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"Just as _you_ like." | Milly | "Oh, just as you like."<|quote|>"Just as _you_ like."</|quote|>"Well, perhaps Winnie would be | going to sleep?" asked Milly. "Oh, just as you like."<|quote|>"Just as _you_ like."</|quote|>"Well, perhaps Winnie would be happier with you... she'll have | is always the same--to make the clients realize that divorce is a serious matter." Eventually extravagant promises for the morrow, two or three ices, and the slight depression induced by them persuaded Winnie to go to bed. "How are we going to sleep?" asked Milly. "Oh, just as you like."<|quote|>"Just as _you_ like."</|quote|>"Well, perhaps Winnie would be happier with you... she'll have to go into the other room to-morrow morning when they bring in breakfast, of course." So she was tucked up in a corner of the double bed and to Tony's surprise was asleep before they went down to dinner. A | to be wavering but Blenkinsop interposed. "Quite out of the question, sir." When Tony left them Blenkinsop spoke from the depth of his experience; it was the first job that he and James had been on together, and he felt under some obligation to put his junior wise. "Our trouble is always the same--to make the clients realize that divorce is a serious matter." Eventually extravagant promises for the morrow, two or three ices, and the slight depression induced by them persuaded Winnie to go to bed. "How are we going to sleep?" asked Milly. "Oh, just as you like."<|quote|>"Just as _you_ like."</|quote|>"Well, perhaps Winnie would be happier with you... she'll have to go into the other room to-morrow morning when they bring in breakfast, of course." So she was tucked up in a corner of the double bed and to Tony's surprise was asleep before they went down to dinner. A change of clothes brought to both Tony and Milly a change of temper. She, in her best evening frock, backless and vermilion, her face newly done and her bleached curls brushed out, her feet in high red shoes, some bracelets on her wrist, a dab of scent behind the large | ice," said Milly. "Quite right." "I want late dinner. I want late dinner." "No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here." Tony returned to the bar. "Mr James," he said. "Did I understand you to say you were fond of children." "Yes, in their right place." "You wouldn't, I suppose, consider dining to-night with the little girl who has accompanied me? I should take it as a great kindness." "Oh no, sir, hardly that." "You would not find me ungrateful." "Well, sir, I don't want to appear unobliging, but it's not part of my duties." He seemed to be wavering but Blenkinsop interposed. "Quite out of the question, sir." When Tony left them Blenkinsop spoke from the depth of his experience; it was the first job that he and James had been on together, and he felt under some obligation to put his junior wise. "Our trouble is always the same--to make the clients realize that divorce is a serious matter." Eventually extravagant promises for the morrow, two or three ices, and the slight depression induced by them persuaded Winnie to go to bed. "How are we going to sleep?" asked Milly. "Oh, just as you like."<|quote|>"Just as _you_ like."</|quote|>"Well, perhaps Winnie would be happier with you... she'll have to go into the other room to-morrow morning when they bring in breakfast, of course." So she was tucked up in a corner of the double bed and to Tony's surprise was asleep before they went down to dinner. A change of clothes brought to both Tony and Milly a change of temper. She, in her best evening frock, backless and vermilion, her face newly done and her bleached curls brushed out, her feet in high red shoes, some bracelets on her wrist, a dab of scent behind the large sham pearls in her ears, shook off the cares of domesticity and was once more in uniform, reporting for duty, a legionary ordered for active service after the enervating restraints of a winter in barracks; and Tony, filling his cigar case before the mirror, and slipping it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, reminded himself that phantasmagoric, and even gruesome as the situation might seem to him, he was nevertheless a host, so that he knocked at the communicating door and passed with a calm manner into his guest's room; for a month now he had lived in a | cases of this kind depend very much on making the right impression. Of course as far as James and me are concerned, the matter is O.K. There won't be a word about it in our evidence. But you can't trust the servants. You might very likely happen to strike one who was new to the courts, who'd blurt it out, and then where would we be. I don't like it, Mr Last, and that's the truth." "You can't feel more strongly about it than I do." "Fond of kids myself," said James, who was new to this kind of work. "How about one with us?" "Tell me," said Tony, when they had been at their table some little time. "You must have observed numerous couples in your time, qualifying for a divorce; tell me, how do they get through their day?" "It's easier in the summer," said Blenkinsop, "the young ladies usually bathe and the gentlemen read the papers on the esplanade; some goes for motor drives and some just hangs around the bar. They're mostly glad when Monday comes." * * * * * Milly and her child were in the sitting-room when Tony came up. "I've ordered an ice," said Milly. "Quite right." "I want late dinner. I want late dinner." "No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here." Tony returned to the bar. "Mr James," he said. "Did I understand you to say you were fond of children." "Yes, in their right place." "You wouldn't, I suppose, consider dining to-night with the little girl who has accompanied me? I should take it as a great kindness." "Oh no, sir, hardly that." "You would not find me ungrateful." "Well, sir, I don't want to appear unobliging, but it's not part of my duties." He seemed to be wavering but Blenkinsop interposed. "Quite out of the question, sir." When Tony left them Blenkinsop spoke from the depth of his experience; it was the first job that he and James had been on together, and he felt under some obligation to put his junior wise. "Our trouble is always the same--to make the clients realize that divorce is a serious matter." Eventually extravagant promises for the morrow, two or three ices, and the slight depression induced by them persuaded Winnie to go to bed. "How are we going to sleep?" asked Milly. "Oh, just as you like."<|quote|>"Just as _you_ like."</|quote|>"Well, perhaps Winnie would be happier with you... she'll have to go into the other room to-morrow morning when they bring in breakfast, of course." So she was tucked up in a corner of the double bed and to Tony's surprise was asleep before they went down to dinner. A change of clothes brought to both Tony and Milly a change of temper. She, in her best evening frock, backless and vermilion, her face newly done and her bleached curls brushed out, her feet in high red shoes, some bracelets on her wrist, a dab of scent behind the large sham pearls in her ears, shook off the cares of domesticity and was once more in uniform, reporting for duty, a legionary ordered for active service after the enervating restraints of a winter in barracks; and Tony, filling his cigar case before the mirror, and slipping it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, reminded himself that phantasmagoric, and even gruesome as the situation might seem to him, he was nevertheless a host, so that he knocked at the communicating door and passed with a calm manner into his guest's room; for a month now he had lived in a world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new, mad thing brought to his notice, could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below. "Cheer up," said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while." One of the new arrivals was a friend of | _Mr and Mrs Last_ in the Visitors' Book. "And daughter," said the clerk with his finger on the place. Tony hesitated. "She is my niece," he said, and inscribed her name on another line, as _Miss Smith_. The detective, registering below, remarked to his colleague, "He got out of that all right. Quite smart. But I don't like the look of this case. Most irregular. Sets a nasty, respectable note bringing a kid into it. We've got the firm to consider. It doesn't do them any good to get mixed up with the King's Proctor." "How about a quick one?" said his colleague indifferently. Upstairs, Winnie said, "Where's the sea?" "Just there across the street." "I want to go and see it." "But it's dark now, pet. You shall see it to-morrow." "I want to see it to-night." "You take her to see it now," said Tony. "Sure you won't be lonely?" "Quite sure." "We won't be long." "That's all right. You let her see it properly." Tony went down to the bar where he was pleased to find the two detectives. He felt the need of male company. "Good evening," he said. They looked at him askance. Everything in this case seemed to be happening as though with deliberate design to shock their professional feelings. "Good evening," said the senior detective. "Nasty, raw evening." "Have a drink." Since Tony was paying their expenses in any case, the offer seemed superfluous, but the junior detective brightened instinctively and said, "Don't mind if I do." "Come and sit down. I feel rather lonely." They took their drinks to a table out of hearing of the barman. "Mr Last, sir, this is all _wrong_," said the senior detective. "You haven't no business to recognize us at all. I don't know what they'd say at the office." "Best respects," said the junior detective. "This is Mr James, my colleague," said the senior detective. "My name is Blenkinsop. James is new to this kind of work." "So am I," said Tony. "A pity we've such a nasty week-end for the job," said Blenkinsop, "very damp and blowy. Gets me in the joints." "Tell me," said Tony. "Is it usual to bring children on an expedition of this kind?" "It is _not_." "I thought it couldn't be." "Since you ask me, Mr Last, I regard it as most irregular and injudicious. It looks wrong, and cases of this kind depend very much on making the right impression. Of course as far as James and me are concerned, the matter is O.K. There won't be a word about it in our evidence. But you can't trust the servants. You might very likely happen to strike one who was new to the courts, who'd blurt it out, and then where would we be. I don't like it, Mr Last, and that's the truth." "You can't feel more strongly about it than I do." "Fond of kids myself," said James, who was new to this kind of work. "How about one with us?" "Tell me," said Tony, when they had been at their table some little time. "You must have observed numerous couples in your time, qualifying for a divorce; tell me, how do they get through their day?" "It's easier in the summer," said Blenkinsop, "the young ladies usually bathe and the gentlemen read the papers on the esplanade; some goes for motor drives and some just hangs around the bar. They're mostly glad when Monday comes." * * * * * Milly and her child were in the sitting-room when Tony came up. "I've ordered an ice," said Milly. "Quite right." "I want late dinner. I want late dinner." "No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here." Tony returned to the bar. "Mr James," he said. "Did I understand you to say you were fond of children." "Yes, in their right place." "You wouldn't, I suppose, consider dining to-night with the little girl who has accompanied me? I should take it as a great kindness." "Oh no, sir, hardly that." "You would not find me ungrateful." "Well, sir, I don't want to appear unobliging, but it's not part of my duties." He seemed to be wavering but Blenkinsop interposed. "Quite out of the question, sir." When Tony left them Blenkinsop spoke from the depth of his experience; it was the first job that he and James had been on together, and he felt under some obligation to put his junior wise. "Our trouble is always the same--to make the clients realize that divorce is a serious matter." Eventually extravagant promises for the morrow, two or three ices, and the slight depression induced by them persuaded Winnie to go to bed. "How are we going to sleep?" asked Milly. "Oh, just as you like."<|quote|>"Just as _you_ like."</|quote|>"Well, perhaps Winnie would be happier with you... she'll have to go into the other room to-morrow morning when they bring in breakfast, of course." So she was tucked up in a corner of the double bed and to Tony's surprise was asleep before they went down to dinner. A change of clothes brought to both Tony and Milly a change of temper. She, in her best evening frock, backless and vermilion, her face newly done and her bleached curls brushed out, her feet in high red shoes, some bracelets on her wrist, a dab of scent behind the large sham pearls in her ears, shook off the cares of domesticity and was once more in uniform, reporting for duty, a legionary ordered for active service after the enervating restraints of a winter in barracks; and Tony, filling his cigar case before the mirror, and slipping it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, reminded himself that phantasmagoric, and even gruesome as the situation might seem to him, he was nevertheless a host, so that he knocked at the communicating door and passed with a calm manner into his guest's room; for a month now he had lived in a world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new, mad thing brought to his notice, could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below. "Cheer up," said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while." One of the new arrivals was a friend of Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would have been a noticeable figure, for he wore a large fur coat and a beret; under the coat appeared tartan stockings and black and white shoes. "Take "em up and get "em unpacked and quick about it," he said. He was a stout little young man. His companion, also in furs, was staring resentfully at one of the showcases that embellished the hall. "Oh, for Christ's sake," she said. Milly and the young man greeted each other. "This is Dan," she said. "Well, well, well," said Dan, "what next?" "Do I get a drink?" said Dan's girl. "Baby, you do, if I have to get it myself. Won't you two join us, or are we _de trop_?" They went together into the glittering lounge. "I'm cold like hell," said Baby. Dan had taken off his greatcoat and revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus-fours and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. "We'll soon warm you up," he said. "This place stinks of Yids," said Baby. "I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell," said Baby. "You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't be, in your lousy car?" They had some cocktails. Then Dan and Baby went to their room; they must doll up, they explained, as they were going to a party given by a friend of Dan's, at a place of his near there. Tony and Milly went in to dinner. "He's a very nice boy," she said, "and comes to the club a lot. We get all sorts there, but Dan's one of the decent ones. I was going to have gone abroad with him once but in the end he couldn't get away." "His girl didn't seem to like us much." "Oh, she was cold." Tony did not find conversation easy at dinner. At first he commented on their neighbours as he would have done if he had been