Sunday. You have surprised me nearly out of my wits,” here he laughed. “I never dreamt you would say yes so easily, just like any other girl. I thought I would have a lot of trouble with you.” He approached me and was stooping to kiss me. I cannot account for my action or condemn it sufficiently. It was hysterical—the outcome of an overstrung, highly excitable, and nervous temperament. Perhaps my vanity was wounded, and my tendency to strike when touched was up in arms. The calm air of ownership with | My Brilliant Career |
cried a hoarse brutal voice. | No speaker | were safe. "Here, hi, Jack!"<|quote|>cried a hoarse brutal voice.</|quote|>"Look sharp, we want to | apparently quite satisfied that they were safe. "Here, hi, Jack!"<|quote|>cried a hoarse brutal voice.</|quote|>"Look sharp, we want to get rid of these cords; | 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!"<|quote|>cried a hoarse brutal voice.</|quote|>"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 | 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!"<|quote|>cried a hoarse brutal voice.</|quote|>"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 | 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!"<|quote|>cried a hoarse brutal voice.</|quote|>"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 | the officer, "and I shall 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!"<|quote|>cried a hoarse brutal voice.</|quote|>"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. | of the settlers' places, one log-house being given up to the wounded, he joined the little English gathering, where the settlers' wives, as soon as the danger was past, had prepared a comfortable meal. After an uneventful night, the morning broke cheerily over the tiny settlement, where the only trace of the attack was at Gordon's, whose rough log-house was now a heap of smoking ashes. The sailors had breakfasted well, thanks to the settlers' wives, and were now drawn up, all but the prisoners' guard, while the officer stood talking to Gordon and his neighbours with Don and Jem standing close by; for in spite of Jem's reiterated appeals, his companion refused to take to the bush. "No, Jem," Don said stubbornly; "it would be cowardly, and we're cowards enough." "But s'pose they find us out? That there officer's sure to smell as we're salts." "Smell? Nonsense!" "He will, Mas' Don. I'm that soaked with Stockholm tar that I can smell myself like a tub." "Nonsense!" "But if they find out as we deserted, they'll hang us." "I don't believe it, Jem." "Well, you'll see, Mas' Don; so if they hang you, don't you blame me." "Well, Mr Gordon, we must be off," said the officer. "Thank you once more for all your hospitality." "God bless you, sir, and all your men, for saving our lives," said the settler warmly; and there was a chorus of thanks from the other settlers and their wives. "Nonsense, my dear sir; only our duty!" said the officer heartily. "And now about our prisoners. I don't know what to do about the Maoris. I don't want to shoot them, and I certainly don't want to march them with us down to where the ship lies. What would you do, Mr Gordon?" "I should give them a knife apiece, shake hands with them, and let them go." "What, to come back with the said knives, and kill you all when we're gone!" "They will not come back if you take away the scoundrels who led them on," said Don sharply. "How do you know?" said the officer good-humouredly. "Because," said Don, colouring, "I have been living a good deal with them, both with a friendly tribe and as a prisoner." "And they did not eat you?" said the officer laughing. "There, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, "hear that?" "I think you are right, youngster," continued the officer, "and I shall 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!"<|quote|>cried a hoarse brutal voice.</|quote|>"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. "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." "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 | "And now about our prisoners. I don't know what to do about the Maoris. I don't want to shoot them, and I certainly don't want to march them with us down to where the ship lies. What would you do, Mr Gordon?" "I should give them a knife apiece, shake hands with them, and let them go." "What, to come back with the said knives, and kill you all when we're gone!" "They will not come back if you take away the scoundrels who led them on," said Don sharply. "How do you know?" said the officer good-humouredly. "Because," said Don, colouring, "I have been living a good deal with them, both with a friendly tribe and as a prisoner." "And they did not eat you?" said the officer laughing. "There, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, "hear that?" "I think you are right, youngster," continued the officer, "and I shall 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!"<|quote|>cried a hoarse brutal voice.</|quote|>"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. "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." "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, | Don Lavington |
"Oh! Who is he?" | Mr. Herriton | him before you came?" "No."<|quote|>"Oh! Who is he?"</|quote|>"A native of the place." | three weeks." "Did you know him before you came?" "No."<|quote|>"Oh! Who is he?"</|quote|>"A native of the place." The second silence took place. | to know how long, if you can remember." She entered into elaborate calculations on her fingers. "Exactly eleven days," she said at last. "How long have you been here?" More calculations, while he tapped irritably with his foot. "Close on three weeks." "Did you know him before you came?" "No."<|quote|>"Oh! Who is he?"</|quote|>"A native of the place." The second silence took place. They had left the plain now and were climbing up the outposts of the hills, the olive-trees still accompanying. The driver, a jolly fat man, had got out to ease the horses, and was walking by the side of the | Abbott, in great agitation. "If you will be so very kind." "Then how long has she been engaged?" Her face was that of a perfect fool--a fool in terror. "A short time--quite a short time," she stammered, as if the shortness of the time would reassure him. "I should like to know how long, if you can remember." She entered into elaborate calculations on her fingers. "Exactly eleven days," she said at last. "How long have you been here?" More calculations, while he tapped irritably with his foot. "Close on three weeks." "Did you know him before you came?" "No."<|quote|>"Oh! Who is he?"</|quote|>"A native of the place." The second silence took place. They had left the plain now and were climbing up the outposts of the hills, the olive-trees still accompanying. The driver, a jolly fat man, had got out to ease the horses, and was walking by the side of the carriage. "I understood they met at the hotel." "It was a mistake of Mrs. Theobald s." "I also understand that he is a member of the Italian nobility." She did not reply. "May I be told his name?" Miss Abbott whispered, "Carella." But the driver heard her, and a grin | the heat, the endless rows of olive-trees, regular yet mysterious--seemed hostile to the placid atmosphere of Sawston in which his thoughts took birth. At the outset he made one great concession. If the match was really suitable, and Lilia were bent on it, he would give in, and trust to his influence with his mother to set things right. He would not have made the concession in England; but here in Italy, Lilia, however wilful and silly, was at all events growing to be a human being. "Are we to talk it over now?" he asked. "Certainly, please," said Miss Abbott, in great agitation. "If you will be so very kind." "Then how long has she been engaged?" Her face was that of a perfect fool--a fool in terror. "A short time--quite a short time," she stammered, as if the shortness of the time would reassure him. "I should like to know how long, if you can remember." She entered into elaborate calculations on her fingers. "Exactly eleven days," she said at last. "How long have you been here?" More calculations, while he tapped irritably with his foot. "Close on three weeks." "Did you know him before you came?" "No."<|quote|>"Oh! Who is he?"</|quote|>"A native of the place." The second silence took place. They had left the plain now and were climbing up the outposts of the hills, the olive-trees still accompanying. The driver, a jolly fat man, had got out to ease the horses, and was walking by the side of the carriage. "I understood they met at the hotel." "It was a mistake of Mrs. Theobald s." "I also understand that he is a member of the Italian nobility." She did not reply. "May I be told his name?" Miss Abbott whispered, "Carella." But the driver heard her, and a grin split over his face. The engagement must be known already. "Carella? Conte or Marchese, or what?" "Signor," said Miss Abbott, and looked helplessly aside. "Perhaps I bore you with these questions. If so, I will stop." "Oh, no, please; not at all. I am here--my own idea--to give all information which you very naturally--and to see if somehow--please ask anything you like." "Then how old is he?" "Oh, quite young. Twenty-one, I believe." There burst from Philip the exclamation, "Good Lord!" "One would never believe it," said Miss Abbott, flushing. "He looks much older." "And is he good-looking?" he asked, | is marvellous, and that one gets no idea of it from books at all." The curate suggested that a year was a long time; and Miss Abbott, with decorous playfulness, answered him, "Oh, but you must let me have my fling! I promise to have it once, and once only. It will give me things to think about and talk about for the rest of my life." The curate had consented; so had Mr. Abbott. And here she was in a legno, solitary, dusty, frightened, with as much to answer and to answer for as the most dashing adventuress could desire. They shook hands without speaking. She made room for Philip and his luggage amidst the loud indignation of the unsuccessful driver, whom it required the combined eloquence of the station-master and the station beggar to confute. The silence was prolonged until they started. For three days he had been considering what he should do, and still more what he should say. He had invented a dozen imaginary conversations, in all of which his logic and eloquence procured him certain victory. But how to begin? He was in the enemy s country, and everything--the hot sun, the cold air behind the heat, the endless rows of olive-trees, regular yet mysterious--seemed hostile to the placid atmosphere of Sawston in which his thoughts took birth. At the outset he made one great concession. If the match was really suitable, and Lilia were bent on it, he would give in, and trust to his influence with his mother to set things right. He would not have made the concession in England; but here in Italy, Lilia, however wilful and silly, was at all events growing to be a human being. "Are we to talk it over now?" he asked. "Certainly, please," said Miss Abbott, in great agitation. "If you will be so very kind." "Then how long has she been engaged?" Her face was that of a perfect fool--a fool in terror. "A short time--quite a short time," she stammered, as if the shortness of the time would reassure him. "I should like to know how long, if you can remember." She entered into elaborate calculations on her fingers. "Exactly eleven days," she said at last. "How long have you been here?" More calculations, while he tapped irritably with his foot. "Close on three weeks." "Did you know him before you came?" "No."<|quote|>"Oh! Who is he?"</|quote|>"A native of the place." The second silence took place. They had left the plain now and were climbing up the outposts of the hills, the olive-trees still accompanying. The driver, a jolly fat man, had got out to ease the horses, and was walking by the side of the carriage. "I understood they met at the hotel." "It was a mistake of Mrs. Theobald s." "I also understand that he is a member of the Italian nobility." She did not reply. "May I be told his name?" Miss Abbott whispered, "Carella." But the driver heard her, and a grin split over his face. The engagement must be known already. "Carella? Conte or Marchese, or what?" "Signor," said Miss Abbott, and looked helplessly aside. "Perhaps I bore you with these questions. If so, I will stop." "Oh, no, please; not at all. I am here--my own idea--to give all information which you very naturally--and to see if somehow--please ask anything you like." "Then how old is he?" "Oh, quite young. Twenty-one, I believe." There burst from Philip the exclamation, "Good Lord!" "One would never believe it," said Miss Abbott, flushing. "He looks much older." "And is he good-looking?" he asked, with gathering sarcasm. She became decisive. "Very good-looking. All his features are good, and he is well built--though I dare say English standards would find him too short." Philip, whose one physical advantage was his height, felt annoyed at her implied indifference to it. "May I conclude that you like him?" She replied decisively again, "As far as I have seen him, I do." At that moment the carriage entered a little wood, which lay brown and sombre across the cultivated hill. The trees of the wood were small and leafless, but noticeable for this--that their stems stood in violets as rocks stand in the summer sea. There are such violets in England, but not so many. Nor are there so many in Art, for no painter has the courage. The cart-ruts were channels, the hollow lagoons; even the dry white margin of the road was splashed, like a causeway soon to be submerged under the advancing tide of spring. Philip paid no attention at the time: he was thinking what to say next. But his eyes had registered the beauty, and next March he did not forget that the road to Monteriano must traverse innumerable flowers. "As far as | the railway, and many more dotted over the plain and the slopes of the hills, but of a town, mediaeval or otherwise, not the slightest sign. He must take what is suitably termed a "legno"--a piece of wood--and drive up eight miles of excellent road into the middle ages. For it is impossible, as well as sacrilegious, to be as quick as Baedeker. It was three in the afternoon when Philip left the realms of commonsense. He was so weary with travelling that he had fallen asleep in the train. His fellow-passengers had the usual Italian gift of divination, and when Monteriano came they knew he wanted to go there, and dropped him out. His feet sank into the hot asphalt of the platform, and in a dream he watched the train depart, while the porter who ought to have been carrying his bag, ran up the line playing touch-you-last with the guard. Alas! he was in no humour for Italy. Bargaining for a legno bored him unutterably. The man asked six lire; and though Philip knew that for eight miles it should scarcely be more than four, yet he was about to give what he was asked, and so make the man discontented and unhappy for the rest of the day. He was saved from this social blunder by loud shouts, and looking up the road saw one cracking his whip and waving his reins and driving two horses furiously, and behind him there appeared the swaying figure of a woman, holding star-fish fashion on to anything she could touch. It was Miss Abbott, who had just received his letter from Milan announcing the time of his arrival, and had hurried down to meet him. He had known Miss Abbott for years, and had never had much opinion about her one way or the other. She was good, quiet, dull, and amiable, and young only because she was twenty-three: there was nothing in her appearance or manner to suggest the fire of youth. All her life had been spent at Sawston with a dull and amiable father, and her pleasant, pallid face, bent on some respectable charity, was a familiar object of the Sawston streets. Why she had ever wished to leave them was surprising; but as she truly said, "I am John Bull to the backbone, yet I do want to see Italy, just once. Everybody says it is marvellous, and that one gets no idea of it from books at all." The curate suggested that a year was a long time; and Miss Abbott, with decorous playfulness, answered him, "Oh, but you must let me have my fling! I promise to have it once, and once only. It will give me things to think about and talk about for the rest of my life." The curate had consented; so had Mr. Abbott. And here she was in a legno, solitary, dusty, frightened, with as much to answer and to answer for as the most dashing adventuress could desire. They shook hands without speaking. She made room for Philip and his luggage amidst the loud indignation of the unsuccessful driver, whom it required the combined eloquence of the station-master and the station beggar to confute. The silence was prolonged until they started. For three days he had been considering what he should do, and still more what he should say. He had invented a dozen imaginary conversations, in all of which his logic and eloquence procured him certain victory. But how to begin? He was in the enemy s country, and everything--the hot sun, the cold air behind the heat, the endless rows of olive-trees, regular yet mysterious--seemed hostile to the placid atmosphere of Sawston in which his thoughts took birth. At the outset he made one great concession. If the match was really suitable, and Lilia were bent on it, he would give in, and trust to his influence with his mother to set things right. He would not have made the concession in England; but here in Italy, Lilia, however wilful and silly, was at all events growing to be a human being. "Are we to talk it over now?" he asked. "Certainly, please," said Miss Abbott, in great agitation. "If you will be so very kind." "Then how long has she been engaged?" Her face was that of a perfect fool--a fool in terror. "A short time--quite a short time," she stammered, as if the shortness of the time would reassure him. "I should like to know how long, if you can remember." She entered into elaborate calculations on her fingers. "Exactly eleven days," she said at last. "How long have you been here?" More calculations, while he tapped irritably with his foot. "Close on three weeks." "Did you know him before you came?" "No."<|quote|>"Oh! Who is he?"</|quote|>"A native of the place." The second silence took place. They had left the plain now and were climbing up the outposts of the hills, the olive-trees still accompanying. The driver, a jolly fat man, had got out to ease the horses, and was walking by the side of the carriage. "I understood they met at the hotel." "It was a mistake of Mrs. Theobald s." "I also understand that he is a member of the Italian nobility." She did not reply. "May I be told his name?" Miss Abbott whispered, "Carella." But the driver heard her, and a grin split over his face. The engagement must be known already. "Carella? Conte or Marchese, or what?" "Signor," said Miss Abbott, and looked helplessly aside. "Perhaps I bore you with these questions. If so, I will stop." "Oh, no, please; not at all. I am here--my own idea--to give all information which you very naturally--and to see if somehow--please ask anything you like." "Then how old is he?" "Oh, quite young. Twenty-one, I believe." There burst from Philip the exclamation, "Good Lord!" "One would never believe it," said Miss Abbott, flushing. "He looks much older." "And is he good-looking?" he asked, with gathering sarcasm. She became decisive. "Very good-looking. All his features are good, and he is well built--though I dare say English standards would find him too short." Philip, whose one physical advantage was his height, felt annoyed at her implied indifference to it. "May I conclude that you like him?" She replied decisively again, "As far as I have seen him, I do." At that moment the carriage entered a little wood, which lay brown and sombre across the cultivated hill. The trees of the wood were small and leafless, but noticeable for this--that their stems stood in violets as rocks stand in the summer sea. There are such violets in England, but not so many. Nor are there so many in Art, for no painter has the courage. The cart-ruts were channels, the hollow lagoons; even the dry white margin of the road was splashed, like a causeway soon to be submerged under the advancing tide of spring. Philip paid no attention at the time: he was thinking what to say next. But his eyes had registered the beauty, and next March he did not forget that the road to Monteriano must traverse innumerable flowers. "As far as I have seen him, I do like him," repeated Miss Abbott, after a pause. He thought she sounded a little defiant, and crushed her at once. "What is he, please? You haven t told me that. What s his position?" She opened her mouth to speak, and no sound came from it. Philip waited patiently. She tried to be audacious, and failed pitiably. "No position at all. He is kicking his heels, as my father would say. You see, he has only just finished his military service." "As a private?" "I suppose so. There is general conscription. He was in the Bersaglieri, I think. Isn t that the crack regiment?" "The men in it must be short and broad. They must also be able to walk six miles an hour." She looked at him wildly, not understanding all that he said, but feeling that he was very clever. Then she continued her defence of Signor Carella. "And now, like most young men, he is looking out for something to do." "Meanwhile?" "Meanwhile, like most young men, he lives with his people--father, mother, two sisters, and a tiny tot of a brother." There was a grating sprightliness about her that drove him nearly mad. He determined to silence her at last. "One more question, and only one more. What is his father?" "His father," said Miss Abbott. "Well, I don t suppose you ll think it a good match. But that s not the point. I mean the point is not--I mean that social differences--love, after all--not but what--I--" Philip ground his teeth together and said nothing. "Gentlemen sometimes judge hardly. But I feel that you, and at all events your mother--so really good in every sense, so really unworldly--after all, love-marriages are made in heaven." "Yes, Miss Abbott, I know. But I am anxious to hear heaven s choice. You arouse my curiosity. Is my sister-in-law to marry an angel?" "Mr. Herriton, don t--please, Mr. Herriton--a dentist. His father s a dentist." Philip gave a cry of personal disgust and pain. He shuddered all over, and edged away from his companion. A dentist! A dentist at Monteriano. A dentist in fairyland! False teeth and laughing gas and the tilting chair at a place which knew the Etruscan League, and the Pax Romana, and Alaric himself, and the Countess Matilda, and the Middle Ages, all fighting and holiness, and the Renaissance, | and everything--the hot sun, the cold air behind the heat, the endless rows of olive-trees, regular yet mysterious--seemed hostile to the placid atmosphere of Sawston in which his thoughts took birth. At the outset he made one great concession. If the match was really suitable, and Lilia were bent on it, he would give in, and trust to his influence with his mother to set things right. He would not have made the concession in England; but here in Italy, Lilia, however wilful and silly, was at all events growing to be a human being. "Are we to talk it over now?" he asked. "Certainly, please," said Miss Abbott, in great agitation. "If you will be so very kind." "Then how long has she been engaged?" Her face was that of a perfect fool--a fool in terror. "A short time--quite a short time," she stammered, as if the shortness of the time would reassure him. "I should like to know how long, if you can remember." She entered into elaborate calculations on her fingers. "Exactly eleven days," she said at last. "How long have you been here?" More calculations, while he tapped irritably with his foot. "Close on three weeks." "Did you know him before you came?" "No."<|quote|>"Oh! Who is he?"</|quote|>"A native of the place." The second silence took place. They had left the plain now and were climbing up the outposts of the hills, the olive-trees still accompanying. The driver, a jolly fat man, had got out to ease the horses, and was walking by the side of the carriage. "I understood they met at the hotel." "It was a mistake of Mrs. Theobald s." "I also understand that he is a member of the Italian nobility." She did not reply. "May I be told his name?" Miss Abbott whispered, "Carella." But the driver heard her, and a grin split over his face. The engagement must be known already. "Carella? Conte or Marchese, or what?" "Signor," said Miss Abbott, and looked helplessly aside. "Perhaps I bore you with these questions. If so, I will stop." "Oh, no, please; not at all. I am here--my own idea--to give all information which you very naturally--and to see if somehow--please ask anything you like." "Then how old is he?" "Oh, quite young. Twenty-one, I believe." There burst from Philip the exclamation, "Good Lord!" "One would never believe it," said Miss Abbott, flushing. "He looks much older." "And is he good-looking?" he asked, with gathering sarcasm. She became decisive. "Very good-looking. All his features are good, and he is well built--though I dare say English standards would find him too short." Philip, whose one physical advantage was his height, felt annoyed at her implied indifference to it. "May I conclude that you like him?" She replied decisively again, "As far as I have seen him, I do." At that moment the carriage entered a little wood, which lay brown and sombre across the cultivated hill. The trees of the wood were small and leafless, but noticeable for this--that their stems stood in violets as rocks stand in the summer sea. There are such violets in England, but not so many. Nor are there so many in Art, for no painter has the courage. The cart-ruts were channels, the hollow lagoons; even the dry white margin of the road was splashed, like a causeway soon to be submerged under the advancing tide of spring. Philip paid no attention at the time: he was thinking what to say next. But his eyes had registered the beauty, and next March he did not forget that the road to Monteriano must traverse innumerable flowers. "As far as I have seen him, I do like him," repeated Miss Abbott, after a pause. He | Where Angels Fear To Tread |
"let us not, any of us, be judged by what we appeared at that period of general folly. The time of the play is a time which I hate to recollect. Maria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together; but none so wrong as myself. Compared with me, all the rest were blameless. I was playing the fool with my eyes open." | Edmund | hearing her to the end,<|quote|>"let us not, any of us, be judged by what we appeared at that period of general folly. The time of the play is a time which I hate to recollect. Maria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together; but none so wrong as myself. Compared with me, all the rest were blameless. I was playing the fool with my eyes open."</|quote|>"As a bystander," said Fanny, | dear Fanny," replied Edmund, scarcely hearing her to the end,<|quote|>"let us not, any of us, be judged by what we appeared at that period of general folly. The time of the play is a time which I hate to recollect. Maria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together; but none so wrong as myself. Compared with me, all the rest were blameless. I was playing the fool with my eyes open."</|quote|>"As a bystander," said Fanny, "perhaps I saw more than | poor Mr. Rushworth, not seeming to care how he exposed or hurt him, and paying attentions to my cousin Maria, which in short, at the time of the play, I received an impression which will never be got over." "My dear Fanny," replied Edmund, scarcely hearing her to the end,<|quote|>"let us not, any of us, be judged by what we appeared at that period of general folly. The time of the play is a time which I hate to recollect. Maria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together; but none so wrong as myself. Compared with me, all the rest were blameless. I was playing the fool with my eyes open."</|quote|>"As a bystander," said Fanny, "perhaps I saw more than you did; and I do think that Mr. Rushworth was sometimes very jealous." "Very possibly. No wonder. Nothing could be more improper than the whole business. I am shocked whenever I think that Maria could be capable of it; but, | say, cousin, that I cannot approve his character. I have not thought well of him from the time of the play. I then saw him behaving, as it appeared to me, so very improperly and unfeelingly I may speak of it now because it is all over so improperly by poor Mr. Rushworth, not seeming to care how he exposed or hurt him, and paying attentions to my cousin Maria, which in short, at the time of the play, I received an impression which will never be got over." "My dear Fanny," replied Edmund, scarcely hearing her to the end,<|quote|>"let us not, any of us, be judged by what we appeared at that period of general folly. The time of the play is a time which I hate to recollect. Maria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together; but none so wrong as myself. Compared with me, all the rest were blameless. I was playing the fool with my eyes open."</|quote|>"As a bystander," said Fanny, "perhaps I saw more than you did; and I do think that Mr. Rushworth was sometimes very jealous." "Very possibly. No wonder. Nothing could be more improper than the whole business. I am shocked whenever I think that Maria could be capable of it; but, if she could undertake the part, we must not be surprised at the rest." "Before the play, I am much mistaken if _Julia_ did not think he was paying her attentions." "Julia! I have heard before from some one of his being in love with Julia; but I could never | speaking of her cheerfully from the hour of his coming home. His avoiding her was quite at an end. He had dined at the Parsonage only the preceding day. After leaving him to his happier thoughts for some minutes, Fanny, feeling it due to herself, returned to Mr. Crawford, and said, "It is not merely in _temper_ that I consider him as totally unsuited to myself; though, in _that_ respect, I think the difference between us too great, infinitely too great: his spirits often oppress me; but there is something in him which I object to still more. I must say, cousin, that I cannot approve his character. I have not thought well of him from the time of the play. I then saw him behaving, as it appeared to me, so very improperly and unfeelingly I may speak of it now because it is all over so improperly by poor Mr. Rushworth, not seeming to care how he exposed or hurt him, and paying attentions to my cousin Maria, which in short, at the time of the play, I received an impression which will never be got over." "My dear Fanny," replied Edmund, scarcely hearing her to the end,<|quote|>"let us not, any of us, be judged by what we appeared at that period of general folly. The time of the play is a time which I hate to recollect. Maria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together; but none so wrong as myself. Compared with me, all the rest were blameless. I was playing the fool with my eyes open."</|quote|>"As a bystander," said Fanny, "perhaps I saw more than you did; and I do think that Mr. Rushworth was sometimes very jealous." "Very possibly. No wonder. Nothing could be more improper than the whole business. I am shocked whenever I think that Maria could be capable of it; but, if she could undertake the part, we must not be surprised at the rest." "Before the play, I am much mistaken if _Julia_ did not think he was paying her attentions." "Julia! I have heard before from some one of his being in love with Julia; but I could never see anything of it. And, Fanny, though I hope I do justice to my sisters' good qualities, I think it very possible that they might, one or both, be more desirous of being admired by Crawford, and might shew that desire rather more unguardedly than was perfectly prudent. I can remember that they were evidently fond of his society; and with such encouragement, a man like Crawford, lively, and it may be, a little unthinking, might be led on to there could be nothing very striking, because it is clear that he had no pretensions: his heart was reserved for | lively, you are serious; but so much the better: his spirits will support yours. It is your disposition to be easily dejected and to fancy difficulties greater than they are. His cheerfulness will counteract this. He sees difficulties nowhere: and his pleasantness and gaiety will be a constant support to you. Your being so far unlike, Fanny, does not in the smallest degree make against the probability of your happiness together: do not imagine it. I am myself convinced that it is rather a favourable circumstance. I am perfectly persuaded that the tempers had better be unlike: I mean unlike in the flow of the spirits, in the manners, in the inclination for much or little company, in the propensity to talk or to be silent, to be grave or to be gay. Some opposition here is, I am thoroughly convinced, friendly to matrimonial happiness. I exclude extremes, of course; and a very close resemblance in all those points would be the likeliest way to produce an extreme. A counteraction, gentle and continual, is the best safeguard of manners and conduct." Full well could Fanny guess where his thoughts were now: Miss Crawford's power was all returning. He had been speaking of her cheerfully from the hour of his coming home. His avoiding her was quite at an end. He had dined at the Parsonage only the preceding day. After leaving him to his happier thoughts for some minutes, Fanny, feeling it due to herself, returned to Mr. Crawford, and said, "It is not merely in _temper_ that I consider him as totally unsuited to myself; though, in _that_ respect, I think the difference between us too great, infinitely too great: his spirits often oppress me; but there is something in him which I object to still more. I must say, cousin, that I cannot approve his character. I have not thought well of him from the time of the play. I then saw him behaving, as it appeared to me, so very improperly and unfeelingly I may speak of it now because it is all over so improperly by poor Mr. Rushworth, not seeming to care how he exposed or hurt him, and paying attentions to my cousin Maria, which in short, at the time of the play, I received an impression which will never be got over." "My dear Fanny," replied Edmund, scarcely hearing her to the end,<|quote|>"let us not, any of us, be judged by what we appeared at that period of general folly. The time of the play is a time which I hate to recollect. Maria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together; but none so wrong as myself. Compared with me, all the rest were blameless. I was playing the fool with my eyes open."</|quote|>"As a bystander," said Fanny, "perhaps I saw more than you did; and I do think that Mr. Rushworth was sometimes very jealous." "Very possibly. No wonder. Nothing could be more improper than the whole business. I am shocked whenever I think that Maria could be capable of it; but, if she could undertake the part, we must not be surprised at the rest." "Before the play, I am much mistaken if _Julia_ did not think he was paying her attentions." "Julia! I have heard before from some one of his being in love with Julia; but I could never see anything of it. And, Fanny, though I hope I do justice to my sisters' good qualities, I think it very possible that they might, one or both, be more desirous of being admired by Crawford, and might shew that desire rather more unguardedly than was perfectly prudent. I can remember that they were evidently fond of his society; and with such encouragement, a man like Crawford, lively, and it may be, a little unthinking, might be led on to there could be nothing very striking, because it is clear that he had no pretensions: his heart was reserved for you. And I must say, that its being for you has raised him inconceivably in my opinion. It does him the highest honour; it shews his proper estimation of the blessing of domestic happiness and pure attachment. It proves him unspoilt by his uncle. It proves him, in short, everything that I had been used to wish to believe him, and feared he was not." "I am persuaded that he does not think, as he ought, on serious subjects." "Say, rather, that he has not thought at all upon serious subjects, which I believe to be a good deal the case. How could it be otherwise, with such an education and adviser? Under the disadvantages, indeed, which both have had, is it not wonderful that they should be what they are? Crawford's _feelings_, I am ready to acknowledge, have hitherto been too much his guides. Happily, those feelings have generally been good. You will supply the rest; and a most fortunate man he is to attach himself to such a creature to a woman who, firm as a rock in her own principles, has a gentleness of character so well adapted to recommend them. He has chosen his partner, indeed, | positive! This is not like yourself, your rational self." "I mean," she cried, sorrowfully correcting herself, "that I _think_ I never shall, as far as the future can be answered for; I think I never shall return his regard." "I must hope better things. I am aware, more aware than Crawford can be, that the man who means to make you love him (you having due notice of his intentions) must have very uphill work, for there are all your early attachments and habits in battle array; and before he can get your heart for his own use he has to unfasten it from all the holds upon things animate and inanimate, which so many years' growth have confirmed, and which are considerably tightened for the moment by the very idea of separation. I know that the apprehension of being forced to quit Mansfield will for a time be arming you against him. I wish he had not been obliged to tell you what he was trying for. I wish he had known you as well as I do, Fanny. Between us, I think we should have won you. My theoretical and his practical knowledge together could not have failed. He should have worked upon my plans. I must hope, however, that time, proving him (as I firmly believe it will) to deserve you by his steady affection, will give him his reward. I cannot suppose that you have not the _wish_ to love him the natural wish of gratitude. You must have some feeling of that sort. You must be sorry for your own indifference." "We are so totally unlike," said Fanny, avoiding a direct answer, "we are so very, very different in all our inclinations and ways, that I consider it as quite impossible we should ever be tolerably happy together, even if I _could_ like him. There never were two people more dissimilar. We have not one taste in common. We should be miserable." "You are mistaken, Fanny. The dissimilarity is not so strong. You are quite enough alike. You _have_ tastes in common. You have moral and literary tastes in common. You have both warm hearts and benevolent feelings; and, Fanny, who that heard him read, and saw you listen to Shakespeare the other night, will think you unfitted as companions? You forget yourself: there is a decided difference in your tempers, I allow. He is lively, you are serious; but so much the better: his spirits will support yours. It is your disposition to be easily dejected and to fancy difficulties greater than they are. His cheerfulness will counteract this. He sees difficulties nowhere: and his pleasantness and gaiety will be a constant support to you. Your being so far unlike, Fanny, does not in the smallest degree make against the probability of your happiness together: do not imagine it. I am myself convinced that it is rather a favourable circumstance. I am perfectly persuaded that the tempers had better be unlike: I mean unlike in the flow of the spirits, in the manners, in the inclination for much or little company, in the propensity to talk or to be silent, to be grave or to be gay. Some opposition here is, I am thoroughly convinced, friendly to matrimonial happiness. I exclude extremes, of course; and a very close resemblance in all those points would be the likeliest way to produce an extreme. A counteraction, gentle and continual, is the best safeguard of manners and conduct." Full well could Fanny guess where his thoughts were now: Miss Crawford's power was all returning. He had been speaking of her cheerfully from the hour of his coming home. His avoiding her was quite at an end. He had dined at the Parsonage only the preceding day. After leaving him to his happier thoughts for some minutes, Fanny, feeling it due to herself, returned to Mr. Crawford, and said, "It is not merely in _temper_ that I consider him as totally unsuited to myself; though, in _that_ respect, I think the difference between us too great, infinitely too great: his spirits often oppress me; but there is something in him which I object to still more. I must say, cousin, that I cannot approve his character. I have not thought well of him from the time of the play. I then saw him behaving, as it appeared to me, so very improperly and unfeelingly I may speak of it now because it is all over so improperly by poor Mr. Rushworth, not seeming to care how he exposed or hurt him, and paying attentions to my cousin Maria, which in short, at the time of the play, I received an impression which will never be got over." "My dear Fanny," replied Edmund, scarcely hearing her to the end,<|quote|>"let us not, any of us, be judged by what we appeared at that period of general folly. The time of the play is a time which I hate to recollect. Maria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together; but none so wrong as myself. Compared with me, all the rest were blameless. I was playing the fool with my eyes open."</|quote|>"As a bystander," said Fanny, "perhaps I saw more than you did; and I do think that Mr. Rushworth was sometimes very jealous." "Very possibly. No wonder. Nothing could be more improper than the whole business. I am shocked whenever I think that Maria could be capable of it; but, if she could undertake the part, we must not be surprised at the rest." "Before the play, I am much mistaken if _Julia_ did not think he was paying her attentions." "Julia! I have heard before from some one of his being in love with Julia; but I could never see anything of it. And, Fanny, though I hope I do justice to my sisters' good qualities, I think it very possible that they might, one or both, be more desirous of being admired by Crawford, and might shew that desire rather more unguardedly than was perfectly prudent. I can remember that they were evidently fond of his society; and with such encouragement, a man like Crawford, lively, and it may be, a little unthinking, might be led on to there could be nothing very striking, because it is clear that he had no pretensions: his heart was reserved for you. And I must say, that its being for you has raised him inconceivably in my opinion. It does him the highest honour; it shews his proper estimation of the blessing of domestic happiness and pure attachment. It proves him unspoilt by his uncle. It proves him, in short, everything that I had been used to wish to believe him, and feared he was not." "I am persuaded that he does not think, as he ought, on serious subjects." "Say, rather, that he has not thought at all upon serious subjects, which I believe to be a good deal the case. How could it be otherwise, with such an education and adviser? Under the disadvantages, indeed, which both have had, is it not wonderful that they should be what they are? Crawford's _feelings_, I am ready to acknowledge, have hitherto been too much his guides. Happily, those feelings have generally been good. You will supply the rest; and a most fortunate man he is to attach himself to such a creature to a woman who, firm as a rock in her own principles, has a gentleness of character so well adapted to recommend them. He has chosen his partner, indeed, with rare felicity. He will make you happy, Fanny; I know he will make you happy; but you will make him everything." "I would not engage in such a charge," cried Fanny, in a shrinking accent; "in such an office of high responsibility!" "As usual, believing yourself unequal to anything! fancying everything too much for you! Well, though I may not be able to persuade you into different feelings, you will be persuaded into them, I trust. I confess myself sincerely anxious that you may. I have no common interest in Crawford's well-doing. Next to your happiness, Fanny, his has the first claim on me. You are aware of my having no common interest in Crawford." Fanny was too well aware of it to have anything to say; and they walked on together some fifty yards in mutual silence and abstraction. Edmund first began again "I was very much pleased by her manner of speaking of it yesterday, particularly pleased, because I had not depended upon her seeing everything in so just a light. I knew she was very fond of you; but yet I was afraid of her not estimating your worth to her brother quite as it deserved, and of her regretting that he had not rather fixed on some woman of distinction or fortune. I was afraid of the bias of those worldly maxims, which she has been too much used to hear. But it was very different. She spoke of you, Fanny, just as she ought. She desires the connexion as warmly as your uncle or myself. We had a long talk about it. I should not have mentioned the subject, though very anxious to know her sentiments; but I had not been in the room five minutes before she began introducing it with all that openness of heart, and sweet peculiarity of manner, that spirit and ingenuousness which are so much a part of herself. Mrs. Grant laughed at her for her rapidity." "Was Mrs. Grant in the room, then?" "Yes, when I reached the house I found the two sisters together by themselves; and when once we had begun, we had not done with you, Fanny, till Crawford and Dr. Grant came in." "It is above a week since I saw Miss Crawford." "Yes, she laments it; yet owns it may have been best. You will see her, however, before she goes. She is | friendly to matrimonial happiness. I exclude extremes, of course; and a very close resemblance in all those points would be the likeliest way to produce an extreme. A counteraction, gentle and continual, is the best safeguard of manners and conduct." Full well could Fanny guess where his thoughts were now: Miss Crawford's power was all returning. He had been speaking of her cheerfully from the hour of his coming home. His avoiding her was quite at an end. He had dined at the Parsonage only the preceding day. After leaving him to his happier thoughts for some minutes, Fanny, feeling it due to herself, returned to Mr. Crawford, and said, "It is not merely in _temper_ that I consider him as totally unsuited to myself; though, in _that_ respect, I think the difference between us too great, infinitely too great: his spirits often oppress me; but there is something in him which I object to still more. I must say, cousin, that I cannot approve his character. I have not thought well of him from the time of the play. I then saw him behaving, as it appeared to me, so very improperly and unfeelingly I may speak of it now because it is all over so improperly by poor Mr. Rushworth, not seeming to care how he exposed or hurt him, and paying attentions to my cousin Maria, which in short, at the time of the play, I received an impression which will never be got over." "My dear Fanny," replied Edmund, scarcely hearing her to the end,<|quote|>"let us not, any of us, be judged by what we appeared at that period of general folly. The time of the play is a time which I hate to recollect. Maria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together; but none so wrong as myself. Compared with me, all the rest were blameless. I was playing the fool with my eyes open."</|quote|>"As a bystander," said Fanny, "perhaps I saw more than you did; and I do think that Mr. Rushworth was sometimes very jealous." "Very possibly. No wonder. Nothing could be more improper than the whole business. I am shocked whenever I think that Maria could be capable of it; but, if she could undertake the part, we must not be surprised at the rest." "Before the play, I am much mistaken if _Julia_ did not think he was paying her attentions." "Julia! I have heard before from some one of his being in love with Julia; but I could never see anything of it. And, Fanny, though I hope I do justice to my sisters' good qualities, I think it very possible that they might, one or both, be more desirous of being admired by Crawford, and might shew that desire rather more unguardedly than was perfectly prudent. I can remember that they were evidently fond of his society; and with such encouragement, a man like Crawford, lively, and it may be, a little unthinking, might be led on to there could be nothing very striking, because it is clear that he had no pretensions: his heart was reserved for you. And I must say, that its being for you has raised him inconceivably in my opinion. It does him the highest honour; it shews his proper estimation of the blessing of domestic happiness and pure attachment. It proves him unspoilt by his uncle. It proves him, in short, everything that I had been used to wish to believe him, and feared he was not." "I am persuaded that he does not think, as he ought, on serious subjects." "Say, rather, that he has not thought at all upon serious subjects, which I believe to be a good deal the case. How could it be otherwise, with such an education and adviser? Under the disadvantages, indeed, which both have had, is it not wonderful that they should be what they are? Crawford's _feelings_, I am ready to acknowledge, have hitherto been too much his guides. Happily, those feelings have generally been good. You will supply the rest; and a most fortunate man he is to attach himself to such a creature to a woman who, firm as a rock in her own principles, has a gentleness of character so well adapted to recommend them. He has chosen his partner, indeed, with rare felicity. He will make you happy, Fanny; I know he will make you happy; but you will make him everything." "I would not engage in such a charge," cried Fanny, in a shrinking accent; "in such an office of high responsibility!" "As usual, believing yourself unequal to anything! fancying everything too much for you! Well, though I may not be able to persuade you into different feelings, you will be persuaded into them, I trust. I confess myself sincerely anxious that you may. I have no common interest in Crawford's well-doing. Next to your happiness, Fanny, his has the first claim on me. You are aware of my having no common interest in Crawford." Fanny was too well aware of it to have anything to say; and they walked on together some fifty yards in mutual silence and abstraction. Edmund first began again "I was very much pleased by her manner of speaking of it yesterday, particularly pleased, because I had not depended upon her seeing everything in so just a light. I knew she was very fond of you; but yet I was | Mansfield Park |
"No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again." | Diana Barry | to decorate it," cried Anne.<|quote|>"No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again."</|quote|>"Jane's mother is going to | and Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it," cried Anne.<|quote|>"No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again."</|quote|>"Jane's mother is going to let her have a birthday | when evening comes I think it's lovelier still." "It's a very fine evening," said Diana, "but oh, I have such news, Anne. Guess. You can have three guesses." "Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all and Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it," cried Anne.<|quote|>"No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again."</|quote|>"Jane's mother is going to let her have a birthday party?" Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing with merriment. "I can't think what it can be," said Anne in despair, "unless it's that Moody Spurgeon MacPherson saw you home from prayer meeting last night. Did he?" "I should | and looking so important that Anne instantly divined there was news to be told. But betray too eager curiosity she would not. "Isn't this evening just like a purple dream, Diana? It makes me so glad to be alive. In the mornings I always think the mornings are best; but when evening comes I think it's lovelier still." "It's a very fine evening," said Diana, "but oh, I have such news, Anne. Guess. You can have three guesses." "Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all and Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it," cried Anne.<|quote|>"No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again."</|quote|>"Jane's mother is going to let her have a birthday party?" Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing with merriment. "I can't think what it can be," said Anne in despair, "unless it's that Moody Spurgeon MacPherson saw you home from prayer meeting last night. Did he?" "I should think not," exclaimed Diana indignantly. "I wouldn't be likely to boast of it if he did, the horrid creature! I knew you couldn't guess it. Mother had a letter from Aunt Josephine today, and Aunt Josephine wants you and me to go to town next Tuesday and stop with her | them dreamily, repeating aloud the battle canto from _Marmion_--which had also been part of their English course the preceding winter and which Miss Stacy had made them learn off by heart--and exulting in its rushing lines and the clash of spears in its imagery. When she came to the lines The stubborn spearsmen still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, she stopped in ecstasy to shut her eyes that she might the better fancy herself one of that heroic ring. When she opened them again it was to behold Diana coming through the gate that led into the Barry field and looking so important that Anne instantly divined there was news to be told. But betray too eager curiosity she would not. "Isn't this evening just like a purple dream, Diana? It makes me so glad to be alive. In the mornings I always think the mornings are best; but when evening comes I think it's lovelier still." "It's a very fine evening," said Diana, "but oh, I have such news, Anne. Guess. You can have three guesses." "Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all and Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it," cried Anne.<|quote|>"No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again."</|quote|>"Jane's mother is going to let her have a birthday party?" Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing with merriment. "I can't think what it can be," said Anne in despair, "unless it's that Moody Spurgeon MacPherson saw you home from prayer meeting last night. Did he?" "I should think not," exclaimed Diana indignantly. "I wouldn't be likely to boast of it if he did, the horrid creature! I knew you couldn't guess it. Mother had a letter from Aunt Josephine today, and Aunt Josephine wants you and me to go to town next Tuesday and stop with her for the Exhibition. There!" "Oh, Diana," whispered Anne, finding it necessary to lean up against a maple tree for support, "do you really mean it? But I'm afraid Marilla won't let me go. She will say that she can't encourage gadding about. That was what she said last week when Jane invited me to go with them in their double-seated buggy to the American concert at the White Sands Hotel. I wanted to go, but Marilla said I'd be better at home learning my lessons and so would Jane. I was bitterly disappointed, Diana. I felt so heartbroken that I | appreciated now. I feel quite sure that you will soon see a great improvement in me in this respect, Marilla." "I'm sure I hope so," said Marilla skeptically. But Matthew, who had been sitting mutely in his corner, laid a hand on Anne's shoulder when Marilla had gone out. "Don't give up all your romance, Anne," he whispered shyly, "a little of it is a good thing--not too much, of course--but keep a little of it, Anne, keep a little of it." CHAPTER XXIX. An Epoch in Anne's Life |ANNE was bringing the cows home from the back pasture by way of Lover's Lane. It was a September evening and all the gaps and clearings in the woods were brimmed up with ruby sunset light. Here and there the lane was splashed with it, but for the most part it was already quite shadowy beneath the maples, and the spaces under the firs were filled with a clear violet dusk like airy wine. The winds were out in their tops, and there is no sweeter music on earth than that which the wind makes in the fir trees at evening. The cows swung placidly down the lane, and Anne followed them dreamily, repeating aloud the battle canto from _Marmion_--which had also been part of their English course the preceding winter and which Miss Stacy had made them learn off by heart--and exulting in its rushing lines and the clash of spears in its imagery. When she came to the lines The stubborn spearsmen still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, she stopped in ecstasy to shut her eyes that she might the better fancy herself one of that heroic ring. When she opened them again it was to behold Diana coming through the gate that led into the Barry field and looking so important that Anne instantly divined there was news to be told. But betray too eager curiosity she would not. "Isn't this evening just like a purple dream, Diana? It makes me so glad to be alive. In the mornings I always think the mornings are best; but when evening comes I think it's lovelier still." "It's a very fine evening," said Diana, "but oh, I have such news, Anne. Guess. You can have three guesses." "Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all and Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it," cried Anne.<|quote|>"No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again."</|quote|>"Jane's mother is going to let her have a birthday party?" Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing with merriment. "I can't think what it can be," said Anne in despair, "unless it's that Moody Spurgeon MacPherson saw you home from prayer meeting last night. Did he?" "I should think not," exclaimed Diana indignantly. "I wouldn't be likely to boast of it if he did, the horrid creature! I knew you couldn't guess it. Mother had a letter from Aunt Josephine today, and Aunt Josephine wants you and me to go to town next Tuesday and stop with her for the Exhibition. There!" "Oh, Diana," whispered Anne, finding it necessary to lean up against a maple tree for support, "do you really mean it? But I'm afraid Marilla won't let me go. She will say that she can't encourage gadding about. That was what she said last week when Jane invited me to go with them in their double-seated buggy to the American concert at the White Sands Hotel. I wanted to go, but Marilla said I'd be better at home learning my lessons and so would Jane. I was bitterly disappointed, Diana. I felt so heartbroken that I wouldn't say my prayers when I went to bed. But I repented of that and got up in the middle of the night and said them." "I'll tell you," said Diana, "we'll get Mother to ask Marilla. She'll be more likely to let you go then; and if she does we'll have the time of our lives, Anne. I've never been to an Exhibition, and it's so aggravating to hear the other girls talking about their trips. Jane and Ruby have been twice, and they're going this year again." "I'm not going to think about it at all until I know whether I can go or not," said Anne resolutely. "If I did and then was disappointed, it would be more than I could bear. But in case I do go I'm very glad my new coat will be ready by that time. Marilla didn't think I needed a new coat. She said my old one would do very well for another winter and that I ought to be satisfied with having a new dress. The dress is very pretty, Diana--navy blue and made so fashionably. Marilla always makes my dresses fashionably now, because she says she doesn't intend to | falling on the former's neck and weeping with relief and delight, "oh, Anne--we thought--you were--drowned--and we felt like murderers--because we had made--you be--Elaine. And Ruby is in hysterics--oh, Anne, how did you escape?" "I climbed up on one of the piles," explained Anne wearily, "and Gilbert Blythe came along in Mr. Andrews's dory and brought me to land." "Oh, Anne, how splendid of him! Why, it's so romantic!" said Jane, finding breath enough for utterance at last. "Of course you'll speak to him after this." "Of course I won't," flashed Anne, with a momentary return of her old spirit. "And I don't want ever to hear the word ?romantic' again, Jane Andrews. I'm awfully sorry you were so frightened, girls. It is all my fault. I feel sure I was born under an unlucky star. Everything I do gets me or my dearest friends into a scrape. We've gone and lost your father's flat, Diana, and I have a presentiment that we'll not be allowed to row on the pond any more." Anne's presentiment proved more trustworthy than presentiments are apt to do. Great was the consternation in the Barry and Cuthbert households when the events of the afternoon became known. "Will you ever have any sense, Anne?" groaned Marilla. "Oh, yes, I think I will, Marilla," returned Anne optimistically. A good cry, indulged in the grateful solitude of the east gable, had soothed her nerves and restored her to her wonted cheerfulness. "I think my prospects of becoming sensible are brighter now than ever." "I don't see how," said Marilla. "Well," explained Anne, "I've learned a new and valuable lesson today. Ever since I came to Green Gables I've been making mistakes, and each mistake has helped to cure me of some great shortcoming. The affair of the amethyst brooch cured me of meddling with things that didn't belong to me. The Haunted Wood mistake cured me of letting my imagination run away with me. The liniment cake mistake cured me of carelessness in cooking. Dyeing my hair cured me of vanity. I never think about my hair and nose now--at least, very seldom. And today's mistake is going to cure me of being too romantic. I have come to the conclusion that it is no use trying to be romantic in Avonlea. It was probably easy enough in towered Camelot hundreds of years ago, but romance is not appreciated now. I feel quite sure that you will soon see a great improvement in me in this respect, Marilla." "I'm sure I hope so," said Marilla skeptically. But Matthew, who had been sitting mutely in his corner, laid a hand on Anne's shoulder when Marilla had gone out. "Don't give up all your romance, Anne," he whispered shyly, "a little of it is a good thing--not too much, of course--but keep a little of it, Anne, keep a little of it." CHAPTER XXIX. An Epoch in Anne's Life |ANNE was bringing the cows home from the back pasture by way of Lover's Lane. It was a September evening and all the gaps and clearings in the woods were brimmed up with ruby sunset light. Here and there the lane was splashed with it, but for the most part it was already quite shadowy beneath the maples, and the spaces under the firs were filled with a clear violet dusk like airy wine. The winds were out in their tops, and there is no sweeter music on earth than that which the wind makes in the fir trees at evening. The cows swung placidly down the lane, and Anne followed them dreamily, repeating aloud the battle canto from _Marmion_--which had also been part of their English course the preceding winter and which Miss Stacy had made them learn off by heart--and exulting in its rushing lines and the clash of spears in its imagery. When she came to the lines The stubborn spearsmen still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, she stopped in ecstasy to shut her eyes that she might the better fancy herself one of that heroic ring. When she opened them again it was to behold Diana coming through the gate that led into the Barry field and looking so important that Anne instantly divined there was news to be told. But betray too eager curiosity she would not. "Isn't this evening just like a purple dream, Diana? It makes me so glad to be alive. In the mornings I always think the mornings are best; but when evening comes I think it's lovelier still." "It's a very fine evening," said Diana, "but oh, I have such news, Anne. Guess. You can have three guesses." "Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all and Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it," cried Anne.<|quote|>"No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again."</|quote|>"Jane's mother is going to let her have a birthday party?" Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing with merriment. "I can't think what it can be," said Anne in despair, "unless it's that Moody Spurgeon MacPherson saw you home from prayer meeting last night. Did he?" "I should think not," exclaimed Diana indignantly. "I wouldn't be likely to boast of it if he did, the horrid creature! I knew you couldn't guess it. Mother had a letter from Aunt Josephine today, and Aunt Josephine wants you and me to go to town next Tuesday and stop with her for the Exhibition. There!" "Oh, Diana," whispered Anne, finding it necessary to lean up against a maple tree for support, "do you really mean it? But I'm afraid Marilla won't let me go. She will say that she can't encourage gadding about. That was what she said last week when Jane invited me to go with them in their double-seated buggy to the American concert at the White Sands Hotel. I wanted to go, but Marilla said I'd be better at home learning my lessons and so would Jane. I was bitterly disappointed, Diana. I felt so heartbroken that I wouldn't say my prayers when I went to bed. But I repented of that and got up in the middle of the night and said them." "I'll tell you," said Diana, "we'll get Mother to ask Marilla. She'll be more likely to let you go then; and if she does we'll have the time of our lives, Anne. I've never been to an Exhibition, and it's so aggravating to hear the other girls talking about their trips. Jane and Ruby have been twice, and they're going this year again." "I'm not going to think about it at all until I know whether I can go or not," said Anne resolutely. "If I did and then was disappointed, it would be more than I could bear. But in case I do go I'm very glad my new coat will be ready by that time. Marilla didn't think I needed a new coat. She said my old one would do very well for another winter and that I ought to be satisfied with having a new dress. The dress is very pretty, Diana--navy blue and made so fashionably. Marilla always makes my dresses fashionably now, because she says she doesn't intend to have Matthew going to Mrs. Lynde to make them. I'm so glad. It is ever so much easier to be good if your clothes are fashionable. At least, it is easier for me. I suppose it doesn't make such a difference to naturally good people. But Matthew said I must have a new coat, so Marilla bought a lovely piece of blue broadcloth, and it's being made by a real dressmaker over at Carmody. It's to be done Saturday night, and I'm trying not to imagine myself walking up the church aisle on Sunday in my new suit and cap, because I'm afraid it isn't right to imagine such things. But it just slips into my mind in spite of me. My cap is so pretty. Matthew bought it for me the day we were over at Carmody. It is one of those little blue velvet ones that are all the rage, with gold cord and tassels. Your new hat is elegant, Diana, and so becoming. When I saw you come into church last Sunday my heart swelled with pride to think you were my dearest friend. Do you suppose it's wrong for us to think so much about our clothes? Marilla says it is very sinful. But it is such an interesting subject, isn't it?" Marilla agreed to let Anne go to town, and it was arranged that Mr. Barry should take the girls in on the following Tuesday. As Charlottetown was thirty miles away and Mr. Barry wished to go and return the same day, it was necessary to make a very early start. But Anne counted it all joy, and was up before sunrise on Tuesday morning. A glance from her window assured her that the day would be fine, for the eastern sky behind the firs of the Haunted Wood was all silvery and cloudless. Through the gap in the trees a light was shining in the western gable of Orchard Slope, a token that Diana was also up. Anne was dressed by the time Matthew had the fire on and had the breakfast ready when Marilla came down, but for her own part was much too excited to eat. After breakfast the jaunty new cap and jacket were donned, and Anne hastened over the brook and up through the firs to Orchard Slope. Mr. Barry and Diana were waiting for her, and they were soon | An Epoch in Anne's Life |ANNE was bringing the cows home from the back pasture by way of Lover's Lane. It was a September evening and all the gaps and clearings in the woods were brimmed up with ruby sunset light. Here and there the lane was splashed with it, but for the most part it was already quite shadowy beneath the maples, and the spaces under the firs were filled with a clear violet dusk like airy wine. The winds were out in their tops, and there is no sweeter music on earth than that which the wind makes in the fir trees at evening. The cows swung placidly down the lane, and Anne followed them dreamily, repeating aloud the battle canto from _Marmion_--which had also been part of their English course the preceding winter and which Miss Stacy had made them learn off by heart--and exulting in its rushing lines and the clash of spears in its imagery. When she came to the lines The stubborn spearsmen still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, she stopped in ecstasy to shut her eyes that she might the better fancy herself one of that heroic ring. When she opened them again it was to behold Diana coming through the gate that led into the Barry field and looking so important that Anne instantly divined there was news to be told. But betray too eager curiosity she would not. "Isn't this evening just like a purple dream, Diana? It makes me so glad to be alive. In the mornings I always think the mornings are best; but when evening comes I think it's lovelier still." "It's a very fine evening," said Diana, "but oh, I have such news, Anne. Guess. You can have three guesses." "Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all and Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it," cried Anne.<|quote|>"No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again."</|quote|>"Jane's mother is going to let her have a birthday party?" Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing with merriment. "I can't think what it can be," said Anne in despair, "unless it's that Moody Spurgeon MacPherson saw you home from prayer meeting last night. Did he?" "I should think not," exclaimed Diana indignantly. "I wouldn't be likely to boast of it if he did, the horrid creature! I knew you couldn't guess it. Mother had a letter from Aunt Josephine today, and Aunt Josephine wants you and me to go to town next Tuesday and stop with her for the Exhibition. There!" "Oh, Diana," whispered Anne, finding it necessary to lean up against a maple tree for support, "do you really mean it? But I'm afraid Marilla won't let me go. She will say that she can't encourage gadding about. That was what she said last week when Jane invited me to go with them in their double-seated buggy to the American concert at the White Sands Hotel. I wanted to go, but Marilla said I'd be better at home learning my lessons and so would Jane. I was bitterly disappointed, Diana. I felt so heartbroken that I wouldn't say my prayers when I went to bed. But I repented of that and got up in the middle of the night and said them." "I'll tell you," said Diana, "we'll get Mother to ask Marilla. She'll be more likely to let you go then; and if she does we'll have the time of our lives, Anne. I've never been to an Exhibition, and it's so aggravating to hear the other girls talking about their trips. Jane and Ruby have been twice, and they're going this year again." "I'm not going to think about it at all until I know whether I can go or not," said Anne resolutely. "If I did and then was disappointed, it would be more than I could bear. But in case I do go I'm very glad my new coat will be ready by that time. Marilla didn't think I needed a new coat. She said my old one would do very well for another winter and that I ought to be satisfied with having a new dress. The dress is very pretty, Diana--navy blue and made so fashionably. Marilla always makes my dresses fashionably now, because she says she doesn't intend to have Matthew going to Mrs. Lynde to make them. I'm so glad. It is ever so much easier to be good if your clothes are fashionable. At least, it is easier for me. I suppose it doesn't make such a difference to naturally good people. But Matthew said I must have a new coat, so Marilla bought a lovely piece of blue broadcloth, and it's being made by a | Anne Of Green Gables |
"Brett's got a bull-fighter," | Mike Campbell | said. "Watch him this afternoon."<|quote|>"Brett's got a bull-fighter,"</|quote|>Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody | boy friend?" "Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon."<|quote|>"Brett's got a bull-fighter,"</|quote|>Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter." "Would you mind walking | that Brett had said. "Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said. "She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly." Brett stood up. "I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael." "How's your boy friend?" "Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon."<|quote|>"Brett's got a bull-fighter,"</|quote|>Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter." "Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake." "Tell him all about your bull-fighter," Mike said. "Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!" He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dish of shrimps went over | "Does he look badly?" "Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute." "Is he going to fight?" "Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind." "How's your boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said. "Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said. "She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly." Brett stood up. "I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael." "How's your boy friend?" "Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon."<|quote|>"Brett's got a bull-fighter,"</|quote|>Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter." "Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake." "Tell him all about your bull-fighter," Mike said. "Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!" He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dish of shrimps went over in a crash. "Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of this." In the crowd crossing the square I said: "How is it?" "I'm not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His people come in and dress him. They're very angry about me, he says." Brett was | started to lift the glass mug and her hand shook. She saw it and smiled, and leaned forward and took a long sip. "Good beer." "Very good," I said. I was nervous about Mike. I did not think he had slept. He must have been drinking all the time, but he seemed to be under control. "I heard Cohn had hurt you, Jake," Brett said. "No. Knocked me out. That was all." "I say, he did hurt Pedro Romero," Brett said. "He hurt him most badly." "How is he?" "He'll be all right. He won't go out of the room." "Does he look badly?" "Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute." "Is he going to fight?" "Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind." "How's your boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said. "Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said. "She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly." Brett stood up. "I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael." "How's your boy friend?" "Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon."<|quote|>"Brett's got a bull-fighter,"</|quote|>Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter." "Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake." "Tell him all about your bull-fighter," Mike said. "Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!" He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dish of shrimps went over in a crash. "Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of this." In the crowd crossing the square I said: "How is it?" "I'm not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His people come in and dress him. They're very angry about me, he says." Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright. "I feel altogether changed," Brett said. "You've no idea, Jake." "Anything you want me to do?" "No, just go to the fight with me." "We'll see you at lunch?" "No. I'm eating with him." We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the arcade. "Want to take a turn out to the park?" Brett asked. "I don't want to go up yet. I fancy he's sleeping." We walked along past the theatre and | fiesta. The dancers were all quite drunk. It was the last day of the fiesta. The fiesta was solid and unbroken, but the motor-cars and tourist-cars made little islands of onlookers. When the cars emptied, the onlookers were absorbed into the crowd. You did not see them again except as sport clothes, odd-looking at a table among the closely packed peasants in black smocks. The fiesta absorbed even the Biarritz English so that you did not see them unless you passed close to a table. All the time there was music in the street. The drums kept on pounding and the pipes were going. Inside the caf s men with their hands gripping the table, or on each other's shoulders, were singing the hard-voiced singing. "Here comes Brett," Bill said. I looked and saw her coming through the crowd in the square, walking, her head up, as though the fiesta were being staged in her honor, and she found it pleasant and amusing. "Hello, you chaps!" she said. "I say, I _have_ a thirst." "Get another big beer," Bill said to the waiter. "Shrimps?" "Is Cohn gone?" Brett asked. "Yes," Bill said. "He hired a car." The beer came. Brett started to lift the glass mug and her hand shook. She saw it and smiled, and leaned forward and took a long sip. "Good beer." "Very good," I said. I was nervous about Mike. I did not think he had slept. He must have been drinking all the time, but he seemed to be under control. "I heard Cohn had hurt you, Jake," Brett said. "No. Knocked me out. That was all." "I say, he did hurt Pedro Romero," Brett said. "He hurt him most badly." "How is he?" "He'll be all right. He won't go out of the room." "Does he look badly?" "Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute." "Is he going to fight?" "Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind." "How's your boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said. "Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said. "She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly." Brett stood up. "I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael." "How's your boy friend?" "Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon."<|quote|>"Brett's got a bull-fighter,"</|quote|>Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter." "Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake." "Tell him all about your bull-fighter," Mike said. "Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!" He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dish of shrimps went over in a crash. "Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of this." In the crowd crossing the square I said: "How is it?" "I'm not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His people come in and dress him. They're very angry about me, he says." Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright. "I feel altogether changed," Brett said. "You've no idea, Jake." "Anything you want me to do?" "No, just go to the fight with me." "We'll see you at lunch?" "No. I'm eating with him." We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the arcade. "Want to take a turn out to the park?" Brett asked. "I don't want to go up yet. I fancy he's sleeping." We walked along past the theatre and out of the square and along through the barracks of the fair, moving with the crowd between the lines of booths. We came out on a cross-street that led to the Paseo de Sarasate. We could see the crowd walking there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the turn at the upper end of the park. "Don't let's go there," Brett said. "I don't want staring at just now." We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea. "I hope the wind goes down," Brett said. "It's very bad for him." "So do I." "He says the bulls are all right." "They're good." "Is that San Fermin's?" Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel. "Yes. Where the show started on Sunday." "Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something." We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside | know what she said: 'Yes. I've had such a hell of a happy life with the British aristocracy!" '" He took a drink. "That was rather good. Ashley, chap she got the title from, was a sailor, you know. Ninth baronet. When he came home he wouldn't sleep in a bed. Always made Brett sleep on the floor. Finally, when he got really bad, he used to tell her he'd kill her. Always slept with a loaded service revolver. Brett used to take the shells out when he'd gone to sleep. She hasn't had an absolutely happy life. Brett. Damned shame, too. She enjoys things so." He stood up. His hand was shaky. "I'm going in the room. Try and get a little sleep." He smiled. "We go too long without sleep in these fiestas. I'm going to start now and get plenty of sleep. Damn bad thing not to get sleep. Makes you frightfully nervy." "We'll see you at noon at the Iru a," Bill said. Mike went out the door. We heard him in the next room. He rang the bell and the chambermaid came and knocked at the door. "Bring up half a dozen bottles of beer and a bottle of Fundador," Mike told her. "Si, Se orito." "I'm going to bed," Bill said. "Poor old Mike. I had a hell of a row about him last night." "Where? At that Milano place?" "Yes. There was a fellow there that had helped pay Brett and Mike out of Cannes, once. He was damned nasty." "I know the story." "I didn't. Nobody ought to have a right to say things about Mike." "That's what makes it bad." "They oughtn't to have any right. I wish to hell they didn't have any right. I'm going to bed." "Was anybody killed in the ring?" "I don't think so. Just badly hurt." "A man was killed outside in the runway." "Was there?" said Bill. CHAPTER 18 At noon we were all at the caf . It was crowded. We were eating shrimps and drinking beer. The town was crowded. Every street was full. Big motor-cars from Biarritz and San Sebastian kept driving up and parking around the square. They brought people for the bull-fight. Sight-seeing cars came up, too. There was one with twenty-five Englishwomen in it. They sat in the big, white car and looked through their glasses at the fiesta. The dancers were all quite drunk. It was the last day of the fiesta. The fiesta was solid and unbroken, but the motor-cars and tourist-cars made little islands of onlookers. When the cars emptied, the onlookers were absorbed into the crowd. You did not see them again except as sport clothes, odd-looking at a table among the closely packed peasants in black smocks. The fiesta absorbed even the Biarritz English so that you did not see them unless you passed close to a table. All the time there was music in the street. The drums kept on pounding and the pipes were going. Inside the caf s men with their hands gripping the table, or on each other's shoulders, were singing the hard-voiced singing. "Here comes Brett," Bill said. I looked and saw her coming through the crowd in the square, walking, her head up, as though the fiesta were being staged in her honor, and she found it pleasant and amusing. "Hello, you chaps!" she said. "I say, I _have_ a thirst." "Get another big beer," Bill said to the waiter. "Shrimps?" "Is Cohn gone?" Brett asked. "Yes," Bill said. "He hired a car." The beer came. Brett started to lift the glass mug and her hand shook. She saw it and smiled, and leaned forward and took a long sip. "Good beer." "Very good," I said. I was nervous about Mike. I did not think he had slept. He must have been drinking all the time, but he seemed to be under control. "I heard Cohn had hurt you, Jake," Brett said. "No. Knocked me out. That was all." "I say, he did hurt Pedro Romero," Brett said. "He hurt him most badly." "How is he?" "He'll be all right. He won't go out of the room." "Does he look badly?" "Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute." "Is he going to fight?" "Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind." "How's your boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said. "Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said. "She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly." Brett stood up. "I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael." "How's your boy friend?" "Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon."<|quote|>"Brett's got a bull-fighter,"</|quote|>Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter." "Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake." "Tell him all about your bull-fighter," Mike said. "Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!" He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dish of shrimps went over in a crash. "Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of this." In the crowd crossing the square I said: "How is it?" "I'm not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His people come in and dress him. They're very angry about me, he says." Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright. "I feel altogether changed," Brett said. "You've no idea, Jake." "Anything you want me to do?" "No, just go to the fight with me." "We'll see you at lunch?" "No. I'm eating with him." We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the arcade. "Want to take a turn out to the park?" Brett asked. "I don't want to go up yet. I fancy he's sleeping." We walked along past the theatre and out of the square and along through the barracks of the fair, moving with the crowd between the lines of booths. We came out on a cross-street that led to the Paseo de Sarasate. We could see the crowd walking there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the turn at the upper end of the park. "Don't let's go there," Brett said. "I don't want staring at just now." We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea. "I hope the wind goes down," Brett said. "It's very bad for him." "So do I." "He says the bulls are all right." "They're good." "Is that San Fermin's?" Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel. "Yes. Where the show started on Sunday." "Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something." We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead. "Come on," she whispered throatily. "Let's get out of here. Makes me damned nervous." Outside in the hot brightness of the street Brett looked up at the tree-tops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success. "Don't know why I get so nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good." We walked along. "I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face." "You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him." "Good." "I wish the wind would drop, though." "It's liable to go down by five o'clock." "Let's hope." "You might pray," I laughed. "Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?" "Oh, yes." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though. You don't look very religious, Jake." "I'm pretty religious." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting to-day. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is." It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good," said Brett. "Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No," Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff." "Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. "I'll see you at the caf ," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake." We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hall and into Romero's room. She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her. I stood in front of the door of Mike's room and knocked. There was no | Mike. I had a hell of a row about him last night." "Where? At that Milano place?" "Yes. There was a fellow there that had helped pay Brett and Mike out of Cannes, once. He was damned nasty." "I know the story." "I didn't. Nobody ought to have a right to say things about Mike." "That's what makes it bad." "They oughtn't to have any right. I wish to hell they didn't have any right. I'm going to bed." "Was anybody killed in the ring?" "I don't think so. Just badly hurt." "A man was killed outside in the runway." "Was there?" said Bill. CHAPTER 18 At noon we were all at the caf . It was crowded. We were eating shrimps and drinking beer. The town was crowded. Every street was full. Big motor-cars from Biarritz and San Sebastian kept driving up and parking around the square. They brought people for the bull-fight. Sight-seeing cars came up, too. There was one with twenty-five Englishwomen in it. They sat in the big, white car and looked through their glasses at the fiesta. The dancers were all quite drunk. It was the last day of the fiesta. The fiesta was solid and unbroken, but the motor-cars and tourist-cars made little islands of onlookers. When the cars emptied, the onlookers were absorbed into the crowd. You did not see them again except as sport clothes, odd-looking at a table among the closely packed peasants in black smocks. The fiesta absorbed even the Biarritz English so that you did not see them unless you passed close to a table. All the time there was music in the street. The drums kept on pounding and the pipes were going. Inside the caf s men with their hands gripping the table, or on each other's shoulders, were singing the hard-voiced singing. "Here comes Brett," Bill said. I looked and saw her coming through the crowd in the square, walking, her head up, as though the fiesta were being staged in her honor, and she found it pleasant and amusing. "Hello, you chaps!" she said. "I say, I _have_ a thirst." "Get another big beer," Bill said to the waiter. "Shrimps?" "Is Cohn gone?" Brett asked. "Yes," Bill said. "He hired a car." The beer came. Brett started to lift the glass mug and her hand shook. She saw it and smiled, and leaned forward and took a long sip. "Good beer." "Very good," I said. I was nervous about Mike. I did not think he had slept. He must have been drinking all the time, but he seemed to be under control. "I heard Cohn had hurt you, Jake," Brett said. "No. Knocked me out. That was all." "I say, he did hurt Pedro Romero," Brett said. "He hurt him most badly." "How is he?" "He'll be all right. He won't go out of the room." "Does he look badly?" "Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute." "Is he going to fight?" "Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind." "How's your boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said. "Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said. "She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly." Brett stood up. "I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael." "How's your boy friend?" "Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon."<|quote|>"Brett's got a bull-fighter,"</|quote|>Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter." "Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake." "Tell him all about your bull-fighter," Mike said. "Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!" He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dish of shrimps went over in a crash. "Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of this." In the crowd crossing the square I said: "How is it?" "I'm not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His people come in and dress him. They're very angry about me, he says." Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright. "I feel altogether changed," Brett said. "You've no idea, Jake." "Anything you want me to do?" "No, just go to the fight with me." "We'll see you at lunch?" "No. I'm eating with him." We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the arcade. "Want to take a turn out to the park?" Brett asked. "I don't want to go up yet. I fancy he's sleeping." We walked along past the theatre and out of the square and along through the barracks of the fair, moving with the crowd between the lines of booths. We came out on a cross-street that led to the Paseo de Sarasate. We could see the crowd walking there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the | The Sun Also Rises |
And then as in silence she but kept a slightly grim smile on him: | No speaker | mean, of my little percentage?”<|quote|>And then as in silence she but kept a slightly grim smile on him:</|quote|>“Why do you ask if--with | more. “To the extent, you mean, of my little percentage?”<|quote|>And then as in silence she but kept a slightly grim smile on him:</|quote|>“Why do you ask if--with your high delicacy about your | a wonderful showman, but do you mind my asking you whether you’re on such an occasion a--well, a closely interested one?” “‘Interested’?” he echoed; though it wasn’t to gain time, he showed, for he would in that case have taken more. “To the extent, you mean, of my little percentage?”<|quote|>And then as in silence she but kept a slightly grim smile on him:</|quote|>“Why do you ask if--with your high delicacy about your great-grandmother--you’ve nothing to place?” It took her a minute to say, while her fine eye only rolled; but when she spoke that organ boldly rested and the truth vividly appeared. “I ask because people like you, Lord John, strike me | chance! Fancy dear, proud Theign------!” “I can’t fancy him--no!” And Lord John appeared to renounce the effort. “But a cat may look at a king and a sharp funny Yankee at anything.” These things might be, Lady Sandgate’s face and gesture apparently signified; but another question diverted her. “You’re clearly a wonderful showman, but do you mind my asking you whether you’re on such an occasion a--well, a closely interested one?” “‘Interested’?” he echoed; though it wasn’t to gain time, he showed, for he would in that case have taken more. “To the extent, you mean, of my little percentage?”<|quote|>And then as in silence she but kept a slightly grim smile on him:</|quote|>“Why do you ask if--with your high delicacy about your great-grandmother--you’ve nothing to place?” It took her a minute to say, while her fine eye only rolled; but when she spoke that organ boldly rested and the truth vividly appeared. “I ask because people like you, Lord John, strike me as dangerous to the--how shall I name it?--the common weal; and because of my general strong feeling that we don’t want any more of our national treasures (for I regard my great-grandmother as national) to be scattered about the world.” “There’s much in this country and age,” he replied in | you tell me of your arrangement with him--his pursuit becomes, where I am concerned, a figure of speech.” “Oh,” Lord John returned, “he kills two birds with one stone--he sees both Sir Joshua and you.” This version of the case had its effect, for the moment, on his fair associate. “Does he want to buy _their_ pride and glory?” The young man, however, struck on his own side, became at first but the bright reflector of her thought. “Is that wonder for sale?” She closed her eyes as with the shudder of hearing such words. “Not, surely, by _any_ monstrous chance! Fancy dear, proud Theign------!” “I can’t fancy him--no!” And Lord John appeared to renounce the effort. “But a cat may look at a king and a sharp funny Yankee at anything.” These things might be, Lady Sandgate’s face and gesture apparently signified; but another question diverted her. “You’re clearly a wonderful showman, but do you mind my asking you whether you’re on such an occasion a--well, a closely interested one?” “‘Interested’?” he echoed; though it wasn’t to gain time, he showed, for he would in that case have taken more. “To the extent, you mean, of my little percentage?”<|quote|>And then as in silence she but kept a slightly grim smile on him:</|quote|>“Why do you ask if--with your high delicacy about your great-grandmother--you’ve nothing to place?” It took her a minute to say, while her fine eye only rolled; but when she spoke that organ boldly rested and the truth vividly appeared. “I ask because people like you, Lord John, strike me as dangerous to the--how shall I name it?--the common weal; and because of my general strong feeling that we don’t want any more of our national treasures (for I regard my great-grandmother as national) to be scattered about the world.” “There’s much in this country and age,” he replied in an off-hand manner, “to be said about _that_,” The present, however, was not the time to say it all; so he said something else instead, accompanying it with a smile that signified sufficiency. “To my friends, I need scarcely remark to you, I’m all the friend.” She had meanwhile seen the butler reappear by the door that opened to the terrace, and though the high, bleak, impersonal approach of this functionary was ever, and more and more at every step, a process to defy interpretation, long practice evidently now enabled her to suggest, as she turned again to her fellow-visitor | the way he pays?” “Before he leaves the house?” Lord John lived it amusedly over. “Well, _she_ took care of that.” “How incredibly vulgar!” It all had, however, for Lady Sandgate, still other connections--which might have attenuated Lady Lappington’s case, though she didn’t glance at this. “He makes the most scandalous eyes--the ruffian!--at my great-grandmother.” And then as richly to enlighten any blankness: “My tremendous Lawrence, don’t you know?--in her wedding-dress, down to her knees; with such extraordinarily speaking eyes, such lovely arms and hands, such wonderful flesh-tints: universally considered the masterpiece of the artist.” Lord John seemed to look a moment not so much at the image evoked, in which he wasn’t interested, as at certain possibilities lurking behind it. “And are you going to _sell_ the masterpiece of the artist?” She held her head high. “I’ve indignantly refused--for all his pressing me so hard.” “Yet that’s what he nevertheless pursues you to-day to keep up?” The question had a little the ring of those of which the occupant of a witness-box is mostly the subject, but Lady Sandgate was so far as this went an imperturbable witness. “I need hardly fear it perhaps if--in the light of what you tell me of your arrangement with him--his pursuit becomes, where I am concerned, a figure of speech.” “Oh,” Lord John returned, “he kills two birds with one stone--he sees both Sir Joshua and you.” This version of the case had its effect, for the moment, on his fair associate. “Does he want to buy _their_ pride and glory?” The young man, however, struck on his own side, became at first but the bright reflector of her thought. “Is that wonder for sale?” She closed her eyes as with the shudder of hearing such words. “Not, surely, by _any_ monstrous chance! Fancy dear, proud Theign------!” “I can’t fancy him--no!” And Lord John appeared to renounce the effort. “But a cat may look at a king and a sharp funny Yankee at anything.” These things might be, Lady Sandgate’s face and gesture apparently signified; but another question diverted her. “You’re clearly a wonderful showman, but do you mind my asking you whether you’re on such an occasion a--well, a closely interested one?” “‘Interested’?” he echoed; though it wasn’t to gain time, he showed, for he would in that case have taken more. “To the extent, you mean, of my little percentage?”<|quote|>And then as in silence she but kept a slightly grim smile on him:</|quote|>“Why do you ask if--with your high delicacy about your great-grandmother--you’ve nothing to place?” It took her a minute to say, while her fine eye only rolled; but when she spoke that organ boldly rested and the truth vividly appeared. “I ask because people like you, Lord John, strike me as dangerous to the--how shall I name it?--the common weal; and because of my general strong feeling that we don’t want any more of our national treasures (for I regard my great-grandmother as national) to be scattered about the world.” “There’s much in this country and age,” he replied in an off-hand manner, “to be said about _that_,” The present, however, was not the time to say it all; so he said something else instead, accompanying it with a smile that signified sufficiency. “To my friends, I need scarcely remark to you, I’m all the friend.” She had meanwhile seen the butler reappear by the door that opened to the terrace, and though the high, bleak, impersonal approach of this functionary was ever, and more and more at every step, a process to defy interpretation, long practice evidently now enabled her to suggest, as she turned again to her fellow-visitor a reading of it. “It’s the friend then clearly who’s wanted in the park.” She might, by the way Banks looked at her, have snatched from his hand a missive addressed to another; though while he addressed himself to her companion he allowed for her indecorum sufficiently to take it up where she had left it. “By her ladyship, my lord, who sends to hope you’ll join them below the terrace.” “Ah, Grace hopes,” said Lady Sandgate for the young man’s encouragement. “There you are!” Lord John took up the motor-cap he had lain down on coming in. “I rush to Lady Grace, but don’t demoralise Bender!” And he went forth to the terrace and the gardens. Banks looked about as for some further exercise of his high function. “Will you have tea, my lady?” This appeared to strike her as premature. “Oh, thanks--when they all come in.” “They’ll scarcely _all_, my lady” --he indicated respectfully that he knew what he was talking about. “There’s tea in her ladyship’s tent; but,” he qualified, “it has also been ordered for the saloon.” “Ah then,” she said cheerfully, “Mr. Bender will be glad--!” And she became, with this, aware of the approach | he’s pursuing expensive works of art.” “By which you imply that I’m one?” She might have been wound up by her disappointment to almost any irony. “I imply--or rather I affirm--that every handsome woman is! But what he arranged with me about,” Lord John explained, “was that he should see the Dedborough pictures in general and the great Sir Joshua in particular--of which he had heard so much and to which I’ve been thus glad to assist him.” This news, however, with its lively interest, but deepened the listener’s mystification. “Then why--this whole week that I’ve been in the house--hasn’t our good friend here mentioned to me his coming?” “Because our good friend here has had no reason” --Lord John could treat it now as simple enough. “Good as he is in all ways, he’s so best of all about showing the house and its contents that I haven’t even thought necessary to write him that I’m introducing Breckenridge.” “I should have been happy to introduce him,” Lady Sandgate just quavered-- “if I had at all known he wanted it.” Her companion weighed the difference between them and appeared to pronounce it a trifle he didn’t care a fig for. “I surrender you that privilege then--of presenting him to his host--if I’ve seemed to you to snatch it from you.” To which Lord John added, as with liberality unrestricted, “But I’ve been taking him about to see what’s worth while--as only last week to Lady Lappington’s Longhi.” This revelation, though so casual in its form, fairly drew from Lady Sandgate, as she took it in, an interrogative wail. “Her Longhi?” “Why, don’t you know her great Venetian family group, the What-do-you-call-’ems?--seven full-length figures, each one a gem, for which he paid her her price before he left the house.” She could but make it more richly resound--almost stricken, lost in her wistful thought: “Seven full-length figures? Her price?” “Eight thousand--slap down. Bender knows,” said Lord John, “what he wants.” “And does he want only” --her wonder grew and grew-- “What-do-you-call-’ems’?” “He most usually wants what he can’t have.” Lord John made scarce more of it than that. “But, awfully hard up as I fancy her, Lady Lappington went _at_ him.” It determined in his friend a boldly critical attitude. “How horrible--at the rate things are leaving us!” But this was far from the end of her interest. “And is that the way he pays?” “Before he leaves the house?” Lord John lived it amusedly over. “Well, _she_ took care of that.” “How incredibly vulgar!” It all had, however, for Lady Sandgate, still other connections--which might have attenuated Lady Lappington’s case, though she didn’t glance at this. “He makes the most scandalous eyes--the ruffian!--at my great-grandmother.” And then as richly to enlighten any blankness: “My tremendous Lawrence, don’t you know?--in her wedding-dress, down to her knees; with such extraordinarily speaking eyes, such lovely arms and hands, such wonderful flesh-tints: universally considered the masterpiece of the artist.” Lord John seemed to look a moment not so much at the image evoked, in which he wasn’t interested, as at certain possibilities lurking behind it. “And are you going to _sell_ the masterpiece of the artist?” She held her head high. “I’ve indignantly refused--for all his pressing me so hard.” “Yet that’s what he nevertheless pursues you to-day to keep up?” The question had a little the ring of those of which the occupant of a witness-box is mostly the subject, but Lady Sandgate was so far as this went an imperturbable witness. “I need hardly fear it perhaps if--in the light of what you tell me of your arrangement with him--his pursuit becomes, where I am concerned, a figure of speech.” “Oh,” Lord John returned, “he kills two birds with one stone--he sees both Sir Joshua and you.” This version of the case had its effect, for the moment, on his fair associate. “Does he want to buy _their_ pride and glory?” The young man, however, struck on his own side, became at first but the bright reflector of her thought. “Is that wonder for sale?” She closed her eyes as with the shudder of hearing such words. “Not, surely, by _any_ monstrous chance! Fancy dear, proud Theign------!” “I can’t fancy him--no!” And Lord John appeared to renounce the effort. “But a cat may look at a king and a sharp funny Yankee at anything.” These things might be, Lady Sandgate’s face and gesture apparently signified; but another question diverted her. “You’re clearly a wonderful showman, but do you mind my asking you whether you’re on such an occasion a--well, a closely interested one?” “‘Interested’?” he echoed; though it wasn’t to gain time, he showed, for he would in that case have taken more. “To the extent, you mean, of my little percentage?”<|quote|>And then as in silence she but kept a slightly grim smile on him:</|quote|>“Why do you ask if--with your high delicacy about your great-grandmother--you’ve nothing to place?” It took her a minute to say, while her fine eye only rolled; but when she spoke that organ boldly rested and the truth vividly appeared. “I ask because people like you, Lord John, strike me as dangerous to the--how shall I name it?--the common weal; and because of my general strong feeling that we don’t want any more of our national treasures (for I regard my great-grandmother as national) to be scattered about the world.” “There’s much in this country and age,” he replied in an off-hand manner, “to be said about _that_,” The present, however, was not the time to say it all; so he said something else instead, accompanying it with a smile that signified sufficiency. “To my friends, I need scarcely remark to you, I’m all the friend.” She had meanwhile seen the butler reappear by the door that opened to the terrace, and though the high, bleak, impersonal approach of this functionary was ever, and more and more at every step, a process to defy interpretation, long practice evidently now enabled her to suggest, as she turned again to her fellow-visitor a reading of it. “It’s the friend then clearly who’s wanted in the park.” She might, by the way Banks looked at her, have snatched from his hand a missive addressed to another; though while he addressed himself to her companion he allowed for her indecorum sufficiently to take it up where she had left it. “By her ladyship, my lord, who sends to hope you’ll join them below the terrace.” “Ah, Grace hopes,” said Lady Sandgate for the young man’s encouragement. “There you are!” Lord John took up the motor-cap he had lain down on coming in. “I rush to Lady Grace, but don’t demoralise Bender!” And he went forth to the terrace and the gardens. Banks looked about as for some further exercise of his high function. “Will you have tea, my lady?” This appeared to strike her as premature. “Oh, thanks--when they all come in.” “They’ll scarcely _all_, my lady” --he indicated respectfully that he knew what he was talking about. “There’s tea in her ladyship’s tent; but,” he qualified, “it has also been ordered for the saloon.” “Ah then,” she said cheerfully, “Mr. Bender will be glad--!” And she became, with this, aware of the approach of another visitor. Banks considered, up and down, the gentleman ushered in, at the left, by the footman who had received him at the main entrance to the house. “Here he must be, my lady.” With which he retired to the spacious opposite quarter, where he vanished, while the footman, his own office performed, retreated as he had come, and Lady Sandgate, all hospitality, received the many-sided author of her specious telegram, of Lord John’s irritating confidence and of Lady Lappington’s massive cheque. II Having greeted him with an explicitly gracious welcome and both hands out, she had at once gone on: “You’ll of course have tea?--in the saloon.” But his mechanism seemed of the type that has to expand and revolve before sounding. “Why; the very first thing?” She only desired, as her laugh showed, to accommodate. “Ah, have it the last if you like!” “You see your English teas--!” he pleaded as he looked about him, so immediately and frankly interested in the place and its contents that his friend could only have taken this for the very glance with which he must have swept Lady Lappington’s inferior scene. “They’re too much for you?” “Well, they’re too many. I think I’ve had two or three on the road--at any rate my man did. I like to do business before--” But his sequence dropped as his eye caught some object across the wealth of space. She divertedly picked it up. “Before tea, Mr. Bender?” “Before everything, Lady Sandgate.” He was immensely genial, but a queer, quaint, rough-edged distinctness somehow kept it safe--for himself. “Then you’ve _come_ to do business?” Her appeal and her emphasis melted as into a caress--which, however, spent itself on his large high person as he consented, with less of demonstration but more of attention, to look down upon her. She could therefore but reinforce it by an intenser note. “To tell me you _will_ treat?” Mr. Bender had six feet of stature and an air as of having received benefits at the hands of fortune. Substantial, powerful, easy, he shone as with a glorious cleanness, a supplied and equipped and appointed sanity and security; aids to action that might have figured a pair of very ample wings--wide pinions for the present conveniently folded, but that he would certainly on occasion agitate for great efforts and spread for great flights. These things would have made him | It determined in his friend a boldly critical attitude. “How horrible--at the rate things are leaving us!” But this was far from the end of her interest. “And is that the way he pays?” “Before he leaves the house?” Lord John lived it amusedly over. “Well, _she_ took care of that.” “How incredibly vulgar!” It all had, however, for Lady Sandgate, still other connections--which might have attenuated Lady Lappington’s case, though she didn’t glance at this. “He makes the most scandalous eyes--the ruffian!--at my great-grandmother.” And then as richly to enlighten any blankness: “My tremendous Lawrence, don’t you know?--in her wedding-dress, down to her knees; with such extraordinarily speaking eyes, such lovely arms and hands, such wonderful flesh-tints: universally considered the masterpiece of the artist.” Lord John seemed to look a moment not so much at the image evoked, in which he wasn’t interested, as at certain possibilities lurking behind it. “And are you going to _sell_ the masterpiece of the artist?” She held her head high. “I’ve indignantly refused--for all his pressing me so hard.” “Yet that’s what he nevertheless pursues you to-day to keep up?” The question had a little the ring of those of which the occupant of a witness-box is mostly the subject, but Lady Sandgate was so far as this went an imperturbable witness. “I need hardly fear it perhaps if--in the light of what you tell me of your arrangement with him--his pursuit becomes, where I am concerned, a figure of speech.” “Oh,” Lord John returned, “he kills two birds with one stone--he sees both Sir Joshua and you.” This version of the case had its effect, for the moment, on his fair associate. “Does he want to buy _their_ pride and glory?” The young man, however, struck on his own side, became at first but the bright reflector of her thought. “Is that wonder for sale?” She closed her eyes as with the shudder of hearing such words. “Not, surely, by _any_ monstrous chance! Fancy dear, proud Theign------!” “I can’t fancy him--no!” And Lord John appeared to renounce the effort. “But a cat may look at a king and a sharp funny Yankee at anything.” These things might be, Lady Sandgate’s face and gesture apparently signified; but another question diverted her. “You’re clearly a wonderful showman, but do you mind my asking you whether you’re on such an occasion a--well, a closely interested one?” “‘Interested’?” he echoed; though it wasn’t to gain time, he showed, for he would in that case have taken more. “To the extent, you mean, of my little percentage?”<|quote|>And then as in silence she but kept a slightly grim smile on him:</|quote|>“Why do you ask if--with your high delicacy about your great-grandmother--you’ve nothing to place?” It took her a minute to say, while her fine eye only rolled; but when she spoke that organ boldly rested and the truth vividly appeared. “I ask because people like you, Lord John, strike me as dangerous to the--how shall I name it?--the common weal; and because of my general strong feeling that we don’t want any more of our national treasures (for I regard my great-grandmother as national) to be scattered about the world.” “There’s much in this country and age,” he replied in an off-hand manner, “to be said about _that_,” The present, however, was not the time to say it all; so he said something else instead, accompanying it with a smile that signified sufficiency. “To my friends, I need scarcely remark to you, I’m all the friend.” She had meanwhile seen the butler reappear by the door that opened to the terrace, and though the high, bleak, impersonal approach of this functionary was ever, and more and more at every step, a process to defy interpretation, long practice evidently now enabled her to suggest, as she turned again to her fellow-visitor a reading of it. “It’s the friend then clearly who’s wanted in the park.” She might, by the way Banks looked at her, have snatched from his hand a missive addressed to another; though while he addressed himself to her companion he allowed for her indecorum sufficiently to take it up where she had left it. “By her ladyship, my lord, who sends to hope you’ll join them below the terrace.” “Ah, Grace hopes,” said Lady Sandgate for the young man’s encouragement. “There you are!” Lord John took up the motor-cap he had lain down on coming in. “I rush to Lady Grace, but don’t demoralise Bender!” And he went forth to the terrace and the gardens. Banks looked about as for some further exercise of his high function. “Will you have tea, my lady?” This appeared to strike her as premature. “Oh, thanks--when they all come in.” “They’ll scarcely _all_, my lady” --he indicated respectfully that he knew what he was talking about. “There’s tea in her ladyship’s tent; but,” he qualified, “it has also been ordered for the saloon.” “Ah then,” she said cheerfully, “Mr. Bender will be glad--!” And she became, with this, aware of the approach of another visitor. Banks considered, up and down, the gentleman ushered in, at the left, by the footman who had received him at the main entrance to the house. “Here he must be, my lady.” With which he retired to the spacious opposite quarter, where he vanished, while the | The Outcry |
"Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!" | Ellen Olenska | a mesh of her veil.<|quote|>"Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!"</|quote|>she protested. "What others? I | her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil.<|quote|>"Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!"</|quote|>she protested. "What others? I don't profess to be different | with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer." "From me?" She bent her head slightly, without looking at him. "Safer from loving me?" Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil.<|quote|>"Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!"</|quote|>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 | room like a ghost stalking through a necropolis. They fixed their eyes simultaneously on the case opposite them, and when the official figure had vanished down a vista of mummies and sarcophagi Archer spoke again. "What do you think better?" Instead of answering she murmured: "I promised Granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer." "From me?" She bent her head slightly, without looking at him. "Safer from loving me?" Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil.<|quote|>"Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!"</|quote|>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 | want. I told you the other day what I wanted." She hesitated. "And you still think this--worse?" "A thousand times!" He paused. "It would be easy to lie to you; but the truth is I think it detestable." "Oh, so do I!" she cried with a deep breath of relief. He sprang up impatiently. "Well, then--it's my turn to ask: what is it, in God's name, that you think better?" She hung her head and continued to clasp and unclasp her hands in her muff. The step drew nearer, and a guardian in a braided cap walked listlessly through the room like a ghost stalking through a necropolis. They fixed their eyes simultaneously on the case opposite them, and when the official figure had vanished down a vista of mummies and sarcophagi Archer spoke again. "What do you think better?" Instead of answering she murmured: "I promised Granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer." "From me?" She bent her head slightly, without looking at him. "Safer from loving me?" Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil.<|quote|>"Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!"</|quote|>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 | her quickly-taken breath, it seemed incredible that this pure harmony of line and colour should ever suffer the stupid law of change. "Meanwhile everything matters--that concerns you," he said. She looked at him thoughtfully, and turned back to the divan. He sat down beside her and waited; but suddenly he heard a step echoing far off down the empty rooms, and felt the pressure of the minutes. "What is it you wanted to tell me?" she asked, as if she had received the same warning. "What I wanted to tell you?" he rejoined. "Why, that I believe you came to New York because you were afraid." "Afraid?" "Of my coming to Washington." She looked down at her muff, and he saw her hands stir in it uneasily. "Well--?" "Well--yes," she said. "You WERE afraid? You knew--?" "Yes: I knew ..." "Well, then?" he insisted. "Well, then: this is better, isn't it?" she returned with a long questioning sigh. "Better--?" "We shall hurt others less. Isn't it, after all, what you always wanted?" "To have you here, you mean--in reach and yet out of reach? To meet you in this way, on the sly? It's the very reverse of what I want. I told you the other day what I wanted." She hesitated. "And you still think this--worse?" "A thousand times!" He paused. "It would be easy to lie to you; but the truth is I think it detestable." "Oh, so do I!" she cried with a deep breath of relief. He sprang up impatiently. "Well, then--it's my turn to ask: what is it, in God's name, that you think better?" She hung her head and continued to clasp and unclasp her hands in her muff. The step drew nearer, and a guardian in a braided cap walked listlessly through the room like a ghost stalking through a necropolis. They fixed their eyes simultaneously on the case opposite them, and when the official figure had vanished down a vista of mummies and sarcophagi Archer spoke again. "What do you think better?" Instead of answering she murmured: "I promised Granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer." "From me?" She bent her head slightly, without looking at him. "Safer from loving me?" Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil.<|quote|>"Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!"</|quote|>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," | 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: "I promised Granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer." "From me?" She bent her head slightly, without looking at him. "Safer from loving me?" Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil.<|quote|>"Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!"</|quote|>she protested. "What others? I don't profess to be different from my kind. I'm consumed by the same wants and the same longings." She glanced at him with a kind of terror, and he saw a faint colour steal into her cheeks. "Shall I--once come to you; and then go home?" she suddenly hazarded in a low clear voice. The blood rushed to the young man's forehead. "Dearest!" he said, without moving. It seemed as if he held his heart in his hands, like a full cup that the least motion might overbrim. Then her last phrase struck his ear and his face clouded. "Go home? What do you mean by going home?" "Home to my husband." "And you expect me to say yes to that?" She raised her troubled eyes to his. "What else is there? I can't stay here and lie to the people who've been good to me." "But that's the very reason why I ask you to come away!" "And destroy their lives, when they've helped me to remake mine?" Archer sprang to his feet and stood looking down on her in inarticulate despair. It would have been easy to say: "Yes, come; come once." He knew the power she would put in his hands if she consented; there would be no difficulty then in persuading her not to go back to her husband. But something silenced the word on his lips. A sort of passionate honesty in her made it inconceivable that he should try to draw her into that familiar trap. "If I were to let her come," he said to himself, "I should have to let her go again." And that was not to be imagined. But he saw the shadow of the lashes on her wet cheek, and wavered. "After all," he began again, "we have lives of our own.... There's no use attempting the impossible. You're so unprejudiced about some things, so used, as you say, to looking at the Gorgon, that I don't know why you're afraid to face our case, and see it as it really is--unless you think the sacrifice is not worth making." She stood up also, her lips tightening under a rapid frown. "Call it that, then--I must go," she said, drawing her little watch from her bosom. She turned away, and he followed and caught her by the wrist. "Well, then: come to me once," he said, his head turning suddenly at the thought of losing her; and for a second or two they looked at each other almost like enemies. "When?" he insisted. "Tomorrow?" She hesitated. "The day after." "Dearest--!" he said again. She had disengaged her wrist; but for a moment they continued to hold each other's eyes, and he saw that her face, which had grown very pale, was flooded with a deep inner radiance. His heart beat with awe: he felt that he had never before beheld love visible. "Oh, I shall be late--good-bye. No, don't come any farther than this," she cried, walking hurriedly away down the long room, as if the reflected radiance in his eyes had frightened her. When she reached the door she turned for a moment to wave a quick farewell. Archer walked home alone. Darkness was falling when he let himself into his house, and he looked about at the familiar objects in the hall as if he viewed them from the other side of the grave. The parlour-maid, hearing his step, ran up the stairs to light the gas on the upper landing. "Is Mrs. Archer in?" "No, sir; Mrs. Archer went out in the carriage after luncheon, and hasn't come back." With a sense of relief he entered the library and flung himself down in his armchair. The parlour-maid followed, bringing the student lamp and shaking some coals onto the dying fire. When she left he continued to sit motionless, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his clasped hands, his eyes fixed on the red grate. He sat there without conscious thoughts, without sense of the lapse of time, in a deep and grave amazement that seemed to suspend life rather than quicken it. "This was what had to be, then ... this was what had to be," he kept repeating to himself, as if he hung in the clutch of doom. What he had dreamed of had been so different that there was a mortal chill in his rapture. The door opened and May came in. "I'm dreadfully late--you weren't worried, were you?" she asked, laying her hand on his shoulder with one of her rare caresses. He looked up astonished. "Is it late?" "After seven. I believe you've been asleep!" She laughed, and drawing out her hat pins tossed her velvet hat on the sofa. She looked paler than | the pressure of the minutes. "What is it you wanted to tell me?" she asked, as if she had received the same warning. "What I wanted to tell you?" he rejoined. "Why, that I believe you came to New York because you were afraid." "Afraid?" "Of my coming to Washington." She looked down at her muff, and he saw her hands stir in it uneasily. "Well--?" "Well--yes," she said. "You WERE afraid? You knew--?" "Yes: I knew ..." "Well, then?" he insisted. "Well, then: this is better, isn't it?" she returned with a long questioning sigh. "Better--?" "We shall hurt others less. Isn't it, after all, what you always wanted?" "To have you here, you mean--in reach and yet out of reach? To meet you in this way, on the sly? It's the very reverse of what I want. I told you the other day what I wanted." She hesitated. "And you still think this--worse?" "A thousand times!" He paused. "It would be easy to lie to you; but the truth is I think it detestable." "Oh, so do I!" she cried with a deep breath of relief. He sprang up impatiently. "Well, then--it's my turn to ask: what is it, in God's name, that you think better?" She hung her head and continued to clasp and unclasp her hands in her muff. The step drew nearer, and a guardian in a braided cap walked listlessly through the room like a ghost stalking through a necropolis. They fixed their eyes simultaneously on the case opposite them, and when the official figure had vanished down a vista of mummies and sarcophagi Archer spoke again. "What do you think better?" Instead of answering she murmured: "I promised Granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer." "From me?" She bent her head slightly, without looking at him. "Safer from loving me?" Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil.<|quote|>"Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!"</|quote|>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 | The Age Of Innocence |
"My old home s falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new. Isn t it a perfect evening--" | Margaret | married from your old home."<|quote|>"My old home s falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new. Isn t it a perfect evening--"</|quote|>"The Alexandrina isn t bad--" | doubt you want to be married from your old home."<|quote|>"My old home s falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new. Isn t it a perfect evening--"</|quote|>"The Alexandrina isn t bad--" "The Alexandrina," she echoed, more | said gravely. "Under the circumstances, it would be better to put everything into the hands of Harrods or Whiteley s, or even to go to some hotel." "You desire a hotel?" "Yes, because--well, I mustn t interfere with you. No doubt you want to be married from your old home."<|quote|>"My old home s falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new. Isn t it a perfect evening--"</|quote|>"The Alexandrina isn t bad--" "The Alexandrina," she echoed, more occupied with the threads of smoke that were issuing from their chimneys, and ruling the sunlit slopes with parallels of grey. "It s off Curzon Street." "Is it? Let s be married from off Curzon Street." Then she turned westward, | am so very glad about it, Henry dear; I only hope that the guests at ours may be half as comfortable. You must all remember that we have no practical person among us, except my aunt, and she is not used to entertainments on a large scale." "I know," he said gravely. "Under the circumstances, it would be better to put everything into the hands of Harrods or Whiteley s, or even to go to some hotel." "You desire a hotel?" "Yes, because--well, I mustn t interfere with you. No doubt you want to be married from your old home."<|quote|>"My old home s falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new. Isn t it a perfect evening--"</|quote|>"The Alexandrina isn t bad--" "The Alexandrina," she echoed, more occupied with the threads of smoke that were issuing from their chimneys, and ruling the sunlit slopes with parallels of grey. "It s off Curzon Street." "Is it? Let s be married from off Curzon Street." Then she turned westward, to gaze at the swirling gold. Just where the river rounded the hill the sun caught it. Fairyland must lie above the bend, and its precious liquid was pouring towards them past Charles s bathing-shed. She gazed so long that her eyes were dazzled, and when they moved back to | said that he was pleased. Everything had gone off so well. She felt that he was praising her, too, and blushed; certainly she had done all she could with his intractable friends, and had made a special point of kotowing to the men. They were breaking camp this evening; only the Warringtons and quiet child would stay the night, and the others were already moving towards the house to finish their packing. "I think it did go off well," she agreed. "Since I had to jump out of the motor, I m thankful I lighted on my left hand. I am so very glad about it, Henry dear; I only hope that the guests at ours may be half as comfortable. You must all remember that we have no practical person among us, except my aunt, and she is not used to entertainments on a large scale." "I know," he said gravely. "Under the circumstances, it would be better to put everything into the hands of Harrods or Whiteley s, or even to go to some hotel." "You desire a hotel?" "Yes, because--well, I mustn t interfere with you. No doubt you want to be married from your old home."<|quote|>"My old home s falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new. Isn t it a perfect evening--"</|quote|>"The Alexandrina isn t bad--" "The Alexandrina," she echoed, more occupied with the threads of smoke that were issuing from their chimneys, and ruling the sunlit slopes with parallels of grey. "It s off Curzon Street." "Is it? Let s be married from off Curzon Street." Then she turned westward, to gaze at the swirling gold. Just where the river rounded the hill the sun caught it. Fairyland must lie above the bend, and its precious liquid was pouring towards them past Charles s bathing-shed. She gazed so long that her eyes were dazzled, and when they moved back to the house, she could not recognise the faces of people who were coming out of it. A parlour-maid was preceding them. "Who 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 | in their carriages, negotiating the dangerous curve by the lych-gate. Margaret was convinced that they had not been married at all, and that the Norman church had been intent all the time on other business. There were more documents to sign at the house, and the breakfast to eat, and then a few more people dropped in for the garden party. There had been a great many refusals, and after all it was not a very big affair--not as big as Margaret s would be. She noted the dishes and the strips of red carpet, that outwardly she might give Henry what was proper. But inwardly she hoped for something better than this blend of Sunday church and fox-hunting. If only some one had been upset! But this wedding had gone off so particularly well--"quite like a durbar" in the opinion of Lady Edser, and she thoroughly agreed with her. So the wasted day lumbered forward, the bride and bridegroom drove off, yelling with laughter, and for the second time the sun retreated towards the hills of Wales. Henry, who was more tired than he owned, came up to her in the castle meadow, and, in tones of unusual softness, said that he was pleased. Everything had gone off so well. She felt that he was praising her, too, and blushed; certainly she had done all she could with his intractable friends, and had made a special point of kotowing to the men. They were breaking camp this evening; only the Warringtons and quiet child would stay the night, and the others were already moving towards the house to finish their packing. "I think it did go off well," she agreed. "Since I had to jump out of the motor, I m thankful I lighted on my left hand. I am so very glad about it, Henry dear; I only hope that the guests at ours may be half as comfortable. You must all remember that we have no practical person among us, except my aunt, and she is not used to entertainments on a large scale." "I know," he said gravely. "Under the circumstances, it would be better to put everything into the hands of Harrods or Whiteley s, or even to go to some hotel." "You desire a hotel?" "Yes, because--well, I mustn t interfere with you. No doubt you want to be married from your old home."<|quote|>"My old home s falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new. Isn t it a perfect evening--"</|quote|>"The Alexandrina isn t bad--" "The Alexandrina," she echoed, more occupied with the threads of smoke that were issuing from their chimneys, and ruling the sunlit slopes with parallels of grey. "It s off Curzon Street." "Is it? Let s be married from off Curzon Street." Then she turned westward, to gaze at the swirling gold. Just where the river rounded the hill the sun caught it. Fairyland must lie above the bend, and its precious liquid was pouring towards them past Charles s bathing-shed. She gazed so long that her eyes were dazzled, and when they moved back to the house, she could not recognise the faces of people who were coming out of it. A parlour-maid was preceding them. "Who 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 | 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. "We shall never get through it!" she cried, and the two men were suddenly drawn into brotherhood, and exchanged smiles. She felt as if she had again jumped out of the car while it was moving. Certainly Oniton would take some digesting. It would be no small business to remain herself, and yet to assimilate such an establishment. She must remain herself, for his sake as well as her own, since a shadowy wife degrades the husband whom she accompanies; and she must assimilate for reasons of common honesty, since she had no right to marry a man and make him uncomfortable. Her only ally was the power of Home. The loss of Wickham Place had taught her more than its possession. Howards End had repeated the lesson. She was determined to create new sanctities among these hills. After visiting the wine-cellar, she dressed, and then came the wedding, which seemed a small affair when compared with the preparations for it. Everything went like one o clock. Mr. Cahill materialised out of space, and was waiting for his bride at the church door. No one dropped the ring or mispronounced the responses, or trod on Evie s train, or cried. In a few minutes the clergymen performed their duty, the register was signed, and they were back in their carriages, negotiating the dangerous curve by the lych-gate. Margaret was convinced that they had not been married at all, and that the Norman church had been intent all the time on other business. There were more documents to sign at the house, and the breakfast to eat, and then a few more people dropped in for the garden party. There had been a great many refusals, and after all it was not a very big affair--not as big as Margaret s would be. She noted the dishes and the strips of red carpet, that outwardly she might give Henry what was proper. But inwardly she hoped for something better than this blend of Sunday church and fox-hunting. If only some one had been upset! But this wedding had gone off so particularly well--"quite like a durbar" in the opinion of Lady Edser, and she thoroughly agreed with her. So the wasted day lumbered forward, the bride and bridegroom drove off, yelling with laughter, and for the second time the sun retreated towards the hills of Wales. Henry, who was more tired than he owned, came up to her in the castle meadow, and, in tones of unusual softness, said that he was pleased. Everything had gone off so well. She felt that he was praising her, too, and blushed; certainly she had done all she could with his intractable friends, and had made a special point of kotowing to the men. They were breaking camp this evening; only the Warringtons and quiet child would stay the night, and the others were already moving towards the house to finish their packing. "I think it did go off well," she agreed. "Since I had to jump out of the motor, I m thankful I lighted on my left hand. I am so very glad about it, Henry dear; I only hope that the guests at ours may be half as comfortable. You must all remember that we have no practical person among us, except my aunt, and she is not used to entertainments on a large scale." "I know," he said gravely. "Under the circumstances, it would be better to put everything into the hands of Harrods or Whiteley s, or even to go to some hotel." "You desire a hotel?" "Yes, because--well, I mustn t interfere with you. No doubt you want to be married from your old home."<|quote|>"My old home s falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new. Isn t it a perfect evening--"</|quote|>"The Alexandrina isn t bad--" "The Alexandrina," she echoed, more occupied with the threads of smoke that were issuing from their chimneys, and ruling the sunlit slopes with parallels of grey. "It s off Curzon Street." "Is it? Let s be married from off Curzon Street." Then she turned westward, to gaze at the swirling gold. Just where the river rounded the hill the sun caught it. Fairyland must lie above the bend, and its precious liquid was pouring towards them past Charles s bathing-shed. She gazed so long that her eyes were dazzled, and when they moved back to the house, she could not recognise the faces of people who were coming out of it. A parlour-maid was preceding them. "Who 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 | register was signed, and they were back in their carriages, negotiating the dangerous curve by the lych-gate. Margaret was convinced that they had not been married at all, and that the Norman church had been intent all the time on other business. There were more documents to sign at the house, and the breakfast to eat, and then a few more people dropped in for the garden party. There had been a great many refusals, and after all it was not a very big affair--not as big as Margaret s would be. She noted the dishes and the strips of red carpet, that outwardly she might give Henry what was proper. But inwardly she hoped for something better than this blend of Sunday church and fox-hunting. If only some one had been upset! But this wedding had gone off so particularly well--"quite like a durbar" in the opinion of Lady Edser, and she thoroughly agreed with her. So the wasted day lumbered forward, the bride and bridegroom drove off, yelling with laughter, and for the second time the sun retreated towards the hills of Wales. Henry, who was more tired than he owned, came up to her in the castle meadow, and, in tones of unusual softness, said that he was pleased. Everything had gone off so well. She felt that he was praising her, too, and blushed; certainly she had done all she could with his intractable friends, and had made a special point of kotowing to the men. They were breaking camp this evening; only the Warringtons and quiet child would stay the night, and the others were already moving towards the house to finish their packing. "I think it did go off well," she agreed. "Since I had to jump out of the motor, I m thankful I lighted on my left hand. I am so very glad about it, Henry dear; I only hope that the guests at ours may be half as comfortable. You must all remember that we have no practical person among us, except my aunt, and she is not used to entertainments on a large scale." "I know," he said gravely. "Under the circumstances, it would be better to put everything into the hands of Harrods or Whiteley s, or even to go to some hotel." "You desire a hotel?" "Yes, because--well, I mustn t interfere with you. No doubt you want to be married from your old home."<|quote|>"My old home s falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new. Isn t it a perfect evening--"</|quote|>"The Alexandrina isn t bad--" "The Alexandrina," she echoed, more occupied with the threads of smoke that were issuing from their chimneys, and ruling the sunlit slopes with parallels of grey. "It s off Curzon Street." "Is it? Let s be married from off Curzon Street." Then she turned westward, to gaze at the swirling gold. Just where the river rounded the hill the sun caught it. Fairyland must lie above the bend, and its precious liquid was pouring towards them past Charles s bathing-shed. She gazed so long that her eyes were dazzled, and when they moved back to the house, she could not recognise the faces of people who were coming out of it. A parlour-maid was preceding them. "Who 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 | Howards End |
"What are we going to do now?" | Jem Wimble | he stared helplessly at Don.<|quote|>"What are we going to do now?"</|quote|>"I don't know, Jem. If | that stoopid," said Jem, as he stared helplessly at Don.<|quote|>"What are we going to do now?"</|quote|>"I don't know, Jem. If we had a bit of | with more confidence, till they were about thirty feet from the foot, when farther progress became impossible, for, in place of being perpendicular, the cliff face sloped inward for some distance before becoming perpendicular once more. "Well, I do call that stoopid," said Jem, as he stared helplessly at Don.<|quote|>"What are we going to do now?"</|quote|>"I don't know, Jem. If we had a bit of rope we could easily descend." "And if we'd got wings, Mas' Don, we might fly." "We must climb back, Jem, as--Look here, would these trees bear us?" "Not likely," said Jem, staring hard at a couple of young kauri pines, | opening, and a big sugar-hogshead threatening to come down. All right now, my lad. Let's get on down. Think we're birds' nesting, Mas' Don, and it'll be all right." Don had to nerve himself once more, and they steadily lowered themselves from tuft to tuft, and from stone to stone, with more confidence, till they were about thirty feet from the foot, when farther progress became impossible, for, in place of being perpendicular, the cliff face sloped inward for some distance before becoming perpendicular once more. "Well, I do call that stoopid," said Jem, as he stared helplessly at Don.<|quote|>"What are we going to do now?"</|quote|>"I don't know, Jem. If we had a bit of rope we could easily descend." "And if we'd got wings, Mas' Don, we might fly." "We must climb back, Jem, as--Look here, would these trees bear us?" "Not likely," said Jem, staring hard at a couple of young kauri pines, which grew up at the foot of the precipice, and whose fine pointed tops were within a few feet of where they clung. "But if we could reach them and get fast hold, they would bend and let us down." "They'd let us down," said Jem drily; "but I don't | want me to; but it is awk'ard. Stand clear," he shouted. "I'm coming down. No, I arn't," he said directly after, as he made a tremendous effort to reach a tough stem below, failed, and then dropped and caught it, and swung first by one hand and then by two. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought I was gone." "You made my heart seem to jump into my mouth." "Did I, lad? Well, it was awk'ard. I was scared lest I should knock you off. Felt just as I did when the chain broke, and you could see the link opening, and a big sugar-hogshead threatening to come down. All right now, my lad. Let's get on down. Think we're birds' nesting, Mas' Don, and it'll be all right." Don had to nerve himself once more, and they steadily lowered themselves from tuft to tuft, and from stone to stone, with more confidence, till they were about thirty feet from the foot, when farther progress became impossible, for, in place of being perpendicular, the cliff face sloped inward for some distance before becoming perpendicular once more. "Well, I do call that stoopid," said Jem, as he stared helplessly at Don.<|quote|>"What are we going to do now?"</|quote|>"I don't know, Jem. If we had a bit of rope we could easily descend." "And if we'd got wings, Mas' Don, we might fly." "We must climb back, Jem, as--Look here, would these trees bear us?" "Not likely," said Jem, staring hard at a couple of young kauri pines, which grew up at the foot of the precipice, and whose fine pointed tops were within a few feet of where they clung. "But if we could reach them and get fast hold, they would bend and let us down." "They'd let us down," said Jem drily; "but I don't know 'bout bending." Don clung to the face of the rock, hesitating, and wondering whether by any possibility they could get down another way, and finding that it was absolutely hopeless, he made up his mind to act. "It is next to impossible to climb up, Jem," he said. "Yes, Mas' Don." "And we can't get down." "No, Mas' Don. We shall have to live here for a bit, only I don't know how we're going to eat and sleep." "Jem." "Yes, Mas' Don." "I'm going to jump into that tree." "No, Mas' Don, you mustn't risk it." "And if | to the bottom." "Can you reach out far enough for me to come between you and the rock?" "Just you try, Mas' Don." By this time Don had found a fresh hold for his feet; and nerving himself, he descended slowly, Jem forcing himself out, so that there was enough room for any one to pass; but as Don cleared him, and got right below, the bush to which Jem clung with one hand came slowly out of the interstices of the stones, and but for the exercise of a large amount of muscular power and rigidity of will, he would have swung round and fallen headlong. "I'm all right now, Jem!" cried Don from below. "Glad of it, my lad," muttered Jem, "because I arn't." "Come along down now." "How, Mas' Don?" said Jem grimly. "The same way as I did." "Oh! All right; but the bush I held on by is gone." "Well take hold of another." "Just you get from under me, Mas' Don." "Why? What do you mean?" "I'm too heavy to ketch like a cricket ball. That's all, my lad." "Oh, Jem, don't say you are in danger." "Not I, my lad, if you don't want me to; but it is awk'ard. Stand clear," he shouted. "I'm coming down. No, I arn't," he said directly after, as he made a tremendous effort to reach a tough stem below, failed, and then dropped and caught it, and swung first by one hand and then by two. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought I was gone." "You made my heart seem to jump into my mouth." "Did I, lad? Well, it was awk'ard. I was scared lest I should knock you off. Felt just as I did when the chain broke, and you could see the link opening, and a big sugar-hogshead threatening to come down. All right now, my lad. Let's get on down. Think we're birds' nesting, Mas' Don, and it'll be all right." Don had to nerve himself once more, and they steadily lowered themselves from tuft to tuft, and from stone to stone, with more confidence, till they were about thirty feet from the foot, when farther progress became impossible, for, in place of being perpendicular, the cliff face sloped inward for some distance before becoming perpendicular once more. "Well, I do call that stoopid," said Jem, as he stared helplessly at Don.<|quote|>"What are we going to do now?"</|quote|>"I don't know, Jem. If we had a bit of rope we could easily descend." "And if we'd got wings, Mas' Don, we might fly." "We must climb back, Jem, as--Look here, would these trees bear us?" "Not likely," said Jem, staring hard at a couple of young kauri pines, which grew up at the foot of the precipice, and whose fine pointed tops were within a few feet of where they clung. "But if we could reach them and get fast hold, they would bend and let us down." "They'd let us down," said Jem drily; "but I don't know 'bout bending." Don clung to the face of the rock, hesitating, and wondering whether by any possibility they could get down another way, and finding that it was absolutely hopeless, he made up his mind to act. "It is next to impossible to climb up, Jem," he said. "Yes, Mas' Don." "And we can't get down." "No, Mas' Don. We shall have to live here for a bit, only I don't know how we're going to eat and sleep." "Jem." "Yes, Mas' Don." "I'm going to jump into that tree." "No, Mas' Don, you mustn't risk it." "And if it breaks--" "Never mind about the tree breaking. What I don't like is, s'pose you break." "I shall go first, and you can try afterwards." "No, no, Mas' Don; let me try first." Don paid no heed to his words, but turned himself completely round, so that he held on, with his back to the stony wall, and his heels upon a couple of rough projections, in so perilous a position that Jem looked on aghast, afraid now to speak. In front of Don, about nine feet away, and the top level with his feet, was the tree of which he had spoken. As far as support was concerned, it was about as reasonable to trust to a tall fishing-rod; but it appeared to be the only chance, and Don hesitated no longer than was necessary to calculate his chances. "Don't do it, Mas' Don. It's impossible, and like chucking yourself away. Let's climb up again; it's the only chance; and if we can't get to the village in time, why, it arn't our fault. No, my lad, don't!" As the last words left his lips, Don stood perfectly upright, balancing himself for a few moments, and then, almost as | said Don hoarsely, as he hung at the full length of his arms, vainly trying to get a resting-place for his feet. Jem grasped the position in an instant, but remained perfectly cool. "Don't kick, Mas' Don." "But I can't hang here long, Jem." "Nobody wants you to, my lad. Wait a minute, and I'll be under you, and set you right. "`There was a man in Bristol city,'" he sang cheerily, as he struggled sidewise. "`Fol de--' I say, Mas' Don, he was a clever one, but I believe this here would ha' bothered him. It's hold on by your eyelids one minute, and wish you was a fly next." "Jem." "Hullo, lad?" "If I let go and dropped, how far should I fall?" "'Bout two foot ten," said Jem, after a glance below them at the sheer precipice. "Then I had better drop." "If you do you will knock me to the bottom, so just you hold on till I tells you." Jem kept up his jocular way of speaking; but if any one could have looked on, he would have seen that his face was curiously mottled with sallow, while his hands were trembling when at liberty, and that there was a curiously wild, set look in his eyes. "There, Mas' Don," he said cheerily, as he finished climbing sidewise till he was exactly beneath. "Now, one moment. That's it." As he spoke he drew himself up a little, taking fast hold of the stem of a bush, and of a projecting stone, while he found foot-hold in a wide crevice. "Now then, rest your foot on my shoulders. There you are. That's the way. Two heads is better than one." "Can you bear my weight, Jem?" "Can I bear your weight? Why? You may stand there for a week. Now just you rest your wristies a bit, and then go on climbing down, just as if I warn't here." The minute before Don had felt that he could bear the strain no longer. Now the despairing sensation which came over him had gone, his heart felt lighter as he stood on Jem's shoulders, and sought another hold for his hands lower down. The wild, fluttering pulsation ceased, and he grew composed. "I'm rested now, Jem," said Don. "Of course you are, my lad. Well, then, now you can climb down aside me. 'Tarn't so much farther to the bottom." "Can you reach out far enough for me to come between you and the rock?" "Just you try, Mas' Don." By this time Don had found a fresh hold for his feet; and nerving himself, he descended slowly, Jem forcing himself out, so that there was enough room for any one to pass; but as Don cleared him, and got right below, the bush to which Jem clung with one hand came slowly out of the interstices of the stones, and but for the exercise of a large amount of muscular power and rigidity of will, he would have swung round and fallen headlong. "I'm all right now, Jem!" cried Don from below. "Glad of it, my lad," muttered Jem, "because I arn't." "Come along down now." "How, Mas' Don?" said Jem grimly. "The same way as I did." "Oh! All right; but the bush I held on by is gone." "Well take hold of another." "Just you get from under me, Mas' Don." "Why? What do you mean?" "I'm too heavy to ketch like a cricket ball. That's all, my lad." "Oh, Jem, don't say you are in danger." "Not I, my lad, if you don't want me to; but it is awk'ard. Stand clear," he shouted. "I'm coming down. No, I arn't," he said directly after, as he made a tremendous effort to reach a tough stem below, failed, and then dropped and caught it, and swung first by one hand and then by two. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought I was gone." "You made my heart seem to jump into my mouth." "Did I, lad? Well, it was awk'ard. I was scared lest I should knock you off. Felt just as I did when the chain broke, and you could see the link opening, and a big sugar-hogshead threatening to come down. All right now, my lad. Let's get on down. Think we're birds' nesting, Mas' Don, and it'll be all right." Don had to nerve himself once more, and they steadily lowered themselves from tuft to tuft, and from stone to stone, with more confidence, till they were about thirty feet from the foot, when farther progress became impossible, for, in place of being perpendicular, the cliff face sloped inward for some distance before becoming perpendicular once more. "Well, I do call that stoopid," said Jem, as he stared helplessly at Don.<|quote|>"What are we going to do now?"</|quote|>"I don't know, Jem. If we had a bit of rope we could easily descend." "And if we'd got wings, Mas' Don, we might fly." "We must climb back, Jem, as--Look here, would these trees bear us?" "Not likely," said Jem, staring hard at a couple of young kauri pines, which grew up at the foot of the precipice, and whose fine pointed tops were within a few feet of where they clung. "But if we could reach them and get fast hold, they would bend and let us down." "They'd let us down," said Jem drily; "but I don't know 'bout bending." Don clung to the face of the rock, hesitating, and wondering whether by any possibility they could get down another way, and finding that it was absolutely hopeless, he made up his mind to act. "It is next to impossible to climb up, Jem," he said. "Yes, Mas' Don." "And we can't get down." "No, Mas' Don. We shall have to live here for a bit, only I don't know how we're going to eat and sleep." "Jem." "Yes, Mas' Don." "I'm going to jump into that tree." "No, Mas' Don, you mustn't risk it." "And if it breaks--" "Never mind about the tree breaking. What I don't like is, s'pose you break." "I shall go first, and you can try afterwards." "No, no, Mas' Don; let me try first." Don paid no heed to his words, but turned himself completely round, so that he held on, with his back to the stony wall, and his heels upon a couple of rough projections, in so perilous a position that Jem looked on aghast, afraid now to speak. In front of Don, about nine feet away, and the top level with his feet, was the tree of which he had spoken. As far as support was concerned, it was about as reasonable to trust to a tall fishing-rod; but it appeared to be the only chance, and Don hesitated no longer than was necessary to calculate his chances. "Don't do it, Mas' Don. It's impossible, and like chucking yourself away. Let's climb up again; it's the only chance; and if we can't get to the village in time, why, it arn't our fault. No, my lad, don't!" As the last words left his lips, Don stood perfectly upright, balancing himself for a few moments, and then, almost as if he were going to dive into the water, he extended his hands and sprang outward into space. Jem Wimble uttered a low groan. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. DON'S REPORT. In the case of a leap like that made by Don, there was no suspense for the looker on, for the whole affair seemed to be momentary. Jem saw him pass through the air and disappear in the mass of greenery with a loud rushing sound, which continued for a few moments, and then all was still. "He's killed; he's killed!" groaned Jem to himself; "and my Sally will say it was all my fault." He listened eagerly. "Mas' Don!" he shouted. "Hullo, Jem! I say, would you drop if you were me?" "Drop? Then you arn't killed?" "No, not yet. Would you drop?" "I don't know what you mean." "I'm hanging on to the end of that young tree, and it keeps going up and down like a spring, and it won't go any nearer than about twelve feet from the ground. Would you drop?" _Whish_! _Rush_! _Crash_! _Thud_! The young tree sprang up again, cleaving a way for itself through the thick growth, and standing nearly erect once more, ragged and sadly deprived of its elegant proportions, just as a dull sound announced Don's arrival on _terra firma_. "All right, Jem!" he cried. "Not hurt. Look here; spread your arms out well and catch tight round the tree as you jump at it. You'll slip down some distance and scratch yourself, but you can't hurt much." "I hear, Mas' Don," said Jem, drawing a long breath full of relief. "I'm a-coming. It's like taking physic," he added to himself; "but the sooner you takes it, the sooner it's down. Here goes! Say, Mas' Don, do you ketch hold o' the tree with your hands, or your arms and legs?" "All of them. Aim straight at the stem, and leap out boldly." "Oh, yes," grumbled Jem; "it's all very well, but I was never 'prenticed to this sort o' fun.--Below!" "A good bold jump, Jem. I'm out of the way." "Below then," said Jem again. "Yes, jump away. Quick!" But Jem did not jump. He distrusted the ability of the tree to bear his weight. "Why don't you jump?" "'Cause it seems like breaking my neck, which is white, to save those of them people in the village, which is | a little, taking fast hold of the stem of a bush, and of a projecting stone, while he found foot-hold in a wide crevice. "Now then, rest your foot on my shoulders. There you are. That's the way. Two heads is better than one." "Can you bear my weight, Jem?" "Can I bear your weight? Why? You may stand there for a week. Now just you rest your wristies a bit, and then go on climbing down, just as if I warn't here." The minute before Don had felt that he could bear the strain no longer. Now the despairing sensation which came over him had gone, his heart felt lighter as he stood on Jem's shoulders, and sought another hold for his hands lower down. The wild, fluttering pulsation ceased, and he grew composed. "I'm rested now, Jem," said Don. "Of course you are, my lad. Well, then, now you can climb down aside me. 'Tarn't so much farther to the bottom." "Can you reach out far enough for me to come between you and the rock?" "Just you try, Mas' Don." By this time Don had found a fresh hold for his feet; and nerving himself, he descended slowly, Jem forcing himself out, so that there was enough room for any one to pass; but as Don cleared him, and got right below, the bush to which Jem clung with one hand came slowly out of the interstices of the stones, and but for the exercise of a large amount of muscular power and rigidity of will, he would have swung round and fallen headlong. "I'm all right now, Jem!" cried Don from below. "Glad of it, my lad," muttered Jem, "because I arn't." "Come along down now." "How, Mas' Don?" said Jem grimly. "The same way as I did." "Oh! All right; but the bush I held on by is gone." "Well take hold of another." "Just you get from under me, Mas' Don." "Why? What do you mean?" "I'm too heavy to ketch like a cricket ball. That's all, my lad." "Oh, Jem, don't say you are in danger." "Not I, my lad, if you don't want me to; but it is awk'ard. Stand clear," he shouted. "I'm coming down. No, I arn't," he said directly after, as he made a tremendous effort to reach a tough stem below, failed, and then dropped and caught it, and swung first by one hand and then by two. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought I was gone." "You made my heart seem to jump into my mouth." "Did I, lad? Well, it was awk'ard. I was scared lest I should knock you off. Felt just as I did when the chain broke, and you could see the link opening, and a big sugar-hogshead threatening to come down. All right now, my lad. Let's get on down. Think we're birds' nesting, Mas' Don, and it'll be all right." Don had to nerve himself once more, and they steadily lowered themselves from tuft to tuft, and from stone to stone, with more confidence, till they were about thirty feet from the foot, when farther progress became impossible, for, in place of being perpendicular, the cliff face sloped inward for some distance before becoming perpendicular once more. "Well, I do call that stoopid," said Jem, as he stared helplessly at Don.<|quote|>"What are we going to do now?"</|quote|>"I don't know, Jem. If we had a bit of rope we could easily descend." "And if we'd got wings, Mas' Don, we might fly." "We must climb back, Jem, as--Look here, would these trees bear us?" "Not likely," said Jem, staring hard at a couple of young kauri pines, which grew up at the foot of the precipice, and whose fine pointed tops were within a few feet of where they clung. "But if we could reach them and get fast hold, they would bend and let us down." "They'd let us down," said Jem drily; "but I don't know 'bout bending." Don clung to the face of the rock, hesitating, and wondering whether by any possibility they could get down another way, and finding that it was absolutely hopeless, he made up his mind to act. "It is next to impossible to climb up, Jem," he said. "Yes, Mas' Don." "And we can't get down." "No, Mas' Don. We shall have to live here for a bit, only I don't know how we're going to eat and sleep." "Jem." "Yes, Mas' Don." "I'm going to jump into that tree." "No, Mas' Don, you mustn't risk it." "And if it breaks--" "Never mind about the tree breaking. What I don't like is, s'pose you break." "I shall go first, and you can try afterwards." "No, no, Mas' Don; let me try first." Don paid no heed to his words, but turned himself completely round, so that he held on, with his back to the stony wall, and his heels upon a couple of rough projections, in so perilous a position that Jem looked on aghast, afraid now to speak. In front of Don, about nine feet away, and the top level with his feet, was the tree | Don Lavington |
"you see we couldn't get off; some one coming back." | Jem Wimble | yards away. "There," said Jem,<|quote|>"you see we couldn't get off; some one coming back."</|quote|>"Ahoy!" came again; "boat ahoy!" | the dense growth some fifty yards away. "There," said Jem,<|quote|>"you see we couldn't get off; some one coming back."</|quote|>"Ahoy!" came again; "boat ahoy!" "Ahoy! Ahoy!" shouted back Jem, | write it to her, Mas' Don." "Write! What is writing to speaking? I thought you meant to stand by me." "So I do, Mas' Don, when a good chance comes. It hasn't come yet." "Ahoy!" A hail came out of the dense growth some fifty yards away. "There," said Jem,<|quote|>"you see we couldn't get off; some one coming back."</|quote|>"Ahoy!" came again; "boat ahoy!" "Ahoy! Ahoy!" shouted back Jem, and the two boat-keepers watched the moving ferns in front of them, expecting to see the straw hat of a messmate directly; but instead there appeared the black white-tipped feathers, and then the hideously tattooed bluish face of a savage, | passage to England as sailors, and you treat it with ridicule." "Not I, Mas' Don, lad." "You do, Jem. Such a chance may never occur again; and I shall never be happy till I have told my mother what is the real truth about our going away." "But you did write it to her, Mas' Don." "Write! What is writing to speaking? I thought you meant to stand by me." "So I do, Mas' Don, when a good chance comes. It hasn't come yet." "Ahoy!" A hail came out of the dense growth some fifty yards away. "There," said Jem,<|quote|>"you see we couldn't get off; some one coming back."</|quote|>"Ahoy!" came again; "boat ahoy!" "Ahoy! Ahoy!" shouted back Jem, and the two boat-keepers watched the moving ferns in front of them, expecting to see the straw hat of a messmate directly; but instead there appeared the black white-tipped feathers, and then the hideously tattooed bluish face of a savage, followed directly after by another, and two stalwart men came out on to the sands, and began to walk slowly down toward the boat. "Cock your pistol, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, "quiet-like; don't let 'em see. They've got their spears and choppers. Precious ready too with their _ahoys_." "Why, it's | the people here will behave kindly to us." "Till we got fat," said Jem, chuckling; "and then they'd have a tuck out. No, thank ye, Mas' Don; my Sally wouldn't like it. You see, I'm nice and plump and round now, and they'd soon use me. You're a great long growing boy, thin as a lath, and it'd take years to make you fit to kill, so as it don't matter for you." "There is a chance open to us now for escape," said Don bitterly; "to get right away, and journey to some port, where we could get a passage to England as sailors, and you treat it with ridicule." "Not I, Mas' Don, lad." "You do, Jem. Such a chance may never occur again; and I shall never be happy till I have told my mother what is the real truth about our going away." "But you did write it to her, Mas' Don." "Write! What is writing to speaking? I thought you meant to stand by me." "So I do, Mas' Don, when a good chance comes. It hasn't come yet." "Ahoy!" A hail came out of the dense growth some fifty yards away. "There," said Jem,<|quote|>"you see we couldn't get off; some one coming back."</|quote|>"Ahoy!" came again; "boat ahoy!" "Ahoy! Ahoy!" shouted back Jem, and the two boat-keepers watched the moving ferns in front of them, expecting to see the straw hat of a messmate directly; but instead there appeared the black white-tipped feathers, and then the hideously tattooed bluish face of a savage, followed directly after by another, and two stalwart men came out on to the sands, and began to walk slowly down toward the boat. "Cock your pistol, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, "quiet-like; don't let 'em see. They've got their spears and choppers. Precious ready too with their _ahoys_." "Why, it's that tattooed Englishman, Jem, and that savage who called me his pakeha." "And like his impudence!" said Jem. "You're right though, so it is." "Morning, mate," said the Englishman, who, save that he was a little lighter in colour than his hideous-looking companion, could hardly be distinguished from him. "Morning, my hearty," said Jem. "What is it? Want a passage home?" "Do I want what?" growled the man. "Not I; too well off here." "Wouldn't be safe to go back, p'r'aps," said Jem meaningly. The man darted a fierce look at him, which told that the shaft had hit its | why not now?" "Yes, I heared you say so twice; but what does it mean?" "We're quite alone; we have a boat and arms, with food and water. Why not escape now?" "Escape, Mas' Don? What, run away now at once--desert?" "It is not running away, Jem; it is not deserting. They have robbed us of our liberty, and we should only be taking it back." "Ah, they'd preach quite a different sarmon to that," said Jem, shaking his head. "Why, you are never going to turn tail?" "Not I, Mas' Don, when the time comes; but it don't seem to have come yet." "Why, the opportunity is splendid, man." "No, Mas' Don, I don't think so. If we take the boat, 'fore we've gone far they'll ketch sight of us aboard, and send another one to fetch us back, or else make a cock-shy of us with the long gun." "Then let's leave the boat." "And go ashore, and meet our messmates and the captain." "Go in another direction." "Out of the frying-pan into the fire," said Jem, grinning. "Say, Mas' Don, how do they cook their food?" "Don't talk nonsense, Jem; that's only a traveller's tale. I believe the people here will behave kindly to us." "Till we got fat," said Jem, chuckling; "and then they'd have a tuck out. No, thank ye, Mas' Don; my Sally wouldn't like it. You see, I'm nice and plump and round now, and they'd soon use me. You're a great long growing boy, thin as a lath, and it'd take years to make you fit to kill, so as it don't matter for you." "There is a chance open to us now for escape," said Don bitterly; "to get right away, and journey to some port, where we could get a passage to England as sailors, and you treat it with ridicule." "Not I, Mas' Don, lad." "You do, Jem. Such a chance may never occur again; and I shall never be happy till I have told my mother what is the real truth about our going away." "But you did write it to her, Mas' Don." "Write! What is writing to speaking? I thought you meant to stand by me." "So I do, Mas' Don, when a good chance comes. It hasn't come yet." "Ahoy!" A hail came out of the dense growth some fifty yards away. "There," said Jem,<|quote|>"you see we couldn't get off; some one coming back."</|quote|>"Ahoy!" came again; "boat ahoy!" "Ahoy! Ahoy!" shouted back Jem, and the two boat-keepers watched the moving ferns in front of them, expecting to see the straw hat of a messmate directly; but instead there appeared the black white-tipped feathers, and then the hideously tattooed bluish face of a savage, followed directly after by another, and two stalwart men came out on to the sands, and began to walk slowly down toward the boat. "Cock your pistol, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, "quiet-like; don't let 'em see. They've got their spears and choppers. Precious ready too with their _ahoys_." "Why, it's that tattooed Englishman, Jem, and that savage who called me his pakeha." "And like his impudence!" said Jem. "You're right though, so it is." "Morning, mate," said the Englishman, who, save that he was a little lighter in colour than his hideous-looking companion, could hardly be distinguished from him. "Morning, my hearty," said Jem. "What is it? Want a passage home?" "Do I want what?" growled the man. "Not I; too well off here." "Wouldn't be safe to go back, p'r'aps," said Jem meaningly. The man darted a fierce look at him, which told that the shaft had hit its mark. "Never you mind about that," he said surlily. "But you are a lifer, and have run away, haven't you?" continued Jem, in a bantering tone. The man's aspect was for the moment so fierce that Don involuntarily stole his hand towards the pistol at his side. But his countenance softened directly after. "That's neither here nor there, mate," said the man. "There's been chaps sent out abroad who were innocent, and others who have been punished more than they deserved; and you aren't the sort of fellow to go talking like that, and making trouble for a fellow who never did you any harm." "Not I," said Jem; "it's no business of mine." "And he isn't the fellow to make trouble," put in Don. "That he isn't," said the man, smiling. "'Sides I'm a Maori chief now, and I've got a couple of hundred stout fellows who would fight for me. Eh, Ngati?" he said, addressing some words in the savage tongue. "Pah, ha, ha!" roared the great fellow beside him, brandishing his spear; and seizing the greenstone paddle-like weapon, which hung from his neck, in his left hand, as he struck an attitude, turned up his eyes till | head touched the shore, the men leaped over right and left, and dragged her a short distance up the black glistening heavy sand, so that the captain could land dry-shod. Then preparations were made, arms charged, and Bosun Jones gave Don a friendly nod before turning to the captain. "Will you have this lad, sir, to carry a spare gun for you?" "Yes," said the captain; "a good plan;" and Don's eyes sparkled. "No," said the captain the next moment; "he is only a boy, and the walking will be too hard for him. Let him and another stay with the boat." Don's brow clouded over with disappointment, but it cleared a little directly after as he found that Jem was to be his companion; and as the party marched off toward where the forest came down nearly to the sea, they, in obedience to their orders, thrust the boat off again, climbed in, and cast out her grapnel a few fathoms from the shore. "I am disappointed," said Don, after they had sat in the boat some time, watching their companions till they had disappeared. "Oh, I dunno, Mas' Don; we've got some beef and biscuit, and somewhere to sit down, and nothing to do. They, poor fellows, will come back hot and tired out." "Yes; but's it's so dull here." "Well, I dunno 'bout that," said Jem, looking lazily round at the glorious prospect of glistening sea, island and shore, backed up by mountains; "I call it just lovely." "Oh, it's lovely enough, Jem; but I want to go ashore." "Now if you call my cottage dull inside the yard gates at Bristol, I'm with you, Mas' Don; but after all there's no place like home." There was a dead silence, during which Don sat gazing at a group of the savages half-a-mile away, as they landed from a long canoe, and ran it up the beach in front of one of the native _whares_ or dwellings. "Why, Jem!" Don exclaimed suddenly, "why not now?" "Eh?" said Jem, starting from watching a large bird dive down with a splash in the silvery water, and then rise again with a fish in its beak; "see that, Mas' Don?" "Yes, yes," exclaimed Don impatiently; "why not now?" "Why not now, Mas' Don?" said Jem, scratching his head; "is that what you call a connundydrum?" "Don't be stupid, man. I say, why not now?" "Yes, I heared you say so twice; but what does it mean?" "We're quite alone; we have a boat and arms, with food and water. Why not escape now?" "Escape, Mas' Don? What, run away now at once--desert?" "It is not running away, Jem; it is not deserting. They have robbed us of our liberty, and we should only be taking it back." "Ah, they'd preach quite a different sarmon to that," said Jem, shaking his head. "Why, you are never going to turn tail?" "Not I, Mas' Don, when the time comes; but it don't seem to have come yet." "Why, the opportunity is splendid, man." "No, Mas' Don, I don't think so. If we take the boat, 'fore we've gone far they'll ketch sight of us aboard, and send another one to fetch us back, or else make a cock-shy of us with the long gun." "Then let's leave the boat." "And go ashore, and meet our messmates and the captain." "Go in another direction." "Out of the frying-pan into the fire," said Jem, grinning. "Say, Mas' Don, how do they cook their food?" "Don't talk nonsense, Jem; that's only a traveller's tale. I believe the people here will behave kindly to us." "Till we got fat," said Jem, chuckling; "and then they'd have a tuck out. No, thank ye, Mas' Don; my Sally wouldn't like it. You see, I'm nice and plump and round now, and they'd soon use me. You're a great long growing boy, thin as a lath, and it'd take years to make you fit to kill, so as it don't matter for you." "There is a chance open to us now for escape," said Don bitterly; "to get right away, and journey to some port, where we could get a passage to England as sailors, and you treat it with ridicule." "Not I, Mas' Don, lad." "You do, Jem. Such a chance may never occur again; and I shall never be happy till I have told my mother what is the real truth about our going away." "But you did write it to her, Mas' Don." "Write! What is writing to speaking? I thought you meant to stand by me." "So I do, Mas' Don, when a good chance comes. It hasn't come yet." "Ahoy!" A hail came out of the dense growth some fifty yards away. "There," said Jem,<|quote|>"you see we couldn't get off; some one coming back."</|quote|>"Ahoy!" came again; "boat ahoy!" "Ahoy! Ahoy!" shouted back Jem, and the two boat-keepers watched the moving ferns in front of them, expecting to see the straw hat of a messmate directly; but instead there appeared the black white-tipped feathers, and then the hideously tattooed bluish face of a savage, followed directly after by another, and two stalwart men came out on to the sands, and began to walk slowly down toward the boat. "Cock your pistol, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, "quiet-like; don't let 'em see. They've got their spears and choppers. Precious ready too with their _ahoys_." "Why, it's that tattooed Englishman, Jem, and that savage who called me his pakeha." "And like his impudence!" said Jem. "You're right though, so it is." "Morning, mate," said the Englishman, who, save that he was a little lighter in colour than his hideous-looking companion, could hardly be distinguished from him. "Morning, my hearty," said Jem. "What is it? Want a passage home?" "Do I want what?" growled the man. "Not I; too well off here." "Wouldn't be safe to go back, p'r'aps," said Jem meaningly. The man darted a fierce look at him, which told that the shaft had hit its mark. "Never you mind about that," he said surlily. "But you are a lifer, and have run away, haven't you?" continued Jem, in a bantering tone. The man's aspect was for the moment so fierce that Don involuntarily stole his hand towards the pistol at his side. But his countenance softened directly after. "That's neither here nor there, mate," said the man. "There's been chaps sent out abroad who were innocent, and others who have been punished more than they deserved; and you aren't the sort of fellow to go talking like that, and making trouble for a fellow who never did you any harm." "Not I," said Jem; "it's no business of mine." "And he isn't the fellow to make trouble," put in Don. "That he isn't," said the man, smiling. "'Sides I'm a Maori chief now, and I've got a couple of hundred stout fellows who would fight for me. Eh, Ngati?" he said, addressing some words in the savage tongue. "Pah, ha, ha!" roared the great fellow beside him, brandishing his spear; and seizing the greenstone paddle-like weapon, which hung from his neck, in his left hand, as he struck an attitude, turned up his eyes till the whites only were visible, distorted his face hideously, and thrust out his great tongue till it was far below his chin. "Brayvo! Brayvo! Brayvo!" cried Jem, hammering the side of the boat; "brayvo, waxworks! I say, mate, will he always go off like that when you pull the string?" "Yes," said the Englishman, laughing; "and two hundred more like him." "Then it must be a werry pretty sight indeed; eh, Mas' Don?" "Ah, it's all very well to laugh," said the Englishman good-humouredly; "but when they mean mischief, it's heads off and a feast." "Eh?" cried Jem. "They'll kill a man, and cook him and eat him after." "Gammon!" "Gammon, eh?" cried the Englishman; and he turned to his savage companion with a word or two. The savage relapsed into his former quiescent state, uttered a loud grunt, and smacked his lips. "And so you do do that sort of thing?" said Jem, grinning. "You look in pretty good condition, mate." "No!" said the Englishman fiercely. "I've joined them, and married, and I'm a pakeha Maori and a great chief, and I've often fought for them; but I've never forgotten what I am." "No offence meant, old chap," said Jem; and then from behind his hand he whispered to Don,-- "Look out, my lad; they mean the boat." "No, we don't," said the Englishman, contemptuously; "if we did we could have it. Why, I've only to give the word, and a hundred fellows would be out in a canoe before you knew where you were. No, my lad, it's peace; and I'm glad of a chance, though I'm happy enough here, to have a talk to some one from the old home. Never was in the west country, I suppose? I'm an Exeter man." "I've been in Exeter often," said Don eagerly; "we're from Bristol." The Englishman waded rapidly into the sea, his Maori companion dashing in on the other side of the boat, and Jem and Don seized their pistols. "Didn't I tell you it was peace?" said the Englishman, angrily. "I only wanted to shake hands." "Ho!" said Jem, suspiciously, as their visitor coolly seated himself on the gunwale of the boat, his follower taking the opposite side, so as to preserve the balance. "Enough to make you think we meant wrong," said the Englishman; "but we don't. Got any tobacco, mate?" "Yes," said Jem, producing his | do they cook their food?" "Don't talk nonsense, Jem; that's only a traveller's tale. I believe the people here will behave kindly to us." "Till we got fat," said Jem, chuckling; "and then they'd have a tuck out. No, thank ye, Mas' Don; my Sally wouldn't like it. You see, I'm nice and plump and round now, and they'd soon use me. You're a great long growing boy, thin as a lath, and it'd take years to make you fit to kill, so as it don't matter for you." "There is a chance open to us now for escape," said Don bitterly; "to get right away, and journey to some port, where we could get a passage to England as sailors, and you treat it with ridicule." "Not I, Mas' Don, lad." "You do, Jem. Such a chance may never occur again; and I shall never be happy till I have told my mother what is the real truth about our going away." "But you did write it to her, Mas' Don." "Write! What is writing to speaking? I thought you meant to stand by me." "So I do, Mas' Don, when a good chance comes. It hasn't come yet." "Ahoy!" A hail came out of the dense growth some fifty yards away. "There," said Jem,<|quote|>"you see we couldn't get off; some one coming back."</|quote|>"Ahoy!" came again; "boat ahoy!" "Ahoy! Ahoy!" shouted back Jem, and the two boat-keepers watched the moving ferns in front of them, expecting to see the straw hat of a messmate directly; but instead there appeared the black white-tipped feathers, and then the hideously tattooed bluish face of a savage, followed directly after by another, and two stalwart men came out on to the sands, and began to walk slowly down toward the boat. "Cock your pistol, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, "quiet-like; don't let 'em see. They've got their spears and choppers. Precious ready too with their _ahoys_." "Why, it's that tattooed Englishman, Jem, and that savage who called me his pakeha." "And like his impudence!" said Jem. "You're right though, so it is." "Morning, mate," said the Englishman, who, save that he was a little lighter in colour than his hideous-looking companion, could hardly be distinguished from him. "Morning, my hearty," said Jem. "What is it? Want a passage home?" "Do I want what?" growled the man. "Not I; too well off here." "Wouldn't be safe to go back, p'r'aps," said Jem meaningly. The man darted a fierce look at him, which told that the shaft had hit its mark. "Never you mind about that," he said surlily. "But you are a lifer, and have run away, haven't you?" continued Jem, in a bantering tone. The man's aspect was for the moment so fierce that Don involuntarily stole his hand towards the pistol at his side. But his countenance softened directly after. "That's neither here nor there, mate," said the man. "There's been chaps sent out abroad who were innocent, and others who have been punished more than they deserved; and you aren't the sort of fellow to go talking like that, and making trouble for a fellow who never did you any harm." "Not I," said Jem; "it's no business of mine." "And he isn't the fellow to make trouble," put in Don. "That he isn't," said the man, smiling. "'Sides I'm a Maori chief now, and I've got a couple of hundred stout fellows who would fight for me. Eh, Ngati?" he said, addressing some words in the savage tongue. "Pah, ha, ha!" roared the great fellow beside him, brandishing his spear; and seizing the greenstone paddle-like weapon, which hung from his neck, in his left hand, as he struck an attitude, turned up his eyes till the whites only were visible, distorted his face hideously, and thrust out his great tongue till it was far below his chin. "Brayvo! Brayvo! Brayvo!" cried Jem, hammering the side of the | Don Lavington |