dining with Brenda at Espinosa's. "That's a pretty girl in the corner." "I wonder you don't go and join her, dear," said Milly testily. "Look at that woman's diamonds. Do you think they can be real?" "Why don't you ask her, if you're so interested?" "That's an interesting type--the dark woman dancing." "I'm sure she'd be delighted to | seemed superfluous, but the junior detective brightened instinctively and said, "Don't mind if I do." "Come and sit down. I feel rather lonely." They took their drinks to a table out of hearing of the barman. "Mr Last, sir, this is all _wrong_," said the senior detective. "You haven't no business to recognize us at all. I don't know what they'd say at the office." "Best respects," said the junior detective. "This is Mr James, my colleague," said the senior detective. "My name is Blenkinsop. James is new to this kind of work." "So am I," said Tony. "A pity we've such a nasty week-end for the job," said Blenkinsop, "very damp and blowy. Gets me in the joints." "Tell me," said Tony. "Is it usual to bring children on an expedition of this kind?" "It is _not_." "I thought it couldn't be." "Since you ask me, Mr Last, I regard it as most irregular and injudicious. It looks wrong, and cases of this kind depend very much on making the right impression. Of course as far as James and me are concerned, the matter is O.K. There won't be a word about it in our evidence. But you can't trust the servants. You might very likely happen to strike one who was new to the courts, who'd blurt it out, and then where would we be. I don't like it, Mr Last, and that's the truth." "You can't feel more strongly about it than I do." "Fond of kids myself," said James, who was new to this kind of work. "How about one with us?" "Tell me," said Tony, when they had been at their table some little time. "You must have observed numerous couples in your time, qualifying for a divorce; tell me, how do they get through their day?" "It's easier in the summer," said Blenkinsop, "the young ladies usually bathe and the gentlemen read the papers on the esplanade; some goes for motor drives and some just hangs around the bar. They're mostly glad when Monday comes." * * * * * Milly and her child were in the sitting-room when Tony came up. "I've ordered an ice," said Milly. "Quite right." "I want late dinner. I want late dinner." "No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here." Tony returned to the bar. "Mr James," he said. "Did I understand you to say you were fond of children." "Yes, in their right place." "You wouldn't, I suppose, consider dining to-night with the little girl who has accompanied me? I should take it as a great kindness." "Oh no, sir, hardly that." "You would not find me ungrateful." "Well, sir, I don't want to appear unobliging, but it's not part of my duties." He seemed to be wavering but Blenkinsop interposed. "Quite out of the question, sir." When Tony left them Blenkinsop spoke from the depth of his experience; it was the first job that he and James had been on together, and he felt under some obligation to put his junior wise. "Our trouble is always the same--to make the clients realize that divorce is a serious matter." Eventually extravagant promises for the morrow, two or three ices, and the slight depression induced by them persuaded Winnie to go to bed. "How are we going to sleep?" asked Milly. "Oh, just as you like."<|quote|>"Just as _you_ like."</|quote|>"Well, perhaps Winnie would be happier with you... she'll have to go into the other room to-morrow morning when they bring in breakfast, of course." So she was tucked up in a corner of the double bed and to Tony's surprise was asleep before they went down to dinner. A change of clothes brought to both Tony and Milly a change of temper. She, in her best evening frock, backless and vermilion, her face newly done and her bleached curls brushed out, her feet in high red shoes, some bracelets on her wrist, a dab of scent behind the large sham pearls in her ears, shook off the cares of domesticity and was once more in uniform, reporting for duty, a legionary ordered for active service after the enervating restraints of a winter in barracks; and Tony, filling his cigar case before the mirror, and slipping it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, reminded himself that phantasmagoric, and even gruesome as the situation might seem to him, he was nevertheless a host, so that he knocked at the communicating door and passed with a calm manner into his guest's room; for a month now he had lived in a world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no | A Handful Of Dust |
And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. | No speaker | it so much for granted.”<|quote|>And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain.</|quote|>“He lives all in his | doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.”<|quote|>And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain.</|quote|>“He lives all in his own world.” “He lives all | 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.”<|quote|>And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain.</|quote|>“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 | 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.”<|quote|>And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain.</|quote|>“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 | _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.” He glowed with his admiration. “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.”<|quote|>And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain.</|quote|>“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 | 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.” He glowed with his admiration. “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.”<|quote|>And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain.</|quote|>“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 | 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.” He glowed with his admiration. “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.”<|quote|>And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain.</|quote|>“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 Dedborough of his noble host there,” Hugh pursued-- “is ‘a very nice man’; but he’s a product of the world of advertisment, and advertisement is all he sees and aims at. He lives in it as a saint in glory or a fish in water.” She took it from him as half doubting. “But mayn’t advertisement, in so special a case, turn, on the whole, against him?” Hugh shook a negative forefinger with an expression he might have caught from foreign comrades. “He rides the biggest whirlwind--he has got it saddled and bitted.” She faced the image, but cast about “Then where does our success come in?” “In our making the beast, all the same, bolt with him and throw him.” And Hugh further pointed the moral. “If in such proceedings all he knows is publicity the thing is to give him publicity, and it’s only a question of giving him enough. By the time he has enough for himself, you see, he’ll have too much for every one else--so that we shall ‘up’ in | 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.” He glowed with his admiration. “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.”<|quote|>And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain.</|quote|>“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 | The Outcry |
said Dr Messinger. | No speaker | men to go Pie-wie country,"<|quote|>said Dr Messinger.</|quote|>"Pie-wie bad people. Macushi people | "You tell them I want men to go Pie-wie country,"<|quote|>said Dr Messinger.</|quote|>"Pie-wie bad people. Macushi people no go with Pie-wie people." | bought for barter. They retired at sundown but on the seventh day they came again, greatly reinforced. The entire population of the village was there. Rosa sat down on Tony's hammock under the thatch roof. "Give me cigarettes," she said. "You tell them I want men to go Pie-wie country,"<|quote|>said Dr Messinger.</|quote|>"Pie-wie bad people. Macushi people no go with Pie-wie people." "You say I want ten men. I give them guns." "You give me cigarettes..." Negotiations lasted for two days. Eventually twelve men agreed to come; seven of them insisted on bringing their wives with them. One of these was Rosa. | the Indians began to appear. They shook hands all round and then retired to the margin of the bush where they stood gazing at the camp equipment. Tony tried to photograph them but they ran away giggling like schoolgirls. Dr Messinger spread out on the ground the goods he had bought for barter. They retired at sundown but on the seventh day they came again, greatly reinforced. The entire population of the village was there. Rosa sat down on Tony's hammock under the thatch roof. "Give me cigarettes," she said. "You tell them I want men to go Pie-wie country,"<|quote|>said Dr Messinger.</|quote|>"Pie-wie bad people. Macushi people no go with Pie-wie people." "You say I want ten men. I give them guns." "You give me cigarettes..." Negotiations lasted for two days. Eventually twelve men agreed to come; seven of them insisted on bringing their wives with them. One of these was Rosa. When everything was arranged there was a party in the village and all the Indians got drunk again. This time, however, it was a shorter business as the women had not had time to prepare much cassiri. In three days the caravan was able to set out. One of the | of cassiri. Everything reeked of roast pork. "It will take them a week to get sober," said Dr Messinger. All that week the black boys lounged in camp; sometimes they washed their clothes and hung them out on the gunwales of the boat to dry in the sun; sometimes they went fishing and came back with a massive catch, speared on a stick (the flesh was tasteless and rubbery); usually in the evenings they sang songs round the fire. The fellow who had been stung kept to his hammock, groaning loudly and constantly asking for medicine. On the sixth day the Indians began to appear. They shook hands all round and then retired to the margin of the bush where they stood gazing at the camp equipment. Tony tried to photograph them but they ran away giggling like schoolgirls. Dr Messinger spread out on the ground the goods he had bought for barter. They retired at sundown but on the seventh day they came again, greatly reinforced. The entire population of the village was there. Rosa sat down on Tony's hammock under the thatch roof. "Give me cigarettes," she said. "You tell them I want men to go Pie-wie country,"<|quote|>said Dr Messinger.</|quote|>"Pie-wie bad people. Macushi people no go with Pie-wie people." "You say I want ten men. I give them guns." "You give me cigarettes..." Negotiations lasted for two days. Eventually twelve men agreed to come; seven of them insisted on bringing their wives with them. One of these was Rosa. When everything was arranged there was a party in the village and all the Indians got drunk again. This time, however, it was a shorter business as the women had not had time to prepare much cassiri. In three days the caravan was able to set out. One of the men had a long, single-barrelled, muzzle-loading gun; several others carried bows and arrows; they were naked except for red cotton cloths round their loins. The women wore grubby calico dresses--they had been issued to them years back by an itinerant preacher and kept for occasions of this kind; they had wicker panniers on their shoulders, supported by a band across the forehead. All the heaviest luggage was carried by the women in these panniers, including the rations for themselves and their men. Rosa had, in addition, an umbrella with a dented, silver crook, a relic of her association with Mr | bacon curers and has no direct relation to pig meat for sale in pies. That is being dealt with by a separate committee who have not yet made their report." "Would the honourable member consider an increase of the specified maximum of fatness on the shoulders?" "I must have notice of that question." Jock left the House that afternoon with the comfortable feeling that he had at last done something tangible in the interest of his constituents. * * * * * Two days later the Indians returned from hunting. It was tedious waiting. Dr Messinger put in some hours daily in checking the stores. Tony went into the bush with his gun, but the game had all migrated from that part of the river bank. One of the black boys was badly injured in the foot and calf by a sting-ray; after that they stopped bathing and washed in a zinc pail. When the news of the Indians' return reached camp, Tony and Dr Messinger went to the village to see them, but a feast had already started and everyone in the place was drunk. The men lay in their hammocks and the women trotted between them carrying calabashes of cassiri. Everything reeked of roast pork. "It will take them a week to get sober," said Dr Messinger. All that week the black boys lounged in camp; sometimes they washed their clothes and hung them out on the gunwales of the boat to dry in the sun; sometimes they went fishing and came back with a massive catch, speared on a stick (the flesh was tasteless and rubbery); usually in the evenings they sang songs round the fire. The fellow who had been stung kept to his hammock, groaning loudly and constantly asking for medicine. On the sixth day the Indians began to appear. They shook hands all round and then retired to the margin of the bush where they stood gazing at the camp equipment. Tony tried to photograph them but they ran away giggling like schoolgirls. Dr Messinger spread out on the ground the goods he had bought for barter. They retired at sundown but on the seventh day they came again, greatly reinforced. The entire population of the village was there. Rosa sat down on Tony's hammock under the thatch roof. "Give me cigarettes," she said. "You tell them I want men to go Pie-wie country,"<|quote|>said Dr Messinger.</|quote|>"Pie-wie bad people. Macushi people no go with Pie-wie people." "You say I want ten men. I give them guns." "You give me cigarettes..." Negotiations lasted for two days. Eventually twelve men agreed to come; seven of them insisted on bringing their wives with them. One of these was Rosa. When everything was arranged there was a party in the village and all the Indians got drunk again. This time, however, it was a shorter business as the women had not had time to prepare much cassiri. In three days the caravan was able to set out. One of the men had a long, single-barrelled, muzzle-loading gun; several others carried bows and arrows; they were naked except for red cotton cloths round their loins. The women wore grubby calico dresses--they had been issued to them years back by an itinerant preacher and kept for occasions of this kind; they had wicker panniers on their shoulders, supported by a band across the forehead. All the heaviest luggage was carried by the women in these panniers, including the rations for themselves and their men. Rosa had, in addition, an umbrella with a dented, silver crook, a relic of her association with Mr Forbes. The Negroes returned downstream to the coast. A dump of provisions, in substantial tin casing, was left in the ruinous shelter by the bank. "There's no one to touch it. We can send back for it in case of emergency from the Pie-wie country," said Dr Messinger. Tony and Dr Messinger walked immediately behind the man with the gun who was acting as guide; behind them the file straggled out for half a mile or more through the forest. "From now onwards the map is valueless to us," said Dr Messinger with relish. (Roll up the map--you will not need it again for how many years, said William Pitt... memories of Tony's private school came back to him at Dr Messinger's words, of inky little desks and a coloured picture of a Viking raid, of Mr Trotter who had taught him history and wore very vivid ties.) [III] "Mummy, Brenda wants a job." "Why?" "Just like everybody else, short of money and nothing to do. She wondered if she could be any use to you at the shop." "Well... It's hard to say. At any other time she is exactly the kind of saleswoman I am always looking for... | men?" "Men all go hunting three days." "When will they be back?" "They go after bush-pig." "When will they be back?" "No, bush-pig. Plenty bush-pig. Men all go hunting. You give me cigarette." "Listen, Rosa, I want to go to the Pie-wie country." "No, this Macushi. All the people Macushi." "But we want to go Pie-wie." "No, _all_ Macushi. You give me cigarette." "It's hopeless," said Dr Messinger. "We shall have to wait till the men come back." He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. "Look," he said, "cigarettes." "Give me." "When men come back from hunting you come to river and tell me. Understand?" "No, men hunting bush-pig. You give me cigarettes." Dr Messinger gave her the cigarettes. "What else you got?" she said. Dr Messinger pointed to the load which the second nigger had laid on the ground. "Give me," she said. "When men come back, I give you plenty things if men come with me to Pie-wies." "No, _all_ Macushi here." "We aren't doing any good," said Dr Messinger. "We'd better go back to camp and wait. The men have been away three days. It's not likely they will be much longer... I wish I could speak Macushi." They turned about, the four of them, and left the village. It was ten o'clock by Tony's wrist watch when they reached their camp. Ten o'clock on the river Waurupang was question time at Westminster. For a long time now Jock had had a question which his constituents wanted him to ask. It came up that afternoon. "Number twenty," he said. A few members turned to the order paper. _No. 20._ "_To ask the Minister of Agriculture whether in view of the dumping in this country of Japanese pork pies, the right honourable member is prepared to consider a modification of the eight-and-a-half-score basic pig from two and a half inches of thickness round the belly as originally specified, to two inches._" Replying for the Minister, the under-secretary said: "The matter is receiving the closest attention. As the honourable member is no doubt aware, the question of the importation of pork pies is a matter for the Board of Trade, not for the Board of Agriculture. With regard to the specifications of the basic pig, I must remind the honourable member that, as he is doubtless aware, the eight-and-a-half-score pig is modelled on the requirements of the bacon curers and has no direct relation to pig meat for sale in pies. That is being dealt with by a separate committee who have not yet made their report." "Would the honourable member consider an increase of the specified maximum of fatness on the shoulders?" "I must have notice of that question." Jock left the House that afternoon with the comfortable feeling that he had at last done something tangible in the interest of his constituents. * * * * * Two days later the Indians returned from hunting. It was tedious waiting. Dr Messinger put in some hours daily in checking the stores. Tony went into the bush with his gun, but the game had all migrated from that part of the river bank. One of the black boys was badly injured in the foot and calf by a sting-ray; after that they stopped bathing and washed in a zinc pail. When the news of the Indians' return reached camp, Tony and Dr Messinger went to the village to see them, but a feast had already started and everyone in the place was drunk. The men lay in their hammocks and the women trotted between them carrying calabashes of cassiri. Everything reeked of roast pork. "It will take them a week to get sober," said Dr Messinger. All that week the black boys lounged in camp; sometimes they washed their clothes and hung them out on the gunwales of the boat to dry in the sun; sometimes they went fishing and came back with a massive catch, speared on a stick (the flesh was tasteless and rubbery); usually in the evenings they sang songs round the fire. The fellow who had been stung kept to his hammock, groaning loudly and constantly asking for medicine. On the sixth day the Indians began to appear. They shook hands all round and then retired to the margin of the bush where they stood gazing at the camp equipment. Tony tried to photograph them but they ran away giggling like schoolgirls. Dr Messinger spread out on the ground the goods he had bought for barter. They retired at sundown but on the seventh day they came again, greatly reinforced. The entire population of the village was there. Rosa sat down on Tony's hammock under the thatch roof. "Give me cigarettes," she said. "You tell them I want men to go Pie-wie country,"<|quote|>said Dr Messinger.</|quote|>"Pie-wie bad people. Macushi people no go with Pie-wie people." "You say I want ten men. I give them guns." "You give me cigarettes..." Negotiations lasted for two days. Eventually twelve men agreed to come; seven of them insisted on bringing their wives with them. One of these was Rosa. When everything was arranged there was a party in the village and all the Indians got drunk again. This time, however, it was a shorter business as the women had not had time to prepare much cassiri. In three days the caravan was able to set out. One of the men had a long, single-barrelled, muzzle-loading gun; several others carried bows and arrows; they were naked except for red cotton cloths round their loins. The women wore grubby calico dresses--they had been issued to them years back by an itinerant preacher and kept for occasions of this kind; they had wicker panniers on their shoulders, supported by a band across the forehead. All the heaviest luggage was carried by the women in these panniers, including the rations for themselves and their men. Rosa had, in addition, an umbrella with a dented, silver crook, a relic of her association with Mr Forbes. The Negroes returned downstream to the coast. A dump of provisions, in substantial tin casing, was left in the ruinous shelter by the bank. "There's no one to touch it. We can send back for it in case of emergency from the Pie-wie country," said Dr Messinger. Tony and Dr Messinger walked immediately behind the man with the gun who was acting as guide; behind them the file straggled out for half a mile or more through the forest. "From now onwards the map is valueless to us," said Dr Messinger with relish. (Roll up the map--you will not need it again for how many years, said William Pitt... memories of Tony's private school came back to him at Dr Messinger's words, of inky little desks and a coloured picture of a Viking raid, of Mr Trotter who had taught him history and wore very vivid ties.) [III] "Mummy, Brenda wants a job." "Why?" "Just like everybody else, short of money and nothing to do. She wondered if she could be any use to you at the shop." "Well... It's hard to say. At any other time she is exactly the kind of saleswoman I am always looking for... but I don't know. _As things are_, I'm not sure it would be wise." "I said I'd ask you, that's all." "John, you never tell me _anything_ and I don't like to seem interfering; but what _is_ going to happen between you and Brenda?" "I don't know." "You never tell me _anything_," repeated Mrs Beaver. "And there are so many rumours going round. Is there going to be a divorce?" "I don't know." Mrs Beaver sighed. "Well, I must get back to work. Where are you lunching?" "Bratt's." "Poor John. By the way, I thought you were joining Brown's." "I haven't heard anything from them. I don't know whether they've had an election yet." "Your father was a member." "I've an idea I shan't get in... anyway I couldn't really afford it." "I'm not happy about you, John. I'm not sure that things are working out as well as I hoped about Christmas-time." "There's my telephone. Perhaps it's Margot. She hasn't asked me to anything for weeks." But it was only Brenda. "I'm afraid mother's got nothing for you at the shop," he said. "Oh well. I expect something will turn up. I could do with a little good luck just at the moment." "So could I. Have you asked Allan about Brown's?" "Yes, I did. He says they elected about ten chaps last week." "Oh, does that mean I've been blackballed?" "I shouldn't know. Gentlemen are so odd about their clubs." "I thought that you were going to make Allan and Reggie support me." "I asked them. What does it matter anyway? D'you want to come to Veronica's for the week-end?" "I'm not sure that I do." "_I'd_ like it." "It's a beastly little house--and I don't think Veronica likes me. Who'll be there?" "I shall be." "Yes... well, I'll let you know." "Am I seeing you this evening?" "I'll let you know." "Oh dear," said Brenda as she rang off. "Now he's taken against me. It isn't my fault he can't get into Brown's. As a matter of fact I believe Reggie _did_ try to help." Jenny Abdul Akbar was in the room with her. She came across every morning now in her dressing-gown and they read the newspaper together. Her dressing-gown was of striped Berber silk. "Let's go and have a cosy lunch at the Ritz," she said. "The Ritz isn't cosy at lunch-time and it costs | part of the river bank. One of the black boys was badly injured in the foot and calf by a sting-ray; after that they stopped bathing and washed in a zinc pail. When the news of the Indians' return reached camp, Tony and Dr Messinger went to the village to see them, but a feast had already started and everyone in the place was drunk. The men lay in their hammocks and the women trotted between them carrying calabashes of cassiri. Everything reeked of roast pork. "It will take them a week to get sober," said Dr Messinger. All that week the black boys lounged in camp; sometimes they washed their clothes and hung them out on the gunwales of the boat to dry in the sun; sometimes they went fishing and came back with a massive catch, speared on a stick (the flesh was tasteless and rubbery); usually in the evenings they sang songs round the fire. The fellow who had been stung kept to his hammock, groaning loudly and constantly asking for medicine. On the sixth day the Indians began to appear. They shook hands all round and then retired to the margin of the bush where they stood gazing at the camp equipment. Tony tried to photograph them but they ran away giggling like schoolgirls. Dr Messinger spread out on the ground the goods he had bought for barter. They retired at sundown but on the seventh day they came again, greatly reinforced. The entire population of the village was there. Rosa sat down on Tony's hammock under the thatch roof. "Give me cigarettes," she said. "You tell them I want men to go Pie-wie country,"<|quote|>said Dr Messinger.</|quote|>"Pie-wie bad people. Macushi people no go with Pie-wie people." "You say I want ten men. I give them guns." "You give me cigarettes..." Negotiations lasted for two days. Eventually twelve men agreed to come; seven of them insisted on bringing their wives with them. One of these was Rosa. When everything was arranged there was a party in the village and all the Indians got drunk again. This time, however, it was a shorter business as the women had not had time to prepare much cassiri. In three days the caravan was able to set out. One of the men had a long, single-barrelled, muzzle-loading gun; several others carried bows and arrows; they were naked except for red cotton cloths round their loins. The women wore grubby calico dresses--they had been issued to them years back by an itinerant preacher and kept for occasions of this kind; they had wicker panniers on their shoulders, supported by a band across the forehead. All the heaviest luggage was carried by the women in these panniers, including the rations for themselves and their men. Rosa had, in addition, an umbrella with a dented, silver crook, a relic of her association with Mr Forbes. The Negroes returned downstream to the coast. A dump of provisions, in substantial tin casing, was left in the ruinous shelter by the bank. "There's no one to touch it. We can send back for it in case of emergency from the Pie-wie country," said Dr Messinger. Tony and Dr Messinger walked immediately behind the man with the gun who was acting as guide; behind them the file straggled out for half a mile or more through the forest. "From now onwards the map is valueless to us," said Dr Messinger with relish. (Roll up the map--you will not need it again for how many years, said William Pitt... memories of Tony's private school came back to him at Dr Messinger's words, | A Handful Of Dust |
"That will do, Fannie. I understand perfectly. You should have confessed that long ago." | Leslie | I did n't mean dat."<|quote|>"That will do, Fannie. I understand perfectly. You should have confessed that long ago."</|quote|>"But I ain't confessin'! I | I did n't say dat; I did n't mean dat."<|quote|>"That will do, Fannie. I understand perfectly. You should have confessed that long ago."</|quote|>"But I ain't confessin'! I ain't! He did n't----" "You | Mis' Oakley," she cried, "ef he did steal de money, we 've got enough saved to mek it good. Let him go! let him go!" "Then you admit that he did steal?" Mrs. Oakley had taken her up sharply. "Oh, I did n't say dat; I did n't mean dat."<|quote|>"That will do, Fannie. I understand perfectly. You should have confessed that long ago."</|quote|>"But I ain't confessin'! I ain't! He did n't----" "You may go." The stricken woman reeled out of her mistress's presence, and Mrs. Oakley told her husband that night, with tears in her eyes, how disappointed she was with Fannie,--that the woman had known it all along, and had only | before the waking. Fannie was utterly hopeless. She had laid down whatever pride had been hers and gone to plead with Maurice Oakley for her husband's freedom, and she had seen his hard, set face. She had gone upon her knees before his wife to cite Berry's long fidelity. "Oh, Mis' Oakley," she cried, "ef he did steal de money, we 've got enough saved to mek it good. Let him go! let him go!" "Then you admit that he did steal?" Mrs. Oakley had taken her up sharply. "Oh, I did n't say dat; I did n't mean dat."<|quote|>"That will do, Fannie. I understand perfectly. You should have confessed that long ago."