"Oh, for God's sake" | Cyril Fielding | use force," Mr. Haq wailed.<|quote|>"Oh, for God's sake"</|quote|>cried Fielding, his own nerves | "That will compel me to use force," Mr. Haq wailed.<|quote|>"Oh, for God's sake"</|quote|>cried Fielding, his own nerves breaking under the contagion, and | old man; nothing to fuss about, some blunder." "Dr. Aziz, will you kindly come? a closed conveyance stands in readiness." The young man sobbed his first sound and tried to escape out of the opposite door on to the line. "That will compel me to use force," Mr. Haq wailed.<|quote|>"Oh, for God's sake"</|quote|>cried Fielding, his own nerves breaking under the contagion, and pulled him back before a scandal started, and shook him like a baby. A second later, and he would have been out, whistles blowing, a man-hunt. . . . "Dear fellow, we're coming to McBryde together, and enquire what's gone | my instructions. I know nothing." "On what charge do you arrest him?" "I am under instructions not to say." "Don't answer me like that. Produce your warrant." "Sir, excuse me, no warrant is required under these particular circumstances. Refer to Mr. McBryde." "Very well, so we will. Come along, Aziz, old man; nothing to fuss about, some blunder." "Dr. Aziz, will you kindly come? a closed conveyance stands in readiness." The young man sobbed his first sound and tried to escape out of the opposite door on to the line. "That will compel me to use force," Mr. Haq wailed.<|quote|>"Oh, for God's sake"</|quote|>cried Fielding, his own nerves breaking under the contagion, and pulled him back before a scandal started, and shook him like a baby. A second later, and he would have been out, whistles blowing, a man-hunt. . . . "Dear fellow, we're coming to McBryde together, and enquire what's gone wrong he's a decent fellow, it's all unintentional . . . he'll apologize. Never, never act the criminal." "My children and my name!" he gasped, his wings broken. "Nothing of the sort. Put your hat straight and take my arm. I'll see you through." "Ah, thank God, he comes," the | the distance, took courage, and bumped forward, rounded the civil station, surmounted the level-crossing (the rails were scorching now), and clanked to a stand-still. Chandrapore, Chandrapore! The expedition was over. And as it ended, as they sat up in the gloom and prepared to enter ordinary life, suddenly the long drawn strangeness of the morning snapped. Mr. Haq, the Inspector of Police, flung open the door of their carriage and said in shrill tones: "Dr. Aziz, it is my highly painful duty to arrest you." "Hullo, some mistake," said Fielding, at once taking charge of the situation. "Sir, they are my instructions. I know nothing." "On what charge do you arrest him?" "I am under instructions not to say." "Don't answer me like that. Produce your warrant." "Sir, excuse me, no warrant is required under these particular circumstances. Refer to Mr. McBryde." "Very well, so we will. Come along, Aziz, old man; nothing to fuss about, some blunder." "Dr. Aziz, will you kindly come? a closed conveyance stands in readiness." The young man sobbed his first sound and tried to escape out of the opposite door on to the line. "That will compel me to use force," Mr. Haq wailed.<|quote|>"Oh, for God's sake"</|quote|>cried Fielding, his own nerves breaking under the contagion, and pulled him back before a scandal started, and shook him like a baby. A second later, and he would have been out, whistles blowing, a man-hunt. . . . "Dear fellow, we're coming to McBryde together, and enquire what's gone wrong he's a decent fellow, it's all unintentional . . . he'll apologize. Never, never act the criminal." "My children and my name!" he gasped, his wings broken. "Nothing of the sort. Put your hat straight and take my arm. I'll see you through." "Ah, thank God, he comes," the Inspector exclaimed. They emerged into the midday heat, arm in arm. The station was seething. Passengers and porters rushed out of every recess, many Government servants, more police. Ronny escorted Mrs. Moore. Mohammed Latif began wailing. And before they could make their way through the chaos, Fielding was called off by the authoritative tones of Mr. Turton, and Aziz went on to prison alone. CHAPTER XVII The Collector had watched the arrest from the interior of the waiting-room, and throwing open its perforated doors of zinc, he was now revealed like a god in a shrine. When Fielding entered the | . No, when I was a student I got excited over your damned countrymen, certainly; but if they'll let me get on with my profession and not be too rude to me officially, I really don't ask for more." "But you do; you take them to a picnic." "This picnic is nothing to do with English or Indian; it is an expedition of friends." So the cavalcade ended, partly pleasant, partly not; the Brahman cook was picked up, the train arrived, pushing its burning throat over the plain, and the twentieth century took over from the sixteenth. Mrs. Moore entered her carriage, the three men went to theirs, adjusted the shutters, turned on the electric fan and tried to get some sleep. In the twilight, all resembled corpses, and the train itself seemed dead though it moved a coffin from the scientific north which troubled the scenery four times a day. As it left the Marabars, their nasty little cosmos disappeared, and gave place to the Marabars seen from a distance, finite and rather romantic. The train halted once under a pump, to drench the stock of coal in its tender. Then it caught sight of the main line in the distance, took courage, and bumped forward, rounded the civil station, surmounted the level-crossing (the rails were scorching now), and clanked to a stand-still. Chandrapore, Chandrapore! The expedition was over. And as it ended, as they sat up in the gloom and prepared to enter ordinary life, suddenly the long drawn strangeness of the morning snapped. Mr. Haq, the Inspector of Police, flung open the door of their carriage and said in shrill tones: "Dr. Aziz, it is my highly painful duty to arrest you." "Hullo, some mistake," said Fielding, at once taking charge of the situation. "Sir, they are my instructions. I know nothing." "On what charge do you arrest him?" "I am under instructions not to say." "Don't answer me like that. Produce your warrant." "Sir, excuse me, no warrant is required under these particular circumstances. Refer to Mr. McBryde." "Very well, so we will. Come along, Aziz, old man; nothing to fuss about, some blunder." "Dr. Aziz, will you kindly come? a closed conveyance stands in readiness." The young man sobbed his first sound and tried to escape out of the opposite door on to the line. "That will compel me to use force," Mr. Haq wailed.<|quote|>"Oh, for God's sake"</|quote|>cried Fielding, his own nerves breaking under the contagion, and pulled him back before a scandal started, and shook him like a baby. A second later, and he would have been out, whistles blowing, a man-hunt. . . . "Dear fellow, we're coming to McBryde together, and enquire what's gone wrong he's a decent fellow, it's all unintentional . . . he'll apologize. Never, never act the criminal." "My children and my name!" he gasped, his wings broken. "Nothing of the sort. Put your hat straight and take my arm. I'll see you through." "Ah, thank God, he comes," the Inspector exclaimed. They emerged into the midday heat, arm in arm. The station was seething. Passengers and porters rushed out of every recess, many Government servants, more police. Ronny escorted Mrs. Moore. Mohammed Latif began wailing. And before they could make their way through the chaos, Fielding was called off by the authoritative tones of Mr. Turton, and Aziz went on to prison alone. CHAPTER XVII The Collector had watched the arrest from the interior of the waiting-room, and throwing open its perforated doors of zinc, he was now revealed like a god in a shrine. When Fielding entered the doors clapped to, and were guarded by a servant, while a punkah, to mark the importance of the moment, flapped dirty petticoats over their heads. The Collector could not speak at first. His face was white, fanatical, and rather beautiful the expression that all English faces were to wear at Chandrapore for many days. Always brave and unselfish, he was now fused by some white and generous heat; he would have killed himself, obviously, if he had thought it right to do so. He spoke at last. "The worst thing in my whole career has happened," he said. "Miss Quested has been insulted in one of the Marabar caves." "Oh no, oh no, no," gasped the other, feeling sickish. "She escaped by God's grace." "Oh no, no, but not Aziz . . . not Aziz . . ." He nodded. "Absolutely impossible, grotesque." "I called you to preserve you from the odium that would attach to you if you were seen accompanying him to the Police Station," said Turton, paying no attention to his protest, indeed scarcely hearing it. He repeated "Oh no," like a fool. He couldn't frame other words. He felt that a mass of madness had arisen | kindly. "Miss Quested was always to do what she wished, it was our arrangement. I see you are worrying on my account, but really I don't mind, I never notice trifles." "I do worry on your account. I consider they have been impolite!" said Fielding, lowering his voice. "She had no right to dash away from your party, and Miss Derek had no right to abet her." So touchy as a rule, Aziz was unassailable. The wings that uplifted him did not falter, because he was a Mogul emperor who had done his duty. Perched on his elephant, he watched the Marabar Hills recede, and saw again, as provinces of his kingdom, the grim untidy plain, the frantic and feeble movements of the buckets, the white shrines, the shallow graves, the suave sky, the snake that looked like a tree. He had given his guests as good a time as he could, and if they came late or left early that was not his affair. Mrs. Moore slept, swaying against the rods of the howdah, Mohammed Latif embraced her with efficiency and respect, and by his own side sat Fielding, whom he began to think of as "Cyril." "Aziz, have you figured out what this picnic will cost you?" "Sh! my dear chap, don't mention that part. Hundreds and hundreds of rupees. The completed account will be too awful; my friends' servants have robbed me right and left, and as for an elephant, she apparently eats gold. I can trust you not to repeat this. And M.L. please employ initials, he listens is far the worst of all." "I told you he's no good." "He is plenty of good for himself; his dishonesty will ruin me." "Aziz, how monstrous!" "I am delighted with him really, he has made my guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it." "My proverbs are: A penny saved is a penny earned; A stitch in time saves nine; Look before you leap; and the British Empire rests on them. You will never kick us out, you know, until you cease employing M.L.'s and such." "Oh, kick you out? Why should I trouble over that dirty job? Leave it to the politicians. . . . No, when I was a student I got excited over your damned countrymen, certainly; but if they'll let me get on with my profession and not be too rude to me officially, I really don't ask for more." "But you do; you take them to a picnic." "This picnic is nothing to do with English or Indian; it is an expedition of friends." So the cavalcade ended, partly pleasant, partly not; the Brahman cook was picked up, the train arrived, pushing its burning throat over the plain, and the twentieth century took over from the sixteenth. Mrs. Moore entered her carriage, the three men went to theirs, adjusted the shutters, turned on the electric fan and tried to get some sleep. In the twilight, all resembled corpses, and the train itself seemed dead though it moved a coffin from the scientific north which troubled the scenery four times a day. As it left the Marabars, their nasty little cosmos disappeared, and gave place to the Marabars seen from a distance, finite and rather romantic. The train halted once under a pump, to drench the stock of coal in its tender. Then it caught sight of the main line in the distance, took courage, and bumped forward, rounded the civil station, surmounted the level-crossing (the rails were scorching now), and clanked to a stand-still. Chandrapore, Chandrapore! The expedition was over. And as it ended, as they sat up in the gloom and prepared to enter ordinary life, suddenly the long drawn strangeness of the morning snapped. Mr. Haq, the Inspector of Police, flung open the door of their carriage and said in shrill tones: "Dr. Aziz, it is my highly painful duty to arrest you." "Hullo, some mistake," said Fielding, at once taking charge of the situation. "Sir, they are my instructions. I know nothing." "On what charge do you arrest him?" "I am under instructions not to say." "Don't answer me like that. Produce your warrant." "Sir, excuse me, no warrant is required under these particular circumstances. Refer to Mr. McBryde." "Very well, so we will. Come along, Aziz, old man; nothing to fuss about, some blunder." "Dr. Aziz, will you kindly come? a closed conveyance stands in readiness." The young man sobbed his first sound and tried to escape out of the opposite door on to the line. "That will compel me to use force," Mr. Haq wailed.<|quote|>"Oh, for God's sake"</|quote|>cried Fielding, his own nerves breaking under the contagion, and pulled him back before a scandal started, and shook him like a baby. A second later, and he would have been out, whistles blowing, a man-hunt. . . . "Dear fellow, we're coming to McBryde together, and enquire what's gone wrong he's a decent fellow, it's all unintentional . . . he'll apologize. Never, never act the criminal." "My children and my name!" he gasped, his wings broken. "Nothing of the sort. Put your hat straight and take my arm. I'll see you through." "Ah, thank God, he comes," the Inspector exclaimed. They emerged into the midday heat, arm in arm. The station was seething. Passengers and porters rushed out of every recess, many Government servants, more police. Ronny escorted Mrs. Moore. Mohammed Latif began wailing. And before they could make their way through the chaos, Fielding was called off by the authoritative tones of Mr. Turton, and Aziz went on to prison alone. CHAPTER XVII The Collector had watched the arrest from the interior of the waiting-room, and throwing open its perforated doors of zinc, he was now revealed like a god in a shrine. When Fielding entered the doors clapped to, and were guarded by a servant, while a punkah, to mark the importance of the moment, flapped dirty petticoats over their heads. The Collector could not speak at first. His face was white, fanatical, and rather beautiful the expression that all English faces were to wear at Chandrapore for many days. Always brave and unselfish, he was now fused by some white and generous heat; he would have killed himself, obviously, if he had thought it right to do so. He spoke at last. "The worst thing in my whole career has happened," he said. "Miss Quested has been insulted in one of the Marabar caves." "Oh no, oh no, no," gasped the other, feeling sickish. "She escaped by God's grace." "Oh no, no, but not Aziz . . . not Aziz . . ." He nodded. "Absolutely impossible, grotesque." "I called you to preserve you from the odium that would attach to you if you were seen accompanying him to the Police Station," said Turton, paying no attention to his protest, indeed scarcely hearing it. He repeated "Oh no," like a fool. He couldn't frame other words. He felt that a mass of madness had arisen and tried to overwhelm them all; it had to be shoved back into its pit somehow, and he didn't know how to do it, because he did not understand madness: he had always gone about sensibly and quietly until a difficulty came right. "Who lodges this infamous charge?" he asked, pulling himself together. "Miss Derek and the victim herself. . . ." He nearly broke down, unable to repeat the girl's name. "Miss Quested herself definitely accuses him of" He nodded and turned his face away. "Then she's mad." "I cannot pass that last remark," said the Collector, waking up to the knowledge that they differed, and trembling with fury. "You will withdraw it instantly. It is the type of remark you have permitted yourself to make ever since you came to Chandrapore." "I'm excessively sorry, sir; I certainly withdraw it unconditionally." For the man was half mad himself. "Pray, Mr. Fielding, what induced you to speak to me in such a tone?" "The news gave me a very great shock, so I must ask you to forgive me. I cannot believe that Dr. Aziz is guilty." He slammed his hand on the table. "That that is a repetition of your insult in an aggravated form." "If I may venture to say so, no," said Fielding, also going white, but sticking to his point. "I make no reflection on the good faith of the two ladies, but the charge they are bringing against Aziz rests upon some mistake, and five minutes will clear it up. The man's manner is perfectly natural; besides, I know him to be incapable of infamy." "It does indeed rest upon a mistake," came the thin, biting voice of the other. "It does indeed. I have had twenty-five years' experience of this country" he paused, and "twenty-five years" seemed to fill the waiting-room with their staleness and ungenerosity "and during those twenty-five years I have never known anything but disaster result when English people and Indians attempt to be intimate socially. Intercourse, yes. Courtesy, by all means. Intimacy never, never. The whole weight of my authority is against it. I have been in charge at Chandrapore for six years, and if everything has gone smoothly, if there has been mutual respect and esteem, it is because both peoples kept to this simple rule. New-comers set our traditions aside, and in an instant what you see happens, | you know, until you cease employing M.L.'s and such." "Oh, kick you out? Why should I trouble over that dirty job? Leave it to the politicians. . . . No, when I was a student I got excited over your damned countrymen, certainly; but if they'll let me get on with my profession and not be too rude to me officially, I really don't ask for more." "But you do; you take them to a picnic." "This picnic is nothing to do with English or Indian; it is an expedition of friends." So the cavalcade ended, partly pleasant, partly not; the Brahman cook was picked up, the train arrived, pushing its burning throat over the plain, and the twentieth century took over from the sixteenth. Mrs. Moore entered her carriage, the three men went to theirs, adjusted the shutters, turned on the electric fan and tried to get some sleep. In the twilight, all resembled corpses, and the train itself seemed dead though it moved a coffin from the scientific north which troubled the scenery four times a day. As it left the Marabars, their nasty little cosmos disappeared, and gave place to the Marabars seen from a distance, finite and rather romantic. The train halted once under a pump, to drench the stock of coal in its tender. Then it caught sight of the main line in the distance, took courage, and bumped forward, rounded the civil station, surmounted the level-crossing (the rails were scorching now), and clanked to a stand-still. Chandrapore, Chandrapore! The expedition was over. And as it ended, as they sat up in the gloom and prepared to enter ordinary life, suddenly the long drawn strangeness of the morning snapped. Mr. Haq, the Inspector of Police, flung open the door of their carriage and said in shrill tones: "Dr. Aziz, it is my highly painful duty to arrest you." "Hullo, some mistake," said Fielding, at once taking charge of the situation. "Sir, they are my instructions. I know nothing." "On what charge do you arrest him?" "I am under instructions not to say." "Don't answer me like that. Produce your warrant." "Sir, excuse me, no warrant is required under these particular circumstances. Refer to Mr. McBryde." "Very well, so we will. Come along, Aziz, old man; nothing to fuss about, some blunder." "Dr. Aziz, will you kindly come? a closed conveyance stands in readiness." The young man sobbed his first sound and tried to escape out of the opposite door on to the line. "That will compel me to use force," Mr. Haq wailed.<|quote|>"Oh, for God's sake"</|quote|>cried Fielding, his own nerves breaking under the contagion, and pulled him back before a scandal started, and shook him like a baby. A second later, and he would have been out, whistles blowing, a man-hunt. . . . "Dear fellow, we're coming to McBryde together, and enquire what's gone wrong he's a decent fellow, it's all unintentional . . . he'll apologize. Never, never act the criminal." "My children and my name!" he gasped, his wings broken. "Nothing of the sort. Put your hat straight and take my arm. I'll see you through." "Ah, thank God, he comes," the Inspector exclaimed. They emerged into the midday heat, arm in arm. The station was seething. Passengers and porters rushed out of every recess, many Government servants, more police. Ronny escorted Mrs. Moore. Mohammed Latif began wailing. And before they could make their way through the chaos, Fielding was called off by the authoritative tones of Mr. Turton, and Aziz went on to prison alone. CHAPTER XVII The Collector had watched the arrest from the interior of the waiting-room, and throwing open its perforated doors of zinc, he was now revealed like a god in a shrine. When Fielding entered the doors clapped to, and were guarded by a servant, while a punkah, to mark the importance of the moment, flapped dirty petticoats over their heads. The Collector could not speak at first. His face was white, fanatical, and rather beautiful the expression that all English faces were to wear at Chandrapore for many days. Always brave and unselfish, he was now fused by some white and generous heat; he would have | A Passage To India |
"May!" | Newland Archer | the passage to her bedroom.<|quote|>"May!"</|quote|>he called out impatiently; and | he heard her passing down the passage to her bedroom.<|quote|>"May!"</|quote|>he called out impatiently; and she came back, with a | her menacing blush. What its menace meant he could not guess: but he was sufficiently warned by the fact that Madame Olenska's name had evoked it. They went upstairs, and he turned into the library. She usually followed him; but he heard her passing down the passage to her bedroom.<|quote|>"May!"</|quote|>he called out impatiently; and she came back, with a slight glance of surprise at his tone. "This lamp is smoking again; I should think the servants might see that it's kept properly trimmed," he grumbled nervously. "I'm so sorry: it shan't happen again," she answered, in the firm bright | ever allowed to degenerate into a disagreement. "Shall we go up and join my mother?" he suggested curtly, as Mr. Jackson's last cone of ashes dropped into the brass ashtray at his elbow. On the drive homeward May remained oddly silent; through the darkness, he still felt her enveloped in her menacing blush. What its menace meant he could not guess: but he was sufficiently warned by the fact that Madame Olenska's name had evoked it. They went upstairs, and he turned into the library. She usually followed him; but he heard her passing down the passage to her bedroom.<|quote|>"May!"</|quote|>he called out impatiently; and she came back, with a slight glance of surprise at his tone. "This lamp is smoking again; I should think the servants might see that it's kept properly trimmed," he grumbled nervously. "I'm so sorry: it shan't happen again," she answered, in the firm bright tone she had learned from her mother; and it exasperated Archer to feel that she was already beginning to humour him like a younger Mr. Welland. She bent over to lower the wick, and as the light struck up on her white shoulders and the clear curves of her face | instantly struck by the fact that Madame Olenska's differences with her grandmother and her other relations were not known to him, and that the old gentleman had drawn his own conclusions as to the reasons for Archer's exclusion from the family councils. This fact warned Archer to go warily; but the insinuations about Beaufort made him reckless. He was mindful, however, if not of his own danger, at least of the fact that Mr. Jackson was under his mother's roof, and consequently his guest. Old New York scrupulously observed the etiquette of hospitality, and no discussion with a guest was ever allowed to degenerate into a disagreement. "Shall we go up and join my mother?" he suggested curtly, as Mr. Jackson's last cone of ashes dropped into the brass ashtray at his elbow. On the drive homeward May remained oddly silent; through the darkness, he still felt her enveloped in her menacing blush. What its menace meant he could not guess: but he was sufficiently warned by the fact that Madame Olenska's name had evoked it. They went upstairs, and he turned into the library. She usually followed him; but he heard her passing down the passage to her bedroom.<|quote|>"May!"</|quote|>he called out impatiently; and she came back, with a slight glance of surprise at his tone. "This lamp is smoking again; I should think the servants might see that it's kept properly trimmed," he grumbled nervously. "I'm so sorry: it shan't happen again," she answered, in the firm bright tone she had learned from her mother; and it exasperated Archer to feel that she was already beginning to humour him like a younger Mr. Welland. She bent over to lower the wick, and as the light struck up on her white shoulders and the clear curves of her face he thought: "How young she is! For what endless years this life will have to go on!" He felt, with a kind of horror, his own strong youth and the bounding blood in his veins. "Look here," he said suddenly, "I may have to go to Washington for a few days--soon; next week perhaps." Her hand remained on the key of the lamp as she turned to him slowly. The heat from its flame had brought back a glow to her face, but it paled as she looked up. "On business?" she asked, in a tone which implied that there | she goes NOW, and if he fails, it will only confirm the general impression: which isn't by any means peculiar to Lefferts, by the way." "Oh, she won't go back now: less than ever!" Archer had no sooner said it than he had once more the feeling that it was exactly what Mr. Jackson had been waiting for. The old gentleman considered him attentively. "That's your opinion, eh? Well, no doubt you know. But everybody will tell you that the few pennies Medora Manson has left are all in Beaufort's hands; and how the two women are to keep their heads above water unless he does, I can't imagine. Of course, Madame Olenska may still soften old Catherine, who's been the most inexorably opposed to her staying; and old Catherine could make her any allowance she chooses. But we all know that she hates parting with good money; and the rest of the family have no particular interest in keeping Madame Olenska here." Archer was burning with unavailing wrath: he was exactly in the state when a man is sure to do something stupid, knowing all the while that he is doing it. He saw that Mr. Jackson had been instantly struck by the fact that Madame Olenska's differences with her grandmother and her other relations were not known to him, and that the old gentleman had drawn his own conclusions as to the reasons for Archer's exclusion from the family councils. This fact warned Archer to go warily; but the insinuations about Beaufort made him reckless. He was mindful, however, if not of his own danger, at least of the fact that Mr. Jackson was under his mother's roof, and consequently his guest. Old New York scrupulously observed the etiquette of hospitality, and no discussion with a guest was ever allowed to degenerate into a disagreement. "Shall we go up and join my mother?" he suggested curtly, as Mr. Jackson's last cone of ashes dropped into the brass ashtray at his elbow. On the drive homeward May remained oddly silent; through the darkness, he still felt her enveloped in her menacing blush. What its menace meant he could not guess: but he was sufficiently warned by the fact that Madame Olenska's name had evoked it. They went upstairs, and he turned into the library. She usually followed him; but he heard her passing down the passage to her bedroom.<|quote|>"May!"</|quote|>he called out impatiently; and she came back, with a slight glance of surprise at his tone. "This lamp is smoking again; I should think the servants might see that it's kept properly trimmed," he grumbled nervously. "I'm so sorry: it shan't happen again," she answered, in the firm bright tone she had learned from her mother; and it exasperated Archer to feel that she was already beginning to humour him like a younger Mr. Welland. She bent over to lower the wick, and as the light struck up on her white shoulders and the clear curves of her face he thought: "How young she is! For what endless years this life will have to go on!" He felt, with a kind of horror, his own strong youth and the bounding blood in his veins. "Look here," he said suddenly, "I may have to go to Washington for a few days--soon; next week perhaps." Her hand remained on the key of the lamp as she turned to him slowly. The heat from its flame had brought back a glow to her face, but it paled as she looked up. "On business?" she asked, in a tone which implied that there could be no other conceivable reason, and that she had put the question automatically, as if merely to finish his own sentence. "On business, naturally. There's a patent case coming up before the Supreme Court--" He gave the name of the inventor, and went on furnishing details with all Lawrence Lefferts's practised glibness, while she listened attentively, saying at intervals: "Yes, I see." "The change will do you good," she said simply, when he had finished; "and you must be sure to go and see Ellen," she added, looking him straight in the eyes with her cloudless smile, and speaking in the tone she might have employed in urging him not to neglect some irksome family duty. It was the only word that passed between them on the subject; but in the code in which they had both been trained it meant: "Of course you understand that I know all that people have been saying about Ellen, and heartily sympathise with my family in their effort to get her to return to her husband. I also know that, for some reason you have not chosen to tell me, you have advised her against this course, which all the older men | with a growing sense of unreality and insufficiency, blundering against familiar prejudices and traditional points of view as an absent-minded man goes on bumping into the furniture of his own room. Absent--that was what he was: so absent from everything most densely real and near to those about him that it sometimes startled him to find they still imagined he was there. He became aware that Mr. Jackson was clearing his throat preparatory to farther revelations. "I don't know, of course, how far your wife's family are aware of what people say about--well, about Madame Olenska's refusal to accept her husband's latest offer." Archer was silent, and Mr. Jackson obliquely continued: "It's a pity--it's certainly a pity--that she refused it." "A pity? In God's name, why?" Mr. Jackson looked down his leg to the unwrinkled sock that joined it to a glossy pump. "Well--to put it on the lowest ground--what's she going to live on now?" "Now--?" "If Beaufort--" Archer sprang up, his fist banging down on the black walnut-edge of the writing-table. The wells of the brass double-inkstand danced in their sockets. "What the devil do you mean, sir?" Mr. Jackson, shifting himself slightly in his chair, turned a tranquil gaze on the young man's burning face. "Well--I have it on pretty good authority--in fact, on old Catherine's herself--that the family reduced Countess Olenska's allowance considerably when she definitely refused to go back to her husband; and as, by this refusal, she also forfeits the money settled on her when she married--which Olenski was ready to make over to her if she returned--why, what the devil do YOU mean, my dear boy, by asking me what I mean?" Mr. Jackson good-humouredly retorted. Archer moved toward the mantelpiece and bent over to knock his ashes into the grate. "I don't know anything of Madame Olenska's private affairs; but I don't need to, to be certain that what you insinuate--" "Oh, I don't: it's Lefferts, for one," Mr. Jackson interposed. "Lefferts--who made love to her and got snubbed for it!" Archer broke out contemptuously. "Ah--DID he?" snapped the other, as if this were exactly the fact he had been laying a trap for. He still sat sideways from the fire, so that his hard old gaze held Archer's face as if in a spring of steel. "Well, well: it's a pity she didn't go back before Beaufort's cropper," he repeated. "If she goes NOW, and if he fails, it will only confirm the general impression: which isn't by any means peculiar to Lefferts, by the way." "Oh, she won't go back now: less than ever!" Archer had no sooner said it than he had once more the feeling that it was exactly what Mr. Jackson had been waiting for. The old gentleman considered him attentively. "That's your opinion, eh? Well, no doubt you know. But everybody will tell you that the few pennies Medora Manson has left are all in Beaufort's hands; and how the two women are to keep their heads above water unless he does, I can't imagine. Of course, Madame Olenska may still soften old Catherine, who's been the most inexorably opposed to her staying; and old Catherine could make her any allowance she chooses. But we all know that she hates parting with good money; and the rest of the family have no particular interest in keeping Madame Olenska here." Archer was burning with unavailing wrath: he was exactly in the state when a man is sure to do something stupid, knowing all the while that he is doing it. He saw that Mr. Jackson had been instantly struck by the fact that Madame Olenska's differences with her grandmother and her other relations were not known to him, and that the old gentleman had drawn his own conclusions as to the reasons for Archer's exclusion from the family councils. This fact warned Archer to go warily; but the insinuations about Beaufort made him reckless. He was mindful, however, if not of his own danger, at least of the fact that Mr. Jackson was under his mother's roof, and consequently his guest. Old New York scrupulously observed the etiquette of hospitality, and no discussion with a guest was ever allowed to degenerate into a disagreement. "Shall we go up and join my mother?" he suggested curtly, as Mr. Jackson's last cone of ashes dropped into the brass ashtray at his elbow. On the drive homeward May remained oddly silent; through the darkness, he still felt her enveloped in her menacing blush. What its menace meant he could not guess: but he was sufficiently warned by the fact that Madame Olenska's name had evoked it. They went upstairs, and he turned into the library. She usually followed him; but he heard her passing down the passage to her bedroom.<|quote|>"May!"</|quote|>he called out impatiently; and she came back, with a slight glance of surprise at his tone. "This lamp is smoking again; I should think the servants might see that it's kept properly trimmed," he grumbled nervously. "I'm so sorry: it shan't happen again," she answered, in the firm bright tone she had learned from her mother; and it exasperated Archer to feel that she was already beginning to humour him like a younger Mr. Welland. She bent over to lower the wick, and as the light struck up on her white shoulders and the clear curves of her face he thought: "How young she is! For what endless years this life will have to go on!" He felt, with a kind of horror, his own strong youth and the bounding blood in his veins. "Look here," he said suddenly, "I may have to go to Washington for a few days--soon; next week perhaps." Her hand remained on the key of the lamp as she turned to him slowly. The heat from its flame had brought back a glow to her face, but it paled as she looked up. "On business?" she asked, in a tone which implied that there could be no other conceivable reason, and that she had put the question automatically, as if merely to finish his own sentence. "On business, naturally. There's a patent case coming up before the Supreme Court--" He gave the name of the inventor, and went on furnishing details with all Lawrence Lefferts's practised glibness, while she listened attentively, saying at intervals: "Yes, I see." "The change will do you good," she said simply, when he had finished; "and you must be sure to go and see Ellen," she added, looking him straight in the eyes with her cloudless smile, and speaking in the tone she might have employed in urging him not to neglect some irksome family duty. It was the only word that passed between them on the subject; but in the code in which they had both been trained it meant: "Of course you understand that I know all that people have been saying about Ellen, and heartily sympathise with my family in their effort to get her to return to her husband. I also know that, for some reason you have not chosen to tell me, you have advised her against this course, which all the older men of the family, as well as our grandmother, agree in approving; and that it is owing to your encouragement that Ellen defies us all, and exposes herself to the kind of criticism of which Mr. Sillerton Jackson probably gave you, this evening, the hint that has made you so irritable.... Hints have indeed not been wanting; but since you appear unwilling to take them from others, I offer you this one myself, in the only form in which well-bred people of our kind can communicate unpleasant things to each other: by letting you understand that I know you mean to see Ellen when you are in Washington, and are perhaps going there expressly for that purpose; and that, since you are sure to see her, I wish you to do so with my full and explicit approval--and to take the opportunity of letting her know what the course of conduct you have encouraged her in is likely to lead to." Her hand was still on the key of the lamp when the last word of this mute message reached him. She turned the wick down, lifted off the globe, and breathed on the sulky flame. "They smell less if one blows them out," she explained, with her bright housekeeping air. On the threshold she turned and paused for his kiss. XXVII. Wall Street, the next day, had more reassuring reports of Beaufort's situation. They were not definite, but they were hopeful. It was generally understood that he could call on powerful influences in case of emergency, and that he had done so with success; and that evening, when Mrs. Beaufort appeared at the Opera wearing her old smile and a new emerald necklace, society drew a breath of relief. New York was inexorable in its condemnation of business irregularities. So far there had been no exception to its tacit rule that those who broke the law of probity must pay; and every one was aware that even Beaufort and Beaufort's wife would be offered up unflinchingly to this principle. But to be obliged to offer them up would be not only painful but inconvenient. The disappearance of the Beauforts would leave a considerable void in their compact little circle; and those who were too ignorant or too careless to shudder at the moral catastrophe bewailed in advance the loss of the best ball-room in New York. Archer had definitely made | we all know that she hates parting with good money; and the rest of the family have no particular interest in keeping Madame Olenska here." Archer was burning with unavailing wrath: he was exactly in the state when a man is sure to do something stupid, knowing all the while that he is doing it. He saw that Mr. Jackson had been instantly struck by the fact that Madame Olenska's differences with her grandmother and her other relations were not known to him, and that the old gentleman had drawn his own conclusions as to the reasons for Archer's exclusion from the family councils. This fact warned Archer to go warily; but the insinuations about Beaufort made him reckless. He was mindful, however, if not of his own danger, at least of the fact that Mr. Jackson was under his mother's roof, and consequently his guest. Old New York scrupulously observed the etiquette of hospitality, and no discussion with a guest was ever allowed to degenerate into a disagreement. "Shall we go up and join my mother?" he suggested curtly, as Mr. Jackson's last cone of ashes dropped into the brass ashtray at his elbow. On the drive homeward May remained oddly silent; through the darkness, he still felt her enveloped in her menacing blush. What its menace meant he could not guess: but he was sufficiently warned by the fact that Madame Olenska's name had evoked it. They went upstairs, and he turned into the library. She usually followed him; but he heard her passing down the passage to her bedroom.<|quote|>"May!"</|quote|>he called out impatiently; and she came back, with a slight glance of surprise at his tone. "This lamp is smoking again; I should think the servants might see that it's kept properly trimmed," he grumbled nervously. "I'm so sorry: it shan't happen again," she answered, in the firm bright tone she had learned from her mother; and it exasperated Archer to feel that she was already beginning to humour him like a younger Mr. Welland. She bent over to lower the wick, and as the light struck up on her white shoulders and the clear curves of her face he thought: "How young she is! For what endless years this life will have to go on!" He felt, with a kind of horror, his own strong youth and the bounding blood in his veins. "Look here," he said suddenly, "I may have to go to Washington for a few days--soon; next week perhaps." Her hand remained on the key of the lamp as she turned to him slowly. The heat from its flame had brought back a glow to her face, but it paled as she looked up. "On business?" she asked, in a tone which implied that there could be no other conceivable reason, and that she had put the question automatically, as if merely to finish his own sentence. "On business, naturally. There's a patent case coming up before the Supreme Court--" He gave the name of the inventor, and went on furnishing details with all Lawrence Lefferts's practised glibness, while she listened attentively, saying at intervals: "Yes, I see." "The change will do you good," she said simply, when he had finished; "and you must be sure to go and see Ellen," she added, looking him straight in the eyes with her cloudless smile, and speaking in the tone she might have employed in urging him not to neglect some irksome family duty. It was the only word that passed between them on the subject; but in the code in which they had both been trained it meant: "Of course you understand that I know all that people have been saying about Ellen, and heartily sympathise with my family in their effort to get her to return to her husband. I also know that, for some reason you have not chosen to tell me, you | The Age Of Innocence |
"I'm not clever enough to argue with you. But that kind of thing is rather--vulgar, isn't it?" | Miss Welland | have to produce a reason.<|quote|>"I'm not clever enough to argue with you. But that kind of thing is rather--vulgar, isn't it?"</|quote|>she suggested, relieved to have | but it was troublesome to have to produce a reason.<|quote|>"I'm not clever enough to argue with you. But that kind of thing is rather--vulgar, isn't it?"</|quote|>she suggested, relieved to have hit on a word that | love me, Newland! I'm so happy." "But then--why not be happier?" "We can't behave like people in novels, though, can we?" "Why not--why not--why not?" She looked a little bored by his insistence. She knew very well that they couldn't, but it was troublesome to have to produce a reason.<|quote|>"I'm not clever enough to argue with you. But that kind of thing is rather--vulgar, isn't it?"</|quote|>she suggested, relieved to have hit on a word that would assuredly extinguish the whole subject. "Are you so much afraid, then, of being vulgar?" She was evidently staggered by this. "Of course I should hate it--so would you," she rejoined, a trifle irritably. He stood silent, beating his stick | paper. We're like patterns stencilled on a wall. Can't you and I strike out for ourselves, May?" He had stopped and faced her in the excitement of their discussion, and her eyes rested on him with a bright unclouded admiration. "Mercy--shall we elope?" she laughed. "If you would--" "You DO love me, Newland! I'm so happy." "But then--why not be happier?" "We can't behave like people in novels, though, can we?" "Why not--why not--why not?" She looked a little bored by his insistence. She knew very well that they couldn't, but it was troublesome to have to produce a reason.<|quote|>"I'm not clever enough to argue with you. But that kind of thing is rather--vulgar, isn't it?"</|quote|>she suggested, relieved to have hit on a word that would assuredly extinguish the whole subject. "Are you so much afraid, then, of being vulgar?" She was evidently staggered by this. "Of course I should hate it--so would you," she rejoined, a trifle irritably. He stood silent, beating his stick nervously against his boot-top; and feeling that she had indeed found the right way of closing the discussion, she went on light-heartedly: "Oh, did I tell you that I showed Ellen my ring? She thinks it the most beautiful setting she ever saw. There's nothing like it in the rue | she owned: she would love to travel. But her mother would not understand their wanting to do things so differently. "As if the mere 'differently' didn't account for it!" the wooer insisted. "Newland! You're so original!" she exulted. His heart sank, for he saw that he was saying all the things that young men in the same situation were expected to say, and that she was making the answers that instinct and tradition taught her to make--even to the point of calling him original. "Original! We're all as like each other as those dolls cut out of the same folded paper. We're like patterns stencilled on a wall. Can't you and I strike out for ourselves, May?" He had stopped and faced her in the excitement of their discussion, and her eyes rested on him with a bright unclouded admiration. "Mercy--shall we elope?" she laughed. "If you would--" "You DO love me, Newland! I'm so happy." "But then--why not be happier?" "We can't behave like people in novels, though, can we?" "Why not--why not--why not?" She looked a little bored by his insistence. She knew very well that they couldn't, but it was troublesome to have to produce a reason.<|quote|>"I'm not clever enough to argue with you. But that kind of thing is rather--vulgar, isn't it?"</|quote|>she suggested, relieved to have hit on a word that would assuredly extinguish the whole subject. "Are you so much afraid, then, of being vulgar?" She was evidently staggered by this. "Of course I should hate it--so would you," she rejoined, a trifle irritably. He stood silent, beating his stick nervously against his boot-top; and feeling that she had indeed found the right way of closing the discussion, she went on light-heartedly: "Oh, did I tell you that I showed Ellen my ring? She thinks it the most beautiful setting she ever saw. There's nothing like it in the rue de la Paix, she said. I do love you, Newland, for being so artistic!" The next afternoon, as Archer, before dinner, sat smoking sullenly in his study, Janey wandered in on him. He had failed to stop at his club on the way up from the office where he exercised the profession of the law in the leisurely manner common to well-to-do New Yorkers of his class. He was out of spirits and slightly out of temper, and a haunting horror of doing the same thing every day at the same hour besieged his brain. "Sameness--sameness!" he muttered, the word | we very well off as we are?" It was the traditional maidenly interrogation, and he felt ashamed of himself for finding it singularly childish. No doubt she simply echoed what was said for her; but she was nearing her twenty-second birthday, and he wondered at what age "nice" women began to speak for themselves. "Never, if we won't let them, I suppose," he mused, and recalled his mad outburst to Mr. Sillerton Jackson: "Women ought to be as free as we are--" It would presently be his task to take the bandage from this young woman's eyes, and bid her look forth on the world. But how many generations of the women who had gone to her making had descended bandaged to the family vault? He shivered a little, remembering some of the new ideas in his scientific books, and the much-cited instance of the Kentucky cave-fish, which had ceased to develop eyes because they had no use for them. What if, when he had bidden May Welland to open hers, they could only look out blankly at blankness? "We might be much better off. We might be altogether together--we might travel." Her face lit up. "That would be lovely," she owned: she would love to travel. But her mother would not understand their wanting to do things so differently. "As if the mere 'differently' didn't account for it!" the wooer insisted. "Newland! You're so original!" she exulted. His heart sank, for he saw that he was saying all the things that young men in the same situation were expected to say, and that she was making the answers that instinct and tradition taught her to make--even to the point of calling him original. "Original! We're all as like each other as those dolls cut out of the same folded paper. We're like patterns stencilled on a wall. Can't you and I strike out for ourselves, May?" He had stopped and faced her in the excitement of their discussion, and her eyes rested on him with a bright unclouded admiration. "Mercy--shall we elope?" she laughed. "If you would--" "You DO love me, Newland! I'm so happy." "But then--why not be happier?" "We can't behave like people in novels, though, can we?" "Why not--why not--why not?" She looked a little bored by his insistence. She knew very well that they couldn't, but it was troublesome to have to produce a reason.<|quote|>"I'm not clever enough to argue with you. But that kind of thing is rather--vulgar, isn't it?"</|quote|>she suggested, relieved to have hit on a word that would assuredly extinguish the whole subject. "Are you so much afraid, then, of being vulgar?" She was evidently staggered by this. "Of course I should hate it--so would you," she rejoined, a trifle irritably. He stood silent, beating his stick nervously against his boot-top; and feeling that she had indeed found the right way of closing the discussion, she went on light-heartedly: "Oh, did I tell you that I showed Ellen my ring? She thinks it the most beautiful setting she ever saw. There's nothing like it in the rue de la Paix, she said. I do love you, Newland, for being so artistic!" The next afternoon, as Archer, before dinner, sat smoking sullenly in his study, Janey wandered in on him. He had failed to stop at his club on the way up from the office where he exercised the profession of the law in the leisurely manner common to well-to-do New Yorkers of his class. He was out of spirits and slightly out of temper, and a haunting horror of doing the same thing every day at the same hour besieged his brain. "Sameness--sameness!" he muttered, the word running through his head like a persecuting tune as he saw the familiar tall-hatted figures lounging behind the plate-glass; and because he usually dropped in at the club at that hour he had gone home instead. He knew not only what they were likely to be talking about, but the part each one would take in the discussion. The Duke of course would be their principal theme; though the appearance in Fifth Avenue of a golden-haired lady in a small canary-coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs (for which Beaufort was generally thought responsible) would also doubtless be thoroughly gone into. Such "women" (as they were called) were few in New York, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearance of Miss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitated society. Only the day before, her carriage had passed Mrs. Lovell Mingott's, and the latter had instantly rung the little bell at her elbow and ordered the coachman to drive her home. "What if it had happened to Mrs. van der Luyden?" people asked each other with a shudder. Archer could hear Lawrence Lefferts, at that very hour, holding forth on the disintegration | condoned her truancy, having that very morning won her over to the necessity of a long engagement, with time to prepare a hand-embroidered trousseau containing the proper number of dozens. The day was delectable. The bare vaulting of trees along the Mall was ceiled with lapis lazuli, and arched above snow that shone like splintered crystals. It was the weather to call out May's radiance, and she burned like a young maple in the frost. Archer was proud of the glances turned on her, and the simple joy of possessorship cleared away his underlying perplexities. "It's so delicious--waking every morning to smell lilies-of-the-valley in one's room!" she said. "Yesterday they came late. I hadn't time in the morning--" "But your remembering each day to send them makes me love them so much more than if you'd given a standing order, and they came every morning on the minute, like one's music-teacher--as I know Gertrude Lefferts's did, for instance, when she and Lawrence were engaged." "Ah--they would!" laughed Archer, amused at her keenness. He looked sideways at her fruit-like cheek and felt rich and secure enough to add: "When I sent your lilies yesterday afternoon I saw some rather gorgeous yellow roses and packed them off to Madame Olenska. Was that right?" "How dear of you! Anything of that kind delights her. It's odd she didn't mention it: she lunched with us today, and spoke of Mr. Beaufort's having sent her wonderful orchids, and cousin Henry van der Luyden a whole hamper of carnations from Skuytercliff. She seems so surprised to receive flowers. Don't people send them in Europe? She thinks it such a pretty custom." "Oh, well, no wonder mine were overshadowed by Beaufort's," said Archer irritably. Then he remembered that he had not put a card with the roses, and was vexed at having spoken of them. He wanted to say: "I called on your cousin yesterday," but hesitated. If Madame Olenska had not spoken of his visit it might seem awkward that he should. Yet not to do so gave the affair an air of mystery that he disliked. To shake off the question he began to talk of their own plans, their future, and Mrs. Welland's insistence on a long engagement. "If you call it long! Isabel Chivers and Reggie were engaged for two years: Grace and Thorley for nearly a year and a half. Why aren't we very well off as we are?" It was the traditional maidenly interrogation, and he felt ashamed of himself for finding it singularly childish. No doubt she simply echoed what was said for her; but she was nearing her twenty-second birthday, and he wondered at what age "nice" women began to speak for themselves. "Never, if we won't let them, I suppose," he mused, and recalled his mad outburst to Mr. Sillerton Jackson: "Women ought to be as free as we are--" It would presently be his task to take the bandage from this young woman's eyes, and bid her look forth on the world. But how many generations of the women who had gone to her making had descended bandaged to the family vault? He shivered a little, remembering some of the new ideas in his scientific books, and the much-cited instance of the Kentucky cave-fish, which had ceased to develop eyes because they had no use for them. What if, when he had bidden May Welland to open hers, they could only look out blankly at blankness? "We might be much better off. We might be altogether together--we might travel." Her face lit up. "That would be lovely," she owned: she would love to travel. But her mother would not understand their wanting to do things so differently. "As if the mere 'differently' didn't account for it!" the wooer insisted. "Newland! You're so original!" she exulted. His heart sank, for he saw that he was saying all the things that young men in the same situation were expected to say, and that she was making the answers that instinct and tradition taught her to make--even to the point of calling him original. "Original! We're all as like each other as those dolls cut out of the same folded paper. We're like patterns stencilled on a wall. Can't you and I strike out for ourselves, May?" He had stopped and faced her in the excitement of their discussion, and her eyes rested on him with a bright unclouded admiration. "Mercy--shall we elope?" she laughed. "If you would--" "You DO love me, Newland! I'm so happy." "But then--why not be happier?" "We can't behave like people in novels, though, can we?" "Why not--why not--why not?" She looked a little bored by his insistence. She knew very well that they couldn't, but it was troublesome to have to produce a reason.<|quote|>"I'm not clever enough to argue with you. But that kind of thing is rather--vulgar, isn't it?"</|quote|>she suggested, relieved to have hit on a word that would assuredly extinguish the whole subject. "Are you so much afraid, then, of being vulgar?" She was evidently staggered by this. "Of course I should hate it--so would you," she rejoined, a trifle irritably. He stood silent, beating his stick nervously against his boot-top; and feeling that she had indeed found the right way of closing the discussion, she went on light-heartedly: "Oh, did I tell you that I showed Ellen my ring? She thinks it the most beautiful setting she ever saw. There's nothing like it in the rue de la Paix, she said. I do love you, Newland, for being so artistic!" The next afternoon, as Archer, before dinner, sat smoking sullenly in his study, Janey wandered in on him. He had failed to stop at his club on the way up from the office where he exercised the profession of the law in the leisurely manner common to well-to-do New Yorkers of his class. He was out of spirits and slightly out of temper, and a haunting horror of doing the same thing every day at the same hour besieged his brain. "Sameness--sameness!" he muttered, the word running through his head like a persecuting tune as he saw the familiar tall-hatted figures lounging behind the plate-glass; and because he usually dropped in at the club at that hour he had gone home instead. He knew not only what they were likely to be talking about, but the part each one would take in the discussion. The Duke of course would be their principal theme; though the appearance in Fifth Avenue of a golden-haired lady in a small canary-coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs (for which Beaufort was generally thought responsible) would also doubtless be thoroughly gone into. Such "women" (as they were called) were few in New York, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearance of Miss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitated society. Only the day before, her carriage had passed Mrs. Lovell Mingott's, and the latter had instantly rung the little bell at her elbow and ordered the coachman to drive her home. "What if it had happened to Mrs. van der Luyden?" people asked each other with a shudder. Archer could hear Lawrence Lefferts, at that very hour, holding forth on the disintegration of society. He raised his head irritably when his sister Janey entered, and then quickly bent over his book (Swinburne's "Chastelard"--just out) as if he had not seen her. She glanced at the writing-table heaped with books, opened a volume of the "Contes Drolatiques," made a wry face over the archaic French, and sighed: "What learned things you read!" "Well--?" he asked, as she hovered Cassandra-like before him. "Mother's very angry." "Angry? With whom? About what?" "Miss Sophy Jackson has just been here. She brought word that her brother would come in after dinner: she couldn't say very much, because he forbade her to: he wishes to give all the details himself. He's with cousin Louisa van der Luyden now." "For heaven's sake, my dear girl, try a fresh start. It would take an omniscient Deity to know what you're talking about." "It's not a time to be profane, Newland.... Mother feels badly enough about your not going to church ..." With a groan he plunged back into his book. "NEWLAND! Do listen. Your friend Madame Olenska was at Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's party last night: she went there with the Duke and Mr. Beaufort." At the last clause of this announcement a senseless anger swelled the young man's breast. To smother it he laughed. "Well, what of it? I knew she meant to." Janey paled and her eyes began to project. "You knew she meant to--and you didn't try to stop her? To warn her?" "Stop her? Warn her?" He laughed again. "I'm not engaged to be married to the Countess Olenska!" The words had a fantastic sound in his own ears. "You're marrying into her family." "Oh, family--family!" he jeered. "Newland--don't you care about Family?" "Not a brass farthing." "Nor about what cousin Louisa van der Luyden will think?" "Not the half of one--if she thinks such old maid's rubbish." "Mother is not an old maid," said his virgin sister with pinched lips. He felt like shouting back: "Yes, she is, and so are the van der Luydens, and so we all are, when it comes to being so much as brushed by the wing-tip of Reality." But he saw her long gentle face puckering into tears, and felt ashamed of the useless pain he was inflicting. "Hang Countess Olenska! Don't be a goose, Janey--I'm not her keeper." "No; but you DID ask the Wellands to announce your engagement | odd she didn't mention it: she lunched with us today, and spoke of Mr. Beaufort's having sent her wonderful orchids, and cousin Henry van der Luyden a whole hamper of carnations from Skuytercliff. She seems so surprised to receive flowers. Don't people send them in Europe? She thinks it such a pretty custom." "Oh, well, no wonder mine were overshadowed by Beaufort's," said Archer irritably. Then he remembered that he had not put a card with the roses, and was vexed at having spoken of them. He wanted to say: "I called on your cousin yesterday," but hesitated. If Madame Olenska had not spoken of his visit it might seem awkward that he should. Yet not to do so gave the affair an air of mystery that he disliked. To shake off the question he began to talk of their own plans, their future, and Mrs. Welland's insistence on a long engagement. "If you call it long! Isabel Chivers and Reggie were engaged for two years: Grace and Thorley for nearly a year and a half. Why aren't we very well off as we are?" It was the traditional maidenly interrogation, and he felt ashamed of himself for finding it singularly childish. No doubt she simply echoed what was said for her; but she was nearing her twenty-second birthday, and he wondered at what age "nice" women began to speak for themselves. "Never, if we won't let them, I suppose," he mused, and recalled his mad outburst to Mr. Sillerton Jackson: "Women ought to be as free as we are--" It would presently be his task to take the bandage from this young woman's eyes, and bid her look forth on the world. But how many generations of the women who had gone to her making had descended bandaged to the family vault? He shivered a little, remembering some of the new ideas in his scientific books, and the much-cited instance of the Kentucky cave-fish, which had ceased to develop eyes because they had no use for them. What if, when he had bidden May Welland to open hers, they could only look out blankly at blankness? "We might be much better off. We might be altogether together--we might travel." Her face lit up. "That would be lovely," she owned: she would love to travel. But her mother would not understand their wanting to do things so differently. "As if the mere 'differently' didn't account for it!" the wooer insisted. "Newland! You're so original!" she exulted. His heart sank, for he saw that he was saying all the things that young men in the same situation were expected to say, and that she was making the answers that instinct and tradition taught her to make--even to the point of calling him original. "Original! We're all as like each other as those dolls cut out of the same folded paper. We're like patterns stencilled on a wall. Can't you and I strike out for ourselves, May?" He had stopped and faced her in the excitement of their discussion, and her eyes rested on him with a bright unclouded admiration. "Mercy--shall we elope?" she laughed. "If you would--" "You DO love me, Newland! I'm so happy." "But then--why not be happier?" "We can't behave like people in novels, though, can we?" "Why not--why not--why not?" She looked a little bored by his insistence. She knew very well that they couldn't, but it was troublesome to have to produce a reason.<|quote|>"I'm not clever enough to argue with you. But that kind of thing is rather--vulgar, isn't it?"</|quote|>she suggested, relieved to have hit on a word that would assuredly extinguish the whole subject. "Are you so much afraid, then, of being vulgar?" She was evidently staggered by this. "Of course I should hate it--so would you," she rejoined, a trifle irritably. He stood silent, beating his stick nervously against his boot-top; and feeling that she had indeed found the right way of closing the discussion, she went on light-heartedly: "Oh, did I tell you that I showed Ellen my ring? She thinks it the most beautiful setting she ever saw. There's nothing like it in the rue de la Paix, she said. I do love you, Newland, for being so artistic!" The next afternoon, as Archer, before dinner, sat smoking sullenly in his study, Janey wandered in on him. He had failed to stop at his club on the way up from the office where he exercised the profession of the law in the leisurely manner common to well-to-do New Yorkers of his class. He was out of spirits and slightly out of temper, and a haunting horror of doing the same thing every day at the same hour besieged his brain. "Sameness--sameness!" he muttered, the word running through his head like a persecuting tune as he saw the familiar tall-hatted figures lounging behind the plate-glass; and because he usually dropped in at the club at that hour he had gone home instead. He knew not only what they were likely to be talking about, but the part each one would take in the discussion. The Duke of course would be their principal theme; though the appearance in Fifth Avenue of a | The Age Of Innocence |
said Lucy bitterly. | No speaker | can't remember all Charlotte's worries,"<|quote|>said Lucy bitterly.</|quote|>"I shall have enough of | kinds of terrible to-doings?" "I can't remember all Charlotte's worries,"<|quote|>said Lucy bitterly.</|quote|>"I shall have enough of my own, now that you | 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,"<|quote|>said Lucy bitterly.</|quote|>"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 | 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,"<|quote|>said Lucy bitterly.</|quote|>"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 | 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,"<|quote|>said Lucy bitterly.</|quote|>"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 | 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?" "Not that I know of." "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,"<|quote|>said Lucy bitterly.</|quote|>"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. | 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?" "Not that I know of." "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,"<|quote|>said Lucy bitterly.</|quote|>"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 Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte for so long." It was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protest violently after her mother's goodness to her upstairs. "Mother, no!" she pleaded. "It's impossible. We can't have Charlotte on the top of the other things; we're squeezed to death as it is. Freddy's got a friend coming Tuesday, there's Cecil, and you've promised to take in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can't be done." "Nonsense! It can." "If Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise." "Minnie can sleep with you." "I won't have her." "Then, if you're so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share a room with Freddy." "Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett," moaned Cecil, again laying his hand over his eyes. "It's impossible," repeated Lucy. "I don't want to make difficulties, but it really isn't fair on the maids to fill up the house so." Alas! "The truth is, dear, you don't like Charlotte." "No, I don't. And no more does Cecil. She gets on our nerves. You haven't seen her lately, and don't realize how tiresome she can be, though so good. So please, mother, don't worry us this last summer; but spoil us | 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?" "Not that I know of." "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,"<|quote|>said Lucy bitterly.</|quote|>"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 | A Room With A View |