</|quote|>"But I ain't confessin'! I ain't! He did n't----" "You may go." The stricken woman reeled out of her mistress's presence, and Mrs. Oakley told her husband that night, with tears in her eyes, how disappointed she was with Fannie,--that the woman had known it all along, and had only just confessed. It was just one more link in the chain that was surely and not too slowly forging itself about Berry Hamilton. Of all the family Joe was the only one who burned with a fierce indignation. He knew that his father was innocent, and his very helplessness made | n't. I wo'ked fu' every cent of dat money, an' I saved it myself. Oh, I 'll nevah be able to git a job ag'in. Me in de lock-up--me, aftah all dese yeahs!" Beyond this, apparently, his mind could not go. That his detention was anything more than temporary never seemed to enter his mind. That he would be convicted and sentenced was as far from possibility as the skies from the earth. If he saw visions of a long sojourn in prison, it was only as a nightmare half consciously experienced and which with the struggle must give way before the waking. Fannie was utterly hopeless. She had laid down whatever pride had been hers and gone to plead with Maurice Oakley for her husband's freedom, and she had seen his hard, set face. She had gone upon her knees before his wife to cite Berry's long fidelity. "Oh, Mis' Oakley," she cried, "ef he did steal de money, we 've got enough saved to mek it good. Let him go! let him go!" "Then you admit that he did steal?" Mrs. Oakley had taken her up sharply. "Oh, I did n't say dat; I did n't mean dat."<|quote|>"That will do, Fannie. I understand perfectly. You should have confessed that long ago."</|quote|>"But I ain't confessin'! I ain't! He did n't----" "You may go." The stricken woman reeled out of her mistress's presence, and Mrs. Oakley told her husband that night, with tears in her eyes, how disappointed she was with Fannie,--that the woman had known it all along, and had only just confessed. It was just one more link in the chain that was surely and not too slowly forging itself about Berry Hamilton. Of all the family Joe was the only one who burned with a fierce indignation. He knew that his father was innocent, and his very helplessness made a fever in his soul. Dandy as he was, he was loyal, and when he saw his mother's tears and his sister's shame, something rose within him that had it been given play might have made a man of him, but, being crushed, died and rotted, and in the compost it made all the evil of his nature flourished. The looks and gibes of his fellow-employees at the barber-shop forced him to leave his work there. Kit, bowed with shame and grief, dared not appear upon the streets, where the girls who had envied her now hooted at her. So | no rent and no board to pay. His clothes came from his master, and Kitty and Fannie looked to their mistress for the larger number of their supplies. He did not call to their minds that Fannie herself made fifteen dollars a month, and that for two years Joe had been supporting himself. These things did not come up, and as far as the opinion of the gentlemen assembled in the Continental bar went, Berry was already proven guilty. As for the prisoner himself, after the first day when he had pleaded "Not guilty" and been bound over to the Grand Jury, he had fallen into a sort of dazed calm that was like the stupor produced by a drug. He took little heed of what went on around him. The shock had been too sudden for him, and it was as if his reason had been for the time unseated. That it was not permanently overthrown was evidenced by his waking to the most acute pain and grief whenever Fannie came to him. Then he would toss and moan and give vent to his sorrow in passionate complaints. "I did n't tech his money, Fannie, you know I did n't. I wo'ked fu' every cent of dat money, an' I saved it myself. Oh, I 'll nevah be able to git a job ag'in. Me in de lock-up--me, aftah all dese yeahs!" Beyond this, apparently, his mind could not go. That his detention was anything more than temporary never seemed to enter his mind. That he would be convicted and sentenced was as far from possibility as the skies from the earth. If he saw visions of a long sojourn in prison, it was only as a nightmare half consciously experienced and which with the struggle must give way before the waking. Fannie was utterly hopeless. She had laid down whatever pride had been hers and gone to plead with Maurice Oakley for her husband's freedom, and she had seen his hard, set face. She had gone upon her knees before his wife to cite Berry's long fidelity. "Oh, Mis' Oakley," she cried, "ef he did steal de money, we 've got enough saved to mek it good. Let him go! let him go!" "Then you admit that he did steal?" Mrs. Oakley had taken her up sharply. "Oh, I did n't say dat; I did n't mean dat."<|quote|>"That will do, Fannie. I understand perfectly. You should have confessed that long ago."</|quote|>"But I ain't confessin'! I ain't! He did n't----" "You may go." The stricken woman reeled out of her mistress's presence, and Mrs. Oakley told her husband that night, with tears in her eyes, how disappointed she was with Fannie,--that the woman had known it all along, and had only just confessed. It was just one more link in the chain that was surely and not too slowly forging itself about Berry Hamilton. Of all the family Joe was the only one who burned with a fierce indignation. He knew that his father was innocent, and his very helplessness made a fever in his soul. Dandy as he was, he was loyal, and when he saw his mother's tears and his sister's shame, something rose within him that had it been given play might have made a man of him, but, being crushed, died and rotted, and in the compost it made all the evil of his nature flourished. The looks and gibes of his fellow-employees at the barber-shop forced him to leave his work there. Kit, bowed with shame and grief, dared not appear upon the streets, where the girls who had envied her now hooted at her. So the little family was shut in upon itself away from fellowship and sympathy. Joe went seldom to see his father. He was not heartless; but the citadel of his long desired and much vaunted manhood trembled before the sight of his father's abject misery. The lines came round his lips, and lines too must have come round his heart. Poor fellow, he was too young for this forcing process, and in the hot-house of pain he only grew an acrid, unripe cynic. At the sitting of the Grand Jury Berry was indicted. His trial followed soon, and the town turned out to see it. Some came to laugh and scoff, but these, his enemies, were silenced by the spectacle of his grief. In vain the lawyer whom he had secured showed that the evidence against him proved nothing. In vain he produced proof of the slow accumulation of what the man had. In vain he pleaded the man's former good name. The judge and the jury saw otherwise. Berry was convicted. He was given ten years at hard labour. He hardly looked as if he could live out one as he heard his sentence. But Nature was kind and relieved | that I bought from Hiram Gaskins? Mighty fine breed. Well, I was spendin' all my time and patience trainin' that dog in the daytime. At night I put him in that nigger's care to feed and bed. Well, do you know, I came home the other night and found that black rascal gone? I went out to see if the dog was properly bedded, and by Jove, the dog was gone too. Then I got suspicious. When a nigger and a dog go out together at night, one draws certain conclusions. I thought I had heard bayin' way out towards the edge of the town. So I stayed outside and watched. In about an hour here came Dodson with a possum hung over his shoulder and my dog trottin' at his heels. He 'd been possum huntin' with my hound--with the finest hound in the State, sir. Now, I appeal to you all, gentlemen, if that ain't total depravity, what is total depravity?" "Not total depravity, Beachfield, I maintain, but the very irresponsibility of which I have spoken. Why, gentlemen, I foresee the day when these people themselves shall come to us Southerners of their own accord and ask to be re-enslaved until such time as they shall be fit for freedom." Old Horace was nothing if not logical. "Well, do you think there 's any doubt of the darky's guilt?" asked Colonel Saunders hesitatingly. He was the only man who had ever thought of such a possibility. They turned on him as if he had been some strange, unnatural animal. "Any doubt!" cried Old Horace. "Any doubt!" exclaimed Mr. Davis. "Any doubt?" almost shrieked the rest. "Why, there can be no doubt. Why, Colonel, what are you thinking of? Tell us who has got the money if he has n't? Tell us where on earth the nigger got the money he 's been putting in the bank? Doubt? Why, there is n't the least doubt about it." "Certainly, certainly," said the Colonel, "but I thought, of course, he might have saved it. There are several of those people, you know, who do a little business and have bank accounts." "Yes, but they are in some sort of business. This man makes only thirty dollars a month. Don't you see?" The Colonel saw, or said he did. And he did not answer what he might have answered, that Berry had no rent and no board to pay. His clothes came from his master, and Kitty and Fannie looked to their mistress for the larger number of their supplies. He did not call to their minds that Fannie herself made fifteen dollars a month, and that for two years Joe had been supporting himself. These things did not come up, and as far as the opinion of the gentlemen assembled in the Continental bar went, Berry was already proven guilty. As for the prisoner himself, after the first day when he had pleaded "Not guilty" and been bound over to the Grand Jury, he had fallen into a sort of dazed calm that was like the stupor produced by a drug. He took little heed of what went on around him. The shock had been too sudden for him, and it was as if his reason had been for the time unseated. That it was not permanently overthrown was evidenced by his waking to the most acute pain and grief whenever Fannie came to him. Then he would toss and moan and give vent to his sorrow in passionate complaints. "I did n't tech his money, Fannie, you know I did n't. I wo'ked fu' every cent of dat money, an' I saved it myself. Oh, I 'll nevah be able to git a job ag'in. Me in de lock-up--me, aftah all dese yeahs!" Beyond this, apparently, his mind could not go. That his detention was anything more than temporary never seemed to enter his mind. That he would be convicted and sentenced was as far from possibility as the skies from the earth. If he saw visions of a long sojourn in prison, it was only as a nightmare half consciously experienced and which with the struggle must give way before the waking. Fannie was utterly hopeless. She had laid down whatever pride had been hers and gone to plead with Maurice Oakley for her husband's freedom, and she had seen his hard, set face. She had gone upon her knees before his wife to cite Berry's long fidelity. "Oh, Mis' Oakley," she cried, "ef he did steal de money, we 've got enough saved to mek it good. Let him go! let him go!" "Then you admit that he did steal?" Mrs. Oakley had taken her up sharply. "Oh, I did n't say dat; I did n't mean dat."<|quote|>"That will do, Fannie. I understand perfectly. You should have confessed that long ago."</|quote|>"But I ain't confessin'! I ain't! He did n't----" "You may go." The stricken woman reeled out of her mistress's presence, and Mrs. Oakley told her husband that night, with tears in her eyes, how disappointed she was with Fannie,--that the woman had known it all along, and had only just confessed. It was just one more link in the chain that was surely and not too slowly forging itself about Berry Hamilton. Of all the family Joe was the only one who burned with a fierce indignation. He knew that his father was innocent, and his very helplessness made a fever in his soul. Dandy as he was, he was loyal, and when he saw his mother's tears and his sister's shame, something rose within him that had it been given play might have made a man of him, but, being crushed, died and rotted, and in the compost it made all the evil of his nature flourished. The looks and gibes of his fellow-employees at the barber-shop forced him to leave his work there. Kit, bowed with shame and grief, dared not appear upon the streets, where the girls who had envied her now hooted at her. So the little family was shut in upon itself away from fellowship and sympathy. Joe went seldom to see his father. He was not heartless; but the citadel of his long desired and much vaunted manhood trembled before the sight of his father's abject misery. The lines came round his lips, and lines too must have come round his heart. Poor fellow, he was too young for this forcing process, and in the hot-house of pain he only grew an acrid, unripe cynic. At the sitting of the Grand Jury Berry was indicted. His trial followed soon, and the town turned out to see it. Some came to laugh and scoff, but these, his enemies, were silenced by the spectacle of his grief. In vain the lawyer whom he had secured showed that the evidence against him proved nothing. In vain he produced proof of the slow accumulation of what the man had. In vain he pleaded the man's former good name. The judge and the jury saw otherwise. Berry was convicted. He was given ten years at hard labour. He hardly looked as if he could live out one as he heard his sentence. But Nature was kind and relieved him of the strain. With a cry as if his heart were bursting, he started up and fell forward on his face unconscious. Some one, a bit more brutal than the rest, said, "It 's five dollars' fine every time a nigger faints," but no one laughed. There was something too portentous, too tragic in the degradation of this man. Maurice Oakley sat in the court-room, grim and relentless. As soon as the trial was over, he sent for Fannie, who still kept the cottage in the yard. "You must go," he said. "You can't stay here any longer. I want none of your breed about me." And Fannie bowed her head and went away from him in silence. All the night long the women of the Hamilton household lay in bed and wept, clinging to each other in their grief. But Joe did not go to sleep. Against all their entreaties, he stayed up. He put out the light and sat staring into the gloom with hard, burning eyes. VI OUTCASTS What particularly irritated Maurice Oakley was that Berry should to the very last keep up his claim of innocence. He reiterated it to the very moment that the train which was bearing him away pulled out of the station. There had seldom been seen such an example of criminal hardihood, and Oakley was hardened thereby to greater severity in dealing with the convict's wife. He began to urge her more strongly to move, and she, dispirited and humiliated by what had come to her, looked vainly about for the way to satisfy his demands. With her natural protector gone, she felt more weak and helpless than she had thought it possible to feel. It was hard enough to face the world. But to have to ask something of it was almost more than she could bear. With the conviction of her husband the last five hundred dollars had been confiscated as belonging to the stolen money, but their former deposit remained untouched. With this she had the means at her disposal to tide over their present days of misfortune. It was not money she lacked, but confidence. Some inkling of the world's attitude towards her, guiltless though she was, reached her and made her afraid. Her desperation, however, would not let her give way to fear, so she set forth to look for another house. Joe and Kit | He did not call to their minds that Fannie herself made fifteen dollars a month, and that for two years Joe had been supporting himself. These things did not come up, and as far as the opinion of the gentlemen assembled in the Continental bar went, Berry was already proven guilty. As for the prisoner himself, after the first day when he had pleaded "Not guilty" and been bound over to the Grand Jury, he had fallen into a sort of dazed calm that was like the stupor produced by a drug. He took little heed of what went on around him. The shock had been too sudden for him, and it was as if his reason had been for the time unseated. That it was not permanently overthrown was evidenced by his waking to the most acute pain and grief whenever Fannie came to him. Then he would toss and moan and give vent to his sorrow in passionate complaints. "I did n't tech his money, Fannie, you know I did n't. I wo'ked fu' every cent of dat money, an' I saved it myself. Oh, I 'll nevah be able to git a job ag'in. Me in de lock-up--me, aftah all dese yeahs!" Beyond this, apparently, his mind could not go. That his detention was anything more than temporary never seemed to enter his mind. That he would be convicted and sentenced was as far from possibility as the skies from the earth. If he saw visions of a long sojourn in prison, it was only as a nightmare half consciously experienced and which with the struggle must give way before the waking. Fannie was utterly hopeless. She had laid down whatever pride had been hers and gone to plead with Maurice Oakley for her husband's freedom, and she had seen his hard, set face. She had gone upon her knees before his wife to cite Berry's long fidelity. "Oh, Mis' Oakley," she cried, "ef he did steal de money, we 've got enough saved to mek it good. Let him go! let him go!" "Then you admit that he did steal?" Mrs. Oakley had taken her up sharply. "Oh, I did n't say dat; I did n't mean dat."<|quote|>"That will do, Fannie. I understand perfectly. You should have confessed that long ago."</|quote|>"But I ain't confessin'! I ain't! He did n't----" "You may go." The stricken woman reeled out of her mistress's presence, and Mrs. Oakley told her husband that night, with tears in her eyes, how disappointed she was with Fannie,--that the woman had known it all along, and had only just confessed. It was just one more link in the chain that was surely and not too slowly forging itself about Berry Hamilton. Of all the family Joe was the only one who burned with a fierce indignation. He knew that his father was innocent, and his very helplessness made a fever in his soul. Dandy as he was, he was loyal, and when he saw his mother's tears and his sister's shame, something rose within him that had it been given play might have made a man of him, but, being crushed, died and rotted, and in the compost it made all the evil of his nature flourished. The looks and gibes of his fellow-employees at the barber-shop forced him to leave his work there. Kit, bowed with shame and grief, dared not appear upon the streets, where the girls who had envied her now hooted at her. So the little family was shut in upon itself away from fellowship and sympathy. Joe went seldom to see | The Sport Of The Gods |
"Do you see that in my eye?" | Anne Elliot | Anne half smiled and said,<|quote|>"Do you see that in my eye?"</|quote|>"Yes, I do. Your countenance | the concert it was conversation." Anne half smiled and said,<|quote|>"Do you see that in my eye?"</|quote|>"Yes, I do. Your countenance perfectly informs me that you | were better employed. You need not tell me that you had a pleasant evening. I see it in your eye. I perfectly see how the hours passed: that you had always something agreeable to listen to. In the intervals of the concert it was conversation." Anne half smiled and said,<|quote|>"Do you see that in my eye?"</|quote|>"Yes, I do. Your countenance perfectly informs me that you were in company last night with the person whom you think the most agreeable in the world, the person who interests you at this present time more than all the rest of the world put together." A blush overspread Anne's | you had. You were a large party in yourselves, and you wanted nothing beyond." "But I ought to have looked about me more," said Anne, conscious while she spoke that there had in fact been no want of looking about, that the object only had been deficient. "No, no; you were better employed. You need not tell me that you had a pleasant evening. I see it in your eye. I perfectly see how the hours passed: that you had always something agreeable to listen to. In the intervals of the concert it was conversation." Anne half smiled and said,<|quote|>"Do you see that in my eye?"</|quote|>"Yes, I do. Your countenance perfectly informs me that you were in company last night with the person whom you think the most agreeable in the world, the person who interests you at this present time more than all the rest of the world put together." A blush overspread Anne's cheeks. She could say nothing. "And such being the case," continued Mrs Smith, after a short pause, "I hope you believe that I do know how to value your kindness in coming to me this morning. It is really very good of you to come and sit with me, when | your own circle; for as you went with Lady Dalrymple, you were in the seats of grandeur, round the orchestra, of course." "No, that was what I dreaded. It would have been very unpleasant to me in every respect. But happily Lady Dalrymple always chooses to be farther off; and we were exceedingly well placed, that is, for hearing; I must not say for seeing, because I appear to have seen very little." "Oh! you saw enough for your own amusement. I can understand. There is a sort of domestic enjoyment to be known even in a crowd, and this you had. You were a large party in yourselves, and you wanted nothing beyond." "But I ought to have looked about me more," said Anne, conscious while she spoke that there had in fact been no want of looking about, that the object only had been deficient. "No, no; you were better employed. You need not tell me that you had a pleasant evening. I see it in your eye. I perfectly see how the hours passed: that you had always something agreeable to listen to. In the intervals of the concert it was conversation." Anne half smiled and said,<|quote|>"Do you see that in my eye?"</|quote|>"Yes, I do. Your countenance perfectly informs me that you were in company last night with the person whom you think the most agreeable in the world, the person who interests you at this present time more than all the rest of the world put together." A blush overspread Anne's cheeks. She could say nothing. "And such being the case," continued Mrs Smith, after a short pause, "I hope you believe that I do know how to value your kindness in coming to me this morning. It is really very good of you to come and sit with me, when you must have so many pleasanter demands upon your time." Anne heard nothing of this. She was still in the astonishment and confusion excited by her friend's penetration, unable to imagine how any report of Captain Wentworth could have reached her. After another short silence-- "Pray," said Mrs Smith, "is Mr Elliot aware of your acquaintance with me? Does he know that I am in Bath?" "Mr Elliot!" repeated Anne, looking up surprised. A moment's reflection shewed her the mistake she had been under. She caught it instantaneously; and recovering her courage with the feeling of safety, soon added, more | and make her rejoice to talk of it. All that she could tell she told most gladly, but the all was little for one who had been there, and unsatisfactory for such an enquirer as Mrs Smith, who had already heard, through the short cut of a laundress and a waiter, rather more of the general success and produce of the evening than Anne could relate, and who now asked in vain for several particulars of the company. Everybody of any consequence or notoriety in Bath was well know by name to Mrs Smith. "The little Durands were there, I conclude," said she, "with their mouths open to catch the music, like unfledged sparrows ready to be fed. They never miss a concert." "Yes; I did not see them myself, but I heard Mr Elliot say they were in the room." "The Ibbotsons, were they there? and the two new beauties, with the tall Irish officer, who is talked of for one of them." "I do not know. I do not think they were." "Old Lady Mary Maclean? I need not ask after her. She never misses, I know; and you must have seen her. She must have been in your own circle; for as you went with Lady Dalrymple, you were in the seats of grandeur, round the orchestra, of course." "No, that was what I dreaded. It would have been very unpleasant to me in every respect. But happily Lady Dalrymple always chooses to be farther off; and we were exceedingly well placed, that is, for hearing; I must not say for seeing, because I appear to have seen very little." "Oh! you saw enough for your own amusement. I can understand. There is a sort of domestic enjoyment to be known even in a crowd, and this you had. You were a large party in yourselves, and you wanted nothing beyond." "But I ought to have looked about me more," said Anne, conscious while she spoke that there had in fact been no want of looking about, that the object only had been deficient. "No, no; you were better employed. You need not tell me that you had a pleasant evening. I see it in your eye. I perfectly see how the hours passed: that you had always something agreeable to listen to. In the intervals of the concert it was conversation." Anne half smiled and said,<|quote|>"Do you see that in my eye?"</|quote|>"Yes, I do. Your countenance perfectly informs me that you were in company last night with the person whom you think the most agreeable in the world, the person who interests you at this present time more than all the rest of the world put together." A blush overspread Anne's cheeks. She could say nothing. "And such being the case," continued Mrs Smith, after a short pause, "I hope you believe that I do know how to value your kindness in coming to me this morning. It is really very good of you to come and sit with me, when you must have so many pleasanter demands upon your time." Anne heard nothing of this. She was still in the astonishment and confusion excited by her friend's penetration, unable to imagine how any report of Captain Wentworth could have reached her. After another short silence-- "Pray," said Mrs Smith, "is Mr Elliot aware of your acquaintance with me? Does he know that I am in Bath?" "Mr Elliot!" repeated Anne, looking up surprised. A moment's reflection shewed her the mistake she had been under. She caught it instantaneously; and recovering her courage with the feeling of safety, soon added, more composedly, "Are you acquainted with Mr Elliot?" "I have been a good deal acquainted with him," replied Mrs Smith, gravely, "but it seems worn out now. It is a great while since we met." "I was not at all aware of this. You never mentioned it before. Had I known it, I would have had the pleasure of talking to him about you." "To confess the truth," said Mrs Smith, assuming her usual air of cheerfulness, "that is exactly the pleasure I want you to have. I want you to talk about me to Mr Elliot. I want your interest with him. He can be of essential service to me; and if you would have the goodness, my dear Miss Elliot, to make it an object to yourself, of course it is done." "I should be extremely happy; I hope you cannot doubt my willingness to be of even the slightest use to you," replied Anne; "but I suspect that you are considering me as having a higher claim on Mr Elliot, a greater right to influence him, than is really the case. I am sure you have, somehow or other, imbibed such a notion. You must consider me only | he could." "Is not this song worth staying for?" said Anne, suddenly struck by an idea which made her yet more anxious to be encouraging. "No!" he replied impressively, "there is nothing worth my staying for;" and he was gone directly. Jealousy of Mr Elliot! It was the only intelligible motive. Captain Wentworth jealous of her affection! Could she have believed it a week ago; three hours ago! For a moment the gratification was exquisite. But, alas! there were very different thoughts to succeed. How was such jealousy to be quieted? How was the truth to reach him? How, in all the peculiar disadvantages of their respective situations, would he ever learn of her real sentiments? It was misery to think of Mr Elliot's attentions. Their evil was incalculable. Chapter 21 Anne recollected with pleasure the next morning her promise of going to Mrs Smith, meaning that it should engage her from home at the time when Mr Elliot would be most likely to call; for to avoid Mr Elliot was almost a first object. She felt a great deal of good-will towards him. In spite of the mischief of his attentions, she owed him gratitude and regard, perhaps compassion. She could not help thinking much of the extraordinary circumstances attending their acquaintance, of the right which he seemed to have to interest her, by everything in situation, by his own sentiments, by his early prepossession. It was altogether very extraordinary; flattering, but painful. There was much to regret. How she might have felt had there been no Captain Wentworth in the case, was not worth enquiry; for there was a Captain Wentworth; and be the conclusion of the present suspense good or bad, her affection would be his for ever. Their union, she believed, could not divide her more from other men, than their final separation. Prettier musings of high-wrought love and eternal constancy, could never have passed along the streets of Bath, than Anne was sporting with from Camden Place to Westgate Buildings. It was almost enough to spread purification and perfume all the way. She was sure of a pleasant reception; and her friend seemed this morning particularly obliged to her for coming, seemed hardly to have expected her, though it had been an appointment. An account of the concert was immediately claimed; and Anne's recollections of the concert were quite happy enough to animate her features and make her rejoice to talk of it. All that she could tell she told most gladly, but the all was little for one who had been there, and unsatisfactory for such an enquirer as Mrs Smith, who had already heard, through the short cut of a laundress and a waiter, rather more of the general success and produce of the evening than Anne could relate, and who now asked in vain for several particulars of the company. Everybody of any consequence or notoriety in Bath was well know by name to Mrs Smith. "The little Durands were there, I conclude," said she, "with their mouths open to catch the music, like unfledged sparrows ready to be fed. They never miss a concert." "Yes; I did not see them myself, but I heard Mr Elliot say they were in the room." "The Ibbotsons, were they there? and the two new beauties, with the tall Irish officer, who is talked of for one of them." "I do not know. I do not think they were." "Old Lady Mary Maclean? I need not ask after her. She never misses, I know; and you must have seen her. She must have been in your own circle; for as you went with Lady Dalrymple, you were in the seats of grandeur, round the orchestra, of course." "No, that was what I dreaded. It would have been very unpleasant to me in every respect. But happily Lady Dalrymple always chooses to be farther off; and we were exceedingly well placed, that is, for hearing; I must not say for seeing, because I appear to have seen very little." "Oh! you saw enough for your own amusement. I can understand. There is a sort of domestic enjoyment to be known even in a crowd, and this you had. You were a large party in yourselves, and you wanted nothing beyond." "But I ought to have looked about me more," said Anne, conscious while she spoke that there had in fact been no want of looking about, that the object only had been deficient. "No, no; you were better employed. You need not tell me that you had a pleasant evening. I see it in your eye. I perfectly see how the hours passed: that you had always something agreeable to listen to. In the intervals of the concert it was conversation." Anne half smiled and said,<|quote|>"Do you see that in my eye?"