"over and over again. Under such circumstances you don't think much about making a flowery prayer. But mine was answered, for the flat bumped right into a pile for a minute and I flung the scarf and the shawl over my shoulder and scrambled up on a big providential stub. And there I was, Mrs. Allan, clinging to that slippery old pile with no way of getting up or down. It was a very unromantic position, but I didn't think about that at the time. You don't think much about romance when you have just escaped from a watery grave. I said a grateful prayer at once and then I gave all my attention to holding on tight, for I knew I should probably have to depend on human aid to get back to dry land." | Anne Shirley | and I'll do the rest,'<|quote|>"over and over again. Under such circumstances you don't think much about making a flowery prayer. But mine was answered, for the flat bumped right into a pile for a minute and I flung the scarf and the shawl over my shoulder and scrambled up on a big providential stub. And there I was, Mrs. Allan, clinging to that slippery old pile with no way of getting up or down. It was a very unromantic position, but I didn't think about that at the time. You don't think much about romance when you have just escaped from a watery grave. I said a grateful prayer at once and then I gave all my attention to holding on tight, for I knew I should probably have to depend on human aid to get back to dry land."</|quote|>The flat drifted under the | flat close to a pile and I'll do the rest,'<|quote|>"over and over again. Under such circumstances you don't think much about making a flowery prayer. But mine was answered, for the flat bumped right into a pile for a minute and I flung the scarf and the shawl over my shoulder and scrambled up on a big providential stub. And there I was, Mrs. Allan, clinging to that slippery old pile with no way of getting up or down. It was a very unromantic position, but I didn't think about that at the time. You don't think much about romance when you have just escaped from a watery grave. I said a grateful prayer at once and then I gave all my attention to holding on tight, for I knew I should probably have to depend on human aid to get back to dry land."</|quote|>The flat drifted under the bridge and then promptly sank | there are lots of knots and old branch stubs on them. It was proper to pray, but I had to do my part by watching out and right well I knew it. I just said," ?Dear God, please take the flat close to a pile and I'll do the rest,'<|quote|>"over and over again. Under such circumstances you don't think much about making a flowery prayer. But mine was answered, for the flat bumped right into a pile for a minute and I flung the scarf and the shawl over my shoulder and scrambled up on a big providential stub. And there I was, Mrs. Allan, clinging to that slippery old pile with no way of getting up or down. It was a very unromantic position, but I didn't think about that at the time. You don't think much about romance when you have just escaped from a watery grave. I said a grateful prayer at once and then I gave all my attention to holding on tight, for I knew I should probably have to depend on human aid to get back to dry land."</|quote|>The flat drifted under the bridge and then promptly sank in midstream. Ruby, Jane, and Diana, already awaiting it on the lower headland, saw it disappear before their very eyes and had not a doubt but that Anne had gone down with it. For a moment they stood still, white | earnestly, but I didn't shut my eyes to pray, for I knew the only way God could save me was to let the flat float close enough to one of the bridge piles for me to climb up on it. You know the piles are just old tree trunks and there are lots of knots and old branch stubs on them. It was proper to pray, but I had to do my part by watching out and right well I knew it. I just said," ?Dear God, please take the flat close to a pile and I'll do the rest,'<|quote|>"over and over again. Under such circumstances you don't think much about making a flowery prayer. But mine was answered, for the flat bumped right into a pile for a minute and I flung the scarf and the shawl over my shoulder and scrambled up on a big providential stub. And there I was, Mrs. Allan, clinging to that slippery old pile with no way of getting up or down. It was a very unromantic position, but I didn't think about that at the time. You don't think much about romance when you have just escaped from a watery grave. I said a grateful prayer at once and then I gave all my attention to holding on tight, for I knew I should probably have to depend on human aid to get back to dry land."</|quote|>The flat drifted under the bridge and then promptly sank in midstream. Ruby, Jane, and Diana, already awaiting it on the lower headland, saw it disappear before their very eyes and had not a doubt but that Anne had gone down with it. For a moment they stood still, white as sheets, frozen with horror at the tragedy; then, shrieking at the tops of their voices, they started on a frantic run up through the woods, never pausing as they crossed the main road to glance the way of the bridge. Anne, clinging desperately to her precarious foothold, saw their | that she was in a dangerous plight. At this rate the flat would fill and sink long before it could drift to the lower headland. Where were the oars? Left behind at the landing! Anne gave one gasping little scream which nobody ever heard; she was white to the lips, but she did not lose her self-possession. There was one chance--just one. "I was horribly frightened," she told Mrs. Allan the next day, "and it seemed like years while the flat was drifting down to the bridge and the water rising in it every moment. I prayed, Mrs. Allan, most earnestly, but I didn't shut my eyes to pray, for I knew the only way God could save me was to let the flat float close enough to one of the bridge piles for me to climb up on it. You know the piles are just old tree trunks and there are lots of knots and old branch stubs on them. It was proper to pray, but I had to do my part by watching out and right well I knew it. I just said," ?Dear God, please take the flat close to a pile and I'll do the rest,'<|quote|>"over and over again. Under such circumstances you don't think much about making a flowery prayer. But mine was answered, for the flat bumped right into a pile for a minute and I flung the scarf and the shawl over my shoulder and scrambled up on a big providential stub. And there I was, Mrs. Allan, clinging to that slippery old pile with no way of getting up or down. It was a very unromantic position, but I didn't think about that at the time. You don't think much about romance when you have just escaped from a watery grave. I said a grateful prayer at once and then I gave all my attention to holding on tight, for I knew I should probably have to depend on human aid to get back to dry land."</|quote|>The flat drifted under the bridge and then promptly sank in midstream. Ruby, Jane, and Diana, already awaiting it on the lower headland, saw it disappear before their very eyes and had not a doubt but that Anne had gone down with it. For a moment they stood still, white as sheets, frozen with horror at the tragedy; then, shrieking at the tops of their voices, they started on a frantic run up through the woods, never pausing as they crossed the main road to glance the way of the bridge. Anne, clinging desperately to her precarious foothold, saw their flying forms and heard their shrieks. Help would soon come, but meanwhile her position was a very uncomfortable one. The minutes passed by, each seeming an hour to the unfortunate lily maid. Why didn't somebody come? Where had the girls gone? Suppose they had fainted, one and all! Suppose nobody ever came! Suppose she grew so tired and cramped that she could hold on no longer! Anne looked at the wicked green depths below her, wavering with long, oily shadows, and shivered. Her imagination began to suggest all manner of gruesome possibilities to her. Then, just as she thought she | Anne, for goodness sake smile a little. You know Elaine" ?lay as though she smiled.' "That's better. Now push the flat off." The flat was accordingly pushed off, scraping roughly over an old embedded stake in the process. Diana and Jane and Ruby only waited long enough to see it caught in the current and headed for the bridge before scampering up through the woods, across the road, and down to the lower headland where, as Lancelot and Guinevere and the King, they were to be in readiness to receive the lily maid. For a few minutes Anne, drifting slowly down, enjoyed the romance of her situation to the full. Then something happened not at all romantic. The flat began to leak. In a very few moments it was necessary for Elaine to scramble to her feet, pick up her cloth of gold coverlet and pall of blackest samite and gaze blankly at a big crack in the bottom of her barge through which the water was literally pouring. That sharp stake at the landing had torn off the strip of batting nailed on the flat. Anne did not know this, but it did not take her long to realize that she was in a dangerous plight. At this rate the flat would fill and sink long before it could drift to the lower headland. Where were the oars? Left behind at the landing! Anne gave one gasping little scream which nobody ever heard; she was white to the lips, but she did not lose her self-possession. There was one chance--just one. "I was horribly frightened," she told Mrs. Allan the next day, "and it seemed like years while the flat was drifting down to the bridge and the water rising in it every moment. I prayed, Mrs. Allan, most earnestly, but I didn't shut my eyes to pray, for I knew the only way God could save me was to let the flat float close enough to one of the bridge piles for me to climb up on it. You know the piles are just old tree trunks and there are lots of knots and old branch stubs on them. It was proper to pray, but I had to do my part by watching out and right well I knew it. I just said," ?Dear God, please take the flat close to a pile and I'll do the rest,'<|quote|>"over and over again. Under such circumstances you don't think much about making a flowery prayer. But mine was answered, for the flat bumped right into a pile for a minute and I flung the scarf and the shawl over my shoulder and scrambled up on a big providential stub. And there I was, Mrs. Allan, clinging to that slippery old pile with no way of getting up or down. It was a very unromantic position, but I didn't think about that at the time. You don't think much about romance when you have just escaped from a watery grave. I said a grateful prayer at once and then I gave all my attention to holding on tight, for I knew I should probably have to depend on human aid to get back to dry land."</|quote|>The flat drifted under the bridge and then promptly sank in midstream. Ruby, Jane, and Diana, already awaiting it on the lower headland, saw it disappear before their very eyes and had not a doubt but that Anne had gone down with it. For a moment they stood still, white as sheets, frozen with horror at the tragedy; then, shrieking at the tops of their voices, they started on a frantic run up through the woods, never pausing as they crossed the main road to glance the way of the bridge. Anne, clinging desperately to her precarious foothold, saw their flying forms and heard their shrieks. Help would soon come, but meanwhile her position was a very uncomfortable one. The minutes passed by, each seeming an hour to the unfortunate lily maid. Why didn't somebody come? Where had the girls gone? Suppose they had fainted, one and all! Suppose nobody ever came! Suppose she grew so tired and cramped that she could hold on no longer! Anne looked at the wicked green depths below her, wavering with long, oily shadows, and shivered. Her imagination began to suggest all manner of gruesome possibilities to her. Then, just as she thought she really could not endure the ache in her arms and wrists another moment, Gilbert Blythe came rowing under the bridge in Harmon Andrews's dory! Gilbert glanced up and, much to his amazement, beheld a little white scornful face looking down upon him with big, frightened but also scornful gray eyes. "Anne Shirley! How on earth did you get there?" he exclaimed. Without waiting for an answer he pulled close to the pile and extended his hand. There was no help for it; Anne, clinging to Gilbert Blythe's hand, scrambled down into the dory, where she sat, drabbled and furious, in the stern with her arms full of dripping shawl and wet crepe. It was certainly extremely difficult to be dignified under the circumstances! "What has happened, Anne?" asked Gilbert, taking up his oars. "We were playing Elaine" explained Anne frigidly, without even looking at her rescuer, "and I had to drift down to Camelot in the barge--I mean the flat. The flat began to leak and I climbed out on the pile. The girls went for help. Will you be kind enough to row me to the landing?" Gilbert obligingly rowed to the landing and Anne, disdaining assistance, sprang nimbly | by secret regret that she had not been born in Camelot. Those days, she said, were so much more romantic than the present. Anne's plan was hailed with enthusiasm. The girls had discovered that if the flat were pushed off from the landing place it would drift down with the current under the bridge and finally strand itself on another headland lower down which ran out at a curve in the pond. They had often gone down like this and nothing could be more convenient for playing Elaine. "Well, I'll be Elaine," said Anne, yielding reluctantly, for, although she would have been delighted to play the principal character, yet her artistic sense demanded fitness for it and this, she felt, her limitations made impossible. "Ruby, you must be King Arthur and Jane will be Guinevere and Diana must be Lancelot. But first you must be the brothers and the father. We can't have the old dumb servitor because there isn't room for two in the flat when one is lying down. We must pall the barge all its length in blackest samite. That old black shawl of your mother's will be just the thing, Diana." The black shawl having been procured, Anne spread it over the flat and then lay down on the bottom, with closed eyes and hands folded over her breast. "Oh, she does look really dead," whispered Ruby Gillis nervously, watching the still, white little face under the flickering shadows of the birches. "It makes me feel frightened, girls. Do you suppose it's really right to act like this? Mrs. Lynde says that all play-acting is abominably wicked." "Ruby, you shouldn't talk about Mrs. Lynde," said Anne severely. "It spoils the effect because this is hundreds of years before Mrs. Lynde was born. Jane, you arrange this. It's silly for Elaine to be talking when she's dead." Jane rose to the occasion. Cloth of gold for coverlet there was none, but an old piano scarf of yellow Japanese crepe was an excellent substitute. A white lily was not obtainable just then, but the effect of a tall blue iris placed in one of Anne's folded hands was all that could be desired. "Now, she's all ready," said Jane. "We must kiss her quiet brows and, Diana, you say," ?Sister, farewell forever,' "and Ruby, you say," ?Farewell, sweet sister,' "both of you as sorrowfully as you possibly can. Anne, for goodness sake smile a little. You know Elaine" ?lay as though she smiled.' "That's better. Now push the flat off." The flat was accordingly pushed off, scraping roughly over an old embedded stake in the process. Diana and Jane and Ruby only waited long enough to see it caught in the current and headed for the bridge before scampering up through the woods, across the road, and down to the lower headland where, as Lancelot and Guinevere and the King, they were to be in readiness to receive the lily maid. For a few minutes Anne, drifting slowly down, enjoyed the romance of her situation to the full. Then something happened not at all romantic. The flat began to leak. In a very few moments it was necessary for Elaine to scramble to her feet, pick up her cloth of gold coverlet and pall of blackest samite and gaze blankly at a big crack in the bottom of her barge through which the water was literally pouring. That sharp stake at the landing had torn off the strip of batting nailed on the flat. Anne did not know this, but it did not take her long to realize that she was in a dangerous plight. At this rate the flat would fill and sink long before it could drift to the lower headland. Where were the oars? Left behind at the landing! Anne gave one gasping little scream which nobody ever heard; she was white to the lips, but she did not lose her self-possession. There was one chance--just one. "I was horribly frightened," she told Mrs. Allan the next day, "and it seemed like years while the flat was drifting down to the bridge and the water rising in it every moment. I prayed, Mrs. Allan, most earnestly, but I didn't shut my eyes to pray, for I knew the only way God could save me was to let the flat float close enough to one of the bridge piles for me to climb up on it. You know the piles are just old tree trunks and there are lots of knots and old branch stubs on them. It was proper to pray, but I had to do my part by watching out and right well I knew it. I just said," ?Dear God, please take the flat close to a pile and I'll do the rest,'<|quote|>"over and over again. Under such circumstances you don't think much about making a flowery prayer. But mine was answered, for the flat bumped right into a pile for a minute and I flung the scarf and the shawl over my shoulder and scrambled up on a big providential stub. And there I was, Mrs. Allan, clinging to that slippery old pile with no way of getting up or down. It was a very unromantic position, but I didn't think about that at the time. You don't think much about romance when you have just escaped from a watery grave. I said a grateful prayer at once and then I gave all my attention to holding on tight, for I knew I should probably have to depend on human aid to get back to dry land."</|quote|>The flat drifted under the bridge and then promptly sank in midstream. Ruby, Jane, and Diana, already awaiting it on the lower headland, saw it disappear before their very eyes and had not a doubt but that Anne had gone down with it. For a moment they stood still, white as sheets, frozen with horror at the tragedy; then, shrieking at the tops of their voices, they started on a frantic run up through the woods, never pausing as they crossed the main road to glance the way of the bridge. Anne, clinging desperately to her precarious foothold, saw their flying forms and heard their shrieks. Help would soon come, but meanwhile her position was a very uncomfortable one. The minutes passed by, each seeming an hour to the unfortunate lily maid. Why didn't somebody come? Where had the girls gone? Suppose they had fainted, one and all! Suppose nobody ever came! Suppose she grew so tired and cramped that she could hold on no longer! Anne looked at the wicked green depths below her, wavering with long, oily shadows, and shivered. Her imagination began to suggest all manner of gruesome possibilities to her. Then, just as she thought she really could not endure the ache in her arms and wrists another moment, Gilbert Blythe came rowing under the bridge in Harmon Andrews's dory! Gilbert glanced up and, much to his amazement, beheld a little white scornful face looking down upon him with big, frightened but also scornful gray eyes. "Anne Shirley! How on earth did you get there?" he exclaimed. Without waiting for an answer he pulled close to the pile and extended his hand. There was no help for it; Anne, clinging to Gilbert Blythe's hand, scrambled down into the dory, where she sat, drabbled and furious, in the stern with her arms full of dripping shawl and wet crepe. It was certainly extremely difficult to be dignified under the circumstances! "What has happened, Anne?" asked Gilbert, taking up his oars. "We were playing Elaine" explained Anne frigidly, without even looking at her rescuer, "and I had to drift down to Camelot in the barge--I mean the flat. The flat began to leak and I climbed out on the pile. The girls went for help. Will you be kind enough to row me to the landing?" Gilbert obligingly rowed to the landing and Anne, disdaining assistance, sprang nimbly on shore. "I'm very much obliged to you," she said haughtily as she turned away. But Gilbert had also sprung from the boat and now laid a detaining hand on her arm. "Anne," he said hurriedly, "look here. Can't we be good friends? I'm awfully sorry I made fun of your hair that time. I didn't mean to vex you and I only meant it for a joke. Besides, it's so long ago. I think your hair is awfully pretty now--honest I do. Let's be friends." For a moment Anne hesitated. She had an odd, newly awakened consciousness under all her outraged dignity that the half-shy, half-eager expression in Gilbert's hazel eyes was something that was very good to see. Her heart gave a quick, queer little beat. But the bitterness of her old grievance promptly stiffened up her wavering determination. That scene of two years before flashed back into her recollection as vividly as if it had taken place yesterday. Gilbert had called her "carrots" and had brought about her disgrace before the whole school. Her resentment, which to other and older people might be as laughable as its cause, was in no whit allayed and softened by time seemingly. She hated Gilbert Blythe! She would never forgive him! "No," she said coldly, "I shall never be friends with you, Gilbert Blythe; and I don't want to be!" "All right!" Gilbert sprang into his skiff with an angry color in his cheeks. "I'll never ask you to be friends again, Anne Shirley. And I don't care either!" He pulled away with swift defiant strokes, and Anne went up the steep, ferny little path under the maples. She held her head very high, but she was conscious of an odd feeling of regret. She almost wished she had answered Gilbert differently. Of course, he had insulted her terribly, but still--! Altogether, Anne rather thought it would be a relief to sit down and have a good cry. She was really quite unstrung, for the reaction from her fright and cramped clinging was making itself felt. Halfway up the path she met Jane and Diana rushing back to the pond in a state narrowly removed from positive frenzy. They had found nobody at Orchard Slope, both Mr. and Mrs. Barry being away. Here Ruby Gillis had succumbed to hysterics, and was left to recover from them as best she might, while | drifting slowly down, enjoyed the romance of her situation to the full. Then something happened not at all romantic. The flat began to leak. In a very few moments it was necessary for Elaine to scramble to her feet, pick up her cloth of gold coverlet and pall of blackest samite and gaze blankly at a big crack in the bottom of her barge through which the water was literally pouring. That sharp stake at the landing had torn off the strip of batting nailed on the flat. Anne did not know this, but it did not take her long to realize that she was in a dangerous plight. At this rate the flat would fill and sink long before it could drift to the lower headland. Where were the oars? Left behind at the landing! Anne gave one gasping little scream which nobody ever heard; she was white to the lips, but she did not lose her self-possession. There was one chance--just one. "I was horribly frightened," she told Mrs. Allan the next day, "and it seemed like years while the flat was drifting down to the bridge and the water rising in it every moment. I prayed, Mrs. Allan, most earnestly, but I didn't shut my eyes to pray, for I knew the only way God could save me was to let the flat float close enough to one of the bridge piles for me to climb up on it. You know the piles are just old tree trunks and there are lots of knots and old branch stubs on them. It was proper to pray, but I had to do my part by watching out and right well I knew it. I just said," ?Dear God, please take the flat close to a pile and I'll do the rest,'<|quote|>"over and over again. Under such circumstances you don't think much about making a flowery prayer. But mine was answered, for the flat bumped right into a pile for a minute and I flung the scarf and the shawl over my shoulder and scrambled up on a big providential stub. And there I was, Mrs. Allan, clinging to that slippery old pile with no way of getting up or down. It was a very unromantic position, but I didn't think about that at the time. You don't think much about romance when you have just escaped from a watery grave. I said a grateful prayer at once and then I gave all my attention to holding on tight, for I knew I should probably have to depend on human aid to get back to dry land."</|quote|>The flat drifted under the bridge and then promptly sank in midstream. Ruby, Jane, and Diana, already awaiting it on the lower headland, saw it disappear before their very eyes and had not a doubt but that Anne had gone down with it. For a moment they stood still, white as sheets, frozen with horror at the tragedy; then, shrieking at the tops of their voices, they started on a frantic run up through the woods, never pausing as they crossed the main road to glance the way of the bridge. Anne, clinging desperately to her precarious foothold, saw their flying forms and heard their shrieks. Help would soon come, but meanwhile her position was a very uncomfortable one. The minutes passed by, each seeming an hour to the unfortunate lily maid. Why didn't somebody come? Where had the girls gone? Suppose they had fainted, one and all! Suppose nobody ever came! Suppose she grew so tired and cramped that she could hold on no longer! Anne looked at the wicked green depths below her, wavering with long, oily shadows, and shivered. Her imagination began to suggest all manner of gruesome possibilities to her. Then, just as she thought she really could not endure the ache in her arms and wrists another moment, Gilbert Blythe came rowing under the bridge in Harmon Andrews's dory! Gilbert glanced up and, much to his amazement, beheld a little white scornful face looking down upon him with big, frightened but also scornful gray eyes. "Anne Shirley! How on earth did you get there?" he exclaimed. Without waiting for an answer he pulled close to the pile and extended his hand. There was no help for it; Anne, clinging to Gilbert Blythe's hand, scrambled down into the dory, where she sat, drabbled and furious, in the stern with her arms full of dripping shawl and wet crepe. It was certainly extremely difficult to be dignified under the circumstances! "What has happened, Anne?" asked Gilbert, taking up his oars. "We were playing Elaine" explained Anne frigidly, without even looking at her rescuer, "and I had to drift down to Camelot in the barge--I mean the flat. The flat began to leak and I climbed out on the pile. The girls went for help. Will you be kind enough to row me to the landing?" Gilbert obligingly rowed to the landing and Anne, disdaining assistance, sprang nimbly on shore. "I'm very much obliged to you," she said haughtily as she turned away. But Gilbert had also sprung from the boat and now laid a detaining hand on her arm. "Anne," he said hurriedly, "look here. Can't we be good friends? I'm awfully sorry I made fun of your hair that time. I didn't mean to vex you and I only meant it for a joke. Besides, it's so long ago. I think your hair is awfully pretty now--honest I do. Let's be friends." For a moment Anne hesitated. She had an odd, newly awakened consciousness under all her outraged dignity that the half-shy, half-eager expression in Gilbert's hazel eyes was something that was very good | Anne Of Green Gables |
he continued in measured tones. | No speaker | a certain amount of light,"<|quote|>he continued in measured tones.</|quote|>"We cast a shadow on | kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light,"<|quote|>he continued in measured tones.</|quote|>"We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and | the world," said George, watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages. "Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. "That's exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?" "There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light,"<|quote|>he continued in measured tones.</|quote|>"We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won't do harm--yes, choose a place where you won't do very much harm, and stand in it for | She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned, though his name was never mentioned. "So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind." "There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world," said George, watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages. "Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. "That's exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?" "There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light,"<|quote|>he continued in measured tones.</|quote|>"We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won't do harm--yes, choose a place where you won't do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine." "Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you're clever!" "Eh--?" "I see you're going to be clever. I hope you didn't go behaving like that to poor Freddy." George's eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well. "No, | Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out. Women mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it." "I believe that there was some misunderstanding," said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily. "Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person," said George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. "He thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed." "And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?" He appealed to Lucy. "Oh, stop now you have come," said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned, though his name was never mentioned. "So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind." "There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world," said George, watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages. "Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. "That's exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?" "There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light,"<|quote|>he continued in measured tones.</|quote|>"We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won't do harm--yes, choose a place where you won't do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine." "Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you're clever!" "Eh--?" "I see you're going to be clever. I hope you didn't go behaving like that to poor Freddy." George's eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well. "No, I didn't," he said. "He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first." "What DO you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don't explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday--?" "George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday--" "Very well, George doesn't mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That's settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased." He | of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the Emersons were different. She saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden. "Introduce me," said her mother. "Unless the young man considers that he knows me already." He probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic, and asked him how he liked his new house. "Very much," he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice; she had never known him offended before. He added: "We find, though, that the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out. Women mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it." "I believe that there was some misunderstanding," said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily. "Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person," said George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. "He thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed." "And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?" He appealed to Lucy. "Oh, stop now you have come," said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned, though his name was never mentioned. "So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind." "There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world," said George, watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages. "Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. "That's exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?" "There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light,"<|quote|>he continued in measured tones.</|quote|>"We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won't do harm--yes, choose a place where you won't do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine." "Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you're clever!" "Eh--?" "I see you're going to be clever. I hope you didn't go behaving like that to poor Freddy." George's eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well. "No, I didn't," he said. "He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first." "What DO you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don't explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday--?" "George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday--" "Very well, George doesn't mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That's settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased." He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter about in these days. She turned to George: "And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss Alans." "I know," said George, and put his arm round his father's neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape--a touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never spoken against affection. Miss Bartlett approached. "You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett," said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly. "You met her with my daughter in Florence." "Yes, indeed!" said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine. It was the old, old battle of the room with the view. George did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: "I--I'll come up to tennis if I can | had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said, "What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?" And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun. "Lucy--have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?" She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster. "It's a special collection--I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book's all warped. (Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press. Minnie!" "Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch--" from the upper regions. "Minnie, don't be late. Here comes the horse" "--it was always the horse, never the carriage. "Where's Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte--How I do detest blouses! Minnie!" Paganism is infectious--more infectious than diphtheria or piety--and the Rector's niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn't see why. Why shouldn't she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs. Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs. "Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change--nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me--" "Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame." "If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?" said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued, and then they drove off. "Good-bye! Be good!" called out Cecil. Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of "church and so on" they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the Emersons were different. She saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden. "Introduce me," said her mother. "Unless the young man considers that he knows me already." He probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic, and asked him how he liked his new house. "Very much," he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice; she had never known him offended before. He added: "We find, though, that the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out. Women mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it." "I believe that there was some misunderstanding," said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily. "Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person," said George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. "He thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed." "And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?" He appealed to Lucy. "Oh, stop now you have come," said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned, though his name was never mentioned. "So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind." "There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world," said George, watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages. "Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. "That's exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?" "There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light,"<|quote|>he continued in measured tones.</|quote|>"We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won't do harm--yes, choose a place where you won't do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine." "Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you're clever!" "Eh--?" "I see you're going to be clever. I hope you didn't go behaving like that to poor Freddy." George's eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well. "No, I didn't," he said. "He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first." "What DO you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don't explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday--?" "George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday--" "Very well, George doesn't mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That's settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased." He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter about in these days. She turned to George: "And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss Alans." "I know," said George, and put his arm round his father's neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape--a touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never spoken against affection. Miss Bartlett approached. "You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett," said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly. "You met her with my daughter in Florence." "Yes, indeed!" said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine. It was the old, old battle of the room with the view. George did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: "I--I'll come up to tennis if I can manage it," and went into the house. Perhaps anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threw her photographs into the River Arno. "George, don't go," cried his father, who thought it a great treat for people if his son would talk to them. "George has been in such good spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon." Lucy caught her cousin's eye. Something in its mute appeal made her reckless. "Yes," she said, raising her voice, "I do hope he will." Then she went to the carriage and murmured, "The old man hasn't been told; I knew it was all right." Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove away. Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence escapade; yet Lucy's spirits should not have leapt up as if she had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses' hoofs sang a tune to her: "He has not told, he has not told." Her brain expanded the melody: "He has not told his father--to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone." She raised her hand to her cheek. "He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did! But he has not told. He will not tell." She longed to shout the words: "It is all right. It's a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear." She was even glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or little, was guarded. Only three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said: "The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved enormously." "How are my proteges?" asked Cecil, who took | no small change--nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me--" "Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame." "If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?" said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued, and then they drove off. "Good-bye! Be good!" called out Cecil. Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of "church and so on" they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the Emersons were different. She saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden. "Introduce me," said her mother. "Unless the young man considers that he knows me already." He probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic, and asked him how he liked his new house. "Very much," he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice; she had never known him offended before. He added: "We find, though, that the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out. Women mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it." "I believe that there was some misunderstanding," said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily. "Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person," said George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. "He thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed." "And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?" He appealed to Lucy. "Oh, stop now you have come," said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned, though his name was never mentioned. "So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind." "There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world," said George, watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages. "Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. "That's exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?" "There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light,"<|quote|>he continued in measured tones.</|quote|>"We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won't do harm--yes, choose a place where you won't do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine." "Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you're clever!" "Eh--?" "I see you're going to be clever. I hope you didn't go behaving like that to poor Freddy." George's eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well. "No, I didn't," he said. "He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first." "What DO you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don't explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday--?" "George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday--" "Very well, George doesn't mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That's settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased." He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter about in these days. She turned to George: "And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss Alans." "I know," said George, and put his arm round his father's neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape--a touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never spoken against affection. Miss Bartlett approached. "You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett," said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly. "You met her with my daughter in Florence." "Yes, indeed!" said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine. It was the old, old battle of the room with the view. George did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: "I--I'll come up to tennis if I can manage it," and went into the house. Perhaps anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threw her photographs into the River Arno. "George, don't go," cried his father, who thought it a great treat for people if his son would talk to them. "George has been in such good spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon." Lucy caught her cousin's eye. Something in its mute appeal made her reckless. "Yes," she said, raising her voice, "I do hope he will." Then she went to the carriage and murmured, "The old man hasn't been told; I knew it was all right." Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove away. Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the | A Room With A View |
Poirot nodded sympathetically. | No speaker | of devotion go for nothing."<|quote|>Poirot nodded sympathetically.</|quote|>"I understand, mademoiselle, I understand | and pooh! all my years of devotion go for nothing."<|quote|>Poirot nodded sympathetically.</|quote|>"I understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you feel. It is | And so, out of the whole bunch, I was the only one who could allow myself to be fond of her. I watched over her. I guarded her from the lot of them, and then a glib-tongued scoundrel comes along, and pooh! all my years of devotion go for nothing."<|quote|>Poirot nodded sympathetically.</|quote|>"I understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you feel. It is most natural. You think that we are lukewarm that we lack fire and energy but trust me, it is not so." John stuck his head in at this juncture, and invited us both to come up to Mrs. Inglethorp's room, | many pounds a year I'm worth to you. Well and good. But not a penny piece besides not a pair of gloves, nor a theatre ticket.' "She didn't understand was very offended sometimes. Said I was foolishly proud. It wasn't that but I couldn't explain. Anyway, I kept my self-respect. And so, out of the whole bunch, I was the only one who could allow myself to be fond of her. I watched over her. I guarded her from the lot of them, and then a glib-tongued scoundrel comes along, and pooh! all my years of devotion go for nothing."<|quote|>Poirot nodded sympathetically.</|quote|>"I understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you feel. It is most natural. You think that we are lukewarm that we lack fire and energy but trust me, it is not so." John stuck his head in at this juncture, and invited us both to come up to Mrs. Inglethorp's room, as he and Mr. Wells had finished looking through the desk in the boudoir. As we went up the stairs, John looked back to the dining-room door, and lowered his voice confidentially: "Look here, what's going to happen when these two meet?" I shook my head helplessly. "I've told Mary | the only eyes that have wept." Miss Howard blinked, and a new note crept into the gruffness of her voice. "If you mean that I was fond of her yes, I was. You know, Emily was a selfish old woman in her way. She was very generous, but she always wanted a return. She never let people forget what she had done for them and, that way she missed love. Don't think she ever realized it, though, or felt the lack of it. Hope not, anyway. I was on a different footing. I took my stand from the first." So many pounds a year I'm worth to you. Well and good. But not a penny piece besides not a pair of gloves, nor a theatre ticket.' "She didn't understand was very offended sometimes. Said I was foolishly proud. It wasn't that but I couldn't explain. Anyway, I kept my self-respect. And so, out of the whole bunch, I was the only one who could allow myself to be fond of her. I watched over her. I guarded her from the lot of them, and then a glib-tongued scoundrel comes along, and pooh! all my years of devotion go for nothing."<|quote|>Poirot nodded sympathetically.</|quote|>"I understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you feel. It is most natural. You think that we are lukewarm that we lack fire and energy but trust me, it is not so." John stuck his head in at this juncture, and invited us both to come up to Mrs. Inglethorp's room, as he and Mr. Wells had finished looking through the desk in the boudoir. As we went up the stairs, John looked back to the dining-room door, and lowered his voice confidentially: "Look here, what's going to happen when these two meet?" I shook my head helplessly. "I've told Mary to keep them apart if she can." "Will she be able to do so?" "The Lord only knows. There's one thing, Inglethorp himself won't be too keen on meeting her." "You've got the keys still, haven't you, Poirot?" I asked, as we reached the door of the locked room. Taking the keys from Poirot, John unlocked it, and we all passed in. The lawyer went straight to the desk, and John followed him. "My mother kept most of her important papers in this despatch-case, I believe," he said. Poirot drew out the small bunch of keys. "Permit me. I locked | and sat down facing Miss Howard. "Mademoiselle," he said gravely, "I want to ask you something." "Ask away," said the lady, eyeing him with some disfavour. "I want to be able to count upon your help." "I'll help you to hang Alfred with pleasure," she replied gruffly. "Hanging's too good for him. Ought to be drawn and quartered, like in good old times." "We are at one then," said Poirot, "for I, too, want to hang the criminal." "Alfred Inglethorp?" "Him, or another." "No question of another. Poor Emily was never murdered until _he_ came along. I don't say she wasn't surrounded by sharks she was. But it was only her purse they were after. Her life was safe enough. But along comes Mr. Alfred Inglethorp and within two months hey presto!" "Believe me, Miss Howard," said Poirot very earnestly, "if Mr. Inglethorp is the man, he shall not escape me. On my honour, I will hang him as high as Haman!" "That's better," said Miss Howard more enthusiastically. "But I must ask you to trust me. Now your help may be very valuable to me. I will tell you why. Because, in all this house of mourning, yours are the only eyes that have wept." Miss Howard blinked, and a new note crept into the gruffness of her voice. "If you mean that I was fond of her yes, I was. You know, Emily was a selfish old woman in her way. She was very generous, but she always wanted a return. She never let people forget what she had done for them and, that way she missed love. Don't think she ever realized it, though, or felt the lack of it. Hope not, anyway. I was on a different footing. I took my stand from the first." So many pounds a year I'm worth to you. Well and good. But not a penny piece besides not a pair of gloves, nor a theatre ticket.' "She didn't understand was very offended sometimes. Said I was foolishly proud. It wasn't that but I couldn't explain. Anyway, I kept my self-respect. And so, out of the whole bunch, I was the only one who could allow myself to be fond of her. I watched over her. I guarded her from the lot of them, and then a glib-tongued scoundrel comes along, and pooh! all my years of devotion go for nothing."<|quote|>Poirot nodded sympathetically.</|quote|>"I understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you feel. It is most natural. You think that we are lukewarm that we lack fire and energy but trust me, it is not so." John stuck his head in at this juncture, and invited us both to come up to Mrs. Inglethorp's room, as he and Mr. Wells had finished looking through the desk in the boudoir. As we went up the stairs, John looked back to the dining-room door, and lowered his voice confidentially: "Look here, what's going to happen when these two meet?" I shook my head helplessly. "I've told Mary to keep them apart if she can." "Will she be able to do so?" "The Lord only knows. There's one thing, Inglethorp himself won't be too keen on meeting her." "You've got the keys still, haven't you, Poirot?" I asked, as we reached the door of the locked room. Taking the keys from Poirot, John unlocked it, and we all passed in. The lawyer went straight to the desk, and John followed him. "My mother kept most of her important papers in this despatch-case, I believe," he said. Poirot drew out the small bunch of keys. "Permit me. I locked it, out of precaution, this morning." "But it's not locked now." "Impossible!" "See." And John lifted the lid as he spoke. "_Milles tonnerres!_" cried Poirot, dumbfounded. "And I who have both the keys in my pocket!" He flung himself upon the case. Suddenly he stiffened. "_Eh voil une affaire!_ This lock has been forced." "What?" Poirot laid down the case again. "But who forced it? Why should they? When? But the door was locked?" These exclamations burst from us disjointedly. Poirot answered them categorically almost mechanically. "Who? That is the question. Why? Ah, if I only knew. When? Since I was here an hour ago. As to the door being locked, it is a very ordinary lock. Probably any other of the doorkeys in this passage would fit it." We stared at one another blankly. Poirot had walked over to the mantelpiece. He was outwardly calm, but I noticed his hands, which from long force of habit were mechanically straightening the spill vases on the mantelpiece, were shaking violently. "See here, it was like this," he said at last. "There was something in that case some piece of evidence, slight in itself perhaps, but still enough of a clue to | Have they taken him to prison yet?" "Taken who to prison?" "Who? Alfred Inglethorp, of course!" "My dear Evie, do be careful. Lawrence is of the opinion that my mother died from heart seizure." "More fool, Lawrence!" retorted Miss Howard. "Of course Alfred Inglethorp murdered poor Emily as I always told you he would." "My dear Evie, don't shout so. Whatever we may think or suspect, it is better to say as little as possible for the present. The inquest isn't until Friday." "Not until fiddlesticks!" The snort Miss Howard gave was truly magnificent. "You're all off your heads. The man will be out of the country by then. If he's any sense, he won't stay here tamely and wait to be hanged." John Cavendish looked at her helplessly. "I know what it is," she accused him, "you've been listening to the doctors. Never should. What do they know? Nothing at all or just enough to make them dangerous. I ought to know my own father was a doctor. That little Wilkins is about the greatest fool that even I have ever seen. Heart seizure! Sort of thing he would say. Anyone with any sense could see at once that her husband had poisoned her. I always said he'd murder her in her bed, poor soul. Now he's done it. And all you can do is to murmur silly things about" heart seizure' "and" inquest on Friday.' "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, John Cavendish." "What do you want me to do?" asked John, unable to help a faint smile. "Dash it all, Evie, I can't haul him down to the local police station by the scruff of his neck." "Well, you might do something. Find out how he did it. He's a crafty beggar. Dare say he soaked fly papers. Ask cook if she's missed any." It occurred to me very forcibly at that moment that to harbour Miss Howard and Alfred Inglethorp under the same roof, and keep the peace between them, was likely to prove a Herculean task, and I did not envy John. I could see by the expression of his face that he fully appreciated the difficulty of the position. For the moment, he sought refuge in retreat, and left the room precipitately. Dorcas brought in fresh tea. As she left the room, Poirot came over from the window where he had been standing, and sat down facing Miss Howard. "Mademoiselle," he said gravely, "I want to ask you something." "Ask away," said the lady, eyeing him with some disfavour. "I want to be able to count upon your help." "I'll help you to hang Alfred with pleasure," she replied gruffly. "Hanging's too good for him. Ought to be drawn and quartered, like in good old times." "We are at one then," said Poirot, "for I, too, want to hang the criminal." "Alfred Inglethorp?" "Him, or another." "No question of another. Poor Emily was never murdered until _he_ came along. I don't say she wasn't surrounded by sharks she was. But it was only her purse they were after. Her life was safe enough. But along comes Mr. Alfred Inglethorp and within two months hey presto!" "Believe me, Miss Howard," said Poirot very earnestly, "if Mr. Inglethorp is the man, he shall not escape me. On my honour, I will hang him as high as Haman!" "That's better," said Miss Howard more enthusiastically. "But I must ask you to trust me. Now your help may be very valuable to me. I will tell you why. Because, in all this house of mourning, yours are the only eyes that have wept." Miss Howard blinked, and a new note crept into the gruffness of her voice. "If you mean that I was fond of her yes, I was. You know, Emily was a selfish old woman in her way. She was very generous, but she always wanted a return. She never let people forget what she had done for them and, that way she missed love. Don't think she ever realized it, though, or felt the lack of it. Hope not, anyway. I was on a different footing. I took my stand from the first." So many pounds a year I'm worth to you. Well and good. But not a penny piece besides not a pair of gloves, nor a theatre ticket.' "She didn't understand was very offended sometimes. Said I was foolishly proud. It wasn't that but I couldn't explain. Anyway, I kept my self-respect. And so, out of the whole bunch, I was the only one who could allow myself to be fond of her. I watched over her. I guarded her from the lot of them, and then a glib-tongued scoundrel comes along, and pooh! all my years of devotion go for nothing."<|quote|>Poirot nodded sympathetically.</|quote|>"I understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you feel. It is most natural. You think that we are lukewarm that we lack fire and energy but trust me, it is not so." John stuck his head in at this juncture, and invited us both to come up to Mrs. Inglethorp's room, as he and Mr. Wells had finished looking through the desk in the boudoir. As we went up the stairs, John looked back to the dining-room door, and lowered his voice confidentially: "Look here, what's going to happen when these two meet?" I shook my head helplessly. "I've told Mary to keep them apart if she can." "Will she be able to do so?" "The Lord only knows. There's one thing, Inglethorp himself won't be too keen on meeting her." "You've got the keys still, haven't you, Poirot?" I asked, as we reached the door of the locked room. Taking the keys from Poirot, John unlocked it, and we all passed in. The lawyer went straight to the desk, and John followed him. "My mother kept most of her important papers in this despatch-case, I believe," he said. Poirot drew out the small bunch of keys. "Permit me. I locked it, out of precaution, this morning." "But it's not locked now." "Impossible!" "See." And John lifted the lid as he spoke. "_Milles tonnerres!_" cried Poirot, dumbfounded. "And I who have both the keys in my pocket!" He flung himself upon the case. Suddenly he stiffened. "_Eh voil une affaire!_ This lock has been forced." "What?" Poirot laid down the case again. "But who forced it? Why should they? When? But the door was locked?" These exclamations burst from us disjointedly. Poirot answered them categorically almost mechanically. "Who? That is the question. Why? Ah, if I only knew. When? Since I was here an hour ago. As to the door being locked, it is a very ordinary lock. Probably any other of the doorkeys in this passage would fit it." We stared at one another blankly. Poirot had walked over to the mantelpiece. He was outwardly calm, but I noticed his hands, which from long force of habit were mechanically straightening the spill vases on the mantelpiece, were shaking violently. "See here, it was like this," he said at last. "There was something in that case some piece of evidence, slight in itself perhaps, but still enough of a clue to connect the murderer with the crime. It was vital to him that it should be destroyed before it was discovered and its significance appreciated. Therefore, he took the risk, the great risk, of coming in here. Finding the case locked, he was obliged to force it, thus betraying his presence. For him to take that risk, it must have been something of great importance." "But what was it?" "Ah!" cried Poirot, with a gesture of anger. "That, I do not know! A document of some kind, without doubt, possibly the scrap of paper Dorcas saw in her hand yesterday afternoon. And I" his anger burst forth freely "miserable animal that I am! I guessed nothing! I have behaved like an imbecile! I should never have left that case here. I should have carried it away with me. Ah, triple pig! And now it is gone. It is destroyed but is it destroyed? Is there not yet a chance we must leave no stone unturned" He rushed like a madman from the room, and I followed him as soon as I had sufficiently recovered my wits. But, by the time I had reached the top of the stairs, he was out of sight. Mary Cavendish was standing where the staircase branched, staring down into the hall in the direction in which he had disappeared. "What has happened to your extraordinary little friend, Mr. Hastings? He has just rushed past me like a mad bull." "He's rather upset about something," I remarked feebly. I really did not know how much Poirot would wish me to disclose. As I saw a faint smile gather on Mrs. Cavendish's expressive mouth, I endeavoured to try and turn the conversation by saying: "They haven't met yet, have they?" "Who?" "Mr. Inglethorp and Miss Howard." She looked at me in rather a disconcerting manner. "Do you think it would be such a disaster if they did meet?" "Well, don't you?" I said, rather taken aback. "No." She was smiling in her quiet way. "I should like to see a good flare up. It would clear the air. At present we are all thinking so much, and saying so little." "John doesn't think so," I remarked. "He's anxious to keep them apart." "Oh, John!" Something in her tone fired me, and I blurted out: "Old John's an awfully good sort." She studied me curiously for a minute or | "if Mr. Inglethorp is the man, he shall not escape me. On my honour, I will hang him as high as Haman!" "That's better," said Miss Howard more enthusiastically. "But I must ask you to trust me. Now your help may be very valuable to me. I will tell you why. Because, in all this house of mourning, yours are the only eyes that have wept." Miss Howard blinked, and a new note crept into the gruffness of her voice. "If you mean that I was fond of her yes, I was. You know, Emily was a selfish old woman in her way. She was very generous, but she always wanted a return. She never let people forget what she had done for them and, that way she missed love. Don't think she ever realized it, though, or felt the lack of it. Hope not, anyway. I was on a different footing. I took my stand from the first." So many pounds a year I'm worth to you. Well and good. But not a penny piece besides not a pair of gloves, nor a theatre ticket.' "She didn't understand was very offended sometimes. Said I was foolishly proud. It wasn't that but I couldn't explain. Anyway, I kept my self-respect. And so, out of the whole bunch, I was the only one who could allow myself to be fond of her. I watched over her. I guarded her from the lot of them, and then a glib-tongued scoundrel comes along, and pooh! all my years of devotion go for nothing."<|quote|>Poirot nodded sympathetically.</|quote|>"I understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you feel. It is most natural. You think that we are lukewarm that we lack fire and energy but trust me, it is not so." John stuck his head in at this juncture, and invited us both to come up to Mrs. Inglethorp's room, as he and Mr. Wells had finished looking through the desk in the boudoir. As we went up the stairs, John looked back to the dining-room door, and lowered his voice confidentially: "Look here, what's going to happen when these two meet?" I shook my head helplessly. "I've told Mary to keep them apart if she can." "Will she be able to do so?" "The Lord only knows. There's one thing, Inglethorp himself won't be too keen on meeting her." "You've got the keys still, haven't you, Poirot?" I asked, as we reached the door of the locked room. Taking the keys from Poirot, John unlocked it, and we all passed in. The lawyer went straight to the desk, and John followed him. "My mother kept most of her important papers in this despatch-case, I believe," he said. Poirot drew out the small bunch of keys. "Permit me. I locked it, out of precaution, this morning." "But it's not locked now." "Impossible!" "See." And John lifted the lid as he spoke. "_Milles tonnerres!_" cried Poirot, dumbfounded. "And I who have both the keys in my pocket!" He flung himself upon the case. Suddenly he stiffened. "_Eh voil une affaire!_ This lock has been forced." "What?" Poirot laid down the case again. "But who forced it? Why should they? When? But the door was locked?" These exclamations burst from us disjointedly. Poirot answered them categorically almost mechanically. "Who? That is the question. Why? Ah, if I only knew. When? Since I was here an hour ago. As to the door being locked, it is a very ordinary lock. Probably any other of the doorkeys in this passage would fit it." We stared at one another blankly. Poirot had walked over to the mantelpiece. He was outwardly calm, but I noticed his hands, which from long force of habit were mechanically straightening the spill vases on the mantelpiece, were shaking violently. "See here, it was like this," he said at last. "There was something in that case some piece of evidence, slight in itself perhaps, but still enough of a clue to connect the murderer with the crime. It was vital to him that it should be destroyed before it was discovered and its significance appreciated. Therefore, he took the risk, the great risk, of coming in here. Finding the case locked, he was obliged to force it, thus betraying his presence. For him to take that risk, it must have been something of great importance." "But what was it?" "Ah!" cried Poirot, with a gesture of anger. "That, I do not know! A document of some kind, without doubt, possibly the scrap of paper Dorcas saw in her hand yesterday afternoon. And I" his anger burst forth freely "miserable animal that I am! I guessed nothing! I have behaved like an imbecile! I should never have left that case here. I should have carried it away with me. Ah, triple pig! And now it is gone. It is destroyed but is it destroyed? Is there not yet a chance we must leave no stone unturned" | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
"I am not coming back to school any more," | Anne Shirley | to ask the question before.<|quote|>"I am not coming back to school any more,"</|quote|>said Anne. Diana gasped and | road. She had not dared to ask the question before.<|quote|>"I am not coming back to school any more,"</|quote|>said Anne. Diana gasped and stared at Anne to see | books and writing tablet, pen and ink, testament and arithmetic, and piled them neatly on her cracked slate. "What are you taking all those things home for, Anne?" Diana wanted to know, as soon as they were out on the road. She had not dared to ask the question before.<|quote|>"I am not coming back to school any more,"</|quote|>said Anne. Diana gasped and stared at Anne to see if she meant it. "Will Marilla let you stay home?" she asked. "She'll have to," said Anne. "I'll _never_ go to school to that man again." "Oh, Anne!" Diana looked as if she were ready to cry. "I do think | arose, took the pink heart gingerly between the tips of her fingers, dropped it on the floor, ground it to powder beneath her heel, and resumed her position without deigning to bestow a glance on Gilbert. When school went out Anne marched to her desk, ostentatiously took out everything therein, books and writing tablet, pen and ink, testament and arithmetic, and piled them neatly on her cracked slate. "What are you taking all those things home for, Anne?" Diana wanted to know, as soon as they were out on the road. She had not dared to ask the question before.<|quote|>"I am not coming back to school any more,"</|quote|>said Anne. Diana gasped and stared at Anne to see if she meant it. "Will Marilla let you stay home?" she asked. "She'll have to," said Anne. "I'll _never_ go to school to that man again." "Oh, Anne!" Diana looked as if she were ready to cry. "I do think you're mean. What shall I do? Mr. Phillips will make me sit with that horrid Gertie Pye--I know he will because she is sitting alone. Do come back, Anne." "I'd do almost anything in the world for you, Diana," said Anne sadly. "I'd let myself be torn limb from limb | his whole soul was absorbed in them and them only, they soon returned to their own tasks and Anne was forgotten. When Mr. Phillips called the history class out Anne should have gone, but Anne did not move, and Mr. Phillips, who had been writing some verses "To Priscilla" before he called the class, was thinking about an obstinate rhyme still and never missed her. Once, when nobody was looking, Gilbert took from his desk a little pink candy heart with a gold motto on it, "You are sweet," and slipped it under the curve of Anne's arm. Whereupon Anne arose, took the pink heart gingerly between the tips of her fingers, dropped it on the floor, ground it to powder beneath her heel, and resumed her position without deigning to bestow a glance on Gilbert. When school went out Anne marched to her desk, ostentatiously took out everything therein, books and writing tablet, pen and ink, testament and arithmetic, and piled them neatly on her cracked slate. "What are you taking all those things home for, Anne?" Diana wanted to know, as soon as they were out on the road. She had not dared to ask the question before.<|quote|>"I am not coming back to school any more,"</|quote|>said Anne. Diana gasped and stared at Anne to see if she meant it. "Will Marilla let you stay home?" she asked. "She'll have to," said Anne. "I'll _never_ go to school to that man again." "Oh, Anne!" Diana looked as if she were ready to cry. "I do think you're mean. What shall I do? Mr. Phillips will make me sit with that horrid Gertie Pye--I know he will because she is sitting alone. Do come back, Anne." "I'd do almost anything in the world for you, Diana," said Anne sadly. "I'd let myself be torn limb from limb if it would do you any good. But I can't do this, so please don't ask it. You harrow up my very soul." "Just think of all the fun you will miss," mourned Diana. "We are going to build the loveliest new house down by the brook; and we'll be playing ball next week and you've never played ball, Anne. It's tremendously exciting. And we're going to learn a new song--Jane Andrews is practicing it up now; and Alice Andrews is going to bring a new Pansy book next week and we're all going to read it out loud, chapter | especially, hated. It flicked on the raw. "Obey me at once." For a moment Anne looked as if she meant to disobey. Then, realizing that there was no help for it, she rose haughtily, stepped across the aisle, sat down beside Gilbert Blythe, and buried her face in her arms on the desk. Ruby Gillis, who got a glimpse of it as it went down, told the others going home from school that she'd "acksually never seen anything like it--it was so white, with awful little red spots in it." To Anne, this was as the end of all things. It was bad enough to be singled out for punishment from among a dozen equally guilty ones; it was worse still to be sent to sit with a boy, but that that boy should be Gilbert Blythe was heaping insult on injury to a degree utterly unbearable. Anne felt that she could not bear it and it would be of no use to try. Her whole being seethed with shame and anger and humiliation. At first the other scholars looked and whispered and giggled and nudged. But as Anne never lifted her head and as Gilbert worked fractions as if his whole soul was absorbed in them and them only, they soon returned to their own tasks and Anne was forgotten. When Mr. Phillips called the history class out Anne should have gone, but Anne did not move, and Mr. Phillips, who had been writing some verses "To Priscilla" before he called the class, was thinking about an obstinate rhyme still and never missed her. Once, when nobody was looking, Gilbert took from his desk a little pink candy heart with a gold motto on it, "You are sweet," and slipped it under the curve of Anne's arm. Whereupon Anne arose, took the pink heart gingerly between the tips of her fingers, dropped it on the floor, ground it to powder beneath her heel, and resumed her position without deigning to bestow a glance on Gilbert. When school went out Anne marched to her desk, ostentatiously took out everything therein, books and writing tablet, pen and ink, testament and arithmetic, and piled them neatly on her cracked slate. "What are you taking all those things home for, Anne?" Diana wanted to know, as soon as they were out on the road. She had not dared to ask the question before.<|quote|>"I am not coming back to school any more,"</|quote|>said Anne. Diana gasped and stared at Anne to see if she meant it. "Will Marilla let you stay home?" she asked. "She'll have to," said Anne. "I'll _never_ go to school to that man again." "Oh, Anne!" Diana looked as if she were ready to cry. "I do think you're mean. What shall I do? Mr. Phillips will make me sit with that horrid Gertie Pye--I know he will because she is sitting alone. Do come back, Anne." "I'd do almost anything in the world for you, Diana," said Anne sadly. "I'd let myself be torn limb from limb if it would do you any good. But I can't do this, so please don't ask it. You harrow up my very soul." "Just think of all the fun you will miss," mourned Diana. "We are going to build the loveliest new house down by the brook; and we'll be playing ball next week and you've never played ball, Anne. It's tremendously exciting. And we're going to learn a new song--Jane Andrews is practicing it up now; and Alice Andrews is going to bring a new Pansy book next week and we're all going to read it out loud, chapter about, down by the brook. And you know you are so fond of reading out loud, Anne." Nothing moved Anne in the least. Her mind was made up. She would not go to school to Mr. Phillips again; she told Marilla so when she got home. "Nonsense," said Marilla. "It isn't nonsense at all," said Anne, gazing at Marilla with solemn, reproachful eyes. "Don't you understand, Marilla? I've been insulted." "Insulted fiddlesticks! You'll go to school tomorrow as usual." "Oh, no." Anne shook her head gently. "I'm not going back, Marilla. I'll learn my lessons at home and I'll be as good as I can be and hold my tongue all the time if it's possible at all. But I will not go back to school, I assure you." Marilla saw something remarkably like unyielding stubbornness looking out of Anne's small face. She understood that she would have trouble in overcoming it; but she re-solved wisely to say nothing more just then. "I'll run down and see Rachel about it this evening," she thought. "There's no use reasoning with Anne now. She's too worked up and I've an idea she can be awful stubborn if she takes the notion. Far | find all the scholars in their seats when he returned. Anyone who came in late would be punished. All the boys and some of the girls went to Mr. Bell's spruce grove as usual, fully intending to stay only long enough to "pick a chew." But spruce groves are seductive and yellow nuts of gum beguiling; they picked and loitered and strayed; and as usual the first thing that recalled them to a sense of the flight of time was Jimmy Glover shouting from the top of a patriarchal old spruce "Master's coming." The girls who were on the ground, started first and managed to reach the schoolhouse in time but without a second to spare. The boys, who had to wriggle hastily down from the trees, were later; and Anne, who had not been picking gum at all but was wandering happily in the far end of the grove, waist deep among the bracken, singing softly to herself, with a wreath of rice lilies on her hair as if she were some wild divinity of the shadowy places, was latest of all. Anne could run like a deer, however; run she did with the impish result that she overtook the boys at the door and was swept into the schoolhouse among them just as Mr. Phillips was in the act of hanging up his hat. Mr. Phillips's brief reforming energy was over; he didn't want the bother of punishing a dozen pupils; but it was necessary to do something to save his word, so he looked about for a scapegoat and found it in Anne, who had dropped into her seat, gasping for breath, with a forgotten lily wreath hanging askew over one ear and giving her a particularly rakish and disheveled appearance. "Anne Shirley, since you seem to be so fond of the boys' company we shall indulge your taste for it this afternoon," he said sarcastically. "Take those flowers out of your hair and sit with Gilbert Blythe." The other boys snickered. Diana, turning pale with pity, plucked the wreath from Anne's hair and squeezed her hand. Anne stared at the master as if turned to stone. "Did you hear what I said, Anne?" queried Mr. Phillips sternly. "Yes, sir," said Anne slowly "but I didn't suppose you really meant it." "I assure you I did" "--still with the sarcastic inflection which all the children, and Anne especially, hated. It flicked on the raw. "Obey me at once." For a moment Anne looked as if she meant to disobey. Then, realizing that there was no help for it, she rose haughtily, stepped across the aisle, sat down beside Gilbert Blythe, and buried her face in her arms on the desk. Ruby Gillis, who got a glimpse of it as it went down, told the others going home from school that she'd "acksually never seen anything like it--it was so white, with awful little red spots in it." To Anne, this was as the end of all things. It was bad enough to be singled out for punishment from among a dozen equally guilty ones; it was worse still to be sent to sit with a boy, but that that boy should be Gilbert Blythe was heaping insult on injury to a degree utterly unbearable. Anne felt that she could not bear it and it would be of no use to try. Her whole being seethed with shame and anger and humiliation. At first the other scholars looked and whispered and giggled and nudged. But as Anne never lifted her head and as Gilbert worked fractions as if his whole soul was absorbed in them and them only, they soon returned to their own tasks and Anne was forgotten. When Mr. Phillips called the history class out Anne should have gone, but Anne did not move, and Mr. Phillips, who had been writing some verses "To Priscilla" before he called the class, was thinking about an obstinate rhyme still and never missed her. Once, when nobody was looking, Gilbert took from his desk a little pink candy heart with a gold motto on it, "You are sweet," and slipped it under the curve of Anne's arm. Whereupon Anne arose, took the pink heart gingerly between the tips of her fingers, dropped it on the floor, ground it to powder beneath her heel, and resumed her position without deigning to bestow a glance on Gilbert. When school went out Anne marched to her desk, ostentatiously took out everything therein, books and writing tablet, pen and ink, testament and arithmetic, and piled them neatly on her cracked slate. "What are you taking all those things home for, Anne?" Diana wanted to know, as soon as they were out on the road. She had not dared to ask the question before.<|quote|>"I am not coming back to school any more,"</|quote|>said Anne. Diana gasped and stared at Anne to see if she meant it. "Will Marilla let you stay home?" she asked. "She'll have to," said Anne. "I'll _never_ go to school to that man again." "Oh, Anne!" Diana looked as if she were ready to cry. "I do think you're mean. What shall I do? Mr. Phillips will make me sit with that horrid Gertie Pye--I know he will because she is sitting alone. Do come back, Anne." "I'd do almost anything in the world for you, Diana," said Anne sadly. "I'd let myself be torn limb from limb if it would do you any good. But I can't do this, so please don't ask it. You harrow up my very soul." "Just think of all the fun you will miss," mourned Diana. "We are going to build the loveliest new house down by the brook; and we'll be playing ball next week and you've never played ball, Anne. It's tremendously exciting. And we're going to learn a new song--Jane Andrews is practicing it up now; and Alice Andrews is going to bring a new Pansy book next week and we're all going to read it out loud, chapter about, down by the brook. And you know you are so fond of reading out loud, Anne." Nothing moved Anne in the least. Her mind was made up. She would not go to school to Mr. Phillips again; she told Marilla so when she got home. "Nonsense," said Marilla. "It isn't nonsense at all," said Anne, gazing at Marilla with solemn, reproachful eyes. "Don't you understand, Marilla? I've been insulted." "Insulted fiddlesticks! You'll go to school tomorrow as usual." "Oh, no." Anne shook her head gently. "I'm not going back, Marilla. I'll learn my lessons at home and I'll be as good as I can be and hold my tongue all the time if it's possible at all. But I will not go back to school, I assure you." Marilla saw something remarkably like unyielding stubbornness looking out of Anne's small face. She understood that she would have trouble in overcoming it; but she re-solved wisely to say nothing more just then. "I'll run down and see Rachel about it this evening," she thought. "There's no use reasoning with Anne now. She's too worked up and I've an idea she can be awful stubborn if she takes the notion. Far as I can make out from her story, Mr. Phillips has been carrying matters with a rather high hand. But it would never do to say so to her. I'll just talk it over with Rachel. She's sent ten children to school and she ought to know something about it. She'll have heard the whole story, too, by this time." Marilla found Mrs. Lynde knitting quilts as industriously and cheerfully as usual. "I suppose you know what I've come about," she said, a little shamefacedly. Mrs. Rachel nodded. "About Anne's fuss in school, I reckon," she said. "Tillie Boulter was in on her way home from school and told me about it." "I don't know what to do with her," said Marilla. "She declares she won't go back to school. I never saw a child so worked up. I've been expecting trouble ever since she started to school. I knew things were going too smooth to last. She's so high strung. What would you advise, Rachel?" "Well, since you've asked my advice, Marilla," said Mrs. Lynde amiably--Mrs. Lynde dearly loved to be asked for advice--" "I'd just humor her a little at first, that's what I'd do. It's my belief that Mr. Phillips was in the wrong. Of course, it doesn't do to say so to the children, you know. And of course he did right to punish her yesterday for giving way to temper. But today it was different. The others who were late should have been punished as well as Anne, that's what. And I don't believe in making the girls sit with the boys for punishment. It isn't modest. Tillie Boulter was real indignant. She took Anne's part right through and said all the scholars did too. Anne seems real popular among them, somehow. I never thought she'd take with them so well." "Then you really think I'd better let her stay home," said Marilla in amazement. "Yes. That is I wouldn't say school to her again until she said it herself. Depend upon it, Marilla, she'll cool off in a week or so and be ready enough to go back of her own accord, that's what, while, if you were to make her go back right off, dear knows what freak or tantrum she'd take next and make more trouble than ever. The less fuss made the better, in my opinion. She won't miss much by | he said sarcastically. "Take those flowers out of your hair and sit with Gilbert Blythe." The other boys snickered. Diana, turning pale with pity, plucked the wreath from Anne's hair and squeezed her hand. Anne stared at the master as if turned to stone. "Did you hear what I said, Anne?" queried Mr. Phillips sternly. "Yes, sir," said Anne slowly "but I didn't suppose you really meant it." "I assure you I did" "--still with the sarcastic inflection which all the children, and Anne especially, hated. It flicked on the raw. "Obey me at once." For a moment Anne looked as if she meant to disobey. Then, realizing that there was no help for it, she rose haughtily, stepped across the aisle, sat down beside Gilbert Blythe, and buried her face in her arms on the desk. Ruby Gillis, who got a glimpse of it as it went down, told the others going home from school that she'd "acksually never seen anything like it--it was so white, with awful little red spots in it." To Anne, this was as the end of all things. It was bad enough to be singled out for punishment from among a dozen equally guilty ones; it was worse still to be sent to sit with a boy, but that that boy should be Gilbert Blythe was heaping insult on injury to a degree utterly unbearable. Anne felt that she could not bear it and it would be of no use to try. Her whole being seethed with shame and anger and humiliation. At first the other scholars looked and whispered and giggled and nudged. But as Anne never lifted her head and as Gilbert worked fractions as if his whole soul was absorbed in them and them only, they soon returned to their own tasks and Anne was forgotten. When Mr. Phillips called the history class out Anne should have gone, but Anne did not move, and Mr. Phillips, who had been writing some verses "To Priscilla" before he called the class, was thinking about an obstinate rhyme still and never missed her. Once, when nobody was looking, Gilbert took from his desk a little pink candy heart with a gold motto on it, "You are sweet," and slipped it under the curve of Anne's arm. Whereupon Anne arose, took the pink heart gingerly between the tips of her fingers, dropped it on the floor, ground it to powder beneath her heel, and resumed her position without deigning to bestow a glance on Gilbert. When school went out Anne marched to her desk, ostentatiously took out everything therein, books and writing tablet, pen and ink, testament and arithmetic, and piled them neatly on her cracked slate. "What are you taking all those things home for, Anne?" Diana wanted to know, as soon as they were out on the road. She had not dared to ask the question before.<|quote|>"I am not coming back to school any more,"</|quote|>said Anne. Diana gasped and stared at Anne to see if she meant it. "Will Marilla let you stay home?" she asked. "She'll have to," said Anne. "I'll _never_ go to school to that man again." "Oh, Anne!" Diana looked as if she were ready to cry. "I do think you're mean. What shall I do? Mr. Phillips will make me sit with that horrid Gertie Pye--I know he will because she is sitting alone. Do come back, Anne." "I'd do almost anything in the world for you, Diana," said Anne sadly. "I'd let myself be torn limb from limb if it would do you any good. But I can't do this, so please don't ask it. You harrow up my very soul." "Just think of all the fun you will miss," mourned Diana. "We are going to build the loveliest new house down by the brook; and we'll be playing ball next week and you've never played ball, Anne. It's tremendously exciting. And we're going to learn a new song--Jane Andrews is practicing it up now; and Alice Andrews is going to bring a new Pansy book next week and we're all going to read it out loud, chapter about, down by the brook. And you know you are so fond of reading out loud, Anne." Nothing moved Anne in the least. Her mind was made up. She would not go to school to Mr. Phillips again; she told Marilla so when she got home. "Nonsense," said Marilla. "It isn't nonsense at all," said Anne, gazing at Marilla with solemn, reproachful eyes. "Don't you understand, Marilla? I've been insulted." "Insulted fiddlesticks! You'll go to school tomorrow as usual." "Oh, no." Anne shook her head gently. "I'm not going back, Marilla. I'll learn my lessons at home and I'll be as good as I can be and hold my tongue all the time if it's possible at all. But I will not go back to school, I assure you." Marilla saw something remarkably like unyielding stubbornness looking out of Anne's small face. She understood that she would have trouble in overcoming it; but she re-solved wisely to say nothing more just then. "I'll run down and see Rachel about it this evening," she thought. "There's no use reasoning with Anne now. She's too worked up and I've an idea she can be awful stubborn if she takes the notion. Far as I can make out from her story, Mr. Phillips has been carrying matters with a rather high hand. But it would never do to say so to her. I'll just talk it over with Rachel. She's sent ten children to school and she ought to know something about it. She'll have heard the whole story, too, by this time." Marilla found Mrs. Lynde knitting quilts as industriously and cheerfully as usual. "I suppose you know what I've come about," she said, a little shamefacedly. Mrs. Rachel nodded. "About Anne's fuss in school, I reckon," she said. "Tillie Boulter was in on her way home from school and told me about it." "I don't know what to do with her," said Marilla. "She declares | Anne Of Green Gables |