</|quote|>"Yes, I do. Your countenance perfectly informs me that you were in company last night with the person whom you think the most agreeable in the world, the person who interests you at this present time more than all the rest of the world put together." A blush overspread Anne's cheeks. She could say nothing. "And such being the case," continued Mrs Smith, after a short pause, "I hope you believe that I do know how to value your kindness in coming to me this morning. It is really very good of you to come and sit with me, when you must have so many pleasanter demands upon your time." Anne heard nothing of this. She was still in the astonishment and confusion excited by her friend's penetration, unable to imagine how any report of Captain Wentworth could have reached her. After another short silence-- "Pray," said Mrs Smith, "is Mr Elliot aware of your acquaintance with me? Does he know that I am in Bath?" "Mr Elliot!" repeated Anne, looking up surprised. A moment's reflection shewed her the mistake she had been under. She caught it instantaneously; and recovering her courage with the feeling of safety, soon added, more composedly, "Are you acquainted with Mr Elliot?" "I have been a good deal acquainted with him," replied Mrs Smith, gravely, "but it seems worn out now. It is a great while since we met." "I was not at all aware of this. You never mentioned it before. Had I known it, I would have had the pleasure of talking to him about you." "To confess the truth," said Mrs Smith, assuming her usual air of cheerfulness, "that is exactly the pleasure I want you to have. I want you to talk about me to Mr Elliot. I want your interest with him. He can be of essential service to me; and if you would have the goodness, my dear Miss Elliot, to make it an object to yourself, of course it is done." "I should be extremely happy; I hope you cannot doubt my willingness to be of even the slightest use to you," replied Anne; "but I suspect that you are considering me as having a higher claim on Mr Elliot, a greater right to influence him, than is really the case. I am sure you have, somehow or other, imbibed such a notion. You must consider me only as Mr Elliot's relation. If in that light there is anything which you suppose his cousin might fairly ask of him, I beg you would not hesitate to employ me." Mrs Smith gave her a penetrating glance, and then, smiling, said-- "I have been a little premature, I perceive; I beg your pardon. I ought to have waited for official information. But now, my dear Miss Elliot, as an old friend, do give me a hint as to when I may speak. Next week? To be sure by next week I may be allowed to think it all settled, and build my own selfish schemes on Mr Elliot's good fortune." "No," replied Anne, "nor next week, nor next, nor next. I assure you that nothing of the sort you are thinking of will be settled any week. I am not going to marry Mr Elliot. I should like to know why you imagine I am?" Mrs Smith looked at her again, looked earnestly, smiled, shook her head, and exclaimed-- "Now, how I do wish I understood you! How I do wish I knew what you were at! I have a great idea that you do not design to be cruel, when the right moment occurs. Till it does come, you know, we women never mean to have anybody. It is a thing of course among us, that every man is refused, till he offers. But why should you be cruel? Let me plead for my--present friend I cannot call him, but for my former friend. Where can you look for a more suitable match? Where could you expect a more gentlemanlike, agreeable man? Let me recommend Mr Elliot. I am sure you hear nothing but good of him from Colonel Wallis; and who can know him better than Colonel Wallis?" "My dear Mrs Smith, Mr Elliot's wife has not been dead much above half a year. He ought not to be supposed to be paying his addresses to any one." "Oh! if these are your only objections," cried Mrs Smith, archly, "Mr Elliot is safe, and I shall give myself no more trouble about him. Do not forget me when you are married, that's all. Let him know me to be a friend of yours, and then he will think little of the trouble required, which it is very natural for him now, with so many affairs and engagements of | she might have felt had there been no Captain Wentworth in the case, was not worth enquiry; for there was a Captain Wentworth; and be the conclusion of the present suspense good or bad, her affection would be his for ever. Their union, she believed, could not divide her more from other men, than their final separation. Prettier musings of high-wrought love and eternal constancy, could never have passed along the streets of Bath, than Anne was sporting with from Camden Place to Westgate Buildings. It was almost enough to spread purification and perfume all the way. She was sure of a pleasant reception; and her friend seemed this morning particularly obliged to her for coming, seemed hardly to have expected her, though it had been an appointment. An account of the concert was immediately claimed; and Anne's recollections of the concert were quite happy enough to animate her features and make her rejoice to talk of it. All that she could tell she told most gladly, but the all was little for one who had been there, and unsatisfactory for such an enquirer as Mrs Smith, who had already heard, through the short cut of a laundress and a waiter, rather more of the general success and produce of the evening than Anne could relate, and who now asked in vain for several particulars of the company. Everybody of any consequence or notoriety in Bath was well know by name to Mrs Smith. "The little Durands were there, I conclude," said she, "with their mouths open to catch the music, like unfledged sparrows ready to be fed. They never miss a concert." "Yes; I did not see them myself, but I heard Mr Elliot say they were in the room." "The Ibbotsons, were they there? and the two new beauties, with the tall Irish officer, who is talked of for one of them." "I do not know. I do not think they were." "Old Lady Mary Maclean? I need not ask after her. She never misses, I know; and you must have seen her. She must have been in your own circle; for as you went with Lady Dalrymple, you were in the seats of grandeur, round the orchestra, of course." "No, that was what I dreaded. It would have been very unpleasant to me in every respect. But happily Lady Dalrymple always chooses to be farther off; and we were exceedingly well placed, that is, for hearing; I must not say for seeing, because I appear to have seen very little." "Oh! you saw enough for your own amusement. I can understand. There is a sort of domestic enjoyment to be known even in a crowd, and this you had. You were a large party in yourselves, and you wanted nothing beyond." "But I ought to have looked about me more," said Anne, conscious while she spoke that there had in fact been no want of looking about, that the object only had been deficient. "No, no; you were better employed. You need not tell me that you had a pleasant evening. I see it in your eye. I perfectly see how the hours passed: that you had always something agreeable to listen to. In the intervals of the concert it was conversation." Anne half smiled and said,<|quote|>"Do you see that in my eye?"</|quote|>"Yes, I do. Your countenance perfectly informs me that you were in company last night with the person whom you think the most agreeable in the world, the person who interests you at this present time more than all the rest of the world put together." A blush overspread Anne's cheeks. She could say nothing. "And such being the case," continued Mrs Smith, after a short pause, "I hope you believe that I do know how to value your kindness in coming to me this morning. It is really very good of you to come and sit with me, when you must have so many pleasanter demands upon your time." Anne heard nothing of this. She was still in the astonishment and confusion excited by her friend's penetration, unable to imagine how any report of Captain Wentworth could have reached her. After another short silence-- "Pray," said Mrs Smith, "is Mr Elliot aware of your acquaintance with me? Does he know that I am in Bath?" "Mr Elliot!" repeated Anne, looking up surprised. A moment's reflection shewed her the mistake she had been under. She caught it instantaneously; and recovering her courage with the feeling of safety, soon added, more composedly, "Are you acquainted with Mr Elliot?" "I have been a good deal acquainted with him," replied Mrs Smith, gravely, "but it seems worn out now. It is a great while since we met." "I was not at all aware of this. You never mentioned it before. Had I known it, I would have had the pleasure of talking to him about you." "To confess the truth," said Mrs Smith, assuming her usual air of cheerfulness, "that is exactly the pleasure I want you | Persuasion |
'_She_ a beauty!--I should as soon call her mother a wit.' | No speaker | had been dining at Netherfield,"<|quote|>'_She_ a beauty!--I should as soon call her mother a wit.'</|quote|>"But afterwards she seemed to | saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield,"<|quote|>'_She_ a beauty!--I should as soon call her mother a wit.'</|quote|>"But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I | resolutely silent however; and, from a determination of making him speak, she continued, "I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield,"<|quote|>'_She_ a beauty!--I should as soon call her mother a wit.'</|quote|>"But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time." "Yes," replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, "but _that_ was only when I first knew her, for it is many months since I have considered her as one of | a self-sufficiency without fashion, which is intolerable." Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was resolutely silent however; and, from a determination of making him speak, she continued, "I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield,"<|quote|>'_She_ a beauty!--I should as soon call her mother a wit.'</|quote|>"But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time." "Yes," replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, "but _that_ was only when I first knew her, for it is many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance." He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself. Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred, during their visit, as they returned, except | summer. "For my own part," she rejoined, "I must confess that I never could see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants character; there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which have sometimes been called so fine, I never could perceive any thing extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether, there is a self-sufficiency without fashion, which is intolerable." Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was resolutely silent however; and, from a determination of making him speak, she continued, "I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield,"<|quote|>'_She_ a beauty!--I should as soon call her mother a wit.'</|quote|>"But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time." "Yes," replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, "but _that_ was only when I first knew her, for it is many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance." He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself. Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred, during their visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them both. The looks and behaviour of every body they had seen were discussed, except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit, of every thing but himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece's beginning the subject. CHAPTER IV. Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from Jane, on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been renewed on each | from Elizabeth, seemed to have fixed them on her more, and more cheerfully. Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer above-mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage, Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth's person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her brother's recommendation was enough to ensure her favour: his judgment could not err, and he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth, as to leave Georgiana without the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to him some part of what she had been saying to his sister. "How very ill Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy," she cried; "I never in my life saw any one so much altered as she is since the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing that we should not have known her again." However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented himself with coolly replying, that he perceived no other alteration than her being rather tanned,--no miraculous consequence of travelling in the summer. "For my own part," she rejoined, "I must confess that I never could see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants character; there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which have sometimes been called so fine, I never could perceive any thing extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether, there is a self-sufficiency without fashion, which is intolerable." Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was resolutely silent however; and, from a determination of making him speak, she continued, "I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield,"<|quote|>'_She_ a beauty!--I should as soon call her mother a wit.'</|quote|>"But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time." "Yes," replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, "but _that_ was only when I first knew her, for it is many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance." He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself. Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred, during their visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them both. The looks and behaviour of every body they had seen were discussed, except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit, of every thing but himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece's beginning the subject. CHAPTER IV. Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from Jane, on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but on the third, her repining was over, and her sister justified by the receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had written the direction remarkably ill. They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by themselves. The one missent must be first attended to; it had been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded; but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect: "Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you--be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to | on her brother's entrance, exerted herself much more to talk; and Elizabeth saw that he was anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded, as much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the first opportunity of saying, with sneering civility, "Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ----shire militia removed from Meryton? They must be a great loss to _your_ family." In Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name; but Elizabeth instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the various recollections connected with him gave her a moment's distress; but, exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she presently answered the question in a tolerably disengaged tone. While she spoke, an involuntary glance shewed her Darcy with an heightened complexion, earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with confusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what pain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would have refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose Elizabeth, by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed her partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in Darcy's opinion, and perhaps to remind the latter of all the follies and absurdities, by which some part of her family were connected with that corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy's meditated elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secresy was possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley's connections her brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from that very wish which Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss Bennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern for the welfare of his friend. Elizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able to speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely recollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which had been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth, seemed to have fixed them on her more, and more cheerfully. Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer above-mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage, Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth's person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her brother's recommendation was enough to ensure her favour: his judgment could not err, and he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth, as to leave Georgiana without the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to him some part of what she had been saying to his sister. "How very ill Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy," she cried; "I never in my life saw any one so much altered as she is since the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing that we should not have known her again." However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented himself with coolly replying, that he perceived no other alteration than her being rather tanned,--no miraculous consequence of travelling in the summer. "For my own part," she rejoined, "I must confess that I never could see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants character; there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which have sometimes been called so fine, I never could perceive any thing extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether, there is a self-sufficiency without fashion, which is intolerable." Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was resolutely silent however; and, from a determination of making him speak, she continued, "I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield,"<|quote|>'_She_ a beauty!--I should as soon call her mother a wit.'</|quote|>"But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time." "Yes," replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, "but _that_ was only when I first knew her, for it is many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance." He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself. Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred, during their visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them both. The looks and behaviour of every body they had seen were discussed, except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit, of every thing but himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece's beginning the subject. CHAPTER IV. Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from Jane, on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but on the third, her repining was over, and her sister justified by the receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had written the direction remarkably ill. They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by themselves. The one missent must be first attended to; it had been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded; but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect: "Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you--be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham!--Imagine our surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides!--But I am willing to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step (and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I, that we never let them know what has been said against him; we must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly know what I have written." Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing what she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter, instantly seized the other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first. "By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as a marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny | Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss Bennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern for the welfare of his friend. Elizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able to speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely recollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which had been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth, seemed to have fixed them on her more, and more cheerfully. Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer above-mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage, Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth's person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her brother's recommendation was enough to ensure her favour: his judgment could not err, and he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth, as to leave Georgiana without the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to him some part of what she had been saying to his sister. "How very ill Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy," she cried; "I never in my life saw any one so much altered as she is since the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing that we should not have known her again." However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented himself with coolly replying, that he perceived no other alteration than her being rather tanned,--no miraculous consequence of travelling in the summer. "For my own part," she rejoined, "I must confess that I never could see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants character; there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which have sometimes been called so fine, I never could perceive any thing extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether, there is a self-sufficiency without fashion, which is intolerable." Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was resolutely silent however; and, from a determination of making him speak, she continued, "I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield,"<|quote|>'_She_ a beauty!--I should as soon call her mother a wit.'</|quote|>"But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time." "Yes," replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, "but _that_ was only when I first knew her, for it is many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance." He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself. Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred, during their visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them both. The looks and behaviour of every body they had seen were discussed, except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit, of every thing but himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece's beginning the subject. CHAPTER IV. Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from Jane, on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but on the third, her repining was over, and her sister justified by the receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had written the direction remarkably ill. They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by themselves. The one missent must be first attended to; it had been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded; but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect: "Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you--be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham!--Imagine our surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides!--But I am willing to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step | Pride And Prejudice |
"Well, you needn't suffer any longer," | Marilla Cuthbert | to know what it is."<|quote|>"Well, you needn't suffer any longer,"</|quote|>said Marilla sarcastically. "You can | flashes, and I'm really suffering to know what it is."<|quote|>"Well, you needn't suffer any longer,"</|quote|>said Marilla sarcastically. "You can go, but you're to be | we're very careful, Marilla. And it's so interesting. Two flashes mean, ?Are you there?' Three mean ?yes' and four ?no.' Five mean, ?Come over as soon as possible, because I have something important to reveal.' Diana has just signaled five flashes, and I'm really suffering to know what it is."<|quote|>"Well, you needn't suffer any longer,"</|quote|>said Marilla sarcastically. "You can go, but you're to be back here in just ten minutes, remember that." Anne did remember it and was back in the stipulated time, although probably no mortal will ever know just what it cost her to confine the discussion of Diana's important communication within | on the window sill and make flashes by passing the cardboard back and forth. So many flashes mean a certain thing. It was my idea, Marilla." "I'll warrant you it was," said Marilla emphatically. "And the next thing you'll be setting fire to the curtains with your signaling nonsense." "Oh, we're very careful, Marilla. And it's so interesting. Two flashes mean, ?Are you there?' Three mean ?yes' and four ?no.' Five mean, ?Come over as soon as possible, because I have something important to reveal.' Diana has just signaled five flashes, and I'm really suffering to know what it is."<|quote|>"Well, you needn't suffer any longer,"</|quote|>said Marilla sarcastically. "You can go, but you're to be back here in just ten minutes, remember that." Anne did remember it and was back in the stipulated time, although probably no mortal will ever know just what it cost her to confine the discussion of Diana's important communication within the limits of ten minutes. But at least she had made good use of them. "Oh, Marilla, what do you think? You know tomorrow is Diana's birthday. Well, her mother told her she could ask me to go home with her from school and stay all night with her. And | you want to be traipsing about after dark for," said Marilla shortly. "You and Diana walked home from school together and then stood down there in the snow for half an hour more, your tongues going the whole blessed time, clickety-clack. So I don't think you're very badly off to see her again." "But she wants to see me," pleaded Anne. "She has something very important to tell me." "How do you know she has?" "Because she just signaled to me from her window. We have arranged a way to signal with our candles and cardboard. We set the candle on the window sill and make flashes by passing the cardboard back and forth. So many flashes mean a certain thing. It was my idea, Marilla." "I'll warrant you it was," said Marilla emphatically. "And the next thing you'll be setting fire to the curtains with your signaling nonsense." "Oh, we're very careful, Marilla. And it's so interesting. Two flashes mean, ?Are you there?' Three mean ?yes' and four ?no.' Five mean, ?Come over as soon as possible, because I have something important to reveal.' Diana has just signaled five flashes, and I'm really suffering to know what it is."<|quote|>"Well, you needn't suffer any longer,"</|quote|>said Marilla sarcastically. "You can go, but you're to be back here in just ten minutes, remember that." Anne did remember it and was back in the stipulated time, although probably no mortal will ever know just what it cost her to confine the discussion of Diana's important communication within the limits of ten minutes. But at least she had made good use of them. "Oh, Marilla, what do you think? You know tomorrow is Diana's birthday. Well, her mother told her she could ask me to go home with her from school and stay all night with her. And her cousins are coming over from Newbridge in a big pung sleigh to go to the Debating Club concert at the hall tomorrow night. And they are going to take Diana and me to the concert--if you'll let me go, that is. You will, won't you, Marilla? Oh, I feel so excited." "You can calm down then, because you're not going. You're better at home in your own bed, and as for that club concert, it's all nonsense, and little girls should not be allowed to go out to such places at all." "I'm sure the Debating Club is a | talk to little girls as if they were too, and I'll never laugh when they use big words. I know from sorrowful experience how that hurts one's feelings. After tea Diana and I made taffy. The taffy wasn't very good, I suppose because neither Diana nor I had ever made any before. Diana left me to stir it while she buttered the plates and I forgot and let it burn; and then when we set it out on the platform to cool the cat walked over one plate and that had to be thrown away. But the making of it was splendid fun. Then when I came home Mrs. Barry asked me to come over as often as I could and Diana stood at the window and threw kisses to me all the way down to Lover's Lane. I assure you, Marilla, that I feel like praying tonight and I'm going to think out a special brand-new prayer in honor of the occasion." CHAPTER XIX. A Concert a Catastrophe and a Confession "MARILLA, can I go over to see Diana just for a minute?" asked Anne, running breathlessly down from the east gable one February evening. "I don't see what you want to be traipsing about after dark for," said Marilla shortly. "You and Diana walked home from school together and then stood down there in the snow for half an hour more, your tongues going the whole blessed time, clickety-clack. So I don't think you're very badly off to see her again." "But she wants to see me," pleaded Anne. "She has something very important to tell me." "How do you know she has?" "Because she just signaled to me from her window. We have arranged a way to signal with our candles and cardboard. We set the candle on the window sill and make flashes by passing the cardboard back and forth. So many flashes mean a certain thing. It was my idea, Marilla." "I'll warrant you it was," said Marilla emphatically. "And the next thing you'll be setting fire to the curtains with your signaling nonsense." "Oh, we're very careful, Marilla. And it's so interesting. Two flashes mean, ?Are you there?' Three mean ?yes' and four ?no.' Five mean, ?Come over as soon as possible, because I have something important to reveal.' Diana has just signaled five flashes, and I'm really suffering to know what it is."