said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief. | No speaker | place full of foul air?"<|quote|>said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief.</|quote|>"Absurd! If Ramsden could not | had better search." "What! A place full of foul air?"<|quote|>said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief.</|quote|>"Absurd! If Ramsden could not live in there, how could | you are able. If you can't, we must carry you." "But them chaps," said one of the party, just as Don and Jem were beginning to breathe freely. "Think they're in yonder, mate?" "I--I think so," said Ramsden faintly. "You had better search." "What! A place full of foul air?"<|quote|>said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief.</|quote|>"Absurd! If Ramsden could not live in there, how could the escaped men? Here, let's get him down." "Ay, ay, sir. But I say, mate, where's your fighting tools? What yer done with them?" Don made an angry gesticulation, and turned to Jem, who had the pistols and cutlass in | down insensible." Jem gripped Don's arm with painful force here. "How do you feel? Can you walk?" Ramsden rose slowly, and staggered, but one of the men caught his arm. "I--I think I can." "Well, we must get you down to the boat as soon as we can walk, if you are able. If you can't, we must carry you." "But them chaps," said one of the party, just as Don and Jem were beginning to breathe freely. "Think they're in yonder, mate?" "I--I think so," said Ramsden faintly. "You had better search." "What! A place full of foul air?"<|quote|>said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief.</|quote|>"Absurd! If Ramsden could not live in there, how could the escaped men? Here, let's get him down." "Ay, ay, sir. But I say, mate, where's your fighting tools? What yer done with them?" Don made an angry gesticulation, and turned to Jem, who had the pistols and cutlass in his hand and waistbelt, and felt as if he should like to hurl them away. "He must have dropped them inside. Here, one of you come with me and get them." Don shrank back into the stony passage as a man volunteered, but the boatswain hesitated. "No," he said, to | that those two were in this place, and I went on farther into the darkness till I kicked against something and fell down." "Out here and stunned yourself." "No, no; in there! I'd got up and picked up my cutlash, and then something seemed to choke me, and I went down again." Jem squeezed Don's arm, for they both felt more hopeful. "And then one of they chaps came and give you a crack on the head?" said a sailor. Don's heart sank again. "Nonsense!" said his old friend, the boatswain. "Foul air. He must have staggered out and fallen down insensible." Jem gripped Don's arm with painful force here. "How do you feel? Can you walk?" Ramsden rose slowly, and staggered, but one of the men caught his arm. "I--I think I can." "Well, we must get you down to the boat as soon as we can walk, if you are able. If you can't, we must carry you." "But them chaps," said one of the party, just as Don and Jem were beginning to breathe freely. "Think they're in yonder, mate?" "I--I think so," said Ramsden faintly. "You had better search." "What! A place full of foul air?"<|quote|>said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief.</|quote|>"Absurd! If Ramsden could not live in there, how could the escaped men? Here, let's get him down." "Ay, ay, sir. But I say, mate, where's your fighting tools? What yer done with them?" Don made an angry gesticulation, and turned to Jem, who had the pistols and cutlass in his hand and waistbelt, and felt as if he should like to hurl them away. "He must have dropped them inside. Here, one of you come with me and get them." Don shrank back into the stony passage as a man volunteered, but the boatswain hesitated. "No," he said, to Don's great relief; "I can't afford to run risks for the sake of a pair of pistols." "Let me go in," said the man. "I'm not going to send men where I'm afraid to go myself," said the boatswain bluntly. "Come on down." The boatswain led the way, and Ramsden was helped down, the man who had volunteered to go in the cavern to fetch the pistols manoeuvring so as to be last, and as soon as the party had disappeared over the shelf he gave a glance after them, and turned sharply. "Foul air won't hurt me," he said; | were quite familiar, climbed up to the shelf, when the boatswain explained hastily how he had left his companion. "Some one knocked him down?" said one of his men. "No; he's not hurt. I should say it's a fit. More water. Don't be afraid!" Each of the men who had climbed up carried a supply, and a quantity was dashed over Ramsden's face with the effect that he began to display signs of returning consciousness, and at last sat up and stared. "What's matter, mate?" said one of the men, as Don prepared to hurry back into the darkness, but longed to hear what Ramsden would say. It was a painful moment, for upon his words seemed to depend their safety. "Matter? I don't know--I--" He put his hand to his head. "Here, take a drink o' this, mate," said one of the men, and Ramsden swallowed some water with avidity. "Arn't seen a ghost, have you?" "I recollect now, Mr Jones. You left me in that hole." "And called to you to come out." "Yes, but--" Don's heart beat furiously. They were discovered, and now the betrayal was to come. "Well, what happened?" said the boatswain. "I felt sure that those two were in this place, and I went on farther into the darkness till I kicked against something and fell down." "Out here and stunned yourself." "No, no; in there! I'd got up and picked up my cutlash, and then something seemed to choke me, and I went down again." Jem squeezed Don's arm, for they both felt more hopeful. "And then one of they chaps came and give you a crack on the head?" said a sailor. Don's heart sank again. "Nonsense!" said his old friend, the boatswain. "Foul air. He must have staggered out and fallen down insensible." Jem gripped Don's arm with painful force here. "How do you feel? Can you walk?" Ramsden rose slowly, and staggered, but one of the men caught his arm. "I--I think I can." "Well, we must get you down to the boat as soon as we can walk, if you are able. If you can't, we must carry you." "But them chaps," said one of the party, just as Don and Jem were beginning to breathe freely. "Think they're in yonder, mate?" "I--I think so," said Ramsden faintly. "You had better search." "What! A place full of foul air?"<|quote|>said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief.</|quote|>"Absurd! If Ramsden could not live in there, how could the escaped men? Here, let's get him down." "Ay, ay, sir. But I say, mate, where's your fighting tools? What yer done with them?" Don made an angry gesticulation, and turned to Jem, who had the pistols and cutlass in his hand and waistbelt, and felt as if he should like to hurl them away. "He must have dropped them inside. Here, one of you come with me and get them." Don shrank back into the stony passage as a man volunteered, but the boatswain hesitated. "No," he said, to Don's great relief; "I can't afford to run risks for the sake of a pair of pistols." "Let me go in," said the man. "I'm not going to send men where I'm afraid to go myself," said the boatswain bluntly. "Come on down." The boatswain led the way, and Ramsden was helped down, the man who had volunteered to go in the cavern to fetch the pistols manoeuvring so as to be last, and as soon as the party had disappeared over the shelf he gave a glance after them, and turned sharply. "Foul air won't hurt me," he said; and he dived right in rapidly to regain the pistols and cutlass, so as to have the laugh of his messmates when they returned on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over," thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike. All at once the man stopped short. "He sees us," said Don, mentally. But he was wrong, for the sailor thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, which ran echoing through the place in a curiously hollow way. "That's a rum un," he said, with a laugh. "Blow some o' the foul air out. Wonder how far he went in?" He walked on slowly, and then stopped short as if he saw the hiding pair; but there was no gesture made, and of course his face was invisible to the fugitives, to whom he seemed to be nothing but a black | whispered Don. "Perhaps they have not seen us." He gave Jem a thrust, they backed in a few yards, and then stood watching and listening. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I arn't," muttered Jem. "You might cut him up like a heel; legs and arms and body, and every bit of him would try and do you a mischief." "I'm afraid, though, that he knew we were in here, and that as soon as he comes to, he'll tell the others." "Not he. It was only his gammon to frighten us into speaking if we were there." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came again from below; and then from a distance came another hail, which the same voice answered--evidently from some distance below the mouth of the cave. "Ramsden! Here, my man; come along, they're not in there." "Hear that, Jem? Mr Jones." "Oh yes, I hear," growled Jem. "He don't know yet; but wait a bit till old Ram tells him." "We couldn't slip out yet, Jem?" "No; o' course not. They'd see us now. Look!" Jem was about to draw back, but feeling that a movement might betray them, Don held him fast, and they stood there in the shadow of the cave, looking on, for the boatswain's head appeared as he drew himself up the precipitous place, and then stepped on the shelf. "Here, come out, sir! Are you asleep? Hah!" He caught sight of the prostrate sailor, and bent down over him. "Why, Ramsden, man!" he cried, as he tore open his sailor's shirt and placed his hand upon his throat. Then, starting up, he sent forth a tremendous hail. "Ahoy!" "Ahoy!" came back from several places, like the echoes of his call. "Come on here! Quick!" he shouted, with his hands to his mouth. "Ahoy!" came from a distance; and from nearer at hand, "Ay, ay, sir; ay, ay!" From where Don and Jem stood they could see the boatswain's every movement, as, after once more feeling the sailor's throat and wrist, he bent over him and poured water from his bottle between his lips, bathed his forehead and eyes, and then fanned him with his hat, but without effect. Then he looked out anxiously and hailed again, the replies coming from close by; and soon after first one and then another sailor, whose faces were quite familiar, climbed up to the shelf, when the boatswain explained hastily how he had left his companion. "Some one knocked him down?" said one of his men. "No; he's not hurt. I should say it's a fit. More water. Don't be afraid!" Each of the men who had climbed up carried a supply, and a quantity was dashed over Ramsden's face with the effect that he began to display signs of returning consciousness, and at last sat up and stared. "What's matter, mate?" said one of the men, as Don prepared to hurry back into the darkness, but longed to hear what Ramsden would say. It was a painful moment, for upon his words seemed to depend their safety. "Matter? I don't know--I--" He put his hand to his head. "Here, take a drink o' this, mate," said one of the men, and Ramsden swallowed some water with avidity. "Arn't seen a ghost, have you?" "I recollect now, Mr Jones. You left me in that hole." "And called to you to come out." "Yes, but--" Don's heart beat furiously. They were discovered, and now the betrayal was to come. "Well, what happened?" said the boatswain. "I felt sure that those two were in this place, and I went on farther into the darkness till I kicked against something and fell down." "Out here and stunned yourself." "No, no; in there! I'd got up and picked up my cutlash, and then something seemed to choke me, and I went down again." Jem squeezed Don's arm, for they both felt more hopeful. "And then one of they chaps came and give you a crack on the head?" said a sailor. Don's heart sank again. "Nonsense!" said his old friend, the boatswain. "Foul air. He must have staggered out and fallen down insensible." Jem gripped Don's arm with painful force here. "How do you feel? Can you walk?" Ramsden rose slowly, and staggered, but one of the men caught his arm. "I--I think I can." "Well, we must get you down to the boat as soon as we can walk, if you are able. If you can't, we must carry you." "But them chaps," said one of the party, just as Don and Jem were beginning to breathe freely. "Think they're in yonder, mate?" "I--I think so," said Ramsden faintly. "You had better search." "What! A place full of foul air?"<|quote|>said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief.</|quote|>"Absurd! If Ramsden could not live in there, how could the escaped men? Here, let's get him down." "Ay, ay, sir. But I say, mate, where's your fighting tools? What yer done with them?" Don made an angry gesticulation, and turned to Jem, who had the pistols and cutlass in his hand and waistbelt, and felt as if he should like to hurl them away. "He must have dropped them inside. Here, one of you come with me and get them." Don shrank back into the stony passage as a man volunteered, but the boatswain hesitated. "No," he said, to Don's great relief; "I can't afford to run risks for the sake of a pair of pistols." "Let me go in," said the man. "I'm not going to send men where I'm afraid to go myself," said the boatswain bluntly. "Come on down." The boatswain led the way, and Ramsden was helped down, the man who had volunteered to go in the cavern to fetch the pistols manoeuvring so as to be last, and as soon as the party had disappeared over the shelf he gave a glance after them, and turned sharply. "Foul air won't hurt me," he said; and he dived right in rapidly to regain the pistols and cutlass, so as to have the laugh of his messmates when they returned on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over," thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike. All at once the man stopped short. "He sees us," said Don, mentally. But he was wrong, for the sailor thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, which ran echoing through the place in a curiously hollow way. "That's a rum un," he said, with a laugh. "Blow some o' the foul air out. Wonder how far he went in?" He walked on slowly, and then stopped short as if he saw the hiding pair; but there was no gesture made, and of course his face was invisible to the fugitives, to whom he seemed to be nothing but a black figure. "Plaguey dark!" ejaculated the man aloud. _Hiss-s-s-s_! A tremendously loud sibillation came out of the darkness--such a noise as a mythical dragon might have made when a stranger had invaded his home. The effect was instantaneous. The young sailor spun round and darted back to the mouth of the cave, where he half lowered himself down over the shelf facing toward the entry, and supporting himself with one hand, shook his fist. "You wait till I come back with a lanthorn!" he cried. "I'll just show you. Don't you think I'm scared." _Whos-s-s-s-s_ came that hissing again, in a loud deep tone this time, and the sailor's head disappeared, for he dropped down and hastily descended after his messmates, flushed and excited, but trying hard to look perfectly unconcerned, and thoroughly determined to keep his own counsel as to what he had heard, from a perfect faith in the effect of the disclosure--to wit, that his companions would laugh at him. Inside the cave Jem was leaning up against the wall, making strange noises and lifting up first one foot and then the other. He seemed to be suffering agonies, for he puffed and gasped. "Jem, be quiet!" whispered Don, shaking him sharply. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" groaned Jem, lifting up his bare feet alternately, and setting them down again with a loud pat on the rock. "Be quiet! They may hear you." "Hit me then! Give it me. Ho, ho, ho!" "Jem, we are safe now, and you'll undo it all if you're not quiet." "Knock me then, Mas' Don. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Hi: me; a good un, dear lad. Ho, ho, ho, ho!" "Oh, do be quiet! How can you be such an ass?" "I dunno! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Did you see him run, Mas' Don? I--oh dear, I can't help it. Do knock me down and sit on me, dear lad--I never--oh dear me!" Jem laughed till Don grew angry, and then the sturdy little fellow stopped short and stood wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. "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 | ay, ay!" From where Don and Jem stood they could see the boatswain's every movement, as, after once more feeling the sailor's throat and wrist, he bent over him and poured water from his bottle between his lips, bathed his forehead and eyes, and then fanned him with his hat, but without effect. Then he looked out anxiously and hailed again, the replies coming from close by; and soon after first one and then another sailor, whose faces were quite familiar, climbed up to the shelf, when the boatswain explained hastily how he had left his companion. "Some one knocked him down?" said one of his men. "No; he's not hurt. I should say it's a fit. More water. Don't be afraid!" Each of the men who had climbed up carried a supply, and a quantity was dashed over Ramsden's face with the effect that he began to display signs of returning consciousness, and at last sat up and stared. "What's matter, mate?" said one of the men, as Don prepared to hurry back into the darkness, but longed to hear what Ramsden would say. It was a painful moment, for upon his words seemed to depend their safety. "Matter? I don't know--I--" He put his hand to his head. "Here, take a drink o' this, mate," said one of the men, and Ramsden swallowed some water with avidity. "Arn't seen a ghost, have you?" "I recollect now, Mr Jones. You left me in that hole." "And called to you to come out." "Yes, but--" Don's heart beat furiously. They were discovered, and now the betrayal was to come. "Well, what happened?" said the boatswain. "I felt sure that those two were in this place, and I went on farther into the darkness till I kicked against something and fell down." "Out here and stunned yourself." "No, no; in there! I'd got up and picked up my cutlash, and then something seemed to choke me, and I went down again." Jem squeezed Don's arm, for they both felt more hopeful. "And then one of they chaps came and give you a crack on the head?" said a sailor. Don's heart sank again. "Nonsense!" said his old friend, the boatswain. "Foul air. He must have staggered out and fallen down insensible." Jem gripped Don's arm with painful force here. "How do you feel? Can you walk?" Ramsden rose slowly, and staggered, but one of the men caught his arm. "I--I think I can." "Well, we must get you down to the boat as soon as we can walk, if you are able. If you can't, we must carry you." "But them chaps," said one of the party, just as Don and Jem were beginning to breathe freely. "Think they're in yonder, mate?" "I--I think so," said Ramsden faintly. "You had better search." "What! A place full of foul air?"<|quote|>said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief.</|quote|>"Absurd! If Ramsden could not live in there, how could the escaped men? Here, let's get him down." "Ay, ay, sir. But I say, mate, where's your fighting tools? What yer done with them?" Don made an angry gesticulation, and turned to Jem, who had the pistols and cutlass in his hand and waistbelt, and felt as if he should like to hurl them away. "He must have dropped them inside. Here, one of you come with me and get them." Don shrank back into the stony passage as a man volunteered, but the boatswain hesitated. "No," he said, to Don's great relief; "I can't afford to run risks for the sake of a pair of pistols." "Let me go in," said the man. "I'm not going to send men where I'm afraid to go myself," said the boatswain bluntly. "Come on down." The boatswain led the way, and Ramsden was helped down, the man who had volunteered to go in the cavern to fetch the pistols manoeuvring so as to be last, and as soon as the party had disappeared over the shelf he gave a glance after them, and turned sharply. "Foul air won't hurt me," he said; and he dived right in rapidly to regain the pistols and cutlass, so as to have the laugh of his messmates when they returned on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over," thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike. | Don Lavington |
“If you offered it, you mean, on your condition--my promising not to sell? I promised,” | Theign | make for you the appearance--?”<|quote|>“If you offered it, you mean, on your condition--my promising not to sell? I promised,”</|quote|>said Lord Theign, “absolutely nothing | to see him, does that make for you the appearance--?”<|quote|>“If you offered it, you mean, on your condition--my promising not to sell? I promised,”</|quote|>said Lord Theign, “absolutely nothing at all!” She took him | the truth be before you, father, if you’ll _think_ a moment--without extravagance?” After which, while, as stiffly as ever--and it probably seemed to her impatience as stupidly--he didn’t rise to it, she went on: “If I _offered_ you not again to see him, does that make for you the appearance--?”<|quote|>“If you offered it, you mean, on your condition--my promising not to sell? I promised,”</|quote|>said Lord Theign, “absolutely nothing at all!” She took him up with all expression. “So I promised as little! But that I should have been able to say what I did sufficiently meets your curiosity.” She might, wronged as she held herself, have felt him stupid not to see _how_ | him!” “You mean that if he _should_ be--what you ask me about--your exaction would then be modified?” “My request that you break it short off? That request would, on the contrary,” Lord Theign pronounced, “rest on an immense new ground. Therefore I insist on your telling me the truth.” “Won’t the truth be before you, father, if you’ll _think_ a moment--without extravagance?” After which, while, as stiffly as ever--and it probably seemed to her impatience as stupidly--he didn’t rise to it, she went on: “If I _offered_ you not again to see him, does that make for you the appearance--?”<|quote|>“If you offered it, you mean, on your condition--my promising not to sell? I promised,”</|quote|>said Lord Theign, “absolutely nothing at all!” She took him up with all expression. “So I promised as little! But that I should have been able to say what I did sufficiently meets your curiosity.” She might, wronged as she held herself, have felt him stupid not to see _how_ wronged; but he was in any case acute for an evasion. “You risked your offer for the great equivalent over which you’ve so wildly worked yourself up.” “Yes, I’ve worked myself--that, I grant you and don’t blush for! But hardly so much as to renounce my ‘lover’--if,” she prodigiously smiled, | wait of the two others, Lord Theign where he had been standing and his daughter on the spot from which she had not moved. It presently ended in his lordship’s turn about as if inferring by the silence that the intruder had withdrawn. “Is that young man your lover?” he said as he drew again near. Lady Grace waited a little, but spoke as quietly as if she had been prepared. “Has the question a bearing on the promise you a short time ago demanded of me?” “It has a bearing on the so extraordinary appearance of your intimacy with him!” “You mean that if he _should_ be--what you ask me about--your exaction would then be modified?” “My request that you break it short off? That request would, on the contrary,” Lord Theign pronounced, “rest on an immense new ground. Therefore I insist on your telling me the truth.” “Won’t the truth be before you, father, if you’ll _think_ a moment--without extravagance?” After which, while, as stiffly as ever--and it probably seemed to her impatience as stupidly--he didn’t rise to it, she went on: “If I _offered_ you not again to see him, does that make for you the appearance--?”<|quote|>“If you offered it, you mean, on your condition--my promising not to sell? I promised,”</|quote|>said Lord Theign, “absolutely nothing at all!” She took him up with all expression. “So I promised as little! But that I should have been able to say what I did sufficiently meets your curiosity.” She might, wronged as she held herself, have felt him stupid not to see _how_ wronged; but he was in any case acute for an evasion. “You risked your offer for the great equivalent over which you’ve so wildly worked yourself up.” “Yes, I’ve worked myself--that, I grant you and don’t blush for! But hardly so much as to renounce my ‘lover’--if,” she prodigiously smiled, “I were so fortunate as to have one!” “You renounced poor John mightily easily--whom you were so fortunate as to have!” Her brows rose as high as his own had ever done. “Do you call Lord John my lover?” “He was your suitor most assuredly,” Lord Theign inimitably said, though without looking at her; “and as strikingly encouraged as he was respectfully ardent!” “Encouraged by _you_, dear father, beyond doubt!” “Encouraged--er--by every one: because you were (yes, you _were!_) encouraging. And what I ask of you now is a word of common candour as to whether you didn’t, on your | his companions; who, deeply divided by the width of the ample room, followed him with their eyes and then used for their own interchange these organs of remark, eloquent now over Hugh’s unmistakable dismissal at short order, on which obviously he must at once act. Lady Grace’s young arms conveyed to him by a despairing contrite motion of surrender that she had done for him all she could do in his presence and that, however sharply doubtful the result, he was to leave the rest to herself. They communicated thus, the strenuous pair, for their full moment, without speaking; only with the prolonged, the charged give and take of their gaze and, it might well have been imagined, of their passion. Hugh had for an instant a show of hesitation--of the arrested impulse, while he kept her father within range, to launch at that personage before going some final remonstrance. It was the girl’s raised hand and gesture of warning that waved away for him such a mistake; he decided, under her pressure, and after a last searching and answering look at her reached the door and let himself out. The stillness was then prolonged a minute by the further wait of the two others, Lord Theign where he had been standing and his daughter on the spot from which she had not moved. It presently ended in his lordship’s turn about as if inferring by the silence that the intruder had withdrawn. “Is that young man your lover?” he said as he drew again near. Lady Grace waited a little, but spoke as quietly as if she had been prepared. “Has the question a bearing on the promise you a short time ago demanded of me?” “It has a bearing on the so extraordinary appearance of your intimacy with him!” “You mean that if he _should_ be--what you ask me about--your exaction would then be modified?” “My request that you break it short off? That request would, on the contrary,” Lord Theign pronounced, “rest on an immense new ground. Therefore I insist on your telling me the truth.” “Won’t the truth be before you, father, if you’ll _think_ a moment--without extravagance?” After which, while, as stiffly as ever--and it probably seemed to her impatience as stupidly--he didn’t rise to it, she went on: “If I _offered_ you not again to see him, does that make for you the appearance--?”<|quote|>“If you offered it, you mean, on your condition--my promising not to sell? I promised,”</|quote|>said Lord Theign, “absolutely nothing at all!” She took him up with all expression. “So I promised as little! But that I should have been able to say what I did sufficiently meets your curiosity.” She might, wronged as she held herself, have felt him stupid not to see _how_ wronged; but he was in any case acute for an evasion. “You risked your offer for the great equivalent over which you’ve so wildly worked yourself up.” “Yes, I’ve worked myself--that, I grant you and don’t blush for! But hardly so much as to renounce my ‘lover’--if,” she prodigiously smiled, “I were so fortunate as to have one!” “You renounced poor John mightily easily--whom you were so fortunate as to have!” Her brows rose as high as his own had ever done. “Do you call Lord John my lover?” “He was your suitor most assuredly,” Lord Theign inimitably said, though without looking at her; “and as strikingly encouraged as he was respectfully ardent!” “Encouraged by _you_, dear father, beyond doubt!” “Encouraged--er--by every one: because you were (yes, you _were!_) encouraging. And what I ask of you now is a word of common candour as to whether you didn’t, on your honour, turn him off because of your just then so stimulated views on the person who has been with us.” Grace replied but after an instant, as moved by more things than she could say--moved above all, in her trouble and her pity for him, by other things than harshness: “Oh father, father, father----!” He searched her through all the compassion of her cry, but appeared to give way to her sincerity. “Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.” “But you said a moment ago that I should all the more in the other case--that of there _being_ something!” He brushed away her logic-chopping. “If you’re so keen then for past remarks I take up your own words--I accept your own terms for your putting an end to Mr. Crimble.” To which, while, turning pale, she said nothing, he added: “You recognise that you profess yourself ready----” “Not again to see him,” she now answered, “if you tell me the picture’s safe? Yes, I recognise that I _was_ ready--as | ‘hit’ over a case we’ll do almost anything in life.” Lady Grace, recklessly throbbing in the breath of it all, immediately appropriated what her father let alone. “It must be so lovely to _feel_ so hit!” “It does spoil one,” Hugh laughed, “for milder joys. Of course what I have to consider is the chance--putting it at the _merest_ chance--of Bardi’s own wet blanket! But that’s again so very small--though,” he pulled up with a drop to the comparative dismal, which he offered as an almost familiar tribute to Lord Theign, “you’ll retort upon me naturally that I promised you the possibility of Pappendick’s veto would be: all on the poor dear old basis, you’ll claim, of the wish father to the thought. Well, I do wish to be right as much as I believe I am. Only give me time!” he sublimely insisted. “How can we prevent your using it?” Lady Grace again interrupted; “or the fact either that if the worst comes to the worst--” “The thing” --he at once pursued-- “will always be at the least the greatest of Morettos? Ah,” he cried so cheerily that there was still a freedom in it toward any it might concern, “the worst sha’n’t come to the worst, but the best to the best: my conviction of which it is that supports me in the deep regret I have to express” --and he faced Lord Theign again-- “for any inconvenience I may have caused you by my abortive undertaking. That, I vow here before Lady Grace, I will yet more than make up!” Lord Theign, after the longest but the blankest contemplation of him, broke hereupon, for the first time, that attitude of completely sustained and separate silence which he had yet made compatible with his air of having deeply noted every element of the scene--so that it was of this full view his participation had effectively consisted, “I haven’t the least idea, sir, what you’re talking about!” And he squarely turned his back, strolling toward the other room, the threshold of which he the next moment had passed, remaining scantily within, however, and in sight of the others, not to say of ourselves; even though averted and ostensibly lost in some scrutiny that might have had for its object the great enshrined Lawrence. There ensued upon his words and movement a vivid mute passage, the richest of commentaries, between his companions; who, deeply divided by the width of the ample room, followed him with their eyes and then used for their own interchange these organs of remark, eloquent now over Hugh’s unmistakable dismissal at short order, on which obviously he must at once act. Lady Grace’s young arms conveyed to him by a despairing contrite motion of surrender that she had done for him all she could do in his presence and that, however sharply doubtful the result, he was to leave the rest to herself. They communicated thus, the strenuous pair, for their full moment, without speaking; only with the prolonged, the charged give and take of their gaze and, it might well have been imagined, of their passion. Hugh had for an instant a show of hesitation--of the arrested impulse, while he kept her father within range, to launch at that personage before going some final remonstrance. It was the girl’s raised hand and gesture of warning that waved away for him such a mistake; he decided, under her pressure, and after a last searching and answering look at her reached the door and let himself out. The stillness was then prolonged a minute by the further wait of the two others, Lord Theign where he had been standing and his daughter on the spot from which she had not moved. It presently ended in his lordship’s turn about as if inferring by the silence that the intruder had withdrawn. “Is that young man your lover?” he said as he drew again near. Lady Grace waited a little, but spoke as quietly as if she had been prepared. “Has the question a bearing on the promise you a short time ago demanded of me?” “It has a bearing on the so extraordinary appearance of your intimacy with him!” “You mean that if he _should_ be--what you ask me about--your exaction would then be modified?” “My request that you break it short off? That request would, on the contrary,” Lord Theign pronounced, “rest on an immense new ground. Therefore I insist on your telling me the truth.” “Won’t the truth be before you, father, if you’ll _think_ a moment--without extravagance?” After which, while, as stiffly as ever--and it probably seemed to her impatience as stupidly--he didn’t rise to it, she went on: “If I _offered_ you not again to see him, does that make for you the appearance--?”<|quote|>“If you offered it, you mean, on your condition--my promising not to sell? I promised,”</|quote|>said Lord Theign, “absolutely nothing at all!” She took him up with all expression. “So I promised as little! But that I should have been able to say what I did sufficiently meets your curiosity.” She might, wronged as she held herself, have felt him stupid not to see _how_ wronged; but he was in any case acute for an evasion. “You risked your offer for the great equivalent over which you’ve so wildly worked yourself up.” “Yes, I’ve worked myself--that, I grant you and don’t blush for! But hardly so much as to renounce my ‘lover’--if,” she prodigiously smiled, “I were so fortunate as to have one!” “You renounced poor John mightily easily--whom you were so fortunate as to have!” Her brows rose as high as his own had ever done. “Do you call Lord John my lover?” “He was your suitor most assuredly,” Lord Theign inimitably said, though without looking at her; “and as strikingly encouraged as he was respectfully ardent!” “Encouraged by _you_, dear father, beyond doubt!” “Encouraged--er--by every one: because you were (yes, you _were!_) encouraging. And what I ask of you now is a word of common candour as to whether you didn’t, on your honour, turn him off because of your just then so stimulated views on the person who has been with us.” Grace replied but after an instant, as moved by more things than she could say--moved above all, in her trouble and her pity for him, by other things than harshness: “Oh father, father, father----!” He searched her through all the compassion of her cry, but appeared to give way to her sincerity. “Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.” “But you said a moment ago that I should all the more in the other case--that of there _being_ something!” He brushed away her logic-chopping. “If you’re so keen then for past remarks I take up your own words--I accept your own terms for your putting an end to Mr. Crimble.” To which, while, turning pale, she said nothing, he added: “You recognise that you profess yourself ready----” “Not again to see him,” she now answered, “if you tell me the picture’s safe? Yes, I recognise that I _was_ ready--as well as how scornfully little you then were!” “Never mind what I then was--the question’s of what I actually am, since I close with you on it The picture’s therefore as safe as you please,” Lord Theign pursued, “if you’ll do what you just now engaged to.” “I engaged to do nothing,” she replied after a pause; and the face she turned to him had grown suddenly tragic. “I’ve no word to take back, for none passed between us; but I _won’t_ do what I mentioned and what you at once laughed at Because,” she finished, “the case is different.” “Different?” he almost shouted-- “_how_, different?” She didn’t look at him for it, but she was none the less strongly distinct “He has _been_ here--and that has done it He knows,” she admirably emphasised. “Knows what I think of him, no doubt--for a brazen young prevaricator! But what else?” She still kept her eyes on a far-off point. “What he will have seen--that I feel we’re too good friends.” “Then your denial of it’s false,” her father fairly thundered-- “and you _are_ infatuated?” It made her the more quiet. “I like him very much.” “So that your row about the picture,” he demanded with passion, “has been all a blind?” And then as her quietness still held her: “And his a blind as much--to help him to get _at_ you?” She looked at him again now. “He must speak for himself. I’ve said what I mean.” “But what the devil _do_ you mean?” Lord Theign, taking in the hour, had reached the door as in supremely baffled conclusion and with a sense of time lamentably lost. Their eyes met upon it all dreadfully across the wide space, and, hurried and incommoded as she saw him, she yet made him still stand a minute. Then she let everything go. “Do what you like with the picture!” He jerked up his arm and guarding hand as before a levelled blow at his face, and with the other hand flung open the door, having done with her now and immediately lost to sight. Left alone she stood a moment looking before her; then with a vague advance, held apparently by a quickly growing sense of the implication of her act, reached a table where she remained a little, deep afresh in thought--only the next thing to fall into a chair close to it | conveyed to him by a despairing contrite motion of surrender that she had done for him all she could do in his presence and that, however sharply doubtful the result, he was to leave the rest to herself. They communicated thus, the strenuous pair, for their full moment, without speaking; only with the prolonged, the charged give and take of their gaze and, it might well have been imagined, of their passion. Hugh had for an instant a show of hesitation--of the arrested impulse, while he kept her father within range, to launch at that personage before going some final remonstrance. It was the girl’s raised hand and gesture of warning that waved away for him such a mistake; he decided, under her pressure, and after a last searching and answering look at her reached the door and let himself out. The stillness was then prolonged a minute by the further wait of the two others, Lord Theign where he had been standing and his daughter on the spot from which she had not moved. It presently ended in his lordship’s turn about as if inferring by the silence that the intruder had withdrawn. “Is that young man your lover?” he said as he drew again near. Lady Grace waited a little, but spoke as quietly as if she had been prepared. “Has the question a bearing on the promise you a short time ago demanded of me?” “It has a bearing on the so extraordinary appearance of your intimacy with him!” “You mean that if he _should_ be--what you ask me about--your exaction would then be modified?” “My request that you break it short off? That request would, on the contrary,” Lord Theign pronounced, “rest on an immense new ground. Therefore I insist on your telling me the truth.” “Won’t the truth be before you, father, if you’ll _think_ a moment--without extravagance?” After which, while, as stiffly as ever--and it probably seemed to her impatience as stupidly--he didn’t rise to it, she went on: “If I _offered_ you not again to see him, does that make for you the appearance--?”<|quote|>“If you offered it, you mean, on your condition--my promising not to sell? I promised,”</|quote|>said Lord Theign, “absolutely nothing at all!” She took him up with all expression. “So I promised as little! But that I should have been able to say what I did sufficiently meets your curiosity.” She might, wronged as she held herself, have felt him stupid not to see _how_ wronged; but he was in any case acute for an evasion. “You risked your offer for the great equivalent over which you’ve so wildly worked yourself up.” “Yes, I’ve worked myself--that, I grant you and don’t blush for! But hardly so much as to renounce my ‘lover’--if,” she prodigiously smiled, “I were so fortunate as to have one!” “You renounced poor John mightily easily--whom you were so fortunate as to have!” Her brows rose as high as his own had ever done. “Do you call Lord John my lover?” “He was your suitor most assuredly,” Lord Theign inimitably said, though without looking at her; “and as strikingly encouraged as he was respectfully ardent!” “Encouraged by _you_, dear father, beyond doubt!” “Encouraged--er--by every one: because you were (yes, you _were!_) encouraging. And what I ask of you now is a word of common candour as to whether you didn’t, on your honour, turn him off because of your just then so stimulated views on the person who has been with us.” Grace replied but after an instant, as moved by more things than she could say--moved above all, in her trouble and her pity for him, by other things than harshness: “Oh father, father, father----!” He searched her through all the compassion of her cry, but appeared to give way to her sincerity. “Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.” “But you said a moment ago that I should all the more in the other case--that of there _being_ something!” He brushed away her logic-chopping. “If you’re so keen then for past remarks I take up your own words--I accept your own terms for your putting an end to Mr. Crimble.” To which, while, turning pale, she said nothing, he added: “You recognise that you profess yourself ready----” “Not again to see him,” she now answered, “if you tell me the picture’s safe? Yes, I recognise that I _was_ ready--as well as how scornfully little you then were!” “Never mind what I then was--the question’s of what I actually am, since I close with you on it The picture’s therefore as safe as you please,” Lord Theign pursued, “if you’ll do what you just now engaged to.” “I engaged to do nothing,” she replied after a pause; and the face she turned to him had grown suddenly tragic. “I’ve no word to take back, for none passed between us; but I _won’t_ do what I mentioned and what you at once laughed at Because,” she finished, “the case is different.” “Different?” he almost shouted-- “_how_, different?” She didn’t look at him for it, but she was none the less strongly distinct “He has _been_ here--and that has done it He knows,” she admirably emphasised. “Knows what I think of him, no doubt--for a brazen young prevaricator! But what else?” She still kept her eyes on a far-off point. “What he will have seen--that I feel we’re too good friends.” “Then your denial of it’s false,” her father fairly thundered-- “and you _are_ infatuated?” It made her the more quiet. “I like him very much.” “So that your | The Outcry |
he said, | No speaker | "But if you betray me,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"if you fail to do | a moment to sneeze violently. "But if you betray me,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"if you fail to do as I direct you" He | down there, who knows there is such a thing as an invisible man. You have to be my helper. Help me and I will do great things for you. An invisible man is a man of power." He stopped for a moment to sneeze violently. "But if you betray me,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"if you fail to do as I direct you" He paused and tapped Mr. Marvel s shoulder smartly. Mr. Marvel gave a yelp of terror at the touch. "I don t want to betray you," said Mr. Marvel, edging away from the direction of the fingers. "Don t you go | And a fist Lord!" "Pull yourself together," said the Voice, "for you have to do the job I ve chosen for you." Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were round. "I ve chosen you," said the Voice. "You are the only man except some of those fools down there, who knows there is such a thing as an invisible man. You have to be my helper. Help me and I will do great things for you. An invisible man is a man of power." He stopped for a moment to sneeze violently. "But if you betray me,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"if you fail to do as I direct you" He paused and tapped Mr. Marvel s shoulder smartly. Mr. Marvel gave a yelp of terror at the touch. "I don t want to betray you," said Mr. Marvel, edging away from the direction of the fingers. "Don t you go a-thinking that, whatever you do. All I want to do is to help you just tell me what I got to do. (Lord!) Whatever you want done, that I m most willing to do." CHAPTER X. MR. MARVEL S VISIT TO IPING After the first gusty panic had spent itself | in the way of help? Invisible!" "I want you to help me get clothes and shelter and then, with other things. I ve left them long enough. If you won t well! But you _will must_." "Look here," said Mr. Marvel. "I m too flabbergasted. Don t knock me about any more. And leave me go. I must get steady a bit. And you ve pretty near broken my toe. It s all so unreasonable. Empty downs, empty sky. Nothing visible for miles except the bosom of Nature. And then comes a voice. A voice out of heaven! And stones! And a fist Lord!" "Pull yourself together," said the Voice, "for you have to do the job I ve chosen for you." Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were round. "I ve chosen you," said the Voice. "You are the only man except some of those fools down there, who knows there is such a thing as an invisible man. You have to be my helper. Help me and I will do great things for you. An invisible man is a man of power." He stopped for a moment to sneeze violently. "But if you betray me,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"if you fail to do as I direct you" He paused and tapped Mr. Marvel s shoulder smartly. Mr. Marvel gave a yelp of terror at the touch. "I don t want to betray you," said Mr. Marvel, edging away from the direction of the fingers. "Don t you go a-thinking that, whatever you do. All I want to do is to help you just tell me what I got to do. (Lord!) Whatever you want done, that I m most willing to do." CHAPTER X. MR. MARVEL S VISIT TO IPING After the first gusty panic had spent itself Iping became argumentative. Scepticism suddenly reared its head rather nervous scepticism, not at all assured of its back, but scepticism nevertheless. It is so much easier not to believe in an invisible man; and those who had actually seen him dissolve into air, or felt the strength of his arm, could be counted on the fingers of two hands. And of these witnesses Mr. Wadgers was presently missing, having retired impregnably behind the bolts and bars of his own house, and Jaffers was lying stunned in the parlour of the "Coach and Horses." Great and strange ideas transcending experience often | scrutinised the apparently empty space keenly. "You aven t been eatin bread and cheese?" he asked, holding the invisible arm. "You re quite right, and it s not quite assimilated into the system." "Ah!" said Mr. Marvel. "Sort of ghostly, though." "Of course, all this isn t half so wonderful as you think." "It s quite wonderful enough for _my_ modest wants," said Mr. Thomas Marvel. "Howjer manage it! How the dooce is it done?" "It s too long a story. And besides" "I tell you, the whole business fairly beats me," said Mr. Marvel. "What I want to say at present is this: I need help. I have come to that I came upon you suddenly. I was wandering, mad with rage, naked, impotent. I could have murdered. And I saw you" "_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel. "I came up behind you hesitated went on" Mr. Marvel s expression was eloquent. "then stopped. Here, I said, is an outcast like myself. This is the man for me. So I turned back and came to you you. And" "_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel. "But I m all in a tizzy. May I ask How is it? And what you may be requiring in the way of help? Invisible!" "I want you to help me get clothes and shelter and then, with other things. I ve left them long enough. If you won t well! But you _will must_." "Look here," said Mr. Marvel. "I m too flabbergasted. Don t knock me about any more. And leave me go. I must get steady a bit. And you ve pretty near broken my toe. It s all so unreasonable. Empty downs, empty sky. Nothing visible for miles except the bosom of Nature. And then comes a voice. A voice out of heaven! And stones! And a fist Lord!" "Pull yourself together," said the Voice, "for you have to do the job I ve chosen for you." Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were round. "I ve chosen you," said the Voice. "You are the only man except some of those fools down there, who knows there is such a thing as an invisible man. You have to be my helper. Help me and I will do great things for you. An invisible man is a man of power." He stopped for a moment to sneeze violently. "But if you betray me,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"if you fail to do as I direct you" He paused and tapped Mr. Marvel s shoulder smartly. Mr. Marvel gave a yelp of terror at the touch. "I don t want to betray you," said Mr. Marvel, edging away from the direction of the fingers. "Don t you go a-thinking that, whatever you do. All I want to do is to help you just tell me what I got to do. (Lord!) Whatever you want done, that I m most willing to do." CHAPTER X. MR. MARVEL S VISIT TO IPING After the first gusty panic had spent itself Iping became argumentative. Scepticism suddenly reared its head rather nervous scepticism, not at all assured of its back, but scepticism nevertheless. It is so much easier not to believe in an invisible man; and those who had actually seen him dissolve into air, or felt the strength of his arm, could be counted on the fingers of two hands. And of these witnesses Mr. Wadgers was presently missing, having retired impregnably behind the bolts and bars of his own house, and Jaffers was lying stunned in the parlour of the "Coach and Horses." Great and strange ideas transcending experience often have less effect upon men and women than smaller, more tangible considerations. Iping was gay with bunting, and everybody was in gala dress. Whit Monday had been looked forward to for a month or more. By the afternoon even those who believed in the Unseen were beginning to resume their little amusements in a tentative fashion, on the supposition that he had quite gone away, and with the sceptics he was already a jest. But people, sceptics and believers alike, were remarkably sociable all that day. Haysman s meadow was gay with a tent, in which Mrs. Bunting and other ladies were preparing tea, while, without, the Sunday-school children ran races and played games under the noisy guidance of the curate and the Misses Cuss and Sackbut. No doubt there was a slight uneasiness in the air, but people for the most part had the sense to conceal whatever imaginative qualms they experienced. On the village green an inclined strong [rope?], down which, clinging the while to a pulley-swung handle, one could be hurled violently against a sack at the other end, came in for considerable favour among the adolescents, as also did the swings and the cocoanut shies. There | as a third stone curved upward and hung in the air above the tramp. "Am I imagination?" Mr. Marvel by way of reply struggled to his feet, and was immediately rolled over again. He lay quiet for a moment. "If you struggle any more," said the Voice, "I shall throw the flint at your head." "It s a fair do," said Mr. Thomas Marvel, sitting up, taking his wounded toe in hand and fixing his eye on the third missile. "I don t understand it. Stones flinging themselves. Stones talking. Put yourself down. Rot away. I m done." The third flint fell. "It s very simple," said the Voice. "I m an invisible man." "Tell us something I don t know," said Mr. Marvel, gasping with pain. "Where you ve hid how you do it I _don t_ know. I m beat." "That s all," said the Voice. "I m invisible. That s what I want you to understand." "Anyone could see that. There is no need for you to be so confounded impatient, mister. _Now_ then. Give us a notion. How are you hid?" "I m invisible. That s the great point. And what I want you to understand is this" "But whereabouts?" interrupted Mr. Marvel. "Here! Six yards in front of you." "Oh, _come_! I ain t blind. You ll be telling me next you re just thin air. I m not one of your ignorant tramps" "Yes, I am thin air. You re looking through me." "What! Ain t there any stuff to you. _Vox et_ what is it? jabber. Is it that?" "I am just a human being solid, needing food and drink, needing covering too But I m invisible. You see? Invisible. Simple idea. Invisible." "What, real like?" "Yes, real." "Let s have a hand of you," said Marvel, "if you _are_ real. It won t be so darn out-of-the-way like, then _Lord_!" he said, "how you made me jump! gripping me like that!" He felt the hand that had closed round his wrist with his disengaged fingers, and his fingers went timorously up the arm, patted a muscular chest, and explored a bearded face. Marvel s face was astonishment. "I m dashed!" he said. "If this don t beat cock-fighting! Most remarkable! And there I can see a rabbit clean through you, arf a mile away! Not a bit of you visible except" He scrutinised the apparently empty space keenly. "You aven t been eatin bread and cheese?" he asked, holding the invisible arm. "You re quite right, and it s not quite assimilated into the system." "Ah!" said Mr. Marvel. "Sort of ghostly, though." "Of course, all this isn t half so wonderful as you think." "It s quite wonderful enough for _my_ modest wants," said Mr. Thomas Marvel. "Howjer manage it! How the dooce is it done?" "It s too long a story. And besides" "I tell you, the whole business fairly beats me," said Mr. Marvel. "What I want to say at present is this: I need help. I have come to that I came upon you suddenly. I was wandering, mad with rage, naked, impotent. I could have murdered. And I saw you" "_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel. "I came up behind you hesitated went on" Mr. Marvel s expression was eloquent. "then stopped. Here, I said, is an outcast like myself. This is the man for me. So I turned back and came to you you. And" "_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel. "But I m all in a tizzy. May I ask How is it? And what you may be requiring in the way of help? Invisible!" "I want you to help me get clothes and shelter and then, with other things. I ve left them long enough. If you won t well! But you _will must_." "Look here," said Mr. Marvel. "I m too flabbergasted. Don t knock me about any more. And leave me go. I must get steady a bit. And you ve pretty near broken my toe. It s all so unreasonable. Empty downs, empty sky. Nothing visible for miles except the bosom of Nature. And then comes a voice. A voice out of heaven! And stones! And a fist Lord!" "Pull yourself together," said the Voice, "for you have to do the job I ve chosen for you." Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were round. "I ve chosen you," said the Voice. "You are the only man except some of those fools down there, who knows there is such a thing as an invisible man. You have to be my helper. Help me and I will do great things for you. An invisible man is a man of power." He stopped for a moment to sneeze violently. "But if you betray me,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"if you fail to do as I direct you" He paused and tapped Mr. Marvel s shoulder smartly. Mr. Marvel gave a yelp of terror at the touch. "I don t want to betray you," said Mr. Marvel, edging away from the direction of the fingers. "Don t you go a-thinking that, whatever you do. All I want to do is to help you just tell me what I got to do. (Lord!) Whatever you want done, that I m most willing to do." CHAPTER X. MR. MARVEL S VISIT TO IPING After the first gusty panic had spent itself Iping became argumentative. Scepticism suddenly reared its head rather nervous scepticism, not at all assured of its back, but scepticism nevertheless. It is so much easier not to believe in an invisible man; and those who had actually seen him dissolve into air, or felt the strength of his arm, could be counted on the fingers of two hands. And of these witnesses Mr. Wadgers was presently missing, having retired impregnably behind the bolts and bars of his own house, and Jaffers was lying stunned in the parlour of the "Coach and Horses." Great and strange ideas transcending experience often have less effect upon men and women than smaller, more tangible considerations. Iping was gay with bunting, and everybody was in gala dress. Whit Monday had been looked forward to for a month or more. By the afternoon even those who believed in the Unseen were beginning to resume their little amusements in a tentative fashion, on the supposition that he had quite gone away, and with the sceptics he was already a jest. But people, sceptics and believers alike, were remarkably sociable all that day. Haysman s meadow was gay with a tent, in which Mrs. Bunting and other ladies were preparing tea, while, without, the Sunday-school children ran races and played games under the noisy guidance of the curate and the Misses Cuss and Sackbut. No doubt there was a slight uneasiness in the air, but people for the most part had the sense to conceal whatever imaginative qualms they experienced. On the village green an inclined strong [rope?], down which, clinging the while to a pulley-swung handle, one could be hurled violently against a sack at the other end, came in for considerable favour among the adolescents, as also did the swings and the cocoanut shies. There was also promenading, and the steam organ attached to a small roundabout filled the air with a pungent flavour of oil and with equally pungent music. Members of the club, who had attended church in the morning, were splendid in badges of pink and green, and some of the gayer-minded had also adorned their bowler hats with brilliant-coloured favours of ribbon. Old Fletcher, whose conceptions of holiday-making were severe, was visible through the jasmine about his window or through the open door (whichever way you chose to look), poised delicately on a plank supported on two chairs, and whitewashing the ceiling of his front room. About four o clock a stranger entered the village from the direction of the downs. He was a short, stout person in an extraordinarily shabby top hat, and he appeared to be very much out of breath. His cheeks were alternately limp and tightly puffed. His mottled face was apprehensive, and he moved with a sort of reluctant alacrity. He turned the corner of the church, and directed his way to the "Coach and Horses." Among others old Fletcher remembers seeing him, and indeed the old gentleman was so struck by his peculiar agitation that he inadvertently allowed a quantity of whitewash to run down the brush into the sleeve of his coat while regarding him. This stranger, to the perceptions of the proprietor of the cocoanut shy, appeared to be talking to himself, and Mr. Huxter remarked the same thing. He stopped at the foot of the "Coach and Horses" steps, and, according to Mr. Huxter, appeared to undergo a severe internal struggle before he could induce himself to enter the house. Finally he marched up the steps, and was seen by Mr. Huxter to turn to the left and open the door of the parlour. Mr. Huxter heard voices from within the room and from the bar apprising the man of his error. "That room s private!" said Hall, and the stranger shut the door clumsily and went into the bar. In the course of a few minutes he reappeared, wiping his lips with the back of his hand with an air of quiet satisfaction that somehow impressed Mr. Huxter as assumed. He stood looking about him for some moments, and then Mr. Huxter saw him walk in an oddly furtive manner towards the gates of the yard, upon which the parlour window | s have a hand of you," said Marvel, "if you _are_ real. It won t be so darn out-of-the-way like, then _Lord_!" he said, "how you made me jump! gripping me like that!" He felt the hand that had closed round his wrist with his disengaged fingers, and his fingers went timorously up the arm, patted a muscular chest, and explored a bearded face. Marvel s face was astonishment. "I m dashed!" he said. "If this don t beat cock-fighting! Most remarkable! And there I can see a rabbit clean through you, arf a mile away! Not a bit of you visible except" He scrutinised the apparently empty space keenly. "You aven t been eatin bread and cheese?" he asked, holding the invisible arm. "You re quite right, and it s not quite assimilated into the system." "Ah!" said Mr. Marvel. "Sort of ghostly, though." "Of course, all this isn t half so wonderful as you think." "It s quite wonderful enough for _my_ modest wants," said Mr. Thomas Marvel. "Howjer manage it! How the dooce is it done?" "It s too long a story. And besides" "I tell you, the whole business fairly beats me," said Mr. Marvel. "What I want to say at present is this: I need help. I have come to that I came upon you suddenly. I was wandering, mad with rage, naked, impotent. I could have murdered. And I saw you" "_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel. "I came up behind you hesitated went on" Mr. Marvel s expression was eloquent. "then stopped. Here, I said, is an outcast like myself. This is the man for me. So I turned back and came to you you. And" "_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel. "But I m all in a tizzy. May I ask How is it? And what you may be requiring in the way of help? Invisible!" "I want you to help me get clothes and shelter and then, with other things. I ve left them long enough. If you won t well! But you _will must_." "Look here," said Mr. Marvel. "I m too flabbergasted. Don t knock me about any more. And leave me go. I must get steady a bit. And you ve pretty near broken my toe. It s all so unreasonable. Empty downs, empty sky. Nothing visible for miles except the bosom of Nature. And then comes a voice. A voice out of heaven! And stones! And a fist Lord!" "Pull yourself together," said the Voice, "for you have to do the job I ve chosen for you." Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were round. "I ve chosen you," said the Voice. "You are the only man except some of those fools down there, who knows there is such a thing as an invisible man. You have to be my helper. Help me and I will do great things for you. An invisible man is a man of power." He stopped for a moment to sneeze violently. "But if you betray me,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"if you fail to do as I direct you" He paused and tapped Mr. Marvel s shoulder smartly. Mr. Marvel gave a yelp of terror at the touch. "I don t want to betray you," said Mr. Marvel, edging away from the direction of the fingers. "Don t you go a-thinking that, whatever you do. All I want to do is to help you just tell me what I got to do. (Lord!) Whatever you want done, that I m most willing to do." CHAPTER X. MR. MARVEL S VISIT TO IPING After the first gusty panic had spent itself Iping became argumentative. Scepticism suddenly reared its head rather nervous scepticism, not at all assured of its back, but scepticism nevertheless. It is so much easier not to believe in an invisible man; and those who had actually seen him dissolve into air, or felt the strength of his arm, could be counted on the fingers of two hands. And of these witnesses Mr. Wadgers was presently missing, having retired impregnably behind the bolts and bars of his own house, and Jaffers was lying stunned in the parlour of the "Coach and Horses." Great and strange ideas transcending experience often have less effect upon men and women than smaller, more tangible considerations. Iping was gay with bunting, | The Invisible Man |
thought Mrs. Sparsit; | No speaker | when you hold it up,"<|quote|>thought Mrs. Sparsit;</|quote|>"but you little think, my | what they see in you when you hold it up,"<|quote|>thought Mrs. Sparsit;</|quote|>"but you little think, my dearest love, whose eyes are | fence, within a few paces. "My dearest love," said he, "what could I do? Knowing you were alone, was it possible that I could stay away?" "You may hang your head, to make yourself the more attractive; _I_ don't know what they see in you when you hold it up,"<|quote|>thought Mrs. Sparsit;</|quote|>"but you little think, my dearest love, whose eyes are on you!" That she hung her head, was certain. She urged him to go away, she commanded him to go away; but she neither turned her face to him, nor raised it. Yet it was remarkable that she sat as | at a spring, and that no great one, she could have touched them both. He was there secretly, and had not shown himself at the house. He had come on horseback, and must have passed through the neighbouring fields; for his horse was tied to the meadow side of the fence, within a few paces. "My dearest love," said he, "what could I do? Knowing you were alone, was it possible that I could stay away?" "You may hang your head, to make yourself the more attractive; _I_ don't know what they see in you when you hold it up,"<|quote|>thought Mrs. Sparsit;</|quote|>"but you little think, my dearest love, whose eyes are on you!" That she hung her head, was certain. She urged him to go away, she commanded him to go away; but she neither turned her face to him, nor raised it. Yet it was remarkable that she sat as still as ever the amiable woman in ambuscade had seen her sit, at any period in her life. Her hands rested in one another, like the hands of a statue; and even her manner of speaking was not hurried. "My dear child," said Harthouse; Mrs. Sparsit saw with delight that | no less, if the wood had been a wood of adders. Hark! The smaller birds might have tumbled out of their nests, fascinated by the glittering of Mrs. Sparsit's eyes in the gloom, as she stopped and listened. Low voices close at hand. His voice and hers. The appointment _was_ a device to keep the brother away! There they were yonder, by the felled tree. Bending low among the dewy grass, Mrs. Sparsit advanced closer to them. She drew herself up, and stood behind a tree, like Robinson Crusoe in his ambuscade against the savages; so near to them that at a spring, and that no great one, she could have touched them both. He was there secretly, and had not shown himself at the house. He had come on horseback, and must have passed through the neighbouring fields; for his horse was tied to the meadow side of the fence, within a few paces. "My dearest love," said he, "what could I do? Knowing you were alone, was it possible that I could stay away?" "You may hang your head, to make yourself the more attractive; _I_ don't know what they see in you when you hold it up,"<|quote|>thought Mrs. Sparsit;</|quote|>"but you little think, my dearest love, whose eyes are on you!" That she hung her head, was certain. She urged him to go away, she commanded him to go away; but she neither turned her face to him, nor raised it. Yet it was remarkable that she sat as still as ever the amiable woman in ambuscade had seen her sit, at any period in her life. Her hands rested in one another, like the hands of a statue; and even her manner of speaking was not hurried. "My dear child," said Harthouse; Mrs. Sparsit saw with delight that his arm embraced her; "will you not bear with my society for a little while?" "Not here." "Where, Louisa?" "Not here." "But we have so little time to make so much of, and I have come so far, and am altogether so devoted, and distracted. There never was a slave at once so devoted and ill-used by his mistress. To look for your sunny welcome that has warmed me into life, and to be received in your frozen manner, is heart-rending." "Am I to say again, that I must be left to myself here?" "But we must meet, my dear | its drooping eyelids Mrs. Sparsit glide out of her carriage, pass down the wooden steps of the little station into a stony road, cross it into a green lane, and become hidden in a summer-growth of leaves and branches. One or two late birds sleepily chirping in their nests, and a bat heavily crossing and recrossing her, and the reek of her own tread in the thick dust that felt like velvet, were all Mrs. Sparsit heard or saw until she very softly closed a gate. She went up to the house, keeping within the shrubbery, and went round it, peeping between the leaves at the lower windows. Most of them were open, as they usually were in such warm weather, but there were no lights yet, and all was silent. She tried the garden with no better effect. She thought of the wood, and stole towards it, heedless of long grass and briers: of worms, snails, and slugs, and all the creeping things that be. With her dark eyes and her hook nose warily in advance of her, Mrs. Sparsit softly crushed her way through the thick undergrowth, so intent upon her object that she probably would have done no less, if the wood had been a wood of adders. Hark! The smaller birds might have tumbled out of their nests, fascinated by the glittering of Mrs. Sparsit's eyes in the gloom, as she stopped and listened. Low voices close at hand. His voice and hers. The appointment _was_ a device to keep the brother away! There they were yonder, by the felled tree. Bending low among the dewy grass, Mrs. Sparsit advanced closer to them. She drew herself up, and stood behind a tree, like Robinson Crusoe in his ambuscade against the savages; so near to them that at a spring, and that no great one, she could have touched them both. He was there secretly, and had not shown himself at the house. He had come on horseback, and must have passed through the neighbouring fields; for his horse was tied to the meadow side of the fence, within a few paces. "My dearest love," said he, "what could I do? Knowing you were alone, was it possible that I could stay away?" "You may hang your head, to make yourself the more attractive; _I_ don't know what they see in you when you hold it up,"<|quote|>thought Mrs. Sparsit;</|quote|>"but you little think, my dearest love, whose eyes are on you!" That she hung her head, was certain. She urged him to go away, she commanded him to go away; but she neither turned her face to him, nor raised it. Yet it was remarkable that she sat as still as ever the amiable woman in ambuscade had seen her sit, at any period in her life. Her hands rested in one another, like the hands of a statue; and even her manner of speaking was not hurried. "My dear child," said Harthouse; Mrs. Sparsit saw with delight that his arm embraced her; "will you not bear with my society for a little while?" "Not here." "Where, Louisa?" "Not here." "But we have so little time to make so much of, and I have come so far, and am altogether so devoted, and distracted. There never was a slave at once so devoted and ill-used by his mistress. To look for your sunny welcome that has warmed me into life, and to be received in your frozen manner, is heart-rending." "Am I to say again, that I must be left to myself here?" "But we must meet, my dear Louisa. Where shall we meet?" They both started. The listener started, guiltily, too; for she thought there was another listener among the trees. It was only rain, beginning to fall fast, in heavy drops. "Shall I ride up to the house a few minutes hence, innocently supposing that its master is at home and will be charmed to receive me?" "No!" "Your cruel commands are implicitly to be obeyed; though I am the most unfortunate fellow in the world, I believe, to have been insensible to all other women, and to have fallen prostrate at last under the foot of the most beautiful, and the most engaging, and the most imperious. My dearest Louisa, I cannot go myself, or let you go, in this hard abuse of your power." Mrs. Sparsit saw him detain her with his encircling arm, and heard him then and there, within her (Mrs. Sparsit's) greedy hearing, tell her how he loved her, and how she was the stake for which he ardently desired to play away all that he had in life. The objects he had lately pursued, turned worthless beside her; such success as was almost in his grasp, he flung away from him | in and out, watching the postmen, keeping an eye on the general traffic of the street, revolving many things in her mind, but, above all, keeping her attention on her staircase. The evening come, she put on her bonnet and shawl, and went quietly out: having her reasons for hovering in a furtive way about the station by which a passenger would arrive from Yorkshire, and for preferring to peep into it round pillars and corners, and out of ladies' waiting-room windows, to appearing in its precincts openly. Tom was in attendance, and loitered about until the expected train came in. It brought no Mr. Harthouse. Tom waited until the crowd had dispersed, and the bustle was over; and then referred to a posted list of trains, and took counsel with porters. That done, he strolled away idly, stopping in the street and looking up it and down it, and lifting his hat off and putting it on again, and yawning and stretching himself, and exhibiting all the symptoms of mortal weariness to be expected in one who had still to wait until the next train should come in, an hour and forty minutes hence. "This is a device to keep him out of the way," said Mrs. Sparsit, starting from the dull office window whence she had watched him last. "Harthouse is with his sister now!" It was the conception of an inspired moment, and she shot off with her utmost swiftness to work it out. The station for the country house was at the opposite end of the town, the time was short, the road not easy; but she was so quick in pouncing on a disengaged coach, so quick in darting out of it, producing her money, seizing her ticket, and diving into the train, that she was borne along the arches spanning the land of coal-pits past and present, as if she had been caught up in a cloud and whirled away. All the journey, immovable in the air though never left behind; plain to the dark eyes of her mind, as the electric wires which ruled a colossal strip of music-paper out of the evening sky, were plain to the dark eyes of her body; Mrs. Sparsit saw her staircase, with the figure coming down. Very near the bottom now. Upon the brink of the abyss. An overcast September evening, just at nightfall, saw beneath its drooping eyelids Mrs. Sparsit glide out of her carriage, pass down the wooden steps of the little station into a stony road, cross it into a green lane, and become hidden in a summer-growth of leaves and branches. One or two late birds sleepily chirping in their nests, and a bat heavily crossing and recrossing her, and the reek of her own tread in the thick dust that felt like velvet, were all Mrs. Sparsit heard or saw until she very softly closed a gate. She went up to the house, keeping within the shrubbery, and went round it, peeping between the leaves at the lower windows. Most of them were open, as they usually were in such warm weather, but there were no lights yet, and all was silent. She tried the garden with no better effect. She thought of the wood, and stole towards it, heedless of long grass and briers: of worms, snails, and slugs, and all the creeping things that be. With her dark eyes and her hook nose warily in advance of her, Mrs. Sparsit softly crushed her way through the thick undergrowth, so intent upon her object that she probably would have done no less, if the wood had been a wood of adders. Hark! The smaller birds might have tumbled out of their nests, fascinated by the glittering of Mrs. Sparsit's eyes in the gloom, as she stopped and listened. Low voices close at hand. His voice and hers. The appointment _was_ a device to keep the brother away! There they were yonder, by the felled tree. Bending low among the dewy grass, Mrs. Sparsit advanced closer to them. She drew herself up, and stood behind a tree, like Robinson Crusoe in his ambuscade against the savages; so near to them that at a spring, and that no great one, she could have touched them both. He was there secretly, and had not shown himself at the house. He had come on horseback, and must have passed through the neighbouring fields; for his horse was tied to the meadow side of the fence, within a few paces. "My dearest love," said he, "what could I do? Knowing you were alone, was it possible that I could stay away?" "You may hang your head, to make yourself the more attractive; _I_ don't know what they see in you when you hold it up,"<|quote|>thought Mrs. Sparsit;</|quote|>"but you little think, my dearest love, whose eyes are on you!" That she hung her head, was certain. She urged him to go away, she commanded him to go away; but she neither turned her face to him, nor raised it. Yet it was remarkable that she sat as still as ever the amiable woman in ambuscade had seen her sit, at any period in her life. Her hands rested in one another, like the hands of a statue; and even her manner of speaking was not hurried. "My dear child," said Harthouse; Mrs. Sparsit saw with delight that his arm embraced her; "will you not bear with my society for a little while?" "Not here." "Where, Louisa?" "Not here." "But we have so little time to make so much of, and I have come so far, and am altogether so devoted, and distracted. There never was a slave at once so devoted and ill-used by his mistress. To look for your sunny welcome that has warmed me into life, and to be received in your frozen manner, is heart-rending." "Am I to say again, that I must be left to myself here?" "But we must meet, my dear Louisa. Where shall we meet?" They both started. The listener started, guiltily, too; for she thought there was another listener among the trees. It was only rain, beginning to fall fast, in heavy drops. "Shall I ride up to the house a few minutes hence, innocently supposing that its master is at home and will be charmed to receive me?" "No!" "Your cruel commands are implicitly to be obeyed; though I am the most unfortunate fellow in the world, I believe, to have been insensible to all other women, and to have fallen prostrate at last under the foot of the most beautiful, and the most engaging, and the most imperious. My dearest Louisa, I cannot go myself, or let you go, in this hard abuse of your power." Mrs. Sparsit saw him detain her with his encircling arm, and heard him then and there, within her (Mrs. Sparsit's) greedy hearing, tell her how he loved her, and how she was the stake for which he ardently desired to play away all that he had in life. The objects he had lately pursued, turned worthless beside her; such success as was almost in his grasp, he flung away from him like the dirt it was, compared with her. Its pursuit, nevertheless, if it kept him near her, or its renunciation if it took him from her, or flight if she shared it, or secrecy if she commanded it, or any fate, or every fate, all was alike to him, so that she was true to him, the man who had seen how cast away she was, whom she had inspired at their first meeting with an admiration, an interest, of which he had thought himself incapable, whom she had received into her confidence, who was devoted to her and adored her. All this, and more, in his hurry, and in hers, in the whirl of her own gratified malice, in the dread of being discovered, in the rapidly increasing noise of heavy rain among the leaves, and a thunderstorm rolling up Mrs. Sparsit received into her mind, set off with such an unavoidable halo of confusion and indistinctness, that when at length he climbed the fence and led his horse away, she was not sure where they were to meet, or when, except that they had said it was to be that night. But one of them yet remained in the darkness before her; and while she tracked that one she must be right. "Oh, my dearest love," thought Mrs. Sparsit, "you little think how well attended you are!" Mrs. Sparsit saw her out of the wood, and saw her enter the house. What to do next? It rained now, in a sheet of water. Mrs. Sparsit's white stockings were of many colours, green predominating; prickly things were in her shoes; caterpillars slung themselves, in hammocks of their own making, from various parts of her dress; rills ran from her bonnet, and her Roman nose. In such condition, Mrs. Sparsit stood hidden in the density of the shrubbery, considering what next? Lo, Louisa coming out of the house! Hastily cloaked and muffled, and stealing away. She elopes! She falls from the lowermost stair, and is swallowed up in the gulf. Indifferent to the rain, and moving with a quick determined step, she struck into a side-path parallel with the ride. Mrs. Sparsit followed in the shadow of the trees, at but a short distance; for it was not easy to keep a figure in view going quickly through the umbrageous darkness. When she stopped to close the side-gate without noise, | now. Upon the brink of the abyss. An overcast September evening, just at nightfall, saw beneath its drooping eyelids Mrs. Sparsit glide out of her carriage, pass down the wooden steps of the little station into a stony road, cross it into a green lane, and become hidden in a summer-growth of leaves and branches. One or two late birds sleepily chirping in their nests, and a bat heavily crossing and recrossing her, and the reek of her own tread in the thick dust that felt like velvet, were all Mrs. Sparsit heard or saw until she very softly closed a gate. She went up to the house, keeping within the shrubbery, and went round it, peeping between the leaves at the lower windows. Most of them were open, as they usually were in such warm weather, but there were no lights yet, and all was silent. She tried the garden with no better effect. She thought of the wood, and stole towards it, heedless of long grass and briers: of worms, snails, and slugs, and all the creeping things that be. With her dark eyes and her hook nose warily in advance of her, Mrs. Sparsit softly crushed her way through the thick undergrowth, so intent upon her object that she probably would have done no less, if the wood had been a wood of adders. Hark! The smaller birds might have tumbled out of their nests, fascinated by the glittering of Mrs. Sparsit's eyes in the gloom, as she stopped and listened. Low voices close at hand. His voice and hers. The appointment _was_ a device to keep the brother away! There they were yonder, by the felled tree. Bending low among the dewy grass, Mrs. Sparsit advanced closer to them. She drew herself up, and stood behind a tree, like Robinson Crusoe in his ambuscade against the savages; so near to them that at a spring, and that no great one, she could have touched them both. He was there secretly, and had not shown himself at the house. He had come on horseback, and must have passed through the neighbouring fields; for his horse was tied to the meadow side of the fence, within a few paces. "My dearest love," said he, "what could I do? Knowing you were alone, was it possible that I could stay away?" "You may hang your head, to make yourself the more attractive; _I_ don't know what they see in you when you hold it up,"<|quote|>thought Mrs. Sparsit;</|quote|>"but you little think, my dearest love, whose eyes are on you!" That she hung her head, was certain. She urged him to go away, she commanded him to go away; but she neither turned her face to him, nor raised it. Yet it was remarkable that she sat as still as ever the amiable woman in ambuscade had seen her sit, at any period in her life. Her hands rested in one another, like the hands of a statue; and even her manner of speaking was not hurried. "My dear child," said Harthouse; Mrs. Sparsit saw with delight that his arm embraced her; "will you not bear with my society for a little while?" "Not here." "Where, Louisa?" "Not here." "But we have so little time to make so much of, and I have come so far, and am altogether so devoted, and distracted. There never was a slave at once so devoted and ill-used by his mistress. To look for your sunny welcome that has warmed me into life, and to be received in your frozen manner, is heart-rending." "Am I to say again, that I must be left to myself here?" "But we must meet, my dear Louisa. Where shall we meet?" They both started. The listener started, guiltily, too; for she thought there was another listener among the trees. It was only rain, beginning to fall fast, in heavy drops. "Shall I ride up to the house a few minutes hence, innocently supposing that its master is at home and will be charmed to receive me?" "No!" "Your cruel commands are implicitly to be obeyed; though I am the most unfortunate fellow in the world, I believe, to have been insensible to all other women, and to have fallen prostrate at last under the foot of the most beautiful, and the most engaging, and the most imperious. My dearest Louisa, I cannot go myself, or let you go, in this hard abuse of your power." Mrs. Sparsit saw him detain her with his encircling arm, and heard him then and there, | Hard Times |
Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in. | No speaker | I do not like confusion."<|quote|>Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in.</|quote|>"There is a lady below, | confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion."<|quote|>Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in.</|quote|>"There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings." "A | time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion."<|quote|>Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in.</|quote|>"There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings." "A lady?" I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway. "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot | said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion."<|quote|>Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in.</|quote|>"There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings." "A lady?" I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway. "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you." "Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!" "I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling. "That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame" she started ever so slightly | in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then." "How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?" "No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated." "Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion."<|quote|>Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in.</|quote|>"There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings." "A lady?" I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway. "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you." "Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!" "I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling. "That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame" she started ever so slightly "remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service." She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away. "Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?" "Enchanted, madame." All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck me that in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes. The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a | He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there!" "Oh, yes, he did!" "Impossible! We were all together the whole time." Poirot shook his head. "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony." "I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer. "They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then." "How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?" "No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated." "Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion."<|quote|>Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in.</|quote|>"There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings." "A lady?" I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway. "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you." "Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!" "I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling. "That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame" she started ever so slightly "remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service." She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away. "Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?" "Enchanted, madame." All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck me that in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes. The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing. We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong. Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background, all eyes and ears. "Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you" "What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once." "It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him they've arrested Mr. Cavendish!" "Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped. I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes. "No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence Mr. John." Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes. CHAPTER XI. THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place two months later. Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but my admiration and sympathy went out unfeignedly to Mary Cavendish. She ranged herself passionately on her husband's side, scorning the mere idea of his guilt, and fought for him tooth and | another day." I told him about the letter. "I am sorry for that," he said. "I always had hopes of that letter. But no, it was not to be. This affair must all be unravelled from within." He tapped his forehead. "These little grey cells. It is" up to them' "as you say over here." Then, suddenly, he asked: "Are you a judge of finger-marks, my friend?" "No," I said, rather surprised, "I know that there are no two finger-marks alike, but that's as far as my science goes." "Exactly." He unlocked a little drawer, and took out some photographs which he laid on the table. "I have numbered them, 1, 2, 3. Will you describe them to me?" I studied the proofs attentively. "All greatly magnified, I see. No. 1, I should say, are a man's finger-prints; thumb and first finger. No. 2 are a lady's; they are much smaller, and quite different in every way. No. 3" I paused for some time "there seem to be a lot of confused finger-marks, but here, very distinctly, are No. 1's." "Overlapping the others?" "Yes." "You recognize them beyond fail?" "Oh, yes; they are identical." Poirot nodded, and gently taking the photographs from me locked them up again. "I suppose," I said, "that as usual, you are not going to explain?" "On the contrary. No. 1 were the finger-prints of Monsieur Lawrence. No. 2 were those of Mademoiselle Cynthia. They are not important. I merely obtained them for comparison. No. 3 is a little more complicated." "Yes?" "It is, as you see, highly magnified. You may have noticed a sort of blur extending all across the picture. I will not describe to you the special apparatus, dusting powder, etc., which I used. It is a well-known process to the police, and by means of it you can obtain a photograph of the finger-prints of any object in a very short space of time. Well, my friend, you have seen the finger-marks it remains to tell you the particular object on which they had been left." "Go on I am really excited." "_Eh bien!_ Photo No. 3 represents the highly magnified surface of a tiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster which sounds like the house that Jack built!" "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish's finger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there!" "Oh, yes, he did!" "Impossible! We were all together the whole time." Poirot shook his head. "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony." "I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer. "They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then." "How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?" "No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated." "Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion."<|quote|>Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in.</|quote|>"There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings." "A lady?" I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway. "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you." "Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!" "I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling. "That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame" she started ever so slightly "remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service." She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away. "Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?" "Enchanted, madame." All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck me that in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes. The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing. We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong. Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background, all eyes and ears. "Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you" "What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once." "It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him they've arrested Mr. Cavendish!" "Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped. I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes. "No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence Mr. John." Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes. CHAPTER XI. THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place two months later. Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but my admiration and sympathy went out unfeignedly to Mary Cavendish. She ranged herself passionately on her husband's side, scorning the mere idea of his guilt, and fought for him tooth and nail. I expressed my admiration to Poirot, and he nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, she is of those women who show at their best in adversity. It brings out all that is sweetest and truest in them. Her pride and her jealousy have" "Jealousy?" I queried. "Yes. Have you not realized that she is an unusually jealous woman? As I was saying, her pride and jealousy have been laid aside. She thinks of nothing but her husband, and the terrible fate that is hanging over him." He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands. "Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was Lawrence!" Poirot grinned. "I know you did." "But John! My old friend John!" "Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend," observed Poirot philosophically. "You cannot mix up sentiment and reason." "I must say I think you might have given me a hint." "Perhaps, _mon ami_, I did not do so, just because he _was_ your old friend." I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering how I had busily passed on to John what I believed to be Poirot's views concerning Bauerstein. He, by the way, had been acquitted of the charge brought against him. Nevertheless, although he had been too clever for them this time, and the charge of espionage could not be brought home to him, his wings were pretty well clipped for the future. I asked Poirot whether he thought John would be condemned. To my intense surprise, he replied that, on the contrary, he was extremely likely to be acquitted. "But, Poirot" I protested. "Oh, my friend, have I not said to you all along that I have no proofs. It is one thing to know that a man is guilty, it is quite another matter to prove him so. And, in this case, there is terribly little evidence. That is the whole trouble. I, Hercule Poirot, know, but I lack the last link in my chain. And unless I can find that missing link" He shook his head gravely. "When did you first suspect John Cavendish?" I asked, after a minute or two. "Did you not suspect | curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer. "They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then." "How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?" "No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated." "Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion."<|quote|>Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in.</|quote|>"There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings." "A lady?" I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway. "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you." "Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!" "I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling. "That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame" she started ever so slightly "remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service." She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away. "Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?" "Enchanted, madame." All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck me that in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes. The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing. We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong. Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background, all eyes and ears. "Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you" "What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once." "It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him they've arrested Mr. Cavendish!" "Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped. I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes. "No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence Mr. John." Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes. CHAPTER XI. THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place two months later. Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but my admiration and sympathy went out | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified. | No speaker | is--" "--Mrs. Weston, I suppose,"<|quote|>interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.</|quote|>"No--Mrs. Knightley;--and till she is | to Donwell, and that one is--" "--Mrs. Weston, I suppose,"<|quote|>interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.</|quote|>"No--Mrs. Knightley;--and till she is in being, I will manage | safely authorised. It is my party. Leave it all to me. I will invite your guests." "No," "--he calmly replied,--" "there is but one married woman in the world whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and that one is--" "--Mrs. Weston, I suppose,"<|quote|>interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.</|quote|>"No--Mrs. Knightley;--and till she is in being, I will manage such matters myself." "Ah! you are an odd creature!" she cried, satisfied to have no one preferred to herself.--" "You are a humourist, and may say what you like. Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me--Jane and | hope you will bring Elton," said he: "but I will not trouble you to give any other invitations." "Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider--you need not be afraid of delegating power to _me_. I am no young lady on her preferment. Married women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party. Leave it all to me. I will invite your guests." "No," "--he calmly replied,--" "there is but one married woman in the world whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and that one is--" "--Mrs. Weston, I suppose,"<|quote|>interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.</|quote|>"No--Mrs. Knightley;--and till she is in being, I will manage such matters myself." "Ah! you are an odd creature!" she cried, satisfied to have no one preferred to herself.--" "You are a humourist, and may say what you like. Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me--Jane and her aunt.--The rest I leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting the Hartfield family. Don't scruple. I know you are attached to them." "You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on Miss Bates in my way home." "That's quite unnecessary; | again to come--much oftener than he doubted--and was extremely gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment as she chose to consider it. "You may depend upon me," said she. "I certainly will come. Name your day, and I will come. You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax?" "I cannot name a day," said he, "till I have spoken to some others whom I would wish to meet you." "Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche.--I am Lady Patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends with me." "I hope you will bring Elton," said he: "but I will not trouble you to give any other invitations." "Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider--you need not be afraid of delegating power to _me_. I am no young lady on her preferment. Married women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party. Leave it all to me. I will invite your guests." "No," "--he calmly replied,--" "there is but one married woman in the world whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and that one is--" "--Mrs. Weston, I suppose,"<|quote|>interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.</|quote|>"No--Mrs. Knightley;--and till she is in being, I will manage such matters myself." "Ah! you are an odd creature!" she cried, satisfied to have no one preferred to herself.--" "You are a humourist, and may say what you like. Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me--Jane and her aunt.--The rest I leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting the Hartfield family. Don't scruple. I know you are attached to them." "You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on Miss Bates in my way home." "That's quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:--but as you like. It is to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing. I shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging on my arm. Here,--probably this basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be more simple, you see. And Jane will have such another. There is to be no form or parade--a sort of gipsy party. We are to walk about your gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under trees;--and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out of | threw every thing into sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few days, before the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured on, and it was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton's resources were inadequate to such an attack. "Is not this most vexatious, Knightley?" she cried.--" "And such weather for exploring!--These delays and disappointments are quite odious. What are we to do?--The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing done. Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston." "You had better explore to Donwell," replied Mr. Knightley. "That may be done without horses. Come, and eat my strawberries. They are ripening fast." If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so, for his proposal was caught at with delight; and the "Oh! I should like it of all things," was not plainer in words than manner. Donwell was famous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation: but no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been enough to tempt the lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere. She promised him again and again to come--much oftener than he doubted--and was extremely gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment as she chose to consider it. "You may depend upon me," said she. "I certainly will come. Name your day, and I will come. You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax?" "I cannot name a day," said he, "till I have spoken to some others whom I would wish to meet you." "Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche.--I am Lady Patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends with me." "I hope you will bring Elton," said he: "but I will not trouble you to give any other invitations." "Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider--you need not be afraid of delegating power to _me_. I am no young lady on her preferment. Married women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party. Leave it all to me. I will invite your guests." "No," "--he calmly replied,--" "there is but one married woman in the world whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and that one is--" "--Mrs. Weston, I suppose,"<|quote|>interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.</|quote|>"No--Mrs. Knightley;--and till she is in being, I will manage such matters myself." "Ah! you are an odd creature!" she cried, satisfied to have no one preferred to herself.--" "You are a humourist, and may say what you like. Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me--Jane and her aunt.--The rest I leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting the Hartfield family. Don't scruple. I know you are attached to them." "You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on Miss Bates in my way home." "That's quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:--but as you like. It is to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing. I shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging on my arm. Here,--probably this basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be more simple, you see. And Jane will have such another. There is to be no form or parade--a sort of gipsy party. We are to walk about your gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under trees;--and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out of doors--a table spread in the shade, you know. Every thing as natural and simple as possible. Is not that your idea?" "Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have the table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity of gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is best observed by meals within doors. When you are tired of eating strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house." "Well--as you please; only don't have a great set out. And, by the bye, can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?--Pray be sincere, Knightley. If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to inspect anything--" "I have not the least wish for it, I thank you." "Well--but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper is extremely clever." "I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever, and would spurn any body's assistance." "I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to come on donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me--and my caro sposo walking by. I really must talk to him about | to Box Hill. That there was to be such a party had been long generally known: it had even given the idea of another. Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see what every body found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed to chuse some fine morning and drive thither. Two or three more of the chosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to be done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings. This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not but feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr. Weston that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and sister had failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go together; and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it was to be, if she had no objection. Now, as her objection was nothing but her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must already be perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing forward again:--it could not be done without a reproof to him, which would be giving pain to his wife; and she found herself therefore obliged to consent to an arrangement which she would have done a great deal to avoid; an arrangement which would probably expose her even to the degradation of being said to be of Mrs. Elton's party! Every feeling was offended; and the forbearance of her outward submission left a heavy arrear due of secret severity in her reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr. Weston's temper. "I am glad you approve of what I have done," said he very comfortably. "But I thought you would. Such schemes as these are nothing without numbers. One cannot have too large a party. A large party secures its own amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all. One could not leave her out." Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private. It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton was growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing into sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few days, before the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured on, and it was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton's resources were inadequate to such an attack. "Is not this most vexatious, Knightley?" she cried.--" "And such weather for exploring!--These delays and disappointments are quite odious. What are we to do?--The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing done. Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston." "You had better explore to Donwell," replied Mr. Knightley. "That may be done without horses. Come, and eat my strawberries. They are ripening fast." If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so, for his proposal was caught at with delight; and the "Oh! I should like it of all things," was not plainer in words than manner. Donwell was famous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation: but no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been enough to tempt the lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere. She promised him again and again to come--much oftener than he doubted--and was extremely gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment as she chose to consider it. "You may depend upon me," said she. "I certainly will come. Name your day, and I will come. You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax?" "I cannot name a day," said he, "till I have spoken to some others whom I would wish to meet you." "Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche.--I am Lady Patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends with me." "I hope you will bring Elton," said he: "but I will not trouble you to give any other invitations." "Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider--you need not be afraid of delegating power to _me_. I am no young lady on her preferment. Married women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party. Leave it all to me. I will invite your guests." "No," "--he calmly replied,--" "there is but one married woman in the world whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and that one is--" "--Mrs. Weston, I suppose,"<|quote|>interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.</|quote|>"No--Mrs. Knightley;--and till she is in being, I will manage such matters myself." "Ah! you are an odd creature!" she cried, satisfied to have no one preferred to herself.--" "You are a humourist, and may say what you like. Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me--Jane and her aunt.--The rest I leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting the Hartfield family. Don't scruple. I know you are attached to them." "You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on Miss Bates in my way home." "That's quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:--but as you like. It is to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing. I shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging on my arm. Here,--probably this basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be more simple, you see. And Jane will have such another. There is to be no form or parade--a sort of gipsy party. We are to walk about your gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under trees;--and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out of doors--a table spread in the shade, you know. Every thing as natural and simple as possible. Is not that your idea?" "Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have the table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity of gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is best observed by meals within doors. When you are tired of eating strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house." "Well--as you please; only don't have a great set out. And, by the bye, can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?--Pray be sincere, Knightley. If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to inspect anything--" "I have not the least wish for it, I thank you." "Well--but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper is extremely clever." "I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever, and would spurn any body's assistance." "I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to come on donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me--and my caro sposo walking by. I really must talk to him about purchasing a donkey. In a country life I conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever so many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at home;--and very long walks, you know--in summer there is dust, and in winter there is dirt." "You will not find either, between Donwell and Highbury. Donwell Lane is never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry. Come on a donkey, however, if you prefer it. You can borrow Mrs. Cole's. I would wish every thing to be as much to your taste as possible." "That I am sure you would. Indeed I do you justice, my good friend. Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I know you have the warmest heart. As I tell Mr. E., you are a thorough humourist.--Yes, believe me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention to me in the whole of this scheme. You have hit upon the very thing to please me." Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade. He wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as Emma, to join the party; and he knew that to have any of them sitting down out of doors to eat would inevitably make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under the specious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at Donwell, be tempted away to his misery. He was invited on good faith. No lurking horrors were to upbraid him for his easy credulity. He did consent. He had not been at Donwell for two years. "Some very fine morning, he, and Emma, and Harriet, could go very well; and he could sit still with Mrs. Weston, while the dear girls walked about the gardens. He did not suppose they could be damp now, in the middle of the day. He should like to see the old house again exceedingly, and should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton, and any other of his neighbours.--He could not see any objection at all to his, and Emma's, and Harriet's going there some very fine morning. He thought it very well done of Mr. Knightley to invite them--very kind and sensible--much cleverer than dining out.--He was not fond of dining out." Mr. Knightley was fortunate in every body's most ready concurrence. The invitation was everywhere so | impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing into sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few days, before the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured on, and it was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton's resources were inadequate to such an attack. "Is not this most vexatious, Knightley?" she cried.--" "And such weather for exploring!--These delays and disappointments are quite odious. What are we to do?--The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing done. Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston." "You had better explore to Donwell," replied Mr. Knightley. "That may be done without horses. Come, and eat my strawberries. They are ripening fast." If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so, for his proposal was caught at with delight; and the "Oh! I should like it of all things," was not plainer in words than manner. Donwell was famous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation: but no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been enough to tempt the lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere. She promised him again and again to come--much oftener than he doubted--and was extremely gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment as she chose to consider it. "You may depend upon me," said she. "I certainly will come. Name your day, and I will come. You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax?" "I cannot name a day," said he, "till I have spoken to some others whom I would wish to meet you." "Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche.--I am Lady Patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends with me." "I hope you will bring Elton," said he: "but I will not trouble you to give any other invitations." "Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider--you need not be afraid of delegating power to _me_. I am no young lady on her preferment. Married women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party. Leave it all to me. I will invite your guests." "No," "--he calmly replied,--" "there is but one married woman in the world whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and that one is--" "--Mrs. Weston, I suppose,"<|quote|>interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.</|quote|>"No--Mrs. Knightley;--and till she is in being, I will manage such matters myself." "Ah! you are an odd creature!" she cried, satisfied to have no one preferred to herself.--" "You are a humourist, and may say what you like. Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me--Jane and her aunt.--The rest I leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting the Hartfield family. Don't scruple. I know you are attached to them." "You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on Miss Bates in my way home." "That's quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:--but as you like. It is to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing. I shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging on my arm. Here,--probably this basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be more simple, you see. And Jane will have such another. There is to be no form or parade--a sort of gipsy party. We are to walk about your gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under trees;--and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out of doors--a table spread in the shade, you know. Every thing as natural and simple as possible. Is not that your idea?" "Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have the table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity of gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is best observed by meals within doors. When you are tired of eating strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house." "Well--as you please; only don't have a great set out. And, by the bye, can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?--Pray be sincere, Knightley. If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to inspect anything--" "I have not the least wish for it, I thank you." "Well--but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper is extremely clever." "I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever, and would spurn any body's assistance." "I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to come on donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me--and my caro sposo walking by. I really must talk to him about purchasing a donkey. In a country life I conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever so many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at home;--and very long walks, you know--in summer there | Emma |
"I ve planned out my life in sections ever since I was a child, to make it last longer. You see, I m always afraid that I m missing something" | Ralph Denham | he wondered, he told her.<|quote|>"I ve planned out my life in sections ever since I was a child, to make it last longer. You see, I m always afraid that I m missing something"</|quote|>"And so am I!" Katharine | true about himself; and as he wondered, he told her.<|quote|>"I ve planned out my life in sections ever since I was a child, to make it last longer. You see, I m always afraid that I m missing something"</|quote|>"And so am I!" Katharine exclaimed. "But, after all," she | think, Dante, too." She laughed. "Think of providing for one s old age! And would you refuse to see Venice if you had the chance?" Instead of answering her, he wondered whether he should tell her something that was quite true about himself; and as he wondered, he told her.<|quote|>"I ve planned out my life in sections ever since I was a child, to make it last longer. You see, I m always afraid that I m missing something"</|quote|>"And so am I!" Katharine exclaimed. "But, after all," she added, "why should you miss anything?" "Why? Because I m poor, for one thing," Ralph rejoined. "You, I suppose, can have Venice and India and Dante every day of your life." She said nothing for a moment, but rested one | like Venice," she observed, raising her hand. "The motor-cars, I mean, shooting about so quickly, with their lights." "I ve never seen Venice," he replied. "I keep that and some other things for my old age." "What are the other things?" she asked. "There s Venice and India and, I think, Dante, too." She laughed. "Think of providing for one s old age! And would you refuse to see Venice if you had the chance?" Instead of answering her, he wondered whether he should tell her something that was quite true about himself; and as he wondered, he told her.<|quote|>"I ve planned out my life in sections ever since I was a child, to make it last longer. You see, I m always afraid that I m missing something"</|quote|>"And so am I!" Katharine exclaimed. "But, after all," she added, "why should you miss anything?" "Why? Because I m poor, for one thing," Ralph rejoined. "You, I suppose, can have Venice and India and Dante every day of your life." She said nothing for a moment, but rested one hand, which was bare of glove, upon the rail in front of her, meditating upon a variety of things, of which one was that this strange young man pronounced Dante as she was used to hearing it pronounced, and another, that he had, most unexpectedly, a feeling about life that | come over her as they sat down and the omnibus began to move forward. He imagined her contemplating the avenue in front of them with those honest sad eyes which seemed to set him at such a distance from them. But the breeze was blowing in their faces; it lifted her hat for a second, and she drew out a pin and stuck it in again, a little action which seemed, for some reason, to make her rather more fallible. Ah, if only her hat would blow off, and leave her altogether disheveled, accepting it from his hands! "This is like Venice," she observed, raising her hand. "The motor-cars, I mean, shooting about so quickly, with their lights." "I ve never seen Venice," he replied. "I keep that and some other things for my old age." "What are the other things?" she asked. "There s Venice and India and, I think, Dante, too." She laughed. "Think of providing for one s old age! And would you refuse to see Venice if you had the chance?" Instead of answering her, he wondered whether he should tell her something that was quite true about himself; and as he wondered, he told her.<|quote|>"I ve planned out my life in sections ever since I was a child, to make it last longer. You see, I m always afraid that I m missing something"</|quote|>"And so am I!" Katharine exclaimed. "But, after all," she added, "why should you miss anything?" "Why? Because I m poor, for one thing," Ralph rejoined. "You, I suppose, can have Venice and India and Dante every day of your life." She said nothing for a moment, but rested one hand, which was bare of glove, upon the rail in front of her, meditating upon a variety of things, of which one was that this strange young man pronounced Dante as she was used to hearing it pronounced, and another, that he had, most unexpectedly, a feeling about life that was familiar to her. Perhaps, then, he was the sort of person she might take an interest in, if she came to know him better, and as she had placed him among those whom she would never want to know better, this was enough to make her silent. She hastily recalled her first view of him, in the little room where the relics were kept, and ran a bar through half her impressions, as one cancels a badly written sentence, having found the right one. "But to know that one might have things doesn t alter the fact that one | and the effect of people passing in the opposite direction was to produce a queer dizziness both in her head and in Ralph s, which set their bodies far apart. But she did her duty by her companion almost unconsciously. "Mary Datchet does that sort of work very well.... She s responsible for it, I suppose?" "Yes. The others don t help at all.... Has she made a convert of you?" "Oh no. That is, I m a convert already." "But she hasn t persuaded you to work for them?" "Oh dear no that wouldn t do at all." So they walked on down the Tottenham Court Road, parting and coming together again, and Ralph felt much as though he were addressing the summit of a poplar in a high gale of wind. "Suppose we get on to that omnibus?" he suggested. Katharine acquiesced, and they climbed up, and found themselves alone on top of it. "But which way are you going?" Katharine asked, waking a little from the trance into which movement among moving things had thrown her. "I m going to the Temple," Ralph replied, inventing a destination on the spur of the moment. He felt the change come over her as they sat down and the omnibus began to move forward. He imagined her contemplating the avenue in front of them with those honest sad eyes which seemed to set him at such a distance from them. But the breeze was blowing in their faces; it lifted her hat for a second, and she drew out a pin and stuck it in again, a little action which seemed, for some reason, to make her rather more fallible. Ah, if only her hat would blow off, and leave her altogether disheveled, accepting it from his hands! "This is like Venice," she observed, raising her hand. "The motor-cars, I mean, shooting about so quickly, with their lights." "I ve never seen Venice," he replied. "I keep that and some other things for my old age." "What are the other things?" she asked. "There s Venice and India and, I think, Dante, too." She laughed. "Think of providing for one s old age! And would you refuse to see Venice if you had the chance?" Instead of answering her, he wondered whether he should tell her something that was quite true about himself; and as he wondered, he told her.<|quote|>"I ve planned out my life in sections ever since I was a child, to make it last longer. You see, I m always afraid that I m missing something"</|quote|>"And so am I!" Katharine exclaimed. "But, after all," she added, "why should you miss anything?" "Why? Because I m poor, for one thing," Ralph rejoined. "You, I suppose, can have Venice and India and Dante every day of your life." She said nothing for a moment, but rested one hand, which was bare of glove, upon the rail in front of her, meditating upon a variety of things, of which one was that this strange young man pronounced Dante as she was used to hearing it pronounced, and another, that he had, most unexpectedly, a feeling about life that was familiar to her. Perhaps, then, he was the sort of person she might take an interest in, if she came to know him better, and as she had placed him among those whom she would never want to know better, this was enough to make her silent. She hastily recalled her first view of him, in the little room where the relics were kept, and ran a bar through half her impressions, as one cancels a badly written sentence, having found the right one. "But to know that one might have things doesn t alter the fact that one hasn t got them," she said, in some confusion. "How could I go to India, for example? Besides," she began impulsively, and stopped herself. Here the conductor came round, and interrupted them. Ralph waited for her to resume her sentence, but she said no more. "I have a message to give your father," he remarked. "Perhaps you would give it him, or I could come" "Yes, do come," Katharine replied. "Still, I don t see why you shouldn t go to India," Ralph began, in order to keep her from rising, as she threatened to do. But she got up in spite of him, and said good-bye with her usual air of decision, and left him with a quickness which Ralph connected now with all her movements. He looked down and saw her standing on the pavement edge, an alert, commanding figure, which waited its season to cross, and then walked boldly and swiftly to the other side. That gesture and action would be added to the picture he had of her, but at present the real woman completely routed the phantom one. CHAPTER VII "And little Augustus Pelham said to me," It s the younger generation knocking at the | which were transacted almost every night, in imaginary scenes, as he walked through the lamplit streets home from the office. To walk with Katharine in the flesh would either feed that phantom with fresh food, which, as all who nourish dreams are aware, is a process that becomes necessary from time to time, or refine it to such a degree of thinness that it was scarcely serviceable any longer; and that, too, is sometimes a welcome change to a dreamer. And all the time Ralph was well aware that the bulk of Katharine was not represented in his dreams at all, so that when he met her he was bewildered by the fact that she had nothing to do with his dream of her. When, on reaching the street, Katharine found that Mr. Denham proceeded to keep pace by her side, she was surprised and, perhaps, a little annoyed. She, too, had her margin of imagination, and to-night her activity in this obscure region of the mind required solitude. If she had had her way, she would have walked very fast down the Tottenham Court Road, and then sprung into a cab and raced swiftly home. The view she had had of the inside of an office was of the nature of a dream to her. Shut off up there, she compared Mrs. Seal, and Mary Datchet, and Mr. Clacton to enchanted people in a bewitched tower, with the spiders webs looping across the corners of the room, and all the tools of the necromancer s craft at hand; for so aloof and unreal and apart from the normal world did they seem to her, in the house of innumerable typewriters, murmuring their incantations and concocting their drugs, and flinging their frail spiders webs over the torrent of life which rushed down the streets outside. She may have been conscious that there was some exaggeration in this fancy of hers, for she certainly did not wish to share it with Ralph. To him, she supposed, Mary Datchet, composing leaflets for Cabinet Ministers among her typewriters, represented all that was interesting and genuine; and, accordingly, she shut them both out from all share in the crowded street, with its pendant necklace of lamps, its lighted windows, and its throng of men and women, which exhilarated her to such an extent that she very nearly forgot her companion. She walked very fast, and the effect of people passing in the opposite direction was to produce a queer dizziness both in her head and in Ralph s, which set their bodies far apart. But she did her duty by her companion almost unconsciously. "Mary Datchet does that sort of work very well.... She s responsible for it, I suppose?" "Yes. The others don t help at all.... Has she made a convert of you?" "Oh no. That is, I m a convert already." "But she hasn t persuaded you to work for them?" "Oh dear no that wouldn t do at all." So they walked on down the Tottenham Court Road, parting and coming together again, and Ralph felt much as though he were addressing the summit of a poplar in a high gale of wind. "Suppose we get on to that omnibus?" he suggested. Katharine acquiesced, and they climbed up, and found themselves alone on top of it. "But which way are you going?" Katharine asked, waking a little from the trance into which movement among moving things had thrown her. "I m going to the Temple," Ralph replied, inventing a destination on the spur of the moment. He felt the change come over her as they sat down and the omnibus began to move forward. He imagined her contemplating the avenue in front of them with those honest sad eyes which seemed to set him at such a distance from them. But the breeze was blowing in their faces; it lifted her hat for a second, and she drew out a pin and stuck it in again, a little action which seemed, for some reason, to make her rather more fallible. Ah, if only her hat would blow off, and leave her altogether disheveled, accepting it from his hands! "This is like Venice," she observed, raising her hand. "The motor-cars, I mean, shooting about so quickly, with their lights." "I ve never seen Venice," he replied. "I keep that and some other things for my old age." "What are the other things?" she asked. "There s Venice and India and, I think, Dante, too." She laughed. "Think of providing for one s old age! And would you refuse to see Venice if you had the chance?" Instead of answering her, he wondered whether he should tell her something that was quite true about himself; and as he wondered, he told her.<|quote|>"I ve planned out my life in sections ever since I was a child, to make it last longer. You see, I m always afraid that I m missing something"</|quote|>"And so am I!" Katharine exclaimed. "But, after all," she added, "why should you miss anything?" "Why? Because I m poor, for one thing," Ralph rejoined. "You, I suppose, can have Venice and India and Dante every day of your life." She said nothing for a moment, but rested one hand, which was bare of glove, upon the rail in front of her, meditating upon a variety of things, of which one was that this strange young man pronounced Dante as she was used to hearing it pronounced, and another, that he had, most unexpectedly, a feeling about life that was familiar to her. Perhaps, then, he was the sort of person she might take an interest in, if she came to know him better, and as she had placed him among those whom she would never want to know better, this was enough to make her silent. She hastily recalled her first view of him, in the little room where the relics were kept, and ran a bar through half her impressions, as one cancels a badly written sentence, having found the right one. "But to know that one might have things doesn t alter the fact that one hasn t got them," she said, in some confusion. "How could I go to India, for example? Besides," she began impulsively, and stopped herself. Here the conductor came round, and interrupted them. Ralph waited for her to resume her sentence, but she said no more. "I have a message to give your father," he remarked. "Perhaps you would give it him, or I could come" "Yes, do come," Katharine replied. "Still, I don t see why you shouldn t go to India," Ralph began, in order to keep her from rising, as she threatened to do. But she got up in spite of him, and said good-bye with her usual air of decision, and left him with a quickness which Ralph connected now with all her movements. He looked down and saw her standing on the pavement edge, an alert, commanding figure, which waited its season to cross, and then walked boldly and swiftly to the other side. That gesture and action would be added to the picture he had of her, but at present the real woman completely routed the phantom one. CHAPTER VII "And little Augustus Pelham said to me," It s the younger generation knocking at the door, "and I said to him," Oh, but the younger generation comes in without knocking, Mr. Pelham. "Such a feeble little joke, wasn t it, but down it went into his notebook all the same."" "Let us congratulate ourselves that we shall be in the grave before that work is published," said Mr. Hilbery. The elderly couple were waiting for the dinner-bell to ring and for their daughter to come into the room. Their arm-chairs were drawn up on either side of the fire, and each sat in the same slightly crouched position, looking into the coals, with the expressions of people who have had their share of experiences and wait, rather passively, for something to happen. Mr. Hilbery now gave all his attention to a piece of coal which had fallen out of the grate, and to selecting a favorable position for it among the lumps that were burning already. Mrs. Hilbery watched him in silence, and the smile changed on her lips as if her mind still played with the events of the afternoon. When Mr. Hilbery had accomplished his task, he resumed his crouching position again, and began to toy with the little green stone attached to his watch-chain. His deep, oval-shaped eyes were fixed upon the flames, but behind the superficial glaze seemed to brood an observant and whimsical spirit, which kept the brown of the eye still unusually vivid. But a look of indolence, the result of skepticism or of a taste too fastidious to be satisfied by the prizes and conclusions so easily within his grasp, lent him an expression almost of melancholy. After sitting thus for a time, he seemed to reach some point in his thinking which demonstrated its futility, upon which he sighed and stretched his hand for a book lying on the table by his side. Directly the door opened he closed the book, and the eyes of father and mother both rested on Katharine as she came towards them. The sight seemed at once to give them a motive which they had not had before. To them she appeared, as she walked towards them in her light evening dress, extremely young, and the sight of her refreshed them, were it only because her youth and ignorance made their knowledge of the world of some value. "The only excuse for you, Katharine, is that dinner is still later than you | spiders webs looping across the corners of the room, and all the tools of the necromancer s craft at hand; for so aloof and unreal and apart from the normal world did they seem to her, in the house of innumerable typewriters, murmuring their incantations and concocting their drugs, and flinging their frail spiders webs over the torrent of life which rushed down the streets outside. She may have been conscious that there was some exaggeration in this fancy of hers, for she certainly did not wish to share it with Ralph. To him, she supposed, Mary Datchet, composing leaflets for Cabinet Ministers among her typewriters, represented all that was interesting and genuine; and, accordingly, she shut them both out from all share in the crowded street, with its pendant necklace of lamps, its lighted windows, and its throng of men and women, which exhilarated her to such an extent that she very nearly forgot her companion. She walked very fast, and the effect of people passing in the opposite direction was to produce a queer dizziness both in her head and in Ralph s, which set their bodies far apart. But she did her duty by her companion almost unconsciously. "Mary Datchet does that sort of work very well.... She s responsible for it, I suppose?" "Yes. The others don t help at all.... Has she made a convert of you?" "Oh no. That is, I m a convert already." "But she hasn t persuaded you to work for them?" "Oh dear no that wouldn t do at all." So they walked on down the Tottenham Court Road, parting and coming together again, and Ralph felt much as though he were addressing the summit of a poplar in a high gale of wind. "Suppose we get on to that omnibus?" he suggested. Katharine acquiesced, and they climbed up, and found themselves alone on top of it. "But which way are you going?" Katharine asked, waking a little from the trance into which movement among moving things had thrown her. "I m going to the Temple," Ralph replied, inventing a destination on the spur of the moment. He felt the change come over her as they sat down and the omnibus began to move forward. He imagined her contemplating the avenue in front of them with those honest sad eyes which seemed to set him at such a distance from them. But the breeze was blowing in their faces; it lifted her hat for a second, and she drew out a pin and stuck it in again, a little action which seemed, for some reason, to make her rather more fallible. Ah, if only her hat would blow off, and leave her altogether disheveled, accepting it from his hands! "This is like Venice," she observed, raising her hand. "The motor-cars, I mean, shooting about so quickly, with their lights." "I ve never seen Venice," he replied. "I keep that and some other things for my old age." "What are the other things?" she asked. "There s Venice and India and, I think, Dante, too." She laughed. "Think of providing for one s old age! And would you refuse to see Venice if you had the chance?" Instead of answering her, he wondered whether he should tell her something that was quite true about himself; and as he wondered, he told her.<|quote|>"I ve planned out my life in sections ever since I was a child, to make it last longer. You see, I m always afraid that I m missing something"</|quote|>"And so am I!" Katharine exclaimed. "But, after all," she added, "why should you miss anything?" "Why? Because I m poor, for one thing," Ralph rejoined. "You, I suppose, can have Venice and India and Dante every day of your life." She said nothing for a moment, but rested one hand, which was bare of glove, upon the rail in front of her, meditating upon a variety of things, of which one was that this strange young man pronounced Dante as she was used to hearing it pronounced, and another, that he had, most unexpectedly, a feeling about life that was familiar to her. Perhaps, then, he was the sort of person she might take an interest in, if she came to know him better, and as she had placed him among those whom she would never want to know better, this was enough to make her silent. She hastily recalled her first view of him, in the little room where the relics were kept, and ran a bar through half her impressions, as one cancels a badly written sentence, having found the right one. "But to know that one might have things doesn t alter the fact that one hasn t got them," she said, in some confusion. "How could I go to India, for example? Besides," she began impulsively, and stopped herself. Here the conductor came round, and interrupted them. Ralph waited for her to resume her sentence, but she said no more. "I have a message to give your father," he remarked. "Perhaps you would give it him, or I could come" "Yes, do come," Katharine replied. "Still, I don t see why you shouldn t go to India," Ralph began, in order to keep her from rising, as she threatened to do. But she got up in spite of him, and said good-bye with her usual air of decision, and left him with a quickness which Ralph connected now with all her movements. He looked down and saw her standing on the pavement edge, an alert, commanding figure, which waited its season to cross, and then walked boldly and swiftly to the other side. That gesture and action would be added to the picture he had of her, but at present the real woman completely routed the phantom one. CHAPTER VII "And little Augustus Pelham said to me," It s the younger generation knocking at the door, "and I said to him," Oh, but the younger generation comes in without knocking, Mr. Pelham. "Such a feeble little joke, wasn t it, but down it went into his notebook all the same."" "Let us congratulate ourselves that we shall be in the grave before that work is published," said Mr. Hilbery. The elderly couple were waiting for the dinner-bell to ring and for their daughter to come into the room. Their arm-chairs were drawn up on either side of the fire, and each sat in the same slightly crouched position, looking into the coals, with the expressions of people who have had their share of experiences and wait, rather passively, for something to happen. Mr. Hilbery now gave all his attention to a piece of coal which had fallen out of the grate, and to selecting a favorable position for it among the lumps that were burning already. Mrs. Hilbery watched him | Night And Day |
"I fear not," | Mr. Das | know, but will it last?"<|quote|>"I fear not,"</|quote|>said Das, who had much | you, irrespective of creed." "I know, but will it last?"<|quote|>"I fear not,"</|quote|>said Das, who had much mental clearness. "And for that | Hindus, but Indians generally," he said timidly. "There is no such person in existence as the general Indian." "There was not, but there may be when you have written a poem. You are our hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed." "I know, but will it last?"<|quote|>"I fear not,"</|quote|>said Das, who had much mental clearness. "And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul." "Half a sec," said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. "Here you are. | accorded both. "My dear Das, why, when you tried to send me to prison, should I try to send Mr. Bhattacharya a poem? Eh? That is naturally entirely a joke. I will write him the best I can, but I thought your magazine was for Hindus." "It is not for Hindus, but Indians generally," he said timidly. "There is no such person in existence as the general Indian." "There was not, but there may be when you have written a poem. You are our hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed." "I know, but will it last?"<|quote|>"I fear not,"</|quote|>said Das, who had much mental clearness. "And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul." "Half a sec," said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. "Here you are. . . . Is not this better than a poem?" "Happy the man who can compose both." "You are full of compliments to-day." "I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always | to her profession. Mrs. Moore had tended to keep the products of her two marriages apart, and Adela had not come across the younger branch so far. CHAPTER XXX Another local consequence of the trial was a Hindu-Moslem entente. Loud protestations of amity were exchanged by prominent citizens, and there went with them a genuine desire for a good understanding. Aziz, when he was at the hospital one day, received a visit from rather a sympathetic figure: Mr. Das. The magistrate sought two favours from him: a remedy for shingles and a poem for his brother-in-law's new monthly magazine. He accorded both. "My dear Das, why, when you tried to send me to prison, should I try to send Mr. Bhattacharya a poem? Eh? That is naturally entirely a joke. I will write him the best I can, but I thought your magazine was for Hindus." "It is not for Hindus, but Indians generally," he said timidly. "There is no such person in existence as the general Indian." "There was not, but there may be when you have written a poem. You are our hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed." "I know, but will it last?"<|quote|>"I fear not,"</|quote|>said Das, who had much mental clearness. "And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul." "Half a sec," said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. "Here you are. . . . Is not this better than a poem?" "Happy the man who can compose both." "You are full of compliments to-day." "I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner." "No, no, what nonsense!" protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent." They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said: "Excuse my | Said looked pure and charming in the light of a rose-grey morning. She went on shore there with an American missionary, they walked out to the Lesseps statue, they drank the tonic air of the Levant. "To what duties, Miss Quested, are you returning in your own country after your taste of the tropics?" the missionary asked. "Observe, I don't say to what do you turn, but to what do you _re_-turn. Every life ought to contain both a turn and a _re_-turn. This celebrated pioneer" (he pointed to the statue) "will make my question clear. He turns to the East, he _re_-turns to the West. You can see it from the cute position of his hands, one of which holds a string of sausages." The missionary looked at her humorously, in order to cover the emptiness of his mind. He had no idea what he meant by "turn" and "return," but he often used words in pairs, for the sake of moral brightness. "I see," she replied. Suddenly, in the Mediterranean clarity, she had seen. Her first duty on returning to England was to look up those other children of Mrs. Moore's, Ralph and Stella, then she would turn to her profession. Mrs. Moore had tended to keep the products of her two marriages apart, and Adela had not come across the younger branch so far. CHAPTER XXX Another local consequence of the trial was a Hindu-Moslem entente. Loud protestations of amity were exchanged by prominent citizens, and there went with them a genuine desire for a good understanding. Aziz, when he was at the hospital one day, received a visit from rather a sympathetic figure: Mr. Das. The magistrate sought two favours from him: a remedy for shingles and a poem for his brother-in-law's new monthly magazine. He accorded both. "My dear Das, why, when you tried to send me to prison, should I try to send Mr. Bhattacharya a poem? Eh? That is naturally entirely a joke. I will write him the best I can, but I thought your magazine was for Hindus." "It is not for Hindus, but Indians generally," he said timidly. "There is no such person in existence as the general Indian." "There was not, but there may be when you have written a poem. You are our hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed." "I know, but will it last?"<|quote|>"I fear not,"</|quote|>said Das, who had much mental clearness. "And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul." "Half a sec," said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. "Here you are. . . . Is not this better than a poem?" "Happy the man who can compose both." "You are full of compliments to-day." "I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner." "No, no, what nonsense!" protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent." They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said: "Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth." "Oh, well, about this poem how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?" he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the ugliness of facts could not spoil. "Professor Godbole often mentioned it, before his departure for Mau." "How did he hear?" "He too was a poet; do you not divine each other?" Flattered by the invitation, he got to work that evening. The feel of the pen between his fingers generated bulbuls at once. His poem was again about the decay of Islam and the brevity of love; as sad and sweet as he could contrive, but not nourished by personal experience, and of no interest to these excellent Hindus. Feeling dissatisfied, he rushed to the other extreme, and wrote a satire, which was too libellous to print. He could only express pathos or venom, though most of his life had no concern with either. He loved poetry science was merely an acquisition, which he laid aside when unobserved like his European dress and this evening he longed to compose a new song | honest, even subtle. They spoke the same language, and held the same opinions, and the variety of age and sex did not divide them. Yet they were dissatisfied. When they agreed, "I want to go on living a bit," or, "I don't believe in God," the words were followed by a curious backwash as though the universe had displaced itself to fill up a tiny void, or as though they had seen their own gestures from an immense height dwarfs talking, shaking hands and assuring each other that they stood on the same footing of insight. They did not think they were wrong, because as soon as honest people think they are wrong instability sets up. Not for them was an infinite goal behind the stars, and they never sought it. But wistfulness descended on them now, as on other occasions; the shadow of the shadow of a dream fell over their clear-cut interests, and objects never seen again seemed messages from another world. "And I do like you so very much, if I may say so," he affirmed. "I'm glad, for I like you. Let's meet again." "We will, in England, if I ever take home leave." "But I suppose you're not likely to do that yet." "Quite a chance. I have a scheme on now as a matter of fact." "Oh, that would be very nice." So it petered out. Ten days later Adela went off, by the same route as her dead friend. The final beat up before the monsoon had come. The country was stricken and blurred. Its houses, trees and fields were all modelled out of the same brown paste, and the sea at Bombay slid about like broth against the quays. Her last Indian adventure was with Antony, who followed her on to the boat and tried to blackmail her. She had been Mr. Fielding's mistress, Antony said. Perhaps Antony was discontented with his tip. She rang the cabin bell and had him turned out, but his statement created rather a scandal, and people did not speak to her much during the first part of the voyage. Through the Indian Ocean and the Red Sea she was left to herself, and to the dregs of Chandrapore. With Egypt the atmosphere altered. The clean sands, heaped on each side of the canal, seemed to wipe off everything that was difficult and equivocal, and even Port Said looked pure and charming in the light of a rose-grey morning. She went on shore there with an American missionary, they walked out to the Lesseps statue, they drank the tonic air of the Levant. "To what duties, Miss Quested, are you returning in your own country after your taste of the tropics?" the missionary asked. "Observe, I don't say to what do you turn, but to what do you _re_-turn. Every life ought to contain both a turn and a _re_-turn. This celebrated pioneer" (he pointed to the statue) "will make my question clear. He turns to the East, he _re_-turns to the West. You can see it from the cute position of his hands, one of which holds a string of sausages." The missionary looked at her humorously, in order to cover the emptiness of his mind. He had no idea what he meant by "turn" and "return," but he often used words in pairs, for the sake of moral brightness. "I see," she replied. Suddenly, in the Mediterranean clarity, she had seen. Her first duty on returning to England was to look up those other children of Mrs. Moore's, Ralph and Stella, then she would turn to her profession. Mrs. Moore had tended to keep the products of her two marriages apart, and Adela had not come across the younger branch so far. CHAPTER XXX Another local consequence of the trial was a Hindu-Moslem entente. Loud protestations of amity were exchanged by prominent citizens, and there went with them a genuine desire for a good understanding. Aziz, when he was at the hospital one day, received a visit from rather a sympathetic figure: Mr. Das. The magistrate sought two favours from him: a remedy for shingles and a poem for his brother-in-law's new monthly magazine. He accorded both. "My dear Das, why, when you tried to send me to prison, should I try to send Mr. Bhattacharya a poem? Eh? That is naturally entirely a joke. I will write him the best I can, but I thought your magazine was for Hindus." "It is not for Hindus, but Indians generally," he said timidly. "There is no such person in existence as the general Indian." "There was not, but there may be when you have written a poem. You are our hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed." "I know, but will it last?"<|quote|>"I fear not,"</|quote|>said Das, who had much mental clearness. "And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul." "Half a sec," said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. "Here you are. . . . Is not this better than a poem?" "Happy the man who can compose both." "You are full of compliments to-day." "I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner." "No, no, what nonsense!" protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent." They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said: "Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth." "Oh, well, about this poem how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?" he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the ugliness of facts could not spoil. "Professor Godbole often mentioned it, before his departure for Mau." "How did he hear?" "He too was a poet; do you not divine each other?" Flattered by the invitation, he got to work that evening. The feel of the pen between his fingers generated bulbuls at once. His poem was again about the decay of Islam and the brevity of love; as sad and sweet as he could contrive, but not nourished by personal experience, and of no interest to these excellent Hindus. Feeling dissatisfied, he rushed to the other extreme, and wrote a satire, which was too libellous to print. He could only express pathos or venom, though most of his life had no concern with either. He loved poetry science was merely an acquisition, which he laid aside when unobserved like his European dress and this evening he longed to compose a new song which should be acclaimed by multitudes and even sung in the fields. In what language shall it be written? And what shall it announce? He vowed to see more of Indians who were not Mohammedans, and never to look backward. It is the only healthy course. Of what help, in this latitude and hour, are the glories of Cordova and Samarcand? They have gone, and while we lament them the English occupy Delhi and exclude us from East Africa. Islam itself, though true, throws cross-lights over the path to freedom. The song of the future must transcend creed. The poem for Mr. Bhattacharya never got written, but it had an effect. It led him towards the vague and bulky figure of a mother-land. He was without natural affection for the land of his birth, but the Marabar Hills drove him to it. Half closing his eyes, he attempted to love India. She must imitate Japan. Not until she is a nation will her sons be treated with respect. He grew harder and less approachable. The English, whom he had laughed at or ignored, persecuted him everywhere; they had even thrown nets over his dreams. "My great mistake has been taking our rulers as a joke," he said to Hamidullah next day; who replied with a sigh: "It is far the wisest way to take them, but not possible in the long run. Sooner or later a disaster such as yours occurs, and reveals their secret thoughts about our character. If God himself descended from heaven into their club and said you were innocent, they would disbelieve him. Now you see why Mahmoud Ali and self waste so much time over intrigues and associate with creatures like Ram Chand." "I cannot endure committees. I shall go right away." "Where to? Turtons and Burtons, all are the same." "But not in an Indian state." "I believe the Politicals are obliged to have better manners. It amounts to no more." "I do want to get away from British India, even to a poor job. I think I could write poetry there. I wish I had lived in Babur's time and fought and written for him. Gone, gone, and not even any use to say" Gone, gone,' "for it weakens us while we say it. We need a king, Hamidullah; it would make our lives easier. As it is, we must try to appreciate | Suddenly, in the Mediterranean clarity, she had seen. Her first duty on returning to England was to look up those other children of Mrs. Moore's, Ralph and Stella, then she would turn to her profession. Mrs. Moore had tended to keep the products of her two marriages apart, and Adela had not come across the younger branch so far. CHAPTER XXX Another local consequence of the trial was a Hindu-Moslem entente. Loud protestations of amity were exchanged by prominent citizens, and there went with them a genuine desire for a good understanding. Aziz, when he was at the hospital one day, received a visit from rather a sympathetic figure: Mr. Das. The magistrate sought two favours from him: a remedy for shingles and a poem for his brother-in-law's new monthly magazine. He accorded both. "My dear Das, why, when you tried to send me to prison, should I try to send Mr. Bhattacharya a poem? Eh? That is naturally entirely a joke. I will write him the best I can, but I thought your magazine was for Hindus." "It is not for Hindus, but Indians generally," he said timidly. "There is no such person in existence as the general Indian." "There was not, but there may be when you have written a poem. You are our hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed." "I know, but will it last?"<|quote|>"I fear not,"</|quote|>said Das, who had much mental clearness. "And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul." "Half a sec," said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. "Here you are. . . . Is not this better than a poem?" "Happy the man who can compose both." "You are full of compliments to-day." "I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner." "No, no, what nonsense!" protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent." They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said: "Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth." "Oh, well, about this poem how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?" he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the ugliness of facts could not spoil. "Professor Godbole often mentioned it, before his departure for Mau." "How did he hear?" "He too was a poet; do you not divine each other?" Flattered by the invitation, he got to work that evening. The feel of the pen between his fingers generated bulbuls at once. His poem was again about the decay of Islam and the brevity of love; as sad and sweet as he could contrive, but not nourished by personal experience, and of no interest to these excellent Hindus. Feeling dissatisfied, he rushed to the other extreme, and wrote a satire, which was too libellous to print. He could only express pathos or venom, though most of his life had no concern with either. He loved poetry science was merely an acquisition, which he laid aside when unobserved like his European dress and this evening he longed to compose a new song which should be acclaimed by multitudes and even sung in the fields. In what language shall it be written? And what shall it announce? He vowed to see more of Indians who were not Mohammedans, and never to look backward. It is the only healthy course. Of what help, in this latitude and hour, are the glories of Cordova and Samarcand? They have gone, and while we lament them the English occupy Delhi and exclude us from East Africa. Islam itself, though true, throws cross-lights over the path to freedom. The song of the future must transcend creed. The poem for Mr. Bhattacharya never got written, but it had an effect. It led him towards the vague and bulky figure of a mother-land. He was without natural affection for the land of his birth, but the Marabar Hills drove him to it. Half closing his eyes, he attempted to love India. She must imitate Japan. Not until she is | A Passage To India |
She shrank away from him, back in the hall-way. | No speaker | voice, "don't you know me?"<|quote|>She shrank away from him, back in the hall-way.</|quote|>"Yes, yes, Be'y, I knows | long yearning was in his voice, "don't you know me?"<|quote|>She shrank away from him, back in the hall-way.</|quote|>"Yes, yes, Be'y, I knows you. Come in." She led | the pain of finding her. Now he stood before her, and she knew him at a glance, in spite of his haggard countenance. "Fannie," he said, holding out his arms to her, and all of the pain and pathos of long yearning was in his voice, "don't you know me?"<|quote|>She shrank away from him, back in the hall-way.</|quote|>"Yes, yes, Be'y, I knows you. Come in." She led him through the passage-way and into her room, he following with a sudden sinking at his heart. This was not the reception he had expected from Fannie. When they were within the room he turned and held out his arms | where they told him to ring for his wife. But he knew nothing of what awaited him as he confidently pulled the bell. Fannie herself came to the door. The news the papers held had not escaped her, but she had suffered in silence, hoping that Berry might be spared the pain of finding her. Now he stood before her, and she knew him at a glance, in spite of his haggard countenance. "Fannie," he said, holding out his arms to her, and all of the pain and pathos of long yearning was in his voice, "don't you know me?"<|quote|>She shrank away from him, back in the hall-way.</|quote|>"Yes, yes, Be'y, I knows you. Come in." She led him through the passage-way and into her room, he following with a sudden sinking at his heart. This was not the reception he had expected from Fannie. When they were within the room he turned and held out his arms to her again, but she did not notice them. "Why, is you 'shamed o' me?" he asked brokenly. "'Shamed? No! Oh, Be'y," and she sank into a chair and began rocking to and fro in her helpless grief. "What 's de mattah, Fannie? Ain't you glad to see me?" "Yes, | in his eyes when he asked for his son and daughter, and they shifted their responsibility by pretending to themselves that they were doing it for his own good: that the blow would fall more gently upon him coming from her who had been his wife. Berry took the address and inquired his way timidly, hesitatingly, but with a swelling heart, to the door of the flat where Fannie lived. XVIII WHAT BERRY FOUND Had not Berry's years of prison life made him forget what little he knew of reading, he might have read the name Gibson on the door-plate where they told him to ring for his wife. But he knew nothing of what awaited him as he confidently pulled the bell. Fannie herself came to the door. The news the papers held had not escaped her, but she had suffered in silence, hoping that Berry might be spared the pain of finding her. Now he stood before her, and she knew him at a glance, in spite of his haggard countenance. "Fannie," he said, holding out his arms to her, and all of the pain and pathos of long yearning was in his voice, "don't you know me?"<|quote|>She shrank away from him, back in the hall-way.</|quote|>"Yes, yes, Be'y, I knows you. Come in." She led him through the passage-way and into her room, he following with a sudden sinking at his heart. This was not the reception he had expected from Fannie. When they were within the room he turned and held out his arms to her again, but she did not notice them. "Why, is you 'shamed o' me?" he asked brokenly. "'Shamed? No! Oh, Be'y," and she sank into a chair and began rocking to and fro in her helpless grief. "What 's de mattah, Fannie? Ain't you glad to see me?" "Yes, yes, but you don't know nothin', do you? Dey lef' me to tell you?" "Lef' you to tell me? What 's de mattah? Is Joe or Kit daid? Tell me." "No, not daid. Kit dances on de stage fu' a livin', an', Be'y, she ain't de gal she ust to be. Joe--Joe--Joe--he 's in pen'tentiary fu' killin' a ooman." Berry started forward with a cry, "My Gawd! my Gawd! my little gal! my boy!" "Dat ain't all," she went on dully, as if reciting a rote lesson; "I ain't yo' wife no mo'. I 's ma'ied ag'in. Oh Be'y, Be'y, | the first time his heart thrilled within him at the thought of seeing her again. "I ain't hyeahed f'om my people fu' a long time. I did n't know what had become of 'em. How 's Kit an' Joe?" "They 're all right," was the reply. Skaggs could n't tell him, in this the first hour of his freedom. Let him have time to drink the sweetness of that all in. There would be time afterwards to taste all of the bitterness. Once in New York, he found that people wished to see him, some fools, some philanthropists, and a great many reporters. He had to be photographed--all this before he could seek those whom he longed to see. They printed his picture as he was before he went to prison and as he was now, a sort of before-and-after-taking comment, and in the morning that it all appeared, when the _Universe_ spread itself to tell the public what it had done and how it had done it, they gave him his wife's address. It would be better, they thought, for her to tell him herself all that happened. No one of them was brave enough to stand to look in his eyes when he asked for his son and daughter, and they shifted their responsibility by pretending to themselves that they were doing it for his own good: that the blow would fall more gently upon him coming from her who had been his wife. Berry took the address and inquired his way timidly, hesitatingly, but with a swelling heart, to the door of the flat where Fannie lived. XVIII WHAT BERRY FOUND Had not Berry's years of prison life made him forget what little he knew of reading, he might have read the name Gibson on the door-plate where they told him to ring for his wife. But he knew nothing of what awaited him as he confidently pulled the bell. Fannie herself came to the door. The news the papers held had not escaped her, but she had suffered in silence, hoping that Berry might be spared the pain of finding her. Now he stood before her, and she knew him at a glance, in spite of his haggard countenance. "Fannie," he said, holding out his arms to her, and all of the pain and pathos of long yearning was in his voice, "don't you know me?"<|quote|>She shrank away from him, back in the hall-way.</|quote|>"Yes, yes, Be'y, I knows you. Come in." She led him through the passage-way and into her room, he following with a sudden sinking at his heart. This was not the reception he had expected from Fannie. When they were within the room he turned and held out his arms to her again, but she did not notice them. "Why, is you 'shamed o' me?" he asked brokenly. "'Shamed? No! Oh, Be'y," and she sank into a chair and began rocking to and fro in her helpless grief. "What 's de mattah, Fannie? Ain't you glad to see me?" "Yes, yes, but you don't know nothin', do you? Dey lef' me to tell you?" "Lef' you to tell me? What 's de mattah? Is Joe or Kit daid? Tell me." "No, not daid. Kit dances on de stage fu' a livin', an', Be'y, she ain't de gal she ust to be. Joe--Joe--Joe--he 's in pen'tentiary fu' killin' a ooman." Berry started forward with a cry, "My Gawd! my Gawd! my little gal! my boy!" "Dat ain't all," she went on dully, as if reciting a rote lesson; "I ain't yo' wife no mo'. I 's ma'ied ag'in. Oh Be'y, Be'y, don't look at me lak dat. I could n't he'p it. Kit an' Joe lef' me, an' dey said de pen'tentiary divo'ced you an' me, an' dat you 'd nevah come out nohow. Don't look at me lak dat, Be'y." "You ain't my wife no mo'? Hit 's a lie, a damn lie! You is my wife. I 's a innocent man. No pen'tentiay kin tek you erway f'om me. Hit 's enough what dey 've done to my chillen." He rushed forward and seized her by the arm. "Dey sha'n't do no mo', by Gawd! dey sha'n't, I say!" His voice had risen to a fierce roar, like that of a hurt beast, and he shook her by the arm as he spoke. "Oh, don't, Be'y, don't, you hu't me. I could n't he'p it." He glared at her for a moment, and then the real force of the situation came full upon him, and he bowed his head in his hands and wept like a child. The great sobs came up and stuck in his throat. She crept up to him fearfully and laid her hand on his head. "Don't cry, Be'y," she said; "I done wrong, but | or turned back by the letter of a romantic artist or the ravings of a madman, there was a mighty outcry against the farce of justice that had been played out in this man's case. The trial was reviewed; the evidence again brought up and examined. The dignity of the State was threatened. At this time the State did the one thing necessary to save its tottering reputation. It would not surrender, but it capitulated, and Berry Hamilton was pardoned. Berry heard the news with surprise and a half-bitter joy. He had long ago lost hope that justice would ever be done to him. He marvelled at the word that was brought to him now, and he could not understand the strange cordiality of the young white man who met him at the warden's office. Five years of prison life had made a different man of him. He no longer looked to receive kindness from his fellows, and he blinked at it as he blinked at the unwonted brightness of the sun. The lines about his mouth where the smiles used to gather had changed and grown stern with the hopelessness of years. His lips drooped pathetically, and hard treatment had given his eyes a lowering look. His hair, that had hardly shown a white streak, was as white as Maurice Oakley's own. His erstwhile quick wits were dulled and imbruted. He had lived like an ox, working without inspiration or reward, and he came forth like an ox from his stall. All the higher part of him he had left behind, dropping it off day after day through the wearisome years. He had put behind him the Berry Hamilton that laughed and joked and sang and believed, for even his faith had become only a numbed fancy. "This is a very happy occasion, Mr. Hamilton," said Skaggs, shaking his hand heartily. Berry did not answer. What had this slim, glib young man to do with him? What had any white man to do with him after what he had suffered at their hands? "You know you are to go New York with me?" "To New Yawk? What fu'?" Skaggs did not tell him that, now that the _Universe_ had done its work, it demanded the right to crow to its heart's satisfaction. He said only, "You want to see your wife, of course?" Berry had forgotten Fannie, and for the first time his heart thrilled within him at the thought of seeing her again. "I ain't hyeahed f'om my people fu' a long time. I did n't know what had become of 'em. How 's Kit an' Joe?" "They 're all right," was the reply. Skaggs could n't tell him, in this the first hour of his freedom. Let him have time to drink the sweetness of that all in. There would be time afterwards to taste all of the bitterness. Once in New York, he found that people wished to see him, some fools, some philanthropists, and a great many reporters. He had to be photographed--all this before he could seek those whom he longed to see. They printed his picture as he was before he went to prison and as he was now, a sort of before-and-after-taking comment, and in the morning that it all appeared, when the _Universe_ spread itself to tell the public what it had done and how it had done it, they gave him his wife's address. It would be better, they thought, for her to tell him herself all that happened. No one of them was brave enough to stand to look in his eyes when he asked for his son and daughter, and they shifted their responsibility by pretending to themselves that they were doing it for his own good: that the blow would fall more gently upon him coming from her who had been his wife. Berry took the address and inquired his way timidly, hesitatingly, but with a swelling heart, to the door of the flat where Fannie lived. XVIII WHAT BERRY FOUND Had not Berry's years of prison life made him forget what little he knew of reading, he might have read the name Gibson on the door-plate where they told him to ring for his wife. But he knew nothing of what awaited him as he confidently pulled the bell. Fannie herself came to the door. The news the papers held had not escaped her, but she had suffered in silence, hoping that Berry might be spared the pain of finding her. Now he stood before her, and she knew him at a glance, in spite of his haggard countenance. "Fannie," he said, holding out his arms to her, and all of the pain and pathos of long yearning was in his voice, "don't you know me?"<|quote|>She shrank away from him, back in the hall-way.</|quote|>"Yes, yes, Be'y, I knows you. Come in." She led him through the passage-way and into her room, he following with a sudden sinking at his heart. This was not the reception he had expected from Fannie. When they were within the room he turned and held out his arms to her again, but she did not notice them. "Why, is you 'shamed o' me?" he asked brokenly. "'Shamed? No! Oh, Be'y," and she sank into a chair and began rocking to and fro in her helpless grief. "What 's de mattah, Fannie? Ain't you glad to see me?" "Yes, yes, but you don't know nothin', do you? Dey lef' me to tell you?" "Lef' you to tell me? What 's de mattah? Is Joe or Kit daid? Tell me." "No, not daid. Kit dances on de stage fu' a livin', an', Be'y, she ain't de gal she ust to be. Joe--Joe--Joe--he 's in pen'tentiary fu' killin' a ooman." Berry started forward with a cry, "My Gawd! my Gawd! my little gal! my boy!" "Dat ain't all," she went on dully, as if reciting a rote lesson; "I ain't yo' wife no mo'. I 's ma'ied ag'in. Oh Be'y, Be'y, don't look at me lak dat. I could n't he'p it. Kit an' Joe lef' me, an' dey said de pen'tentiary divo'ced you an' me, an' dat you 'd nevah come out nohow. Don't look at me lak dat, Be'y." "You ain't my wife no mo'? Hit 's a lie, a damn lie! You is my wife. I 's a innocent man. No pen'tentiay kin tek you erway f'om me. Hit 's enough what dey 've done to my chillen." He rushed forward and seized her by the arm. "Dey sha'n't do no mo', by Gawd! dey sha'n't, I say!" His voice had risen to a fierce roar, like that of a hurt beast, and he shook her by the arm as he spoke. "Oh, don't, Be'y, don't, you hu't me. I could n't he'p it." He glared at her for a moment, and then the real force of the situation came full upon him, and he bowed his head in his hands and wept like a child. The great sobs came up and stuck in his throat. She crept up to him fearfully and laid her hand on his head. "Don't cry, Be'y," she said; "I done wrong, but I loves you yit." He seized her in his arms and held her tightly until he could control himself. Then he asked weakly, "Well, what am I goin' to do?" "I do' know, Be'y, 'ceptin' dat you 'll have to leave me." "I won't! I 'll never leave you again," he replied doggedly. "But, Be'y, you mus'. You 'll only mek it ha'der on me, an' Gibson 'll beat me ag'in." "Ag'in!" She hung her head: "Yes." He gripped himself hard. "Why cain't you come on off wid me, Fannie? You was mine fus'." "I could n't. He would fin' me anywhaih I went to." "Let him fin' you. You 'll be wid me, an' we 'll settle it, him an' me." "I want to, but oh, I can't, I can't," she wailed. "Please go now, Be'y, befo' he gits home. He 's mad anyhow, 'cause you 're out." Berry looked at her hard, and then said in a dry voice, "An' so I got to go an' leave you to him?" "Yes, you mus'; I 'm his'n now." He turned to the door, murmuring, "My wife gone, Kit a nobody, an' Joe, little Joe, a murderer, an' then I--I--ust to pray to Gawd an' call him 'Ouah Fathah.'" He laughed hoarsely. It sounded like nothing Fannie had ever heard before. "Don't, Be'y, don't say dat. Maybe we don't un'erstan'." Her faith still hung by a slender thread, but his had given way in that moment. "No, we don't un'erstan'," he laughed as he went out of the door. "We don't un'erstan'." He staggered down the steps, blinded by his emotions, and set his face towards the little lodging that he had taken temporarily. There seemed nothing left in life for him to do. Yet he knew that he must work to live, although the effort seemed hardly worth while. He remembered now that the _Universe_ had offered him the under janitorship in its building. He would go and take it, and some day, perhaps--He was not quite sure what the "perhaps" meant. But as his mind grew clearer he came to know, for a sullen, fierce anger was smouldering in his heart against the man who through lies had stolen his wife from him. It was anger that came slowly, but gained in fierceness as it grew. Yes, that was it, he would kill Gibson. It was no worse | and how it had done it, they gave him his wife's address. It would be better, they thought, for her to tell him herself all that happened. No one of them was brave enough to stand to look in his eyes when he asked for his son and daughter, and they shifted their responsibility by pretending to themselves that they were doing it for his own good: that the blow would fall more gently upon him coming from her who had been his wife. Berry took the address and inquired his way timidly, hesitatingly, but with a swelling heart, to the door of the flat where Fannie lived. XVIII WHAT BERRY FOUND Had not Berry's years of prison life made him forget what little he knew of reading, he might have read the name Gibson on the door-plate where they told him to ring for his wife. But he knew nothing of what awaited him as he confidently pulled the bell. Fannie herself came to the door. The news the papers held had not escaped her, but she had suffered in silence, hoping that Berry might be spared the pain of finding her. Now he stood before her, and she knew him at a glance, in spite of his haggard countenance. "Fannie," he said, holding out his arms to her, and all of the pain and pathos of long yearning was in his voice, "don't you know me?"<|quote|>She shrank away from him, back in the hall-way.</|quote|>"Yes, yes, Be'y, I knows you. Come in." She led him through the passage-way and into her room, he following with a sudden sinking at his heart. This was not the reception he had expected from Fannie. When they were within the room he turned and held out his arms to her again, but she did not notice them. "Why, is you 'shamed o' me?" he asked brokenly. "'Shamed? No! Oh, Be'y," and she sank into a chair and began rocking to and fro in her helpless grief. "What 's de mattah, Fannie? Ain't you glad to see me?" "Yes, yes, but you don't know nothin', do you? Dey lef' me to tell you?" "Lef' you to tell me? What 's de mattah? Is Joe or Kit daid? Tell me." "No, not daid. Kit dances on de stage fu' a livin', an', Be'y, she ain't de gal she ust to be. Joe--Joe--Joe--he 's in pen'tentiary fu' killin' a ooman." Berry started forward with a cry, "My Gawd! my Gawd! my little gal! my boy!" "Dat ain't all," she went on dully, as if reciting a rote lesson; "I ain't yo' wife no mo'. I 's ma'ied ag'in. Oh Be'y, Be'y, don't look at me lak dat. I could n't he'p it. Kit an' Joe lef' me, an' dey said de pen'tentiary divo'ced you an' me, an' dat you 'd nevah come out nohow. Don't look at me lak dat, Be'y." "You ain't my wife no mo'? Hit 's a lie, a damn lie! You is my wife. I 's a innocent man. No pen'tentiay kin tek you erway f'om me. Hit 's enough what dey 've done to my chillen." He rushed forward and seized her by the arm. "Dey sha'n't do no mo', by Gawd! dey sha'n't, I say!" His voice had risen to a fierce roar, like that of a hurt beast, and he shook her by the arm as he spoke. "Oh, don't, Be'y, don't, you | The Sport Of The Gods |
said Don. | No speaker | ask for our clothes?" "Wait,"<|quote|>said Don.</|quote|>"We've got to think about | shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait,"<|quote|>said Don.</|quote|>"We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll | the same, Jem." "Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait,"<|quote|>said Don.</|quote|>"We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? | Jem spoke. "Guy?" he said, laughing, as he ran his eye over Jem. "I say, did you ever hear the story of the pot and the kettle?" "Yes, of course; but I say, my lad, I don't look so rum as you, do I?" "I suppose you look just about the same, Jem." "Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait,"<|quote|>said Don.</|quote|>"We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I | contrary, they were smiles of admiration. "I couldn't ha' believed it, Mas' Don," said Jem; "I feel as fresh as a daisy, and--well, I never did! Mas' Don, what a guy you do look!" Don, after a momentary thought that he looked something like one of the old Romans in a toga, just as he had seen them in an engraving, had been so taken up with the beauty of the ferny gully, with the sun gilding here and there the steamy vapour which rose from the hot springs, that he had thought no more of his personal appearance till Jem spoke. "Guy?" he said, laughing, as he ran his eye over Jem. "I say, did you ever hear the story of the pot and the kettle?" "Yes, of course; but I say, my lad, I don't look so rum as you, do I?" "I suppose you look just about the same, Jem." "Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait,"<|quote|>said Don.</|quote|>"We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?" "To be sure." "Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a | As it grew lighter rapidly now, he could make out that the roughly thatched roof was merely stretched over a rough rocky nook in which the hot spring bubbled out of the mountain slope, and here a few rough slabs had been laid together, box-fashion, to retain the water and form the bath. Before he had more than realised the fact that Jem was in a shelter very similar to his own, the huge New Zealander was back with about a dozen of his men, and himself bearing a great native flax cloth marked with a broad pattern. Just as the sun had transformed everything without, and Don was gazing on a glorious prospect of lace-like tree-fern rising out of the steaming gully in which he stood, Jem Wimble came stalking out of the shelter where he had been dressing--a very simple operation, for it had consisted in draping himself in a great unbleached cloth--and looking squat and comical as a man in his circumstances could look. Ngati was close at hand with his men all standing in a group, and at first sight it seemed as if they were laughing at the little, stoutly-built, pink-faced man, but, on the contrary, they were smiles of admiration. "I couldn't ha' believed it, Mas' Don," said Jem; "I feel as fresh as a daisy, and--well, I never did! Mas' Don, what a guy you do look!" Don, after a momentary thought that he looked something like one of the old Romans in a toga, just as he had seen them in an engraving, had been so taken up with the beauty of the ferny gully, with the sun gilding here and there the steamy vapour which rose from the hot springs, that he had thought no more of his personal appearance till Jem spoke. "Guy?" he said, laughing, as he ran his eye over Jem. "I say, did you ever hear the story of the pot and the kettle?" "Yes, of course; but I say, my lad, I don't look so rum as you, do I?" "I suppose you look just about the same, Jem." "Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait,"<|quote|>said Don.</|quote|>"We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?" "To be sure." "Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it? I don't know so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?" "I hope none of our fellows will see us, Jem." "Tomati Paroni! Tomati Paroni!" shouted several of the men in chorus. "Hark at 'em!" cried Jem scornfully. "What does that mean?" The explanation was given directly, for the tattooed Englishmen came | the New Zealanders gobbling angrily in reply to Jem's objections, as a fierce struggle went on. "That's your game, is it? I wouldn't ha' thought it of a set who calls theirselves men. Shove me into that hot pot, and boil me, would you? Not if I knows it, you don't. Hi! Mas' Don! Look out! Run, my lad. They're trying to cook me alive, the brutes. Oh, if I only had a cutlash, or an iron bar." Don tried to speak again, but the words were suffocated by the gurgle of laughter. "Poor old Jem!" he thought. "I tell you, you sha'n't. Six to one, eh? Leave off. Mas' Don, they're going to scald me like a pig in a tub. Hi! Help!" There was the sound of a struggle, a loud splash, and then silence, followed by Jem's voice. "Oh!" he ejaculated. "Then why didn't you say so? How was I to know you meant a hot bath? Well, it arn't bad.--Mas' Don!" "Yes." "What! Ha' you been there all the time?" "Yes." "What yer been doing of?" "Laughing." "Larfin'? Are they giving you a hot bath?" "Yes." "Arn't it good?" "Glorious!" "I thought they was going to scald me like a pig, so as to eat me afterwards. Did you hear me holler?" "Hear you? Yes.--How delicious and restful it feels." "Ah, it do, my lad; but don't you let any on it get into your mouth. I did, and arn't good. But I say; what's it mean? Seems so rum to me coming to meet us in a canoe and bringing us ashore, and giving us hot baths. I don't seem to understand it. Nobody does such things over at home." As they lay in the roughly-made stone slab baths, into which the volcanic water effervesced and gurgled, the followers of Ngati came and went busily, and a curious transformation came over the scene--the darkness seemed to undergo a change and become grey. Then as Don watched, he saw that above his head quite a cloud of steam was floating, through which a pale, sad light began to penetrate; and as he watched this, so pleasant and restful was the sensation that he felt as if he could sleep, till he took into consideration the fact that if he did, his body would become relaxed, and he would slip down with his head beneath the surface. As it grew lighter rapidly now, he could make out that the roughly thatched roof was merely stretched over a rough rocky nook in which the hot spring bubbled out of the mountain slope, and here a few rough slabs had been laid together, box-fashion, to retain the water and form the bath. Before he had more than realised the fact that Jem was in a shelter very similar to his own, the huge New Zealander was back with about a dozen of his men, and himself bearing a great native flax cloth marked with a broad pattern. Just as the sun had transformed everything without, and Don was gazing on a glorious prospect of lace-like tree-fern rising out of the steaming gully in which he stood, Jem Wimble came stalking out of the shelter where he had been dressing--a very simple operation, for it had consisted in draping himself in a great unbleached cloth--and looking squat and comical as a man in his circumstances could look. Ngati was close at hand with his men all standing in a group, and at first sight it seemed as if they were laughing at the little, stoutly-built, pink-faced man, but, on the contrary, they were smiles of admiration. "I couldn't ha' believed it, Mas' Don," said Jem; "I feel as fresh as a daisy, and--well, I never did! Mas' Don, what a guy you do look!" Don, after a momentary thought that he looked something like one of the old Romans in a toga, just as he had seen them in an engraving, had been so taken up with the beauty of the ferny gully, with the sun gilding here and there the steamy vapour which rose from the hot springs, that he had thought no more of his personal appearance till Jem spoke. "Guy?" he said, laughing, as he ran his eye over Jem. "I say, did you ever hear the story of the pot and the kettle?" "Yes, of course; but I say, my lad, I don't look so rum as you, do I?" "I suppose you look just about the same, Jem." "Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait,"<|quote|>said Don.</|quote|>"We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?" "To be sure." "Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it? I don't know so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?" "I hope none of our fellows will see us, Jem." "Tomati Paroni! Tomati Paroni!" shouted several of the men in chorus. "Hark at 'em!" cried Jem scornfully. "What does that mean?" The explanation was given directly, for the tattooed Englishmen came running up to the _whare_. "Boats coming from the ship to search for you," he said quickly, and then turned to Ngati and spoke a few words with the result that the chief rushed at the escaped pair, and signed to them to rise. "Yes," said the Englishman, "you had better go with him and hide for a bit. We'll let you know when they are gone." "Tell them to give us our clothes," said Jem sourly. "Yes, of course. They would tell tales," said the Englishman; and he turned again to Ngati, who sent two men out of the _whare_ to return directly with the dried garments. Ngati signed to them to follow, and he led them, by a faintly marked track, in and out among the trees and the cleared patches which formed the natives' gardens, and all the while carefully avoiding any openings through which the harbour could be seen. Every now and then he turned to speak volubly, but though he interpolated a few English words, his meaning would have been incomprehensible but for his gestures and the warnings nature kept giving of danger. For every here and there, as they wound in and out among the trees, they came upon soft, boggy places, where the ground was hot; and as the pressure of the foot sent hissing forth a jet of steam, it was evident that a step to right or left of the narrow track meant being plunged into a pool of heated mud of unknown depth. In other places the hot mud bubbled up in rounded pools, spitting, hissing, and bursting with faint cracks that were terribly suggestive of danger. Over these heated spots the fertility and growth of the plants was astounding. They seemed to be shooting up out of a natural hothouse, but where to attempt to pass them meant a terrible and instant death. "Look out, Mas' Don! This here's what I once heard a clown say, `It's dangerous to be safe.' I say, figgerhead, arn't there no other way?" "Ship! Men! Catchee, catchee," said Ngati, in a whisper. "Hear that, Mas' Don? Any one'd think we was babbies. Ketchy, ketchy, indeed! You ask him if there arn't no other way. I don't like walking in a place that's like so much hot soup." "Be quiet, and follow. Hist! Hark!" Don stopped short, for, from a distance, came a faint | shelter very similar to his own, the huge New Zealander was back with about a dozen of his men, and himself bearing a great native flax cloth marked with a broad pattern. Just as the sun had transformed everything without, and Don was gazing on a glorious prospect of lace-like tree-fern rising out of the steaming gully in which he stood, Jem Wimble came stalking out of the shelter where he had been dressing--a very simple operation, for it had consisted in draping himself in a great unbleached cloth--and looking squat and comical as a man in his circumstances could look. Ngati was close at hand with his men all standing in a group, and at first sight it seemed as if they were laughing at the little, stoutly-built, pink-faced man, but, on the contrary, they were smiles of admiration. "I couldn't ha' believed it, Mas' Don," said Jem; "I feel as fresh as a daisy, and--well, I never did! Mas' Don, what a guy you do look!" Don, after a momentary thought that he looked something like one of the old Romans in a toga, just as he had seen them in an engraving, had been so taken up with the beauty of the ferny gully, with the sun gilding here and there the steamy vapour which rose from the hot springs, that he had thought no more of his personal appearance till Jem spoke. "Guy?" he said, laughing, as he ran his eye over Jem. "I say, did you ever hear the story of the pot and the kettle?" "Yes, of course; but I say, my lad, I don't look so rum as you, do I?" "I suppose you look just about the same, Jem." "Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait,"<|quote|>said Don.</|quote|>"We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?" "To be sure." "Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it? I don't know so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?" "I hope none of our fellows will see us, Jem." "Tomati Paroni! Tomati Paroni!" shouted several of the men in chorus. "Hark at 'em!" cried Jem scornfully. "What does that mean?" The explanation was given directly, for the tattooed Englishmen came running up to the _whare_. "Boats coming from the ship to search for you," he said quickly, and then turned to Ngati and spoke a few words with the result that the chief rushed at the escaped pair, and signed to them to rise. "Yes," said the Englishman, "you had better go with him and hide for a bit. We'll let you know when they are gone." "Tell them to give us our clothes," said Jem sourly. "Yes, of course. They would tell tales," said the Englishman; and he turned again to Ngati, who sent two men out of the _whare_ to return directly with the dried garments. Ngati signed to them to follow, and he led them, by a faintly marked track, in and out among the trees and the cleared patches which formed the natives' gardens, and all the while carefully avoiding any openings through which the harbour could be seen. Every now and then he turned to speak volubly, but though he interpolated a few English words, his meaning would have been incomprehensible but for his gestures and the | Don Lavington |
he asked, rising to take his leave. | No speaker | Thursday. Will you come Thursday?"<|quote|>he asked, rising to take his leave.</|quote|>"Very well; Thursday. My wife | evening will you come? Say Thursday. Will you come Thursday?"<|quote|>he asked, rising to take his leave.</|quote|>"Very well; Thursday. My wife may possibly have some engagement | couldn't do that; there'd be no reason for it," objected Mr. Pontellier. "Then I'll go around and see her," said the Doctor. "I'll drop in to dinner some evening _en bon ami_." "Do! by all means," urged Mr. Pontellier. "What evening will you come? Say Thursday. Will you come Thursday?"<|quote|>he asked, rising to take his leave.</|quote|>"Very well; Thursday. My wife may possibly have some engagement for me Thursday. In case she has, I shall let you know. Otherwise, you may expect me." Mr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say: "I am going to New York on business very soon. I have a big scheme on | is bungling. Most women are moody and whimsical. This is some passing whim of your wife, due to some cause or causes which you and I needn't try to fathom. But it will pass happily over, especially if you let her alone. Send her around to see me." "Oh! I couldn't do that; there'd be no reason for it," objected Mr. Pontellier. "Then I'll go around and see her," said the Doctor. "I'll drop in to dinner some evening _en bon ami_." "Do! by all means," urged Mr. Pontellier. "What evening will you come? Say Thursday. Will you come Thursday?"<|quote|>he asked, rising to take his leave.</|quote|>"Very well; Thursday. My wife may possibly have some engagement for me Thursday. In case she has, I shall let you know. Otherwise, you may expect me." Mr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say: "I am going to New York on business very soon. I have a big scheme on hand, and want to be on the field proper to pull the ropes and handle the ribbons. We'll let you in on the inside if you say so, Doctor," he laughed. "No, I thank you, my dear sir," returned the Doctor. "I leave such ventures to you younger men with | spectacles on earth. Nice thing for a woman to say to her husband!" exclaimed Mr. Pontellier, fuming anew at the recollection. "Pontellier," said the Doctor, after a moment's reflection, "let your wife alone for a while. Don't bother her, and don't let her bother you. Woman, my dear friend, is a very peculiar and delicate organism a sensitive and highly organized woman, such as I know Mrs. Pontellier to be, is especially peculiar. It would require an inspired psychologist to deal successfully with them. And when ordinary fellows like you and me attempt to cope with their idiosyncrasies the result is bungling. Most women are moody and whimsical. This is some passing whim of your wife, due to some cause or causes which you and I needn't try to fathom. But it will pass happily over, especially if you let her alone. Send her around to see me." "Oh! I couldn't do that; there'd be no reason for it," objected Mr. Pontellier. "Then I'll go around and see her," said the Doctor. "I'll drop in to dinner some evening _en bon ami_." "Do! by all means," urged Mr. Pontellier. "What evening will you come? Say Thursday. Will you come Thursday?"<|quote|>he asked, rising to take his leave.</|quote|>"Very well; Thursday. My wife may possibly have some engagement for me Thursday. In case she has, I shall let you know. Otherwise, you may expect me." Mr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say: "I am going to New York on business very soon. I have a big scheme on hand, and want to be on the field proper to pull the ropes and handle the ribbons. We'll let you in on the inside if you say so, Doctor," he laughed. "No, I thank you, my dear sir," returned the Doctor. "I leave such ventures to you younger men with the fever of life still in your blood." "What I wanted to say," continued Mr. Pontellier, with his hand on the knob; "I may have to be absent a good while. Would you advise me to take Edna along?" "By all means, if she wishes to go. If not, leave her here. Don't contradict her. The mood will pass, I assure you. It may take a month, two, three months possibly longer, but it will pass; have patience." "Well, good-by, _ jeudi_," said Mr. Pontellier, as he let himself out. The Doctor would have liked during the course of conversation | abandoned her Tuesdays at home, has thrown over all her acquaintances, and goes tramping about by herself, moping in the street-cars, getting in after dark. I tell you she's peculiar. I don't like it; I feel a little worried over it." This was a new aspect for the Doctor. "Nothing hereditary?" he asked, seriously. "Nothing peculiar about her family antecedents, is there?" "Oh, no, indeed! She comes of sound old Presbyterian Kentucky stock. The old gentleman, her father, I have heard, used to atone for his weekday sins with his Sunday devotions. I know for a fact, that his race horses literally ran away with the prettiest bit of Kentucky farming land I ever laid eyes upon. Margaret you know Margaret she has all the Presbyterianism undiluted. And the youngest is something of a vixen. By the way, she gets married in a couple of weeks from now." "Send your wife up to the wedding," exclaimed the Doctor, foreseeing a happy solution. "Let her stay among her own people for a while; it will do her good." "That's what I want her to do. She won't go to the marriage. She says a wedding is one of the most lamentable spectacles on earth. Nice thing for a woman to say to her husband!" exclaimed Mr. Pontellier, fuming anew at the recollection. "Pontellier," said the Doctor, after a moment's reflection, "let your wife alone for a while. Don't bother her, and don't let her bother you. Woman, my dear friend, is a very peculiar and delicate organism a sensitive and highly organized woman, such as I know Mrs. Pontellier to be, is especially peculiar. It would require an inspired psychologist to deal successfully with them. And when ordinary fellows like you and me attempt to cope with their idiosyncrasies the result is bungling. Most women are moody and whimsical. This is some passing whim of your wife, due to some cause or causes which you and I needn't try to fathom. But it will pass happily over, especially if you let her alone. Send her around to see me." "Oh! I couldn't do that; there'd be no reason for it," objected Mr. Pontellier. "Then I'll go around and see her," said the Doctor. "I'll drop in to dinner some evening _en bon ami_." "Do! by all means," urged Mr. Pontellier. "What evening will you come? Say Thursday. Will you come Thursday?"<|quote|>he asked, rising to take his leave.</|quote|>"Very well; Thursday. My wife may possibly have some engagement for me Thursday. In case she has, I shall let you know. Otherwise, you may expect me." Mr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say: "I am going to New York on business very soon. I have a big scheme on hand, and want to be on the field proper to pull the ropes and handle the ribbons. We'll let you in on the inside if you say so, Doctor," he laughed. "No, I thank you, my dear sir," returned the Doctor. "I leave such ventures to you younger men with the fever of life still in your blood." "What I wanted to say," continued Mr. Pontellier, with his hand on the knob; "I may have to be absent a good while. Would you advise me to take Edna along?" "By all means, if she wishes to go. If not, leave her here. Don't contradict her. The mood will pass, I assure you. It may take a month, two, three months possibly longer, but it will pass; have patience." "Well, good-by, _ jeudi_," said Mr. Pontellier, as he let himself out. The Doctor would have liked during the course of conversation to ask, "Is there any man in the case?" but he knew his Creole too well to make such a blunder as that. He did not resume his book immediately, but sat for a while meditatively looking out into the garden. XXIII Edna's father was in the city, and had been with them several days. She was not very warmly or deeply attached to him, but they had certain tastes in common, and when together they were companionable. His coming was in the nature of a welcome disturbance; it seemed to furnish a new direction for her emotions. He had come to purchase a wedding gift for his daughter, Janet, and an outfit for himself in which he might make a creditable appearance at her marriage. Mr. Pontellier had selected the bridal gift, as every one immediately connected with him always deferred to his taste in such matters. And his suggestions on the question of dress which too often assumes the nature of a problem were of inestimable value to his father-in-law. But for the past few days the old gentleman had been upon Edna's hands, and in his society she was becoming acquainted with a new set of sensations. | had the temerity to disturb him at that hour of the morning. "Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news do you bring this morning?" He was quite portly, with a profusion of gray hair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their brightness but none of their penetration. "Oh! I'm never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough fiber of that old Creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and finally blow away. I came to consult no, not precisely to consult to talk to you about Edna. I don't know what ails her." "Madame Pontellier not well," marveled the Doctor. "Why, I saw her I think it was a week ago walking along Canal Street, the picture of health, it seemed to me." "Yes, yes; she seems quite well," said Mr. Pontellier, leaning forward and whirling his stick between his two hands; "but she doesn't act well. She's odd, she's not like herself. I can't make her out, and I thought perhaps you'd help me." "How does she act?" inquired the Doctor. "Well, it isn't easy to explain," said Mr. Pontellier, throwing himself back in his chair. "She lets the housekeeping go to the dickens." "Well, well; women are not all alike, my dear Pontellier. We've got to consider" "I know that; I told you I couldn't explain. Her whole attitude toward me and everybody and everything has changed. You know I have a quick temper, but I don't want to quarrel or be rude to a woman, especially my wife; yet I'm driven to it, and feel like ten thousand devils after I've made a fool of myself. She's making it devilishly uncomfortable for me," he went on nervously. "She's got some sort of notion in her head concerning the eternal rights of women; and you understand we meet in the morning at the breakfast table." The old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his thick nether lip, and tapped the arms of his chair with his cushioned fingertips. "What have you been doing to her, Pontellier?" "Doing! _Parbleu!_" "Has she," asked the Doctor, with a smile, "has she been associating of late with a circle of pseudo-intellectual women super-spiritual superior beings? My wife has been telling me about them." "That's the trouble," broke in Mr. Pontellier, "she hasn't been associating with any one. She has abandoned her Tuesdays at home, has thrown over all her acquaintances, and goes tramping about by herself, moping in the street-cars, getting in after dark. I tell you she's peculiar. I don't like it; I feel a little worried over it." This was a new aspect for the Doctor. "Nothing hereditary?" he asked, seriously. "Nothing peculiar about her family antecedents, is there?" "Oh, no, indeed! She comes of sound old Presbyterian Kentucky stock. The old gentleman, her father, I have heard, used to atone for his weekday sins with his Sunday devotions. I know for a fact, that his race horses literally ran away with the prettiest bit of Kentucky farming land I ever laid eyes upon. Margaret you know Margaret she has all the Presbyterianism undiluted. And the youngest is something of a vixen. By the way, she gets married in a couple of weeks from now." "Send your wife up to the wedding," exclaimed the Doctor, foreseeing a happy solution. "Let her stay among her own people for a while; it will do her good." "That's what I want her to do. She won't go to the marriage. She says a wedding is one of the most lamentable spectacles on earth. Nice thing for a woman to say to her husband!" exclaimed Mr. Pontellier, fuming anew at the recollection. "Pontellier," said the Doctor, after a moment's reflection, "let your wife alone for a while. Don't bother her, and don't let her bother you. Woman, my dear friend, is a very peculiar and delicate organism a sensitive and highly organized woman, such as I know Mrs. Pontellier to be, is especially peculiar. It would require an inspired psychologist to deal successfully with them. And when ordinary fellows like you and me attempt to cope with their idiosyncrasies the result is bungling. Most women are moody and whimsical. This is some passing whim of your wife, due to some cause or causes which you and I needn't try to fathom. But it will pass happily over, especially if you let her alone. Send her around to see me." "Oh! I couldn't do that; there'd be no reason for it," objected Mr. Pontellier. "Then I'll go around and see her," said the Doctor. "I'll drop in to dinner some evening _en bon ami_." "Do! by all means," urged Mr. Pontellier. "What evening will you come? Say Thursday. Will you come Thursday?"<|quote|>he asked, rising to take his leave.</|quote|>"Very well; Thursday. My wife may possibly have some engagement for me Thursday. In case she has, I shall let you know. Otherwise, you may expect me." Mr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say: "I am going to New York on business very soon. I have a big scheme on hand, and want to be on the field proper to pull the ropes and handle the ribbons. We'll let you in on the inside if you say so, Doctor," he laughed. "No, I thank you, my dear sir," returned the Doctor. "I leave such ventures to you younger men with the fever of life still in your blood." "What I wanted to say," continued Mr. Pontellier, with his hand on the knob; "I may have to be absent a good while. Would you advise me to take Edna along?" "By all means, if she wishes to go. If not, leave her here. Don't contradict her. The mood will pass, I assure you. It may take a month, two, three months possibly longer, but it will pass; have patience." "Well, good-by, _ jeudi_," said Mr. Pontellier, as he let himself out. The Doctor would have liked during the course of conversation to ask, "Is there any man in the case?" but he knew his Creole too well to make such a blunder as that. He did not resume his book immediately, but sat for a while meditatively looking out into the garden. XXIII Edna's father was in the city, and had been with them several days. She was not very warmly or deeply attached to him, but they had certain tastes in common, and when together they were companionable. His coming was in the nature of a welcome disturbance; it seemed to furnish a new direction for her emotions. He had come to purchase a wedding gift for his daughter, Janet, and an outfit for himself in which he might make a creditable appearance at her marriage. Mr. Pontellier had selected the bridal gift, as every one immediately connected with him always deferred to his taste in such matters. And his suggestions on the question of dress which too often assumes the nature of a problem were of inestimable value to his father-in-law. But for the past few days the old gentleman had been upon Edna's hands, and in his society she was becoming acquainted with a new set of sensations. He had been a colonel in the Confederate army, and still maintained, with the title, the military bearing which had always accompanied it. His hair and mustache were white and silky, emphasizing the rugged bronze of his face. He was tall and thin, and wore his coats padded, which gave a fictitious breadth and depth to his shoulders and chest. Edna and her father looked very distinguished together, and excited a good deal of notice during their perambulations. Upon his arrival she began by introducing him to her atelier and making a sketch of him. He took the whole matter very seriously. If her talent had been ten-fold greater than it was, it would not have surprised him, convinced as he was that he had bequeathed to all of his daughters the germs of a masterful capability, which only depended upon their own efforts to be directed toward successful achievement. Before her pencil he sat rigid and unflinching, as he had faced the cannon's mouth in days gone by. He resented the intrusion of the children, who gaped with wondering eyes at him, sitting so stiff up there in their mother's bright atelier. When they drew near he motioned them away with an expressive action of the foot, loath to disturb the fixed lines of his countenance, his arms, or his rigid shoulders. Edna, anxious to entertain him, invited Mademoiselle Reisz to meet him, having promised him a treat in her piano playing; but Mademoiselle declined the invitation. So together they attended a _soir e musicale_ at the Ratignolles'. Monsieur and Madame Ratignolle made much of the Colonel, installing him as the guest of honor and engaging him at once to dine with them the following Sunday, or any day which he might select. Madame coquetted with him in the most captivating and naive manner, with eyes, gestures, and a profusion of compliments, till the Colonel's old head felt thirty years younger on his padded shoulders. Edna marveled, not comprehending. She herself was almost devoid of coquetry. There were one or two men whom she observed at the _soir e musicale;_ but she would never have felt moved to any kittenish display to attract their notice to any feline or feminine wiles to express herself toward them. Their personality attracted her in an agreeable way. Her fancy selected them, and she was glad when a lull in the music gave | old Presbyterian Kentucky stock. The old gentleman, her father, I have heard, used to atone for his weekday sins with his Sunday devotions. I know for a fact, that his race horses literally ran away with the prettiest bit of Kentucky farming land I ever laid eyes upon. Margaret you know Margaret she has all the Presbyterianism undiluted. And the youngest is something of a vixen. By the way, she gets married in a couple of weeks from now." "Send your wife up to the wedding," exclaimed the Doctor, foreseeing a happy solution. "Let her stay among her own people for a while; it will do her good." "That's what I want her to do. She won't go to the marriage. She says a wedding is one of the most lamentable spectacles on earth. Nice thing for a woman to say to her husband!" exclaimed Mr. Pontellier, fuming anew at the recollection. "Pontellier," said the Doctor, after a moment's reflection, "let your wife alone for a while. Don't bother her, and don't let her bother you. Woman, my dear friend, is a very peculiar and delicate organism a sensitive and highly organized woman, such as I know Mrs. Pontellier to be, is especially peculiar. It would require an inspired psychologist to deal successfully with them. And when ordinary fellows like you and me attempt to cope with their idiosyncrasies the result is bungling. Most women are moody and whimsical. This is some passing whim of your wife, due to some cause or causes which you and I needn't try to fathom. But it will pass happily over, especially if you let her alone. Send her around to see me." "Oh! I couldn't do that; there'd be no reason for it," objected Mr. Pontellier. "Then I'll go around and see her," said the Doctor. "I'll drop in to dinner some evening _en bon ami_." "Do! by all means," urged Mr. Pontellier. "What evening will you come? Say Thursday. Will you come Thursday?"<|quote|>he asked, rising to take his leave.</|quote|>"Very well; Thursday. My wife may possibly have some engagement for me Thursday. In case she has, I shall let you know. Otherwise, you may expect me." Mr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say: "I am going to New York on business very soon. I have a big scheme on hand, and want to be on the field proper to pull the ropes and handle the ribbons. We'll let you in on the inside if you say so, Doctor," he laughed. "No, I thank you, my dear sir," returned the Doctor. "I leave such ventures to you younger men with the fever of life still in your blood." "What I wanted to say," continued Mr. Pontellier, with his hand on the knob; "I may have to be absent a good while. Would you advise me to take Edna along?" "By all means, if she wishes to go. If not, leave her here. Don't contradict her. The mood will pass, I assure you. It may take a month, two, three months possibly longer, but it will pass; have patience." "Well, good-by, _ jeudi_," said Mr. Pontellier, as he let himself out. The Doctor would have liked during the course of conversation to ask, "Is there any man in the case?" but he knew his Creole too well to make such a blunder as that. He did not resume his book immediately, but sat for a while meditatively looking out into the garden. XXIII Edna's father was in the city, and had been with them several days. She was not very warmly or deeply attached to him, but they had certain tastes in common, and when together they were companionable. His coming was in the nature of a welcome disturbance; it seemed to furnish a new direction for her emotions. He had come to purchase a wedding gift for his daughter, Janet, and an outfit for himself in which he might make a creditable appearance at her marriage. Mr. Pontellier had selected the bridal gift, as every one immediately connected with him always deferred to his taste in such matters. And his suggestions on the question of dress which too often assumes the nature of a problem were of inestimable value to his father-in-law. But for the past few days the old gentleman had been upon Edna's hands, and in his society she was becoming acquainted with a new set of sensations. He had been a colonel in the Confederate army, and still maintained, with the title, the military bearing which had always accompanied it. His hair and mustache were white and silky, emphasizing the rugged bronze of his face. He was tall and thin, and wore his coats padded, which gave a fictitious breadth and depth to his shoulders and chest. Edna and her father looked very distinguished together, and excited a good deal of notice during their perambulations. Upon his arrival she began by introducing him to her atelier and making a sketch of him. He took the whole matter very seriously. If her talent had been ten-fold greater than it was, it would not have surprised him, convinced as he was that he had bequeathed to all of his daughters the germs of a masterful capability, which only depended upon their own efforts to be directed toward successful achievement. Before | The Awakening |
"I agree with you exactly. A crowd in a little room--Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving pictures in a few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite!--Still, however, having proceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up. It would be a disappointment to my father--and altogether--I do not know that--I am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very well." | Mr. Frank Churchill | no denying it," he replied.<|quote|>"I agree with you exactly. A crowd in a little room--Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving pictures in a few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite!--Still, however, having proceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up. It would be a disappointment to my father--and altogether--I do not know that--I am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very well."</|quote|>Emma perceived that the nature | a little room!" "There is no denying it," he replied.<|quote|>"I agree with you exactly. A crowd in a little room--Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving pictures in a few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite!--Still, however, having proceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up. It would be a disappointment to my father--and altogether--I do not know that--I am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very well."</|quote|>Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a | be very tolerable room for ten couple." "No, no," said she, "you are quite unreasonable. It would be dreadful to be standing so close! Nothing can be farther from pleasure than to be dancing in a crowd--and a crowd in a little room!" "There is no denying it," he replied.<|quote|>"I agree with you exactly. A crowd in a little room--Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving pictures in a few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite!--Still, however, having proceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up. It would be a disappointment to my father--and altogether--I do not know that--I am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very well."</|quote|>Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little self-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure of dancing with her; but she took the compliment, and forgave the rest. Had she intended ever to _marry_ him, it might have been worth while to pause | may stand here very well." Emma demurred. "It would be a crowd--a sad crowd; and what could be worse than dancing without space to turn in?" "Very true," he gravely replied; "it was very bad." But still he went on measuring, and still he ended with, "I think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple." "No, no," said she, "you are quite unreasonable. It would be dreadful to be standing so close! Nothing can be farther from pleasure than to be dancing in a crowd--and a crowd in a little room!" "There is no denying it," he replied.<|quote|>"I agree with you exactly. A crowd in a little room--Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving pictures in a few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite!--Still, however, having proceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up. It would be a disappointment to my father--and altogether--I do not know that--I am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very well."</|quote|>Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little self-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure of dancing with her; but she took the compliment, and forgave the rest. Had she intended ever to _marry_ him, it might have been worth while to pause and consider, and try to understand the value of his preference, and the character of his temper; but for all the purposes of their acquaintance, he was quite amiable enough. Before the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield; and he entered the room with such an agreeable | Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the importance of it, and said every thing in her power to do it away. Every door was now closed, the passage plan given up, and the first scheme of dancing only in the room they were in resorted to again; and with such good-will on Frank Churchill's part, that the space which a quarter of an hour before had been deemed barely sufficient for five couple, was now endeavoured to be made out quite enough for ten. "We were too magnificent," said he. "We allowed unnecessary room. Ten couple may stand here very well." Emma demurred. "It would be a crowd--a sad crowd; and what could be worse than dancing without space to turn in?" "Very true," he gravely replied; "it was very bad." But still he went on measuring, and still he ended with, "I think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple." "No, no," said she, "you are quite unreasonable. It would be dreadful to be standing so close! Nothing can be farther from pleasure than to be dancing in a crowd--and a crowd in a little room!" "There is no denying it," he replied.<|quote|>"I agree with you exactly. A crowd in a little room--Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving pictures in a few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite!--Still, however, having proceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up. It would be a disappointment to my father--and altogether--I do not know that--I am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very well."</|quote|>Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little self-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure of dancing with her; but she took the compliment, and forgave the rest. Had she intended ever to _marry_ him, it might have been worth while to pause and consider, and try to understand the value of his preference, and the character of his temper; but for all the purposes of their acquaintance, he was quite amiable enough. Before the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield; and he entered the room with such an agreeable smile as certified the continuance of the scheme. It soon appeared that he came to announce an improvement. "Well, Miss Woodhouse," he almost immediately began, "your inclination for dancing has not been quite frightened away, I hope, by the terrors of my father's little rooms. I bring a new proposal on the subject:--a thought of my father's, which waits only your approbation to be acted upon. May I hope for the honour of your hand for the two first dances of this little projected ball, to be given, not at Randalls, but at the Crown Inn?" "The Crown!" "Yes; if | rooms were just opposite each other. "Might not they use both rooms, and dance across the passage?" It seemed the best scheme; and yet it was not so good but that many of them wanted a better. Emma said it would be awkward; Mrs. Weston was in distress about the supper; and Mr. Woodhouse opposed it earnestly, on the score of health. It made him so very unhappy, indeed, that it could not be persevered in. "Oh! no," said he; "it would be the extreme of imprudence. I could not bear it for Emma!--Emma is not strong. She would catch a dreadful cold. So would poor little Harriet. So you would all. Mrs. Weston, you would be quite laid up; do not let them talk of such a wild thing. Pray do not let them talk of it. That young man" (speaking lower) "is very thoughtless. Do not tell his father, but that young man is not quite the thing. He has been opening the doors very often this evening, and keeping them open very inconsiderately. He does not think of the draught. I do not mean to set you against him, but indeed he is not quite the thing!" Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the importance of it, and said every thing in her power to do it away. Every door was now closed, the passage plan given up, and the first scheme of dancing only in the room they were in resorted to again; and with such good-will on Frank Churchill's part, that the space which a quarter of an hour before had been deemed barely sufficient for five couple, was now endeavoured to be made out quite enough for ten. "We were too magnificent," said he. "We allowed unnecessary room. Ten couple may stand here very well." Emma demurred. "It would be a crowd--a sad crowd; and what could be worse than dancing without space to turn in?" "Very true," he gravely replied; "it was very bad." But still he went on measuring, and still he ended with, "I think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple." "No, no," said she, "you are quite unreasonable. It would be dreadful to be standing so close! Nothing can be farther from pleasure than to be dancing in a crowd--and a crowd in a little room!" "There is no denying it," he replied.<|quote|>"I agree with you exactly. A crowd in a little room--Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving pictures in a few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite!--Still, however, having proceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up. It would be a disappointment to my father--and altogether--I do not know that--I am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very well."</|quote|>Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little self-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure of dancing with her; but she took the compliment, and forgave the rest. Had she intended ever to _marry_ him, it might have been worth while to pause and consider, and try to understand the value of his preference, and the character of his temper; but for all the purposes of their acquaintance, he was quite amiable enough. Before the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield; and he entered the room with such an agreeable smile as certified the continuance of the scheme. It soon appeared that he came to announce an improvement. "Well, Miss Woodhouse," he almost immediately began, "your inclination for dancing has not been quite frightened away, I hope, by the terrors of my father's little rooms. I bring a new proposal on the subject:--a thought of my father's, which waits only your approbation to be acted upon. May I hope for the honour of your hand for the two first dances of this little projected ball, to be given, not at Randalls, but at the Crown Inn?" "The Crown!" "Yes; if you and Mr. Woodhouse see no objection, and I trust you cannot, my father hopes his friends will be so kind as to visit him there. Better accommodations, he can promise them, and not a less grateful welcome than at Randalls. It is his own idea. Mrs. Weston sees no objection to it, provided you are satisfied. This is what we all feel. Oh! you were perfectly right! Ten couple, in either of the Randalls rooms, would have been insufferable!--Dreadful!--I felt how right you were the whole time, but was too anxious for securing _any_ _thing_ to like to yield. Is not it a good exchange?--You consent--I hope you consent?" "It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if Mr. and Mrs. Weston do not. I think it admirable; and, as far as I can answer for myself, shall be most happy--It seems the only improvement that could be. Papa, do you not think it an excellent improvement?" She was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was fully comprehended; and then, being quite new, farther representations were necessary to make it acceptable. "No; he thought it very far from an improvement--a very bad plan--much worse | to compare herself with Jane Fairfax--and even for simple dancing itself, without any of the wicked aids of vanity--to assist him first in pacing out the room they were in to see what it could be made to hold--and then in taking the dimensions of the other parlour, in the hope of discovering, in spite of all that Mr. Weston could say of their exactly equal size, that it was a little the largest. His first proposition and request, that the dance begun at Mr. Cole's should be finished there--that the same party should be collected, and the same musician engaged, met with the readiest acquiescence. Mr. Weston entered into the idea with thorough enjoyment, and Mrs. Weston most willingly undertook to play as long as they could wish to dance; and the interesting employment had followed, of reckoning up exactly who there would be, and portioning out the indispensable division of space to every couple. "You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss Coxes five," had been repeated many times over. "And there will be the two Gilberts, young Cox, my father, and myself, besides Mr. Knightley. Yes, that will be quite enough for pleasure. You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss Coxes five; and for five couple there will be plenty of room." But soon it came to be on one side, "But will there be good room for five couple?--I really do not think there will." On another, "And after all, five couple are not enough to make it worth while to stand up. Five couple are nothing, when one thinks seriously about it. It will not do to _invite_ five couple. It can be allowable only as the thought of the moment." Somebody said that _Miss_ Gilbert was expected at her brother's, and must be invited with the rest. Somebody else believed _Mrs_. Gilbert would have danced the other evening, if she had been asked. A word was put in for a second young Cox; and at last, Mr. Weston naming one family of cousins who must be included, and another of very old acquaintance who could not be left out, it became a certainty that the five couple would be at least ten, and a very interesting speculation in what possible manner they could be disposed of. The doors of the two rooms were just opposite each other. "Might not they use both rooms, and dance across the passage?" It seemed the best scheme; and yet it was not so good but that many of them wanted a better. Emma said it would be awkward; Mrs. Weston was in distress about the supper; and Mr. Woodhouse opposed it earnestly, on the score of health. It made him so very unhappy, indeed, that it could not be persevered in. "Oh! no," said he; "it would be the extreme of imprudence. I could not bear it for Emma!--Emma is not strong. She would catch a dreadful cold. So would poor little Harriet. So you would all. Mrs. Weston, you would be quite laid up; do not let them talk of such a wild thing. Pray do not let them talk of it. That young man" (speaking lower) "is very thoughtless. Do not tell his father, but that young man is not quite the thing. He has been opening the doors very often this evening, and keeping them open very inconsiderately. He does not think of the draught. I do not mean to set you against him, but indeed he is not quite the thing!" Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the importance of it, and said every thing in her power to do it away. Every door was now closed, the passage plan given up, and the first scheme of dancing only in the room they were in resorted to again; and with such good-will on Frank Churchill's part, that the space which a quarter of an hour before had been deemed barely sufficient for five couple, was now endeavoured to be made out quite enough for ten. "We were too magnificent," said he. "We allowed unnecessary room. Ten couple may stand here very well." Emma demurred. "It would be a crowd--a sad crowd; and what could be worse than dancing without space to turn in?" "Very true," he gravely replied; "it was very bad." But still he went on measuring, and still he ended with, "I think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple." "No, no," said she, "you are quite unreasonable. It would be dreadful to be standing so close! Nothing can be farther from pleasure than to be dancing in a crowd--and a crowd in a little room!" "There is no denying it," he replied.<|quote|>"I agree with you exactly. A crowd in a little room--Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving pictures in a few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite!--Still, however, having proceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up. It would be a disappointment to my father--and altogether--I do not know that--I am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very well."</|quote|>Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little self-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure of dancing with her; but she took the compliment, and forgave the rest. Had she intended ever to _marry_ him, it might have been worth while to pause and consider, and try to understand the value of his preference, and the character of his temper; but for all the purposes of their acquaintance, he was quite amiable enough. Before the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield; and he entered the room with such an agreeable smile as certified the continuance of the scheme. It soon appeared that he came to announce an improvement. "Well, Miss Woodhouse," he almost immediately began, "your inclination for dancing has not been quite frightened away, I hope, by the terrors of my father's little rooms. I bring a new proposal on the subject:--a thought of my father's, which waits only your approbation to be acted upon. May I hope for the honour of your hand for the two first dances of this little projected ball, to be given, not at Randalls, but at the Crown Inn?" "The Crown!" "Yes; if you and Mr. Woodhouse see no objection, and I trust you cannot, my father hopes his friends will be so kind as to visit him there. Better accommodations, he can promise them, and not a less grateful welcome than at Randalls. It is his own idea. Mrs. Weston sees no objection to it, provided you are satisfied. This is what we all feel. Oh! you were perfectly right! Ten couple, in either of the Randalls rooms, would have been insufferable!--Dreadful!--I felt how right you were the whole time, but was too anxious for securing _any_ _thing_ to like to yield. Is not it a good exchange?--You consent--I hope you consent?" "It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if Mr. and Mrs. Weston do not. I think it admirable; and, as far as I can answer for myself, shall be most happy--It seems the only improvement that could be. Papa, do you not think it an excellent improvement?" She was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was fully comprehended; and then, being quite new, farther representations were necessary to make it acceptable. "No; he thought it very far from an improvement--a very bad plan--much worse than the other. A room at an inn was always damp and dangerous; never properly aired, or fit to be inhabited. If they must dance, they had better dance at Randalls. He had never been in the room at the Crown in his life--did not know the people who kept it by sight.--Oh! no--a very bad plan. They would catch worse colds at the Crown than anywhere." "I was going to observe, sir," said Frank Churchill, "that one of the great recommendations of this change would be the very little danger of any body's catching cold--so much less danger at the Crown than at Randalls! Mr. Perry might have reason to regret the alteration, but nobody else could." "Sir," said Mr. Woodhouse, rather warmly, "you are very much mistaken if you suppose Mr. Perry to be that sort of character. Mr. Perry is extremely concerned when any of us are ill. But I do not understand how the room at the Crown can be safer for you than your father's house." "From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir. We shall have no occasion to open the windows at all--not once the whole evening; and it is that dreadful habit of opening the windows, letting in cold air upon heated bodies, which (as you well know, sir) does the mischief." "Open the windows!--but surely, Mr. Churchill, nobody would think of opening the windows at Randalls. Nobody could be so imprudent! I never heard of such a thing. Dancing with open windows!--I am sure, neither your father nor Mrs. Weston (poor Miss Taylor that was) would suffer it." "Ah! sir--but a thoughtless young person will sometimes step behind a window-curtain, and throw up a sash, without its being suspected. I have often known it done myself." "Have you indeed, sir?--Bless me! I never could have supposed it. But I live out of the world, and am often astonished at what I hear. However, this does make a difference; and, perhaps, when we come to talk it over--but these sort of things require a good deal of consideration. One cannot resolve upon them in a hurry. If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so obliging as to call here one morning, we may talk it over, and see what can be done." "But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited--" "Oh!" interrupted Emma, "there will be plenty of time for talking | not strong. She would catch a dreadful cold. So would poor little Harriet. So you would all. Mrs. Weston, you would be quite laid up; do not let them talk of such a wild thing. Pray do not let them talk of it. That young man" (speaking lower) "is very thoughtless. Do not tell his father, but that young man is not quite the thing. He has been opening the doors very often this evening, and keeping them open very inconsiderately. He does not think of the draught. I do not mean to set you against him, but indeed he is not quite the thing!" Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the importance of it, and said every thing in her power to do it away. Every door was now closed, the passage plan given up, and the first scheme of dancing only in the room they were in resorted to again; and with such good-will on Frank Churchill's part, that the space which a quarter of an hour before had been deemed barely sufficient for five couple, was now endeavoured to be made out quite enough for ten. "We were too magnificent," said he. "We allowed unnecessary room. Ten couple may stand here very well." Emma demurred. "It would be a crowd--a sad crowd; and what could be worse than dancing without space to turn in?" "Very true," he gravely replied; "it was very bad." But still he went on measuring, and still he ended with, "I think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple." "No, no," said she, "you are quite unreasonable. It would be dreadful to be standing so close! Nothing can be farther from pleasure than to be dancing in a crowd--and a crowd in a little room!" "There is no denying it," he replied.<|quote|>"I agree with you exactly. A crowd in a little room--Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving pictures in a few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite!--Still, however, having proceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up. It would be a disappointment to my father--and altogether--I do not know that--I am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very well."</|quote|>Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little self-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure of dancing with her; but she took the compliment, and forgave the rest. Had she intended ever to _marry_ him, it might have been worth while to pause and consider, and try to understand the value of his preference, and the character of his temper; but for all the purposes of their acquaintance, he was quite amiable enough. Before the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield; and he entered the room with such an agreeable smile as certified the continuance of the scheme. It soon appeared that he came to announce an improvement. "Well, Miss Woodhouse," he almost immediately began, "your inclination for dancing has not been quite frightened away, I hope, by the terrors of my father's little rooms. I bring a new proposal on the subject:--a thought of my father's, which waits only your approbation to be acted upon. May I hope for the honour of your hand for the two first dances of this little projected ball, to be given, not at Randalls, but at the Crown Inn?" "The Crown!" "Yes; if you and Mr. Woodhouse see no objection, and I trust you cannot, my father hopes his friends will be so kind as to visit him there. Better accommodations, he can promise them, and not a less grateful welcome than at Randalls. It is his own idea. Mrs. Weston sees no objection to it, provided you are satisfied. This is what we all feel. Oh! you were perfectly right! Ten couple, in either of the Randalls rooms, would have been insufferable!--Dreadful!--I felt how right you were the whole time, but was too anxious for securing _any_ _thing_ to like to yield. Is not it a good exchange?--You consent--I hope you consent?" "It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if Mr. and Mrs. Weston do not. I think it admirable; and, as far as I can answer for myself, shall be most happy--It seems the only improvement that could be. Papa, do you not think it an excellent improvement?" She was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was fully comprehended; and then, being quite new, farther representations were necessary to make it acceptable. "No; he thought it very far from an improvement--a very bad plan--much worse than the other. A room at an inn was always damp and dangerous; never properly aired, or fit to be inhabited. If they must dance, they had better dance at Randalls. He had never been in the room at the Crown in his life--did not know the people who kept it by sight.--Oh! no--a very bad plan. They would catch worse colds at the Crown than anywhere." "I was going to observe, sir," said Frank Churchill, "that one of the great recommendations of this change would be the very little danger of any body's catching cold--so much less danger at the Crown than at Randalls! Mr. Perry might have reason to regret the alteration, but nobody else could." "Sir," said Mr. Woodhouse, rather warmly, "you are very much mistaken if you suppose Mr. Perry to be that sort of character. Mr. Perry is extremely concerned when any of us are ill. But I do not understand how the room at the Crown can be safer for you than your father's house." "From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir. We shall have no | Emma |
"What time did you go out last evening?" | Hercule Poirot | examine them." "Very well, sir."<|quote|>"What time did you go out last evening?"</|quote|>"About six o'clock, sir." "Thank | you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir."<|quote|>"What time did you go out last evening?"</|quote|>"About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all | though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir."<|quote|>"What time did you go out last evening?"</|quote|>"About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it | paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir."<|quote|>"What time did you go out last evening?"</|quote|>"About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!" "The good times will come | of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?" "Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't." "Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir."<|quote|>"What time did you go out last evening?"</|quote|>"About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!" "The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?" "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." "How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?" I asked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. "And about the lost key and the duplicate?" "One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this." He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders. "Where did you find it?" "In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom. It was Number Six of my catalogue." "But I suppose, as the | yes, sir." Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled. "Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs. Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head. "That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it." "Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?" Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question. "No, sir." "Are you quite sure?" "Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?" "Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't." "Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir."<|quote|>"What time did you go out last evening?"</|quote|>"About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!" "The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?" "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." "How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?" I asked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. "And about the lost key and the duplicate?" "One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this." He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders. "Where did you find it?" "In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom. It was Number Six of my catalogue." "But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not of much importance?" "Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you as peculiar about this box?" I examined it closely. "No, I can't say that I do." "Look at the label." I read the label carefully: " One powder to be taken at bedtime, if required. Mrs. Inglethorp.' "No, I see nothing unusual." "Not the fact that there is no chemist's name?" "Ah!" I exclaimed. "To be sure, that is odd!" "Have you ever known a chemist to send out a box like that, without his printed name?" "No, I can't say that I have." I was becoming quite excited, but Poirot damped my ardour by remarking: "Yet the explanation is quite simple. So do not intrigue yourself, my friend." An audible creaking proclaimed the approach of Annie, so I had no time to reply. Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was evidently labouring under intense excitement, mingled with a certain ghoulish enjoyment of the tragedy. Poirot came to the point at once, with a business-like briskness. "I sent for you, Annie, because I thought you might be able to tell me something about the letters Mrs. | bringing disgrace upon our name!' "Again I didn't hear what he said, but she went on:" Nothing that you can say will make any difference. I see my duty clearly. My mind is made up. You need not think that any fear of publicity, or scandal between husband and wife will deter me.' "Then I thought I heard them coming out, so I went off quickly." "You are sure it was Mr. Inglethorp's voice you heard?" "Oh, yes, sir, whose else's could it be?" "Well, what happened next?" "Later, I came back to the hall; but it was all quiet. At five o'clock, Mrs. Inglethorp rang the bell and told me to bring her a cup of tea nothing to eat to the boudoir. She was looking dreadful so white and upset." Dorcas,' "she says," I've had a great shock.' I'm sorry for that, m'm,' "I says." You'll feel better after a nice hot cup of tea, m'm.' "She had something in her hand. I don't know if it was a letter, or just a piece of paper, but it had writing on it, and she kept staring at it, almost as if she couldn't believe what was written there. She whispered to herself, as though she had forgotten I was there:" These few words and everything's changed.' "And then she says to me:" Never trust a man, Dorcas, they're not worth it!' "I hurried off, and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me, and said she'd feel better when she'd drunk it." I don't know what to do,' "she says." Scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing, Dorcas. I'd rather hush it up if I could.' "Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn't say any more." "She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?" "Yes, sir." "What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?" "Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purple case of hers." "Is that where she usually kept important papers?" "Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night." "When did she lose the key of it?" "She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it." "But she had a duplicate key?" "Oh, yes, sir." Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled. "Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs. Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head. "That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it." "Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?" Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question. "No, sir." "Are you quite sure?" "Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?" "Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't." "Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir."<|quote|>"What time did you go out last evening?"</|quote|>"About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!" "The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?" "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." "How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?" I asked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. "And about the lost key and the duplicate?" "One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this." He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders. "Where did you find it?" "In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom. It was Number Six of my catalogue." "But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not of much importance?" "Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you as peculiar about this box?" I examined it closely. "No, I can't say that I do." "Look at the label." I read the label carefully: " One powder to be taken at bedtime, if required. Mrs. Inglethorp.' "No, I see nothing unusual." "Not the fact that there is no chemist's name?" "Ah!" I exclaimed. "To be sure, that is odd!" "Have you ever known a chemist to send out a box like that, without his printed name?" "No, I can't say that I have." I was becoming quite excited, but Poirot damped my ardour by remarking: "Yet the explanation is quite simple. So do not intrigue yourself, my friend." An audible creaking proclaimed the approach of Annie, so I had no time to reply. Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was evidently labouring under intense excitement, mingled with a certain ghoulish enjoyment of the tragedy. Poirot came to the point at once, with a business-like briskness. "I sent for you, Annie, because I thought you might be able to tell me something about the letters Mrs. Inglethorp wrote last night. How many were there? And can you tell me any of the names and addresses?" Annie considered. "There were four letters, sir. One was to Miss Howard, and one was to Mr. Wells, the lawyer, and the other two I don't think I remember, sir oh, yes, one was to Ross's, the caterers in Tadminster. The other one, I don't remember." "Think," urged Poirot. Annie racked her brains in vain. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can have noticed it." "It does not matter," said Poirot, not betraying any sign of disappointment. "Now I want to ask you about something else. There is a saucepan in Mrs. Inglethorp's room with some cocoa in it. Did she have that every night?" "Yes, sir, it was put in her room every evening, and she warmed it up in the night whenever she fancied it." "What was it? Plain cocoa?" "Yes, sir, made with milk, with a teaspoonful of sugar, and two teaspoonfuls of rum in it." "Who took it to her room?" "I did, sir." "Always?" "Yes, sir." "At what time?" "When I went to draw the curtains, as a rule, sir." "Did you bring it straight up from the kitchen then?" "No, sir, you see there's not much room on the gas stove, so cook used to make it early, before putting the vegetables on for supper. Then I used to bring it up, and put it on the table by the swing door, and take it into her room later." "The swing door is in the left wing, is it not?" "Yes, sir." "And the table, is it on this side of the door, or on the farther servants' side?" "It's this side, sir." "What time did you bring it up last night?" "About quarter-past seven, I should say, sir." "And when did you take it into Mrs. Inglethorp's room?" "When I went to shut up, sir. About eight o'clock. Mrs. Inglethorp came up to bed before I'd finished." "Then, between seven-fifteen and eight o'clock, the cocoa was standing on the table in the left wing?" "Yes, sir." Annie had been growing redder and redder in the face, and now she blurted out unexpectedly: "And if there _was_ salt in it, sir, it wasn't me. I never took the salt near it." "What makes you think there was salt in it?" | she lose the key of it?" "She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it." "But she had a duplicate key?" "Oh, yes, sir." Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled. "Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs. Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head. "That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it." "Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?" Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question. "No, sir." "Are you quite sure?" "Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?" "Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't." "Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir."<|quote|>"What time did you go out last evening?"</|quote|>"About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!" "The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?" "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." "How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?" I asked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. "And about the lost key and the duplicate?" "One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this." He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders. "Where did you find it?" "In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom. It was Number Six of my catalogue." "But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not of much importance?" "Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you as peculiar about this box?" I examined it closely. "No, I can't say that I do." "Look at the label." I read the label carefully: " One powder to be taken at bedtime, if required. Mrs. Inglethorp.' "No, I see nothing unusual." "Not the fact that there is no chemist's name?" "Ah!" I exclaimed. "To be sure, that is odd!" "Have you ever known a chemist to send out a box like that, without his printed name?" "No, I can't say that I have." I was becoming quite excited, but Poirot damped my ardour by remarking: "Yet the explanation is quite simple. So do not intrigue yourself, my friend." An audible creaking proclaimed the approach of Annie, so I had no time to reply. Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was evidently labouring under intense excitement, mingled with a certain ghoulish enjoyment of the tragedy. Poirot came to the point at once, with a business-like briskness. "I sent for you, Annie, because I thought you might be able to tell me something about the letters Mrs. Inglethorp wrote last night. How many were there? And can you tell me any of the names and addresses?" Annie considered. "There were four letters, sir. One was to Miss Howard, and one was to Mr. Wells, the lawyer, and the other two I don't think I remember, sir oh, yes, one was to | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
It was on his lips to exclaim: "My poor child--far more harm than anywhere else!" Instead, he answered, in a voice that sounded in his ears like Mr. Letterblair's: | No speaker | them publicly, do me here?"<|quote|>It was on his lips to exclaim: "My poor child--far more harm than anywhere else!" Instead, he answered, in a voice that sounded in his ears like Mr. Letterblair's:</|quote|>"New York society is a | accusations, even if he made them publicly, do me here?"<|quote|>It was on his lips to exclaim: "My poor child--far more harm than anywhere else!" Instead, he answered, in a voice that sounded in his ears like Mr. Letterblair's:</|quote|>"New York society is a very small world compared with | mind the exact shape of her other hand, the one on her knee, and every detail of the three rings on her fourth and fifth fingers; among which, he noticed, a wedding ring did not appear. "What harm could such accusations, even if he made them publicly, do me here?"<|quote|>It was on his lips to exclaim: "My poor child--far more harm than anywhere else!" Instead, he answered, in a voice that sounded in his ears like Mr. Letterblair's:</|quote|>"New York society is a very small world compared with the one you've lived in. And it's ruled, in spite of appearances, by a few people with--well, rather old-fashioned ideas." She said nothing, and he continued: "Our ideas about marriage and divorce are particularly old-fashioned. Our legislation favours divorce--our social | you: say them publicly, so that they would get about, and harm you even if--" "If--?" "I mean: no matter how unfounded they were." She paused for a long interval; so long that, not wishing to keep his eyes on her shaded face, he had time to imprint on his mind the exact shape of her other hand, the one on her knee, and every detail of the three rings on her fourth and fifth fingers; among which, he noticed, a wedding ring did not appear. "What harm could such accusations, even if he made them publicly, do me here?"<|quote|>It was on his lips to exclaim: "My poor child--far more harm than anywhere else!" Instead, he answered, in a voice that sounded in his ears like Mr. Letterblair's:</|quote|>"New York society is a very small world compared with the one you've lived in. And it's ruled, in spite of appearances, by a few people with--well, rather old-fashioned ideas." She said nothing, and he continued: "Our ideas about marriage and divorce are particularly old-fashioned. Our legislation favours divorce--our social customs don't." "Never?" "Well--not if the woman, however injured, however irreproachable, has appearances in the least degree against her, has exposed herself by any unconventional action to--to offensive insinuations--" She drooped her head a little lower, and he waited again, intensely hoping for a flash of indignation, or at least | and was just what he had described it to be in speaking of it to Mr. Letterblair: the vague charge of an angry blackguard. But how much truth was behind it? Only Count Olenski's wife could tell. "I've looked through the papers you gave to Mr. Letterblair," he said at length. "Well--can there be anything more abominable?" "No." She changed her position slightly, screening her eyes with her lifted hand. "Of course you know," Archer continued, "that if your husband chooses to fight the case--as he threatens to--" "Yes--?" "He can say things--things that might be unpl--might be disagreeable to you: say them publicly, so that they would get about, and harm you even if--" "If--?" "I mean: no matter how unfounded they were." She paused for a long interval; so long that, not wishing to keep his eyes on her shaded face, he had time to imprint on his mind the exact shape of her other hand, the one on her knee, and every detail of the three rings on her fourth and fifth fingers; among which, he noticed, a wedding ring did not appear. "What harm could such accusations, even if he made them publicly, do me here?"<|quote|>It was on his lips to exclaim: "My poor child--far more harm than anywhere else!" Instead, he answered, in a voice that sounded in his ears like Mr. Letterblair's:</|quote|>"New York society is a very small world compared with the one you've lived in. And it's ruled, in spite of appearances, by a few people with--well, rather old-fashioned ideas." She said nothing, and he continued: "Our ideas about marriage and divorce are particularly old-fashioned. Our legislation favours divorce--our social customs don't." "Never?" "Well--not if the woman, however injured, however irreproachable, has appearances in the least degree against her, has exposed herself by any unconventional action to--to offensive insinuations--" She drooped her head a little lower, and he waited again, intensely hoping for a flash of indignation, or at least a brief cry of denial. None came. A little travelling clock ticked purringly at her elbow, and a log broke in two and sent up a shower of sparks. The whole hushed and brooding room seemed to be waiting silently with Archer. "Yes," she murmured at length, "that's what my family tell me." He winced a little. "It's not unnatural--" "OUR family," she corrected herself; and Archer coloured. "For you'll be my cousin soon," she continued gently. "I hope so." "And you take their view?" He stood up at this, wandered across the room, stared with void eyes at one | by the rich red of her dress. She struck Archer, of a sudden, as a pathetic and even pitiful figure. "Now we're coming to hard facts," he thought, conscious in himself of the same instinctive recoil that he had so often criticised in his mother and her contemporaries. How little practice he had had in dealing with unusual situations! Their very vocabulary was unfamiliar to him, and seemed to belong to fiction and the stage. In face of what was coming he felt as awkward and embarrassed as a boy. After a pause Madame Olenska broke out with unexpected vehemence: "I want to be free; I want to wipe out all the past." "I understand that." Her face warmed. "Then you'll help me?" "First--" he hesitated--" "perhaps I ought to know a little more." She seemed surprised. "You know about my husband--my life with him?" He made a sign of assent. "Well--then--what more is there? In this country are such things tolerated? I'm a Protestant--our church does not forbid divorce in such cases." "Certainly not." They were both silent again, and Archer felt the spectre of Count Olenski's letter grimacing hideously between them. The letter filled only half a page, and was just what he had described it to be in speaking of it to Mr. Letterblair: the vague charge of an angry blackguard. But how much truth was behind it? Only Count Olenski's wife could tell. "I've looked through the papers you gave to Mr. Letterblair," he said at length. "Well--can there be anything more abominable?" "No." She changed her position slightly, screening her eyes with her lifted hand. "Of course you know," Archer continued, "that if your husband chooses to fight the case--as he threatens to--" "Yes--?" "He can say things--things that might be unpl--might be disagreeable to you: say them publicly, so that they would get about, and harm you even if--" "If--?" "I mean: no matter how unfounded they were." She paused for a long interval; so long that, not wishing to keep his eyes on her shaded face, he had time to imprint on his mind the exact shape of her other hand, the one on her knee, and every detail of the three rings on her fourth and fifth fingers; among which, he noticed, a wedding ring did not appear. "What harm could such accusations, even if he made them publicly, do me here?"<|quote|>It was on his lips to exclaim: "My poor child--far more harm than anywhere else!" Instead, he answered, in a voice that sounded in his ears like Mr. Letterblair's:</|quote|>"New York society is a very small world compared with the one you've lived in. And it's ruled, in spite of appearances, by a few people with--well, rather old-fashioned ideas." She said nothing, and he continued: "Our ideas about marriage and divorce are particularly old-fashioned. Our legislation favours divorce--our social customs don't." "Never?" "Well--not if the woman, however injured, however irreproachable, has appearances in the least degree against her, has exposed herself by any unconventional action to--to offensive insinuations--" She drooped her head a little lower, and he waited again, intensely hoping for a flash of indignation, or at least a brief cry of denial. None came. A little travelling clock ticked purringly at her elbow, and a log broke in two and sent up a shower of sparks. The whole hushed and brooding room seemed to be waiting silently with Archer. "Yes," she murmured at length, "that's what my family tell me." He winced a little. "It's not unnatural--" "OUR family," she corrected herself; and Archer coloured. "For you'll be my cousin soon," she continued gently. "I hope so." "And you take their view?" He stood up at this, wandered across the room, stared with void eyes at one of the pictures against the old red damask, and came back irresolutely to her side. How could he say: "Yes, if what your husband hints is true, or if you've no way of disproving it?" "Sincerely--" she interjected, as he was about to speak. He looked down into the fire. "Sincerely, then--what should you gain that would compensate for the possibility--the certainty--of a lot of beastly talk?" "But my freedom--is that nothing?" It flashed across him at that instant that the charge in the letter was true, and that she hoped to marry the partner of her guilt. How was he to tell her that, if she really cherished such a plan, the laws of the State were inexorably opposed to it? The mere suspicion that the thought was in her mind made him feel harshly and impatiently toward her. "But aren't you as free as air as it is?" he returned. "Who can touch you? Mr. Letterblair tells me the financial question has been settled--" "Oh, yes," she said indifferently. "Well, then: is it worth while to risk what may be infinitely disagreeable and painful? Think of the newspapers--their vileness! It's all stupid and narrow and unjust--but one can't | took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold: "I say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to stop in town of course you're included in the supper," left the room with his heavy important step. For a moment Archer fancied that Mr. Letterblair must have told her of his coming; but the irrelevance of her next remark made him change his mind. "You know painters, then? You live in their milieu?" she asked, her eyes full of interest. "Oh, not exactly. I don't know that the arts have a milieu here, any of them; they're more like a very thinly settled outskirt." "But you care for such things?" "Immensely. When I'm in Paris or London I never miss an exhibition. I try to keep up." She looked down at the tip of the little satin boot that peeped from her long draperies. "I used to care immensely too: my life was full of such things. But now I want to try not to." "You want to try not to?" "Yes: I want to cast off all my old life, to become just like everybody else here." Archer reddened. "You'll never be like everybody else," he said. She raised her straight eyebrows a little. "Ah, don't say that. If you knew how I hate to be different!" Her face had grown as sombre as a tragic mask. She leaned forward, clasping her knee in her thin hands, and looking away from him into remote dark distances. "I want to get away from it all," she insisted. He waited a moment and cleared his throat. "I know. Mr. Letterblair has told me." "Ah?" "That's the reason I've come. He asked me to--you see I'm in the firm." She looked slightly surprised, and then her eyes brightened. "You mean you can manage it for me? I can talk to you instead of Mr. Letterblair? Oh, that will be so much easier!" Her tone touched him, and his confidence grew with his self-satisfaction. He perceived that she had spoken of business to Beaufort simply to get rid of him; and to have routed Beaufort was something of a triumph. "I am here to talk about it," he repeated. She sat silent, her head still propped by the arm that rested on the back of the sofa. Her face looked pale and extinguished, as if dimmed by the rich red of her dress. She struck Archer, of a sudden, as a pathetic and even pitiful figure. "Now we're coming to hard facts," he thought, conscious in himself of the same instinctive recoil that he had so often criticised in his mother and her contemporaries. How little practice he had had in dealing with unusual situations! Their very vocabulary was unfamiliar to him, and seemed to belong to fiction and the stage. In face of what was coming he felt as awkward and embarrassed as a boy. After a pause Madame Olenska broke out with unexpected vehemence: "I want to be free; I want to wipe out all the past." "I understand that." Her face warmed. "Then you'll help me?" "First--" he hesitated--" "perhaps I ought to know a little more." She seemed surprised. "You know about my husband--my life with him?" He made a sign of assent. "Well--then--what more is there? In this country are such things tolerated? I'm a Protestant--our church does not forbid divorce in such cases." "Certainly not." They were both silent again, and Archer felt the spectre of Count Olenski's letter grimacing hideously between them. The letter filled only half a page, and was just what he had described it to be in speaking of it to Mr. Letterblair: the vague charge of an angry blackguard. But how much truth was behind it? Only Count Olenski's wife could tell. "I've looked through the papers you gave to Mr. Letterblair," he said at length. "Well--can there be anything more abominable?" "No." She changed her position slightly, screening her eyes with her lifted hand. "Of course you know," Archer continued, "that if your husband chooses to fight the case--as he threatens to--" "Yes--?" "He can say things--things that might be unpl--might be disagreeable to you: say them publicly, so that they would get about, and harm you even if--" "If--?" "I mean: no matter how unfounded they were." She paused for a long interval; so long that, not wishing to keep his eyes on her shaded face, he had time to imprint on his mind the exact shape of her other hand, the one on her knee, and every detail of the three rings on her fourth and fifth fingers; among which, he noticed, a wedding ring did not appear. "What harm could such accusations, even if he made them publicly, do me here?"<|quote|>It was on his lips to exclaim: "My poor child--far more harm than anywhere else!" Instead, he answered, in a voice that sounded in his ears like Mr. Letterblair's:</|quote|>"New York society is a very small world compared with the one you've lived in. And it's ruled, in spite of appearances, by a few people with--well, rather old-fashioned ideas." She said nothing, and he continued: "Our ideas about marriage and divorce are particularly old-fashioned. Our legislation favours divorce--our social customs don't." "Never?" "Well--not if the woman, however injured, however irreproachable, has appearances in the least degree against her, has exposed herself by any unconventional action to--to offensive insinuations--" She drooped her head a little lower, and he waited again, intensely hoping for a flash of indignation, or at least a brief cry of denial. None came. A little travelling clock ticked purringly at her elbow, and a log broke in two and sent up a shower of sparks. The whole hushed and brooding room seemed to be waiting silently with Archer. "Yes," she murmured at length, "that's what my family tell me." He winced a little. "It's not unnatural--" "OUR family," she corrected herself; and Archer coloured. "For you'll be my cousin soon," she continued gently. "I hope so." "And you take their view?" He stood up at this, wandered across the room, stared with void eyes at one of the pictures against the old red damask, and came back irresolutely to her side. How could he say: "Yes, if what your husband hints is true, or if you've no way of disproving it?" "Sincerely--" she interjected, as he was about to speak. He looked down into the fire. "Sincerely, then--what should you gain that would compensate for the possibility--the certainty--of a lot of beastly talk?" "But my freedom--is that nothing?" It flashed across him at that instant that the charge in the letter was true, and that she hoped to marry the partner of her guilt. How was he to tell her that, if she really cherished such a plan, the laws of the State were inexorably opposed to it? The mere suspicion that the thought was in her mind made him feel harshly and impatiently toward her. "But aren't you as free as air as it is?" he returned. "Who can touch you? Mr. Letterblair tells me the financial question has been settled--" "Oh, yes," she said indifferently. "Well, then: is it worth while to risk what may be infinitely disagreeable and painful? Think of the newspapers--their vileness! It's all stupid and narrow and unjust--but one can't make over society." "No," she acquiesced; and her tone was so faint and desolate that he felt a sudden remorse for his own hard thoughts. "The individual, in such cases, is nearly always sacrificed to what is supposed to be the collective interest: people cling to any convention that keeps the family together--protects the children, if there are any," he rambled on, pouring out all the stock phrases that rose to his lips in his intense desire to cover over the ugly reality which her silence seemed to have laid bare. Since she would not or could not say the one word that would have cleared the air, his wish was not to let her feel that he was trying to probe into her secret. Better keep on the surface, in the prudent old New York way, than risk uncovering a wound he could not heal. "It's my business, you know," he went on, "to help you to see these things as the people who are fondest of you see them. The Mingotts, the Wellands, the van der Luydens, all your friends and relations: if I didn't show you honestly how they judge such questions, it wouldn't be fair of me, would it?" He spoke insistently, almost pleading with her in his eagerness to cover up that yawning silence. She said slowly: "No; it wouldn't be fair." The fire had crumbled down to greyness, and one of the lamps made a gurgling appeal for attention. Madame Olenska rose, wound it up and returned to the fire, but without resuming her seat. Her remaining on her feet seemed to signify that there was nothing more for either of them to say, and Archer stood up also. "Very well; I will do what you wish," she said abruptly. The blood rushed to his forehead; and, taken aback by the suddenness of her surrender, he caught her two hands awkwardly in his. "I--I do want to help you," he said. "You do help me. Good night, my cousin." He bent and laid his lips on her hands, which were cold and lifeless. She drew them away, and he turned to the door, found his coat and hat under the faint gas-light of the hall, and plunged out into the winter night bursting with the belated eloquence of the inarticulate. XIII. It was a crowded night at Wallack's theatre. The play was "The Shaughraun," | The letter filled only half a page, and was just what he had described it to be in speaking of it to Mr. Letterblair: the vague charge of an angry blackguard. But how much truth was behind it? Only Count Olenski's wife could tell. "I've looked through the papers you gave to Mr. Letterblair," he said at length. "Well--can there be anything more abominable?" "No." She changed her position slightly, screening her eyes with her lifted hand. "Of course you know," Archer continued, "that if your husband chooses to fight the case--as he threatens to--" "Yes--?" "He can say things--things that might be unpl--might be disagreeable to you: say them publicly, so that they would get about, and harm you even if--" "If--?" "I mean: no matter how unfounded they were." She paused for a long interval; so long that, not wishing to keep his eyes on her shaded face, he had time to imprint on his mind the exact shape of her other hand, the one on her knee, and every detail of the three rings on her fourth and fifth fingers; among which, he noticed, a wedding ring did not appear. "What harm could such accusations, even if he made them publicly, do me here?"<|quote|>It was on his lips to exclaim: "My poor child--far more harm than anywhere else!" Instead, he answered, in a voice that sounded in his ears like Mr. Letterblair's:</|quote|>"New York society is a very small world compared with the one you've lived in. And it's ruled, in spite of appearances, by a few people with--well, rather old-fashioned ideas." She said nothing, and he continued: "Our ideas about marriage and divorce are particularly old-fashioned. Our legislation favours divorce--our social customs don't." "Never?" "Well--not if the woman, however injured, however irreproachable, has appearances in the least degree against her, has exposed herself by any unconventional action to--to offensive insinuations--" She drooped her head a little lower, and he waited again, intensely hoping for a flash of indignation, or at least a brief cry of denial. None came. A little travelling clock ticked purringly at her elbow, and a log broke in two and sent up a shower of sparks. The whole hushed and brooding room seemed to be waiting silently with Archer. "Yes," she murmured at length, "that's what my family tell me." He winced a little. "It's not unnatural--" "OUR family," she corrected herself; and Archer coloured. "For you'll be my cousin soon," she continued gently. "I hope so." "And you take their view?" He stood up at this, wandered across the room, stared with void eyes at one of the pictures against the old red damask, and came back irresolutely to her side. How could he say: "Yes, if what your husband hints is true, or if you've no way of disproving it?" "Sincerely--" she interjected, as he was about to speak. He looked down into the fire. "Sincerely, then--what should you gain that would compensate for the possibility--the certainty--of a lot of beastly talk?" "But my freedom--is that nothing?" It flashed across him at that instant that the charge in the letter was true, and that she hoped to marry the partner of her guilt. How was he to tell her that, if she really cherished such a plan, the laws of the State were inexorably opposed to it? The mere suspicion that the thought was in her mind made him feel harshly and impatiently toward her. "But aren't you as free as air as it is?" he returned. "Who can touch you? Mr. Letterblair tells me the financial question has been settled--" "Oh, yes," she said indifferently. "Well, then: is it worth while to risk what may be infinitely disagreeable and painful? Think of the newspapers--their vileness! It's all stupid and narrow and unjust--but one can't make over society." "No," she acquiesced; and her tone was so faint and desolate that he felt a sudden remorse for his own hard thoughts. "The individual, in such cases, is nearly always sacrificed to what is supposed to be the collective interest: people cling to any convention that keeps the family together--protects the children, if there are any," he rambled on, pouring out all the stock phrases that rose to his lips in his intense desire to cover over the ugly reality which her silence seemed to have laid bare. Since she would not or could not say the one word that would have cleared the air, his wish was not to let her feel that he was trying to probe into her secret. Better keep on the surface, in the prudent old New York way, than risk uncovering a wound he could not heal. "It's my business, you know," he went on, "to help you to see these things as the people who are fondest of you see them. The Mingotts, the Wellands, the van der Luydens, all your friends and relations: if I | The Age Of Innocence |