<|quote|>"Well, you needn't suffer any longer,"</|quote|>said Marilla sarcastically. "You can go, but you're to be back here in just ten minutes, remember that." Anne did remember it and was back in the stipulated time, although probably no mortal will ever know just what it cost her to confine the discussion of Diana's important communication within the limits of ten minutes. But at least she had made good use of them. "Oh, Marilla, what do you think? You know tomorrow is Diana's birthday. Well, her mother told her she could ask me to go home with her from school and stay all night with her. And her cousins are coming over from Newbridge in a big pung sleigh to go to the Debating Club concert at the hall tomorrow night. And they are going to take Diana and me to the concert--if you'll let me go, that is. You will, won't you, Marilla? Oh, I feel so excited." "You can calm down then, because you're not going. You're better at home in your own bed, and as for that club concert, it's all nonsense, and little girls should not be allowed to go out to such places at all." "I'm sure the Debating Club is a most respectable affair," pleaded Anne. "I'm not saying it isn't. But you're not going to begin gadding about to concerts and staying out all hours of the night. Pretty doings for children. I'm surprised at Mrs. Barry's letting Diana go." "But it's such a very special occasion," mourned Anne, on the verge of tears. "Diana has only one birthday in a year. It isn't as if birthdays were common things, Marilla. Prissy Andrews is going to recite ?Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight.' That is such a good moral piece, Marilla, I'm sure it would do me lots of good to hear it. And the choir are going to sing four lovely pathetic songs that are pretty near as good as hymns. And oh, Marilla, the minister is going to take part; yes, indeed, he is; he's going to give an address. That will be just about the same thing as a sermon. Please, mayn't I go, Marilla?" "You heard what I said, Anne, didn't you? Take off your boots now and go to bed. It's past eight." "There's just one more thing, Marilla," said Anne, with the air of producing the last shot in her locker. "Mrs. Barry told Diana | sky that was pale golden and ethereal rose over gleaming white spaces and dark glens of spruce. The tinkles of sleigh bells among the snowy hills came like elfin chimes through the frosty air, but their music was not sweeter than the song in Anne's heart and on her lips. "You see before you a perfectly happy person, Marilla," she announced. "I'm perfectly happy--yes, in spite of my red hair. Just at present I have a soul above red hair. Mrs. Barry kissed me and cried and said she was so sorry and she could never repay me. I felt fearfully embarrassed, Marilla, but I just said as politely as I could," ?I have no hard feelings for you, Mrs. Barry. I assure you once for all that I did not mean to intoxicate Diana and henceforth I shall cover the past with the mantle of oblivion.' "That was a pretty dignified way of speaking wasn't it, Marilla?" "I felt that I was heaping coals of fire on Mrs. Barry's head. And Diana and I had a lovely afternoon. Diana showed me a new fancy crochet stitch her aunt over at Carmody taught her. Not a soul in Avonlea knows it but us, and we pledged a solemn vow never to reveal it to anyone else. Diana gave me a beautiful card with a wreath of roses on it and a verse of poetry:" "If you love me as I love you Nothing but death can part us two." "And that is true, Marilla. We're going to ask Mr. Phillips to let us sit together in school again, and Gertie Pye can go with Minnie Andrews. We had an elegant tea. Mrs. Barry had the very best china set out, Marilla, just as if I was real company. I can't tell you what a thrill it gave me. Nobody ever used their very best china on my account before. And we had fruit cake and pound cake and doughnuts and two kinds of preserves, Marilla. And Mrs. Barry asked me if I took tea and said" ?Pa, why don't you pass the biscuits to Anne?' "It must be lovely to be grown up, Marilla, when just being treated as if you were is so nice." "I don't know about that," said Marilla, with a brief sigh. "Well, anyway, when I am grown up," said Anne decidedly, "I'm always going to talk to little girls as if they were too, and I'll never laugh when they use big words. I know from sorrowful experience how that hurts one's feelings. After tea Diana and I made taffy. The taffy wasn't very good, I suppose because neither Diana nor I had ever made any before. Diana left me to stir it while she buttered the plates and I forgot and let it burn; and then when we set it out on the platform to cool the cat walked over one plate and that had to be thrown away. But the making of it was splendid fun. Then when I came home Mrs. Barry asked me to come over as often as I could and Diana stood at the window and threw kisses to me all the way down to Lover's Lane. I assure you, Marilla, that I feel like praying tonight and I'm going to think out a special brand-new prayer in honor of the occasion." CHAPTER XIX. A Concert a Catastrophe and a Confession "MARILLA, can I go over to see Diana just for a minute?" asked Anne, running breathlessly down from the east gable one February evening. "I don't see what you want to be traipsing about after dark for," said Marilla shortly. "You and Diana walked home from school together and then stood down there in the snow for half an hour more, your tongues going the whole blessed time, clickety-clack. So I don't think you're very badly off to see her again." "But she wants to see me," pleaded Anne. "She has something very important to tell me." "How do you know she has?" "Because she just signaled to me from her window. We have arranged a way to signal with our candles and cardboard. We set the candle on the window sill and make flashes by passing the cardboard back and forth. So many flashes mean a certain thing. It was my idea, Marilla." "I'll warrant you it was," said Marilla emphatically. "And the next thing you'll be setting fire to the curtains with your signaling nonsense." "Oh, we're very careful, Marilla. And it's so interesting. Two flashes mean, ?Are you there?' Three mean ?yes' and four ?no.' Five mean, ?Come over as soon as possible, because I have something important to reveal.' Diana has just signaled five flashes, and I'm really suffering to know what it is."<|quote|>"Well, you needn't suffer any longer,"</|quote|>said Marilla sarcastically. "You can go, but you're to be back here in just ten minutes, remember that." Anne did remember it and was back in the stipulated time, although probably no mortal will ever know just what it cost her to confine the discussion of Diana's important communication within the limits of ten minutes. But at least she had made good use of them. "Oh, Marilla, what do you think? You know tomorrow is Diana's birthday. Well, her mother told her she could ask me to go home with her from school and stay all night with her. And her cousins are coming over from Newbridge in a big pung sleigh to go to the Debating Club concert at the hall tomorrow night. And they are going to take Diana and me to the concert--if you'll let me go, that is. You will, won't you, Marilla? Oh, I feel so excited." "You can calm down then, because you're not going. You're better at home in your own bed, and as for that club concert, it's all nonsense, and little girls should not be allowed to go out to such places at all." "I'm sure the Debating Club is a most respectable affair," pleaded Anne. "I'm not saying it isn't. But you're not going to begin gadding about to concerts and staying out all hours of the night. Pretty doings for children. I'm surprised at Mrs. Barry's letting Diana go." "But it's such a very special occasion," mourned Anne, on the verge of tears. "Diana has only one birthday in a year. It isn't as if birthdays were common things, Marilla. Prissy Andrews is going to recite ?Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight.' That is such a good moral piece, Marilla, I'm sure it would do me lots of good to hear it. And the choir are going to sing four lovely pathetic songs that are pretty near as good as hymns. And oh, Marilla, the minister is going to take part; yes, indeed, he is; he's going to give an address. That will be just about the same thing as a sermon. Please, mayn't I go, Marilla?" "You heard what I said, Anne, didn't you? Take off your boots now and go to bed. It's past eight." "There's just one more thing, Marilla," said Anne, with the air of producing the last shot in her locker. "Mrs. Barry told Diana that we might sleep in the spare-room bed. Think of the honor of your little Anne being put in the spare-room bed." "It's an honor you'll have to get along without. Go to bed, Anne, and don't let me hear another word out of you." When Anne, with tears rolling over her cheeks, had gone sorrowfully upstairs, Matthew, who had been apparently sound asleep on the lounge during the whole dialogue, opened his eyes and said decidedly: "Well now, Marilla, I think you ought to let Anne go." "I don't then," retorted Marilla. "Who's bringing this child up, Matthew, you or me?" "Well now, you," admitted Matthew. "Don't interfere then." "Well now, I ain't interfering. It ain't interfering to have your own opinion. And my opinion is that you ought to let Anne go." "You'd think I ought to let Anne go to the moon if she took the notion, I've no doubt" was Marilla's amiable rejoinder. "I might have let her spend the night with Diana, if that was all. But I don't approve of this concert plan. She'd go there and catch cold like as not, and have her head filled up with nonsense and excitement. It would unsettle her for a week. I understand that child's disposition and what's good for it better than you, Matthew." "I think you ought to let Anne go," repeated Matthew firmly. Argument was not his strong point, but holding fast to his opinion certainly was. Marilla gave a gasp of helplessness and took refuge in silence. The next morning, when Anne was washing the breakfast dishes in the pantry, Matthew paused on his way out to the barn to say to Marilla again: "I think you ought to let Anne go, Marilla." For a moment Marilla looked things not lawful to be uttered. Then she yielded to the inevitable and said tartly: "Very well, she can go, since nothing else ?ll please you." Anne flew out of the pantry, dripping dishcloth in hand. "Oh, Marilla, Marilla, say those blessed words again." "I guess once is enough to say them. This is Matthew's doings and I wash my hands of it. If you catch pneumonia sleeping in a strange bed or coming out of that hot hall in the middle of the night, don't blame me, blame Matthew. Anne Shirley, you're dripping greasy water all over the floor. I never saw such | in honor of the occasion." CHAPTER XIX. A Concert a Catastrophe and a Confession "MARILLA, can I go over to see Diana just for a minute?" asked Anne, running breathlessly down from the east gable one February evening. "I don't see what you want to be traipsing about after dark for," said Marilla shortly. "You and Diana walked home from school together and then stood down there in the snow for half an hour more, your tongues going the whole blessed time, clickety-clack. So I don't think you're very badly off to see her again." "But she wants to see me," pleaded Anne. "She has something very important to tell me." "How do you know she has?" "Because she just signaled to me from her window. We have arranged a way to signal with our candles and cardboard. We set the candle on the window sill and make flashes by passing the cardboard back and forth. So many flashes mean a certain thing. It was my idea, Marilla." "I'll warrant you it was," said Marilla emphatically. "And the next thing you'll be setting fire to the curtains with your signaling nonsense." "Oh, we're very careful, Marilla. And it's so interesting. Two flashes mean, ?Are you there?' Three mean ?yes' and four ?no.' Five mean, ?Come over as soon as possible, because I have something important to reveal.' Diana has just signaled five flashes, and I'm really suffering to know what it is."<|quote|>"Well, you needn't suffer any longer,"</|quote|>said Marilla sarcastically. "You can go, but you're to be back here in just ten minutes, remember that." Anne did remember it and was back in the stipulated time, although probably no mortal will ever know just what it cost her to confine the discussion of Diana's important communication within the limits of ten minutes. But at least she had made good use of them. "Oh, Marilla, what do you think? You know tomorrow is Diana's birthday. Well, her mother told her she could ask me to go home with her from school and stay all night with her. And her cousins are coming over from Newbridge in a big pung sleigh to go to the Debating Club concert at the hall tomorrow night. And they are going to take Diana and me to the concert--if you'll let me go, that is. You will, won't you, Marilla? Oh, I feel so excited." "You can calm down then, because you're not going. You're better at home in your own bed, and as for that club concert, it's all nonsense, and little girls should not be allowed to go out to such places at all." "I'm sure the Debating Club is a most respectable affair," pleaded Anne. "I'm not saying it isn't. But you're not going to begin gadding about to concerts and staying out all hours of the night. Pretty doings for children. I'm surprised at Mrs. Barry's letting Diana go." "But it's such a very special occasion," mourned Anne, on the verge of tears. "Diana has only one birthday in a year. It isn't as if birthdays were common things, Marilla. Prissy Andrews is going to recite ?Curfew Must | Anne Of Green Gables |
"Here s the poker, you see." | The Invisible Man | are," said the Invisible Man.<|quote|>"Here s the poker, you see."</|quote|>"When I came into this | "Please keep sitting where you are," said the Invisible Man.<|quote|>"Here s the poker, you see."</|quote|>"When I came into this room," continued the Invisible Man, | and the doctor pulled a face. "Yes," said Mr. Bunting, and the doctor repeated it. Then the pressure on the necks relaxed, and the doctor and the vicar sat up, both very red in the face and wriggling their heads. "Please keep sitting where you are," said the Invisible Man.<|quote|>"Here s the poker, you see."</|quote|>"When I came into this room," continued the Invisible Man, after presenting the poker to the tip of the nose of each of his visitors, "I did not expect to find it occupied, and I expected to find, in addition to my books of memoranda, an outfit of clothing. Where | slightest doubt that I could kill you both and get away quite easily if I wanted to do you understand? Very well. If I let you go will you promise not to try any nonsense and do what I tell you?" The vicar and the doctor looked at one another, and the doctor pulled a face. "Yes," said Mr. Bunting, and the doctor repeated it. Then the pressure on the necks relaxed, and the doctor and the vicar sat up, both very red in the face and wriggling their heads. "Please keep sitting where you are," said the Invisible Man.