"Believe me, Katharine, it s the same for every one for me, too for your father," | Mrs. Hilbery | not altogether unknown to her.<|quote|>"Believe me, Katharine, it s the same for every one for me, too for your father,"</|quote|>she said earnestly, and sighed. | of disillusionment which were, perhaps, not altogether unknown to her.<|quote|>"Believe me, Katharine, it s the same for every one for me, too for your father,"</|quote|>she said earnestly, and sighed. They looked together into the | to have faith in our vision," Mrs. Hilbery resumed, glancing at the figures, which distressed her vaguely, and had some connection in her mind with the household accounts, "otherwise, as you say" She cast a lightning glance into the depths of disillusionment which were, perhaps, not altogether unknown to her.<|quote|>"Believe me, Katharine, it s the same for every one for me, too for your father,"</|quote|>she said earnestly, and sighed. They looked together into the abyss and, as the elder of the two, she recovered herself first and asked: "But where is Ralph? Why isn t he here to see me?" Katharine s expression changed instantly. "Because he s not allowed to come here," she | and miserable the next that s the reason why we can t possibly marry. At the same time," she continued, "we can t live without each other, because" Mrs. Hilbery waited patiently for the sentence to be completed, but Katharine fell silent and fingered her sheet of figures. "We have to have faith in our vision," Mrs. Hilbery resumed, glancing at the figures, which distressed her vaguely, and had some connection in her mind with the household accounts, "otherwise, as you say" She cast a lightning glance into the depths of disillusionment which were, perhaps, not altogether unknown to her.<|quote|>"Believe me, Katharine, it s the same for every one for me, too for your father,"</|quote|>she said earnestly, and sighed. They looked together into the abyss and, as the elder of the two, she recovered herself first and asked: "But where is Ralph? Why isn t he here to see me?" Katharine s expression changed instantly. "Because he s not allowed to come here," she replied bitterly. Mrs. Hilbery brushed this aside. "Would there be time to send for him before luncheon?" she asked. Katharine looked at her as if, indeed, she were some magician. Once more she felt that instead of being a grown woman, used to advise and command, she was only a | as she tried to fix the difficult feeling, "as if something came to an end suddenly gave out faded an illusion as if when we think we re in love we make it up we imagine what doesn t exist. That s why it s impossible that we should ever marry. Always to be finding the other an illusion, and going off and forgetting about them, never to be certain that you cared, or that he wasn t caring for some one not you at all, the horror of changing from one state to the other, being happy one moment and miserable the next that s the reason why we can t possibly marry. At the same time," she continued, "we can t live without each other, because" Mrs. Hilbery waited patiently for the sentence to be completed, but Katharine fell silent and fingered her sheet of figures. "We have to have faith in our vision," Mrs. Hilbery resumed, glancing at the figures, which distressed her vaguely, and had some connection in her mind with the household accounts, "otherwise, as you say" She cast a lightning glance into the depths of disillusionment which were, perhaps, not altogether unknown to her.<|quote|>"Believe me, Katharine, it s the same for every one for me, too for your father,"</|quote|>she said earnestly, and sighed. They looked together into the abyss and, as the elder of the two, she recovered herself first and asked: "But where is Ralph? Why isn t he here to see me?" Katharine s expression changed instantly. "Because he s not allowed to come here," she replied bitterly. Mrs. Hilbery brushed this aside. "Would there be time to send for him before luncheon?" she asked. Katharine looked at her as if, indeed, she were some magician. Once more she felt that instead of being a grown woman, used to advise and command, she was only a foot or two raised above the long grass and the little flowers and entirely dependent upon the figure of indefinite size whose head went up into the sky, whose hand was in hers, for guidance. "I m not happy without him," she said simply. Mrs. Hilbery nodded her head in a manner which indicated complete understanding, and the immediate conception of certain plans for the future. She swept up her flowers, breathed in their sweetness, and, humming a little song about a miller s daughter, left the room. The case upon which Ralph Denham was engaged that afternoon was not | we are bound for, or why, or who has sent us, or what we shall find who knows anything, except that love is our faith love" she crooned, and the soft sound beating through the dim words was heard by her daughter as the breaking of waves solemnly in order upon the vast shore that she gazed upon. She would have been content for her mother to repeat that word almost indefinitely a soothing word when uttered by another, a riveting together of the shattered fragments of the world. But Mrs. Hilbery, instead of repeating the word love, said pleadingly: "And you won t think those ugly thoughts again, will you, Katharine?" at which words the ship which Katharine had been considering seemed to put into harbor and have done with its seafaring. Yet she was in great need, if not exactly of sympathy, of some form of advice, or, at least, of the opportunity of setting forth her problems before a third person so as to renew them in her own eyes. "But then," she said, ignoring the difficult problem of ugliness, "you knew you were in love; but we re different. It seems," she continued, frowning a little as she tried to fix the difficult feeling, "as if something came to an end suddenly gave out faded an illusion as if when we think we re in love we make it up we imagine what doesn t exist. That s why it s impossible that we should ever marry. Always to be finding the other an illusion, and going off and forgetting about them, never to be certain that you cared, or that he wasn t caring for some one not you at all, the horror of changing from one state to the other, being happy one moment and miserable the next that s the reason why we can t possibly marry. At the same time," she continued, "we can t live without each other, because" Mrs. Hilbery waited patiently for the sentence to be completed, but Katharine fell silent and fingered her sheet of figures. "We have to have faith in our vision," Mrs. Hilbery resumed, glancing at the figures, which distressed her vaguely, and had some connection in her mind with the household accounts, "otherwise, as you say" She cast a lightning glance into the depths of disillusionment which were, perhaps, not altogether unknown to her.<|quote|>"Believe me, Katharine, it s the same for every one for me, too for your father,"</|quote|>she said earnestly, and sighed. They looked together into the abyss and, as the elder of the two, she recovered herself first and asked: "But where is Ralph? Why isn t he here to see me?" Katharine s expression changed instantly. "Because he s not allowed to come here," she replied bitterly. Mrs. Hilbery brushed this aside. "Would there be time to send for him before luncheon?" she asked. Katharine looked at her as if, indeed, she were some magician. Once more she felt that instead of being a grown woman, used to advise and command, she was only a foot or two raised above the long grass and the little flowers and entirely dependent upon the figure of indefinite size whose head went up into the sky, whose hand was in hers, for guidance. "I m not happy without him," she said simply. Mrs. Hilbery nodded her head in a manner which indicated complete understanding, and the immediate conception of certain plans for the future. She swept up her flowers, breathed in their sweetness, and, humming a little song about a miller s daughter, left the room. The case upon which Ralph Denham was engaged that afternoon was not apparently receiving his full attention, and yet the affairs of the late John Leake of Dublin were sufficiently confused to need all the care that a solicitor could bestow upon them, if the widow Leake and the five Leake children of tender age were to receive any pittance at all. But the appeal to Ralph s humanity had little chance of being heard to-day; he was no longer a model of concentration. The partition so carefully erected between the different sections of his life had been broken down, with the result that though his eyes were fixed upon the last Will and Testament, he saw through the page a certain drawing-room in Cheyne Walk. He tried every device that had proved effective in the past for keeping up the partitions of the mind, until he could decently go home; but a little to his alarm he found himself assailed so persistently, as if from outside, by Katharine, that he launched forth desperately into an imaginary interview with her. She obliterated a bookcase full of law reports, and the corners and lines of the room underwent a curious softening of outline like that which sometimes makes a room unfamiliar at the | we don t want to be married," Katharine replied emphatically, and added, "Why, after all, isn t it perfectly possible to live together without being married?" Again Mrs. Hilbery looked discomposed, and, in her trouble, took up the sheets which were lying upon the table, and began turning them over this way and that, and muttering to herself as she glanced: "A plus B minus C equals _x y z_. It s so dreadfully ugly, Katharine. That s what I feel so dreadfully ugly." Katharine took the sheets from her mother s hand and began shuffling them absent-mindedly together, for her fixed gaze seemed to show that her thoughts were intent upon some other matter. "Well, I don t know about ugliness," she said at length. "But he doesn t ask it of you?" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Not that grave young man with the steady brown eyes?" "He doesn t ask anything we neither of us ask anything." "If I could help you, Katharine, by the memory of what I felt" "Yes, tell me what you felt." Mrs. Hilbery, her eyes growing blank, peered down the enormously long corridor of days at the far end of which the little figures of herself and her husband appeared fantastically attired, clasping hands upon a moonlit beach, with roses swinging in the dusk. "We were in a little boat going out to a ship at night," she began. "The sun had set and the moon was rising over our heads. There were lovely silver lights upon the waves and three green lights upon the steamer in the middle of the bay. Your father s head looked so grand against the mast. It was life, it was death. The great sea was round us. It was the voyage for ever and ever." The ancient fairy-tale fell roundly and harmoniously upon Katharine s ears. Yes, there was the enormous space of the sea; there were the three green lights upon the steamer; the cloaked figures climbed up on deck. And so, voyaging over the green and purple waters, past the cliffs and the sandy lagoons and through pools crowded with the masts of ships and the steeples of churches here they were. The river seemed to have brought them and deposited them here at this precise point. She looked admiringly at her mother, that ancient voyager. "Who knows," exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, continuing her reveries, "where we are bound for, or why, or who has sent us, or what we shall find who knows anything, except that love is our faith love" she crooned, and the soft sound beating through the dim words was heard by her daughter as the breaking of waves solemnly in order upon the vast shore that she gazed upon. She would have been content for her mother to repeat that word almost indefinitely a soothing word when uttered by another, a riveting together of the shattered fragments of the world. But Mrs. Hilbery, instead of repeating the word love, said pleadingly: "And you won t think those ugly thoughts again, will you, Katharine?" at which words the ship which Katharine had been considering seemed to put into harbor and have done with its seafaring. Yet she was in great need, if not exactly of sympathy, of some form of advice, or, at least, of the opportunity of setting forth her problems before a third person so as to renew them in her own eyes. "But then," she said, ignoring the difficult problem of ugliness, "you knew you were in love; but we re different. It seems," she continued, frowning a little as she tried to fix the difficult feeling, "as if something came to an end suddenly gave out faded an illusion as if when we think we re in love we make it up we imagine what doesn t exist. That s why it s impossible that we should ever marry. Always to be finding the other an illusion, and going off and forgetting about them, never to be certain that you cared, or that he wasn t caring for some one not you at all, the horror of changing from one state to the other, being happy one moment and miserable the next that s the reason why we can t possibly marry. At the same time," she continued, "we can t live without each other, because" Mrs. Hilbery waited patiently for the sentence to be completed, but Katharine fell silent and fingered her sheet of figures. "We have to have faith in our vision," Mrs. Hilbery resumed, glancing at the figures, which distressed her vaguely, and had some connection in her mind with the household accounts, "otherwise, as you say" She cast a lightning glance into the depths of disillusionment which were, perhaps, not altogether unknown to her.<|quote|>"Believe me, Katharine, it s the same for every one for me, too for your father,"</|quote|>she said earnestly, and sighed. They looked together into the abyss and, as the elder of the two, she recovered herself first and asked: "But where is Ralph? Why isn t he here to see me?" Katharine s expression changed instantly. "Because he s not allowed to come here," she replied bitterly. Mrs. Hilbery brushed this aside. "Would there be time to send for him before luncheon?" she asked. Katharine looked at her as if, indeed, she were some magician. Once more she felt that instead of being a grown woman, used to advise and command, she was only a foot or two raised above the long grass and the little flowers and entirely dependent upon the figure of indefinite size whose head went up into the sky, whose hand was in hers, for guidance. "I m not happy without him," she said simply. Mrs. Hilbery nodded her head in a manner which indicated complete understanding, and the immediate conception of certain plans for the future. She swept up her flowers, breathed in their sweetness, and, humming a little song about a miller s daughter, left the room. The case upon which Ralph Denham was engaged that afternoon was not apparently receiving his full attention, and yet the affairs of the late John Leake of Dublin were sufficiently confused to need all the care that a solicitor could bestow upon them, if the widow Leake and the five Leake children of tender age were to receive any pittance at all. But the appeal to Ralph s humanity had little chance of being heard to-day; he was no longer a model of concentration. The partition so carefully erected between the different sections of his life had been broken down, with the result that though his eyes were fixed upon the last Will and Testament, he saw through the page a certain drawing-room in Cheyne Walk. He tried every device that had proved effective in the past for keeping up the partitions of the mind, until he could decently go home; but a little to his alarm he found himself assailed so persistently, as if from outside, by Katharine, that he launched forth desperately into an imaginary interview with her. She obliterated a bookcase full of law reports, and the corners and lines of the room underwent a curious softening of outline like that which sometimes makes a room unfamiliar at the moment of waking from sleep. By degrees, a pulse or stress began to beat at regular intervals in his mind, heaping his thoughts into waves to which words fitted themselves, and without much consciousness of what he was doing, he began to write on a sheet of draft paper what had the appearance of a poem lacking several words in each line. Not many lines had been set down, however, before he threw away his pen as violently as if that were responsible for his misdeeds, and tore the paper into many separate pieces. This was a sign that Katharine had asserted herself and put to him a remark that could not be met poetically. Her remark was entirely destructive of poetry, since it was to the effect that poetry had nothing whatever to do with her; all her friends spent their lives in making up phrases, she said; all his feeling was an illusion, and next moment, as if to taunt him with his impotence, she had sunk into one of those dreamy states which took no account whatever of his existence. Ralph was roused by his passionate attempts to attract her attention to the fact that he was standing in the middle of his little private room in Lincoln s Inn Fields at a considerable distance from Chelsea. The physical distance increased his desperation. He began pacing in circles until the process sickened him, and then took a sheet of paper for the composition of a letter which, he vowed before he began it, should be sent that same evening. It was a difficult matter to put into words; poetry would have done it better justice, but he must abstain from poetry. In an infinite number of half-obliterated scratches he tried to convey to her the possibility that although human beings are woefully ill-adapted for communication, still, such communion is the best we know; moreover, they make it possible for each to have access to another world independent of personal affairs, a world of law, of philosophy, or more strangely a world such as he had had a glimpse of the other evening when together they seemed to be sharing something, creating something, an ideal a vision flung out in advance of our actual circumstances. If this golden rim were quenched, if life were no longer circled by an illusion (but was it an illusion after all?), then | admiringly at her mother, that ancient voyager. "Who knows," exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, continuing her reveries, "where we are bound for, or why, or who has sent us, or what we shall find who knows anything, except that love is our faith love" she crooned, and the soft sound beating through the dim words was heard by her daughter as the breaking of waves solemnly in order upon the vast shore that she gazed upon. She would have been content for her mother to repeat that word almost indefinitely a soothing word when uttered by another, a riveting together of the shattered fragments of the world. But Mrs. Hilbery, instead of repeating the word love, said pleadingly: "And you won t think those ugly thoughts again, will you, Katharine?" at which words the ship which Katharine had been considering seemed to put into harbor and have done with its seafaring. Yet she was in great need, if not exactly of sympathy, of some form of advice, or, at least, of the opportunity of setting forth her problems before a third person so as to renew them in her own eyes. "But then," she said, ignoring the difficult problem of ugliness, "you knew you were in love; but we re different. It seems," she continued, frowning a little as she tried to fix the difficult feeling, "as if something came to an end suddenly gave out faded an illusion as if when we think we re in love we make it up we imagine what doesn t exist. That s why it s impossible that we should ever marry. Always to be finding the other an illusion, and going off and forgetting about them, never to be certain that you cared, or that he wasn t caring for some one not you at all, the horror of changing from one state to the other, being happy one moment and miserable the next that s the reason why we can t possibly marry. At the same time," she continued, "we can t live without each other, because" Mrs. Hilbery waited patiently for the sentence to be completed, but Katharine fell silent and fingered her sheet of figures. "We have to have faith in our vision," Mrs. Hilbery resumed, glancing at the figures, which distressed her vaguely, and had some connection in her mind with the household accounts, "otherwise, as you say" She cast a lightning glance into the depths of disillusionment which were, perhaps, not altogether unknown to her.<|quote|>"Believe me, Katharine, it s the same for every one for me, too for your father,"</|quote|>she said earnestly, and sighed. They looked together into the abyss and, as the elder of the two, she recovered herself first and asked: "But where is Ralph? Why isn t he here to see me?" Katharine s expression changed instantly. "Because he s not allowed to come here," she replied bitterly. Mrs. Hilbery brushed this aside. "Would there be time to send for him before luncheon?" she asked. Katharine looked at her as if, indeed, she were some magician. Once more she felt that instead of being a grown woman, used to advise and command, she was only a foot or two raised above the long grass and the little flowers and entirely dependent upon the figure of indefinite size whose head went up into the sky, whose hand was in hers, for guidance. "I m not happy without him," she said simply. Mrs. Hilbery nodded her head in a manner which indicated complete understanding, and the immediate conception of certain plans for the future. She swept up her flowers, breathed in their sweetness, and, humming a little song about a miller s daughter, left the room. The case upon which Ralph Denham was engaged that afternoon was not apparently receiving his full attention, and yet the affairs of the late John Leake of Dublin were sufficiently confused to need all the care that a solicitor could bestow upon them, if the widow Leake and the five Leake children of tender age were to receive any pittance at all. But the appeal to Ralph s humanity had little chance of being heard to-day; he was no longer a model of concentration. The partition so carefully erected between the different sections of his life had been broken down, with the result that though his eyes were fixed upon the last Will and Testament, he saw through the page a certain drawing-room in Cheyne Walk. He tried every device that had proved effective in the past for keeping up the partitions of the mind, until he could decently go home; but a little to his alarm he found himself assailed so persistently, as if from outside, by Katharine, that he launched forth desperately into an imaginary interview with her. She obliterated a bookcase full of law reports, and the corners and lines of the room underwent a curious softening of outline like that which sometimes makes a room unfamiliar at the moment of waking from sleep. By degrees, a pulse or stress began to beat at regular intervals in his mind, heaping his thoughts into waves to which words fitted themselves, and without much consciousness of what he was doing, he began | Night And Day |
he returned, | No speaker | unexpected question. "Well, my child,"<|quote|>he returned,</|quote|>"I really cannot take upon | was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. "Well, my child,"<|quote|>he returned,</|quote|>"I really cannot take upon myself to say." "Father," pursued | express his hope that you will take it into your favourable consideration." Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father," said Louisa, "do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. "Well, my child,"<|quote|>he returned,</|quote|>"I really cannot take upon myself to say." "Father," pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, "do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby?" "My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing." "Father," she still pursued, "does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?" "Really, my dear," said | arrive when he should offer you his hand in marriage. That time, to which he has so long, and certainly with great constancy, looked forward, is now come. Mr. Bounderby has made his proposal of marriage to me, and has entreated me to make it known to you, and to express his hope that you will take it into your favourable consideration." Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father," said Louisa, "do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. "Well, my child,"<|quote|>he returned,</|quote|>"I really cannot take upon myself to say." "Father," pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, "do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby?" "My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing." "Father," she still pursued, "does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?" "Really, my dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "it is difficult to answer your question" "Difficult to answer it, Yes or No, father?" "Certainly, my dear. Because;" here was something to demonstrate, and it set him up again; "because the reply depends so materially, Louisa, on the sense in which we use the expression. Now, Mr. | it to me, father." Strange to relate, Mr. Gradgrind was not so collected at this moment as his daughter was. He took a paper-knife in his hand, turned it over, laid it down, took it up again, and even then had to look along the blade of it, considering how to go on. "What you say, my dear Louisa, is perfectly reasonable. I have undertaken then to let you know that in short, that Mr. Bounderby has informed me that he has long watched your progress with particular interest and pleasure, and has long hoped that the time might ultimately arrive when he should offer you his hand in marriage. That time, to which he has so long, and certainly with great constancy, looked forward, is now come. Mr. Bounderby has made his proposal of marriage to me, and has entreated me to make it known to you, and to express his hope that you will take it into your favourable consideration." Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father," said Louisa, "do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. "Well, my child,"<|quote|>he returned,</|quote|>"I really cannot take upon myself to say." "Father," pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, "do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby?" "My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing." "Father," she still pursued, "does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?" "Really, my dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "it is difficult to answer your question" "Difficult to answer it, Yes or No, father?" "Certainly, my dear. Because;" here was something to demonstrate, and it set him up again; "because the reply depends so materially, Louisa, on the sense in which we use the expression. Now, Mr. Bounderby does not do you the injustice, and does not do himself the injustice, of pretending to anything fanciful, fantastic, or (I am using synonymous terms) sentimental. Mr. Bounderby would have seen you grow up under his eyes, to very little purpose, if he could so far forget what is due to your good sense, not to say to his, as to address you from any such ground. Therefore, perhaps the expression itself I merely suggest this to you, my dear may be a little misplaced." "What would you advise me to use in its stead, father?" "Why, my dear | that I have perfect confidence in your good sense. You are not impulsive, you are not romantic, you are accustomed to view everything from the strong dispassionate ground of reason and calculation. From that ground alone, I know you will view and consider what I am going to communicate." He waited, as if he would have been glad that she said something. But she said never a word. "Louisa, my dear, you are the subject of a proposal of marriage that has been made to me." Again he waited, and again she answered not one word. This so far surprised him, as to induce him gently to repeat, "a proposal of marriage, my dear." To which she returned, without any visible emotion whatever: "I hear you, father. I am attending, I assure you." "Well!" said Mr. Gradgrind, breaking into a smile, after being for the moment at a loss, "you are even more dispassionate than I expected, Louisa. Or, perhaps, you are not unprepared for the announcement I have it in charge to make?" "I cannot say that, father, until I hear it. Prepared or unprepared, I wish to hear it all from you. I wish to hear you state it to me, father." Strange to relate, Mr. Gradgrind was not so collected at this moment as his daughter was. He took a paper-knife in his hand, turned it over, laid it down, took it up again, and even then had to look along the blade of it, considering how to go on. "What you say, my dear Louisa, is perfectly reasonable. I have undertaken then to let you know that in short, that Mr. Bounderby has informed me that he has long watched your progress with particular interest and pleasure, and has long hoped that the time might ultimately arrive when he should offer you his hand in marriage. That time, to which he has so long, and certainly with great constancy, looked forward, is now come. Mr. Bounderby has made his proposal of marriage to me, and has entreated me to make it known to you, and to express his hope that you will take it into your favourable consideration." Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father," said Louisa, "do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. "Well, my child,"<|quote|>he returned,</|quote|>"I really cannot take upon myself to say." "Father," pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, "do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby?" "My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing." "Father," she still pursued, "does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?" "Really, my dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "it is difficult to answer your question" "Difficult to answer it, Yes or No, father?" "Certainly, my dear. Because;" here was something to demonstrate, and it set him up again; "because the reply depends so materially, Louisa, on the sense in which we use the expression. Now, Mr. Bounderby does not do you the injustice, and does not do himself the injustice, of pretending to anything fanciful, fantastic, or (I am using synonymous terms) sentimental. Mr. Bounderby would have seen you grow up under his eyes, to very little purpose, if he could so far forget what is due to your good sense, not to say to his, as to address you from any such ground. Therefore, perhaps the expression itself I merely suggest this to you, my dear may be a little misplaced." "What would you advise me to use in its stead, father?" "Why, my dear Louisa," said Mr. Gradgrind, completely recovered by this time, "I would advise you (since you ask me) to consider this question, as you have been accustomed to consider every other question, simply as one of tangible Fact. The ignorant and the giddy may embarrass such subjects with irrelevant fancies, and other absurdities that have no existence, properly viewed really no existence but it is no compliment to you to say, that you know better. Now, what are the Facts of this case? You are, we will say in round numbers, twenty years of age; Mr. Bounderby is, we will say in round numbers, fifty. There is some disparity in your respective years, but in your means and positions there is none; on the contrary, there is a great suitability. Then the question arises, Is this one disparity sufficient to operate as a bar to such a marriage? In considering this question, it is not unimportant to take into account the statistics of marriage, so far as they have yet been obtained, in England and Wales. I find, on reference to the figures, that a large proportion of these marriages are contracted between parties of very unequal ages, and that the | "Good-bye, Loo." She gave him an affectionate good-night, and went out with him to the door, whence the fires of Coketown could be seen, making the distance lurid. She stood there, looking steadfastly towards them, and listening to his departing steps. They retreated quickly, as glad to get away from Stone Lodge; and she stood there yet, when he was gone and all was quiet. It seemed as if, first in her own fire within the house, and then in the fiery haze without, she tried to discover what kind of woof Old Time, that greatest and longest-established Spinner of all, would weave from the threads he had already spun into a woman. But his factory is a secret place, his work is noiseless, and his Hands are mutes. CHAPTER XV FATHER AND DAUGHTER ALTHOUGH Mr. Gradgrind did not take after Blue Beard, his room was quite a blue chamber in its abundance of blue books. Whatever they could prove (which is usually anything you like), they proved there, in an army constantly strengthening by the arrival of new recruits. In that charmed apartment, the most complicated social questions were cast up, got into exact totals, and finally settled if those concerned could only have been brought to know it. As if an astronomical observatory should be made without any windows, and the astronomer within should arrange the starry universe solely by pen, ink, and paper, so Mr. Gradgrind, in _his_ Observatory (and there are many like it), had no need to cast an eye upon the teeming myriads of human beings around him, but could settle all their destinies on a slate, and wipe out all their tears with one dirty little bit of sponge. To this Observatory, then: a stern room, with a deadly statistical clock in it, which measured every second with a beat like a rap upon a coffin-lid; Louisa repaired on the appointed morning. A window looked towards Coketown; and when she sat down near her father's table, she saw the high chimneys and the long tracts of smoke looming in the heavy distance gloomily. "My dear Louisa," said her father, "I prepared you last night to give me your serious attention in the conversation we are now going to have together. You have been so well trained, and you do, I am happy to say, so much justice to the education you have received, that I have perfect confidence in your good sense. You are not impulsive, you are not romantic, you are accustomed to view everything from the strong dispassionate ground of reason and calculation. From that ground alone, I know you will view and consider what I am going to communicate." He waited, as if he would have been glad that she said something. But she said never a word. "Louisa, my dear, you are the subject of a proposal of marriage that has been made to me." Again he waited, and again she answered not one word. This so far surprised him, as to induce him gently to repeat, "a proposal of marriage, my dear." To which she returned, without any visible emotion whatever: "I hear you, father. I am attending, I assure you." "Well!" said Mr. Gradgrind, breaking into a smile, after being for the moment at a loss, "you are even more dispassionate than I expected, Louisa. Or, perhaps, you are not unprepared for the announcement I have it in charge to make?" "I cannot say that, father, until I hear it. Prepared or unprepared, I wish to hear it all from you. I wish to hear you state it to me, father." Strange to relate, Mr. Gradgrind was not so collected at this moment as his daughter was. He took a paper-knife in his hand, turned it over, laid it down, took it up again, and even then had to look along the blade of it, considering how to go on. "What you say, my dear Louisa, is perfectly reasonable. I have undertaken then to let you know that in short, that Mr. Bounderby has informed me that he has long watched your progress with particular interest and pleasure, and has long hoped that the time might ultimately arrive when he should offer you his hand in marriage. That time, to which he has so long, and certainly with great constancy, looked forward, is now come. Mr. Bounderby has made his proposal of marriage to me, and has entreated me to make it known to you, and to express his hope that you will take it into your favourable consideration." Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father," said Louisa, "do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. "Well, my child,"<|quote|>he returned,</|quote|>"I really cannot take upon myself to say." "Father," pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, "do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby?" "My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing." "Father," she still pursued, "does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?" "Really, my dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "it is difficult to answer your question" "Difficult to answer it, Yes or No, father?" "Certainly, my dear. Because;" here was something to demonstrate, and it set him up again; "because the reply depends so materially, Louisa, on the sense in which we use the expression. Now, Mr. Bounderby does not do you the injustice, and does not do himself the injustice, of pretending to anything fanciful, fantastic, or (I am using synonymous terms) sentimental. Mr. Bounderby would have seen you grow up under his eyes, to very little purpose, if he could so far forget what is due to your good sense, not to say to his, as to address you from any such ground. Therefore, perhaps the expression itself I merely suggest this to you, my dear may be a little misplaced." "What would you advise me to use in its stead, father?" "Why, my dear Louisa," said Mr. Gradgrind, completely recovered by this time, "I would advise you (since you ask me) to consider this question, as you have been accustomed to consider every other question, simply as one of tangible Fact. The ignorant and the giddy may embarrass such subjects with irrelevant fancies, and other absurdities that have no existence, properly viewed really no existence but it is no compliment to you to say, that you know better. Now, what are the Facts of this case? You are, we will say in round numbers, twenty years of age; Mr. Bounderby is, we will say in round numbers, fifty. There is some disparity in your respective years, but in your means and positions there is none; on the contrary, there is a great suitability. Then the question arises, Is this one disparity sufficient to operate as a bar to such a marriage? In considering this question, it is not unimportant to take into account the statistics of marriage, so far as they have yet been obtained, in England and Wales. I find, on reference to the figures, that a large proportion of these marriages are contracted between parties of very unequal ages, and that the elder of these contracting parties is, in rather more than three-fourths of these instances, the bridegroom. It is remarkable as showing the wide prevalence of this law, that among the natives of the British possessions in India, also in a considerable part of China, and among the Calmucks of Tartary, the best means of computation yet furnished us by travellers, yield similar results. The disparity I have mentioned, therefore, almost ceases to be disparity, and (virtually) all but disappears." "What do you recommend, father," asked Louisa, her reserved composure not in the least affected by these gratifying results, "that I should substitute for the term I used just now? For the misplaced expression?" "Louisa," returned her father, "it appears to me that nothing can be plainer. Confining yourself rigidly to Fact, the question of Fact you state to yourself is: Does Mr. Bounderby ask me to marry him? Yes, he does. The sole remaining question then is: Shall I marry him? I think nothing can be plainer than that?" "Shall I marry him?" repeated Louisa, with great deliberation. "Precisely. And it is satisfactory to me, as your father, my dear Louisa, to know that you do not come to the consideration of that question with the previous habits of mind, and habits of life, that belong to many young women." "No, father," she returned, "I do not." "I now leave you to judge for yourself," said Mr. Gradgrind. "I have stated the case, as such cases are usually stated among practical minds; I have stated it, as the case of your mother and myself was stated in its time. The rest, my dear Louisa, is for you to decide." From the beginning, she had sat looking at him fixedly. As he now leaned back in his chair, and bent his deep-set eyes upon her in his turn, perhaps he might have seen one wavering moment in her, when she was impelled to throw herself upon his breast, and give him the pent-up confidences of her heart. But, to see it, he must have overleaped at a bound the artificial barriers he had for many years been erecting, between himself and all those subtle essences of humanity which will elude the utmost cunning of algebra until the last trumpet ever to be sounded shall blow even algebra to wreck. The barriers were too many and too high for such a leap. | To which she returned, without any visible emotion whatever: "I hear you, father. I am attending, I assure you." "Well!" said Mr. Gradgrind, breaking into a smile, after being for the moment at a loss, "you are even more dispassionate than I expected, Louisa. Or, perhaps, you are not unprepared for the announcement I have it in charge to make?" "I cannot say that, father, until I hear it. Prepared or unprepared, I wish to hear it all from you. I wish to hear you state it to me, father." Strange to relate, Mr. Gradgrind was not so collected at this moment as his daughter was. He took a paper-knife in his hand, turned it over, laid it down, took it up again, and even then had to look along the blade of it, considering how to go on. "What you say, my dear Louisa, is perfectly reasonable. I have undertaken then to let you know that in short, that Mr. Bounderby has informed me that he has long watched your progress with particular interest and pleasure, and has long hoped that the time might ultimately arrive when he should offer you his hand in marriage. That time, to which he has so long, and certainly with great constancy, looked forward, is now come. Mr. Bounderby has made his proposal of marriage to me, and has entreated me to make it known to you, and to express his hope that you will take it into your favourable consideration." Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father," said Louisa, "do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. "Well, my child,"<|quote|>he returned,</|quote|>"I really cannot take upon myself to say." "Father," pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, "do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby?" "My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing." "Father," she still pursued, "does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?" "Really, my dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "it is difficult to answer your question" "Difficult to answer it, Yes or No, father?" "Certainly, my dear. Because;" here was something to demonstrate, and it set him up again; "because the reply depends so materially, Louisa, on the sense in which we use the expression. Now, Mr. Bounderby does not do you the injustice, and does not do himself the injustice, of pretending to anything fanciful, fantastic, or (I am using synonymous terms) sentimental. Mr. Bounderby would have seen you grow up under his eyes, to very little purpose, if he could so far forget what is due to your good sense, not to say to his, as to address you from any such ground. Therefore, perhaps the expression itself I merely suggest this to you, my dear may be a little misplaced." "What would you advise me to use in its stead, father?" "Why, my dear Louisa," said Mr. Gradgrind, completely recovered by this time, "I would advise you (since you ask me) to consider this question, as you have been accustomed to consider every other question, simply as one of tangible Fact. The ignorant and the giddy may embarrass such subjects with irrelevant fancies, and other absurdities that have no existence, properly viewed really no existence but it is no compliment to you to say, that you know better. Now, what are the Facts of this case? You are, we will say in round numbers, twenty years of age; Mr. Bounderby is, we will say in round numbers, fifty. There is some disparity in your respective years, but in your means and positions there is none; on the contrary, there is a great suitability. Then the question arises, Is this one disparity sufficient to operate | Hard Times |
"But before you retire to Sawston--are you so mighty sure?" | Mr. Herriton | you shall know quick enough--"<|quote|>"But before you retire to Sawston--are you so mighty sure?"</|quote|>"What of?" She had stopped | say what he wanted. "Oh, you shall know quick enough--"<|quote|>"But before you retire to Sawston--are you so mighty sure?"</|quote|>"What of?" She had stopped crying. He was treating her | often," she said, "I might remember what he is like. Or he might grow old. But I dare not risk it, so nothing can alter me now." "Well, if the fancy does pass, let me know." After all, he could say what he wanted. "Oh, you shall know quick enough--"<|quote|>"But before you retire to Sawston--are you so mighty sure?"</|quote|>"What of?" She had stopped crying. He was treating her exactly as she had hoped. "That you and he--" He smiled bitterly at the thought of them together. Here was the cruel antique malice of the gods, such as they once sent forth against Pasiphae. Centuries of aspiration and culture--and | reply he could trust himself to make. "Perhaps it is what the books call a passing fancy ?" She shook her head. Even this question was too pathetic. For as far as she knew anything about herself, she knew that her passions, once aroused, were sure. "If I saw him often," she said, "I might remember what he is like. Or he might grow old. But I dare not risk it, so nothing can alter me now." "Well, if the fancy does pass, let me know." After all, he could say what he wanted. "Oh, you shall know quick enough--"<|quote|>"But before you retire to Sawston--are you so mighty sure?"</|quote|>"What of?" She had stopped crying. He was treating her exactly as she had hoped. "That you and he--" He smiled bitterly at the thought of them together. Here was the cruel antique malice of the gods, such as they once sent forth against Pasiphae. Centuries of aspiration and culture--and the world could not escape it. "I was going to say--whatever have you got in common?" "Nothing except the times we have seen each other." Again her face was crimson. He turned his own face away. "Which--which times?" "The time I thought you weak and heedless, and went instead of | isn t it funny!" Then, to his relief, she began to cry. "I love him, and I m not ashamed of it. I love him, and I m going to Sawston, and if I mayn t speak about him to you sometimes, I shall die." In that terrible discovery Philip managed to think not of himself but of her. He did not lament. He did not even speak to her kindly, for he saw that she could not stand it. A flippant reply was what she asked and needed--something flippant and a little cynical. And indeed it was the only reply he could trust himself to make. "Perhaps it is what the books call a passing fancy ?" She shook her head. Even this question was too pathetic. For as far as she knew anything about herself, she knew that her passions, once aroused, were sure. "If I saw him often," she said, "I might remember what he is like. Or he might grow old. But I dare not risk it, so nothing can alter me now." "Well, if the fancy does pass, let me know." After all, he could say what he wanted. "Oh, you shall know quick enough--"<|quote|>"But before you retire to Sawston--are you so mighty sure?"</|quote|>"What of?" She had stopped crying. He was treating her exactly as she had hoped. "That you and he--" He smiled bitterly at the thought of them together. Here was the cruel antique malice of the gods, such as they once sent forth against Pasiphae. Centuries of aspiration and culture--and the world could not escape it. "I was going to say--whatever have you got in common?" "Nothing except the times we have seen each other." Again her face was crimson. He turned his own face away. "Which--which times?" "The time I thought you weak and heedless, and went instead of you to get the baby. That began it, as far as I know the beginning. Or it may have begun when you took us to the theatre, and I saw him mixed up with music and light. But didn t understand till the morning. Then you opened the door--and I knew why I had been so happy. Afterwards, in the church, I prayed for us all; not for anything new, but that we might just be as we were--he with the child he loved, you and I and Harriet safe out of the place--and that I might never see him | way apart. "You ve upset me." She stifled something that was perilously near hysterics. "I thought I was past all this. You re taking it wrongly. I m in love with Gino--don t pass it off--I mean it crudely--you know what I mean. So laugh at me." "Laugh at love?" asked Philip. "Yes. Pull it to pieces. Tell me I m a fool or worse--that he s a cad. Say all you said when Lilia fell in love with him. That s the help I want. I dare tell you this because I like you--and because you re without passion; you look on life as a spectacle; you don t enter it; you only find it funny or beautiful. So I can trust you to cure me. Mr. Herriton, isn t it funny?" She tried to laugh herself, but became frightened and had to stop. "He s not a gentleman, nor a Christian, nor good in any way. He s never flattered me nor honoured me. But because he s handsome, that s been enough. The son of an Italian dentist, with a pretty face." She repeated the phrase as if it was a charm against passion. "Oh, Mr. Herriton, isn t it funny!" Then, to his relief, she began to cry. "I love him, and I m not ashamed of it. I love him, and I m going to Sawston, and if I mayn t speak about him to you sometimes, I shall die." In that terrible discovery Philip managed to think not of himself but of her. He did not lament. He did not even speak to her kindly, for he saw that she could not stand it. A flippant reply was what she asked and needed--something flippant and a little cynical. And indeed it was the only reply he could trust himself to make. "Perhaps it is what the books call a passing fancy ?" She shook her head. Even this question was too pathetic. For as far as she knew anything about herself, she knew that her passions, once aroused, were sure. "If I saw him often," she said, "I might remember what he is like. Or he might grow old. But I dare not risk it, so nothing can alter me now." "Well, if the fancy does pass, let me know." After all, he could say what he wanted. "Oh, you shall know quick enough--"<|quote|>"But before you retire to Sawston--are you so mighty sure?"</|quote|>"What of?" She had stopped crying. He was treating her exactly as she had hoped. "That you and he--" He smiled bitterly at the thought of them together. Here was the cruel antique malice of the gods, such as they once sent forth against Pasiphae. Centuries of aspiration and culture--and the world could not escape it. "I was going to say--whatever have you got in common?" "Nothing except the times we have seen each other." Again her face was crimson. He turned his own face away. "Which--which times?" "The time I thought you weak and heedless, and went instead of you to get the baby. That began it, as far as I know the beginning. Or it may have begun when you took us to the theatre, and I saw him mixed up with music and light. But didn t understand till the morning. Then you opened the door--and I knew why I had been so happy. Afterwards, in the church, I prayed for us all; not for anything new, but that we might just be as we were--he with the child he loved, you and I and Harriet safe out of the place--and that I might never see him or speak to him again. I could have pulled through then--the thing was only coming near, like a wreath of smoke; it hadn t wrapped me round." "But through my fault," said Philip solemnly, "he is parted from the child he loves. And because my life was in danger you came and saw him and spoke to him again." For the thing was even greater than she imagined. Nobody but himself would ever see round it now. And to see round it he was standing at an immense distance. He could even be glad that she had once held the beloved in her arms. "Don t talk of faults. You re my friend for ever, Mr. Herriton, I think. Only don t be charitable and shift or take the blame. Get over supposing I m refined. That s what puzzles you. Get over that." As he spoke she seemed to be transfigured, and to have indeed no part with refinement or unrefinement any longer. Out of this wreck there was revealed to him something indestructible--something which she, who had given it, could never take away. "I say again, don t be charitable. If he had asked me, I might have | and pity. And now you re frank with me one moment, as you used to be, and the next moment you shut me up. You see I owe too much to you--my life, and I don t know what besides. I won t stand it. You ve gone too far to turn mysterious. I ll quote what you said to me: Don t be mysterious; there isn t the time. I ll quote something else: I and my life must be where I live. You can t live at Sawston." He had moved her at last. She whispered to herself hurriedly. "It is tempting--" And those three words threw him into a tumult of joy. What was tempting to her? After all was the greatest of things possible? Perhaps, after long estrangement, after much tragedy, the South had brought them together in the end. That laughter in the theatre, those silver stars in the purple sky, even the violets of a departed spring, all had helped, and sorrow had helped also, and so had tenderness to others. "It is tempting," she repeated, "not to be mysterious. I ve wanted often to tell you, and then been afraid. I could never tell any one else, certainly no woman, and I think you re the one man who might understand and not be disgusted." "Are you lonely?" he whispered. "Is it anything like that?" "Yes." The train seemed to shake him towards her. He was resolved that though a dozen people were looking, he would yet take her in his arms. "I m terribly lonely, or I wouldn t speak. I think you must know already." Their faces were crimson, as if the same thought was surging through them both. "Perhaps I do." He came close to her. "Perhaps I could speak instead. But if you will say the word plainly you ll never be sorry; I will thank you for it all my life." She said plainly, "That I love him." Then she broke down. Her body was shaken with sobs, and lest there should be any doubt she cried between the sobs for Gino! Gino! Gino! He heard himself remark "Rather! I love him too! When I can forget how he hurt me that evening. Though whenever we shake hands--" One of them must have moved a step or two, for when she spoke again she was already a little way apart. "You ve upset me." She stifled something that was perilously near hysterics. "I thought I was past all this. You re taking it wrongly. I m in love with Gino--don t pass it off--I mean it crudely--you know what I mean. So laugh at me." "Laugh at love?" asked Philip. "Yes. Pull it to pieces. Tell me I m a fool or worse--that he s a cad. Say all you said when Lilia fell in love with him. That s the help I want. I dare tell you this because I like you--and because you re without passion; you look on life as a spectacle; you don t enter it; you only find it funny or beautiful. So I can trust you to cure me. Mr. Herriton, isn t it funny?" She tried to laugh herself, but became frightened and had to stop. "He s not a gentleman, nor a Christian, nor good in any way. He s never flattered me nor honoured me. But because he s handsome, that s been enough. The son of an Italian dentist, with a pretty face." She repeated the phrase as if it was a charm against passion. "Oh, Mr. Herriton, isn t it funny!" Then, to his relief, she began to cry. "I love him, and I m not ashamed of it. I love him, and I m going to Sawston, and if I mayn t speak about him to you sometimes, I shall die." In that terrible discovery Philip managed to think not of himself but of her. He did not lament. He did not even speak to her kindly, for he saw that she could not stand it. A flippant reply was what she asked and needed--something flippant and a little cynical. And indeed it was the only reply he could trust himself to make. "Perhaps it is what the books call a passing fancy ?" She shook her head. Even this question was too pathetic. For as far as she knew anything about herself, she knew that her passions, once aroused, were sure. "If I saw him often," she said, "I might remember what he is like. Or he might grow old. But I dare not risk it, so nothing can alter me now." "Well, if the fancy does pass, let me know." After all, he could say what he wanted. "Oh, you shall know quick enough--"<|quote|>"But before you retire to Sawston--are you so mighty sure?"</|quote|>"What of?" She had stopped crying. He was treating her exactly as she had hoped. "That you and he--" He smiled bitterly at the thought of them together. Here was the cruel antique malice of the gods, such as they once sent forth against Pasiphae. Centuries of aspiration and culture--and the world could not escape it. "I was going to say--whatever have you got in common?" "Nothing except the times we have seen each other." Again her face was crimson. He turned his own face away. "Which--which times?" "The time I thought you weak and heedless, and went instead of you to get the baby. That began it, as far as I know the beginning. Or it may have begun when you took us to the theatre, and I saw him mixed up with music and light. But didn t understand till the morning. Then you opened the door--and I knew why I had been so happy. Afterwards, in the church, I prayed for us all; not for anything new, but that we might just be as we were--he with the child he loved, you and I and Harriet safe out of the place--and that I might never see him or speak to him again. I could have pulled through then--the thing was only coming near, like a wreath of smoke; it hadn t wrapped me round." "But through my fault," said Philip solemnly, "he is parted from the child he loves. And because my life was in danger you came and saw him and spoke to him again." For the thing was even greater than she imagined. Nobody but himself would ever see round it now. And to see round it he was standing at an immense distance. He could even be glad that she had once held the beloved in her arms. "Don t talk of faults. You re my friend for ever, Mr. Herriton, I think. Only don t be charitable and shift or take the blame. Get over supposing I m refined. That s what puzzles you. Get over that." As he spoke she seemed to be transfigured, and to have indeed no part with refinement or unrefinement any longer. Out of this wreck there was revealed to him something indestructible--something which she, who had given it, could never take away. "I say again, don t be charitable. If he had asked me, I might have given myself body and soul. That would have been the end of my rescue party. But all through he took me for a superior being--a goddess. I who was worshipping every inch of him, and every word he spoke. And that saved me." Philip s eyes were fixed on the Campanile of Airolo. But he saw instead the fair myth of Endymion. This woman was a goddess to the end. For her no love could be degrading: she stood outside all degradation. This episode, which she thought so sordid, and which was so tragic for him, remained supremely beautiful. To such a height was he lifted, that without regret he could now have told her that he was her worshipper too. But what was the use of telling her? For all the wonderful things had happened. "Thank you," was all that he permitted himself. "Thank you for everything." She looked at him with great friendliness, for he had made her life endurable. At that moment the train entered the San Gothard tunnel. They hurried back to the carriage to close the windows lest the smuts should get into Harriet s eyes. | ll never be sorry; I will thank you for it all my life." She said plainly, "That I love him." Then she broke down. Her body was shaken with sobs, and lest there should be any doubt she cried between the sobs for Gino! Gino! Gino! He heard himself remark "Rather! I love him too! When I can forget how he hurt me that evening. Though whenever we shake hands--" One of them must have moved a step or two, for when she spoke again she was already a little way apart. "You ve upset me." She stifled something that was perilously near hysterics. "I thought I was past all this. You re taking it wrongly. I m in love with Gino--don t pass it off--I mean it crudely--you know what I mean. So laugh at me." "Laugh at love?" asked Philip. "Yes. Pull it to pieces. Tell me I m a fool or worse--that he s a cad. Say all you said when Lilia fell in love with him. That s the help I want. I dare tell you this because I like you--and because you re without passion; you look on life as a spectacle; you don t enter it; you only find it funny or beautiful. So I can trust you to cure me. Mr. Herriton, isn t it funny?" She tried to laugh herself, but became frightened and had to stop. "He s not a gentleman, nor a Christian, nor good in any way. He s never flattered me nor honoured me. But because he s handsome, that s been enough. The son of an Italian dentist, with a pretty face." She repeated the phrase as if it was a charm against passion. "Oh, Mr. Herriton, isn t it funny!" Then, to his relief, she began to cry. "I love him, and I m not ashamed of it. I love him, and I m going to Sawston, and if I mayn t speak about him to you sometimes, I shall die." In that terrible discovery Philip managed to think not of himself but of her. He did not lament. He did not even speak to her kindly, for he saw that she could not stand it. A flippant reply was what she asked and needed--something flippant and a little cynical. And indeed it was the only reply he could trust himself to make. "Perhaps it is what the books call a passing fancy ?" She shook her head. Even this question was too pathetic. For as far as she knew anything about herself, she knew that her passions, once aroused, were sure. "If I saw him often," she said, "I might remember what he is like. Or he might grow old. But I dare not risk it, so nothing can alter me now." "Well, if the fancy does pass, let me know." After all, he could say what he wanted. "Oh, you shall know quick enough--"<|quote|>"But before you retire to Sawston--are you so mighty sure?"</|quote|>"What of?" She had stopped crying. He was treating her exactly as she had hoped. "That you and he--" He smiled bitterly at the thought of them together. Here was the cruel antique malice of the gods, such as they once sent forth against Pasiphae. Centuries of aspiration and culture--and the world could not escape it. "I was going to say--whatever have you got in common?" "Nothing except the times we have seen each other." Again her face was crimson. He turned his own face away. "Which--which times?" "The time I thought you weak and heedless, and went instead of you to get the baby. That began it, as far as I know the beginning. Or it may have begun when you took us to the theatre, and I saw him mixed up with music and light. But didn t understand till the morning. Then you opened the door--and I knew why I had been so happy. Afterwards, in the church, I prayed for us all; not for anything new, but that we might just be as we were--he with the child he loved, you and I and Harriet safe out of the place--and that I might never see him or speak to him again. I could have pulled through then--the thing was only coming near, like a wreath of smoke; it hadn t wrapped me round." "But through my fault," said Philip solemnly, "he is parted from the child he loves. And because my life was in danger you came and saw him and spoke to him again." For the thing was even greater than she imagined. Nobody but himself would ever see round it now. And to see round it he was standing at an immense distance. He could even be glad that she had once held the beloved in her arms. "Don t talk of faults. You re my friend for ever, Mr. Herriton, I think. Only don t be charitable and shift or take the blame. Get over supposing I m refined. That s what puzzles you. Get over that." As he spoke she seemed to be transfigured, and to have indeed no part with refinement or unrefinement any longer. Out of this wreck there was revealed to him something indestructible--something which she, who had given it, could never take away. "I say again, don t be charitable. If he had asked me, I might have given myself body and soul. That would have been the end of my rescue party. But all through he took me for a superior being--a goddess. I who | Where Angels Fear To Tread |
"Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence." | Mr. Beebe | simplicity. It is our heritage."<|quote|>"Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence."</|quote|>"How do you do? Very | many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage."<|quote|>"Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence."</|quote|>"How do you do? Very glad to see you, and | at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him. "I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage."<|quote|>"Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence."</|quote|>"How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry. Marriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr. Vyse, too. He has been | no longer despise our bodies." Mr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere. "In this--not in other things--we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden." "I say, what about this bathe?" murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him. "I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage."<|quote|>"Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence."</|quote|>"How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry. Marriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr. Vyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative | to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with 'How do you do? Come and have a bathe'? And yet you will tell me that the sexes are equal." "I tell you that they shall be," said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly descending the stairs. "Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same." "We are to raise ladies to our level?" the clergyman inquired. "The Garden of Eden," pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, "which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies." Mr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere. "In this--not in other things--we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden." "I say, what about this bathe?" murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him. "I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage."<|quote|>"Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence."</|quote|>"How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry. Marriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr. Vyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!" "Not a bit!" mumbled Freddy. "I must--that is to say, I have to--have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope." "CALL, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country." Mr. Beebe came to the rescue. "Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about | wasn't such a fool, Mr. Beebe." Mr. Beebe ignored the remark. "Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it'll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books." "So will you." "Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards. Cecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful. There are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says--" "What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson--we think we'll come another time." George ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking. "Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour." Then Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George's face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, "How d'ye do? Come and have a bathe." "Oh, all right," said George, impassive. Mr. Beebe was highly entertained. "'How d'ye do? how d'ye do? Come and have a bathe,'" he chuckled. "That's the best conversational opening I've ever heard. But I'm afraid it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with 'How do you do? Come and have a bathe'? And yet you will tell me that the sexes are equal." "I tell you that they shall be," said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly descending the stairs. "Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same." "We are to raise ladies to our level?" the clergyman inquired. "The Garden of Eden," pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, "which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies." Mr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere. "In this--not in other things--we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden." "I say, what about this bathe?" murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him. "I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage."<|quote|>"Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence."</|quote|>"How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry. Marriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr. Vyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!" "Not a bit!" mumbled Freddy. "I must--that is to say, I have to--have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope." "CALL, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country." Mr. Beebe came to the rescue. "Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days' interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon." "Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can't believe he's well." George bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture. "Do you really want this bathe?" Freddy asked him. "It is only a pond, don't you know. I dare say you are used to something better." "Yes--I have said 'Yes' already." Mr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure, and neither of | dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn. All that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life's amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe. "Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little." "M'm." "They might amuse you." Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in. "I suggested we should hinder them," said Mr. Beebe. "They are worth it." Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa. "Hullo!" he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible. A grave voice replied, "Hullo!" "I've brought someone to see you." "I'll be down in a minute." The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books. "Are these people great readers?" Freddy whispered. "Are they that sort?" "I fancy they know how to read--a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German. Um--um--Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch." "Mr. Beebe, look at that," said Freddy in awestruck tones. On the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: "Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes." "I know. Isn't it jolly? I like that. I'm certain that's the old man's doing." "How very odd of him!" "Surely you agree?" But Freddy was his mother's son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture. "Pictures!" the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room. "Giotto--they got that at Florence, I'll be bound." "The same as Lucy's got." "Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?" "She came back yesterday." "I suppose she had a good time?" "Yes, very," said Freddy, taking up a book. "She and Cecil are thicker than ever." "That's good hearing." "I wish I wasn't such a fool, Mr. Beebe." Mr. Beebe ignored the remark. "Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it'll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books." "So will you." "Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards. Cecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful. There are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says--" "What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson--we think we'll come another time." George ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking. "Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour." Then Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George's face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, "How d'ye do? Come and have a bathe." "Oh, all right," said George, impassive. Mr. Beebe was highly entertained. "'How d'ye do? how d'ye do? Come and have a bathe,'" he chuckled. "That's the best conversational opening I've ever heard. But I'm afraid it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with 'How do you do? Come and have a bathe'? And yet you will tell me that the sexes are equal." "I tell you that they shall be," said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly descending the stairs. "Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same." "We are to raise ladies to our level?" the clergyman inquired. "The Garden of Eden," pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, "which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies." Mr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere. "In this--not in other things--we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden." "I say, what about this bathe?" murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him. "I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage."<|quote|>"Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence."</|quote|>"How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry. Marriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr. Vyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!" "Not a bit!" mumbled Freddy. "I must--that is to say, I have to--have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope." "CALL, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country." Mr. Beebe came to the rescue. "Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days' interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon." "Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can't believe he's well." George bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture. "Do you really want this bathe?" Freddy asked him. "It is only a pond, don't you know. I dare say you are used to something better." "Yes--I have said 'Yes' already." Mr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops above their heads. "And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?" "I did not. Miss Lavish told me." "When I was a young man, I always meant to write a 'History of Coincidence.'" No enthusiasm. "Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn't purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect." To his relief, George began to talk. "It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate--flung together, drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us--we settle nothing--" "You have not reflected at all," rapped the clergyman. "Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don't say, 'I didn't do this,' for you did it, ten to one. Now I'll cross-question you. Where did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?" "Italy." "And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?" "National Gallery." "Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it." "It is Fate that I am here," persisted George. "But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy." Mr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George. "And so for this and for other reasons my 'History of Coincidence' is still to write." Silence. Wishing to round off the episode, he added; "We are all so glad that you have come." Silence. "Here we are!" called Freddy. "Oh, good!" exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow. "In there's the pond. I wish it was bigger," he added apologetically. They climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond, set in its little alp of green--only a pond, but large enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters | Um--um--Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch." "Mr. Beebe, look at that," said Freddy in awestruck tones. On the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: "Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes." "I know. Isn't it jolly? I like that. I'm certain that's the old man's doing." "How very odd of him!" "Surely you agree?" But Freddy was his mother's son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture. "Pictures!" the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room. "Giotto--they got that at Florence, I'll be bound." "The same as Lucy's got." "Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?" "She came back yesterday." "I suppose she had a good time?" "Yes, very," said Freddy, taking up a book. "She and Cecil are thicker than ever." "That's good hearing." "I wish I wasn't such a fool, Mr. Beebe." Mr. Beebe ignored the remark. "Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it'll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books." "So will you." "Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards. Cecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful. There are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says--" "What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson--we think we'll come another time." George ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking. "Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour." Then Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George's face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, "How d'ye do? Come and have a bathe." "Oh, all right," said George, impassive. Mr. Beebe was highly entertained. "'How d'ye do? how d'ye do? Come and have a bathe,'" he chuckled. "That's the best conversational opening I've ever heard. But I'm afraid it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with 'How do you do? Come and have a bathe'? And yet you will tell me that the sexes are equal." "I tell you that they shall be," said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly descending the stairs. "Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same." "We are to raise ladies to our level?" the clergyman inquired. "The Garden of Eden," pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, "which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies." Mr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere. "In this--not in other things--we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden." "I say, what about this bathe?" murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him. "I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage."<|quote|>"Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence."</|quote|>"How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry. Marriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr. Vyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!" "Not a bit!" mumbled Freddy. "I must--that is to say, I have to--have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope." "CALL, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country." Mr. Beebe came to the rescue. "Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days' interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon." "Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working | A Room With A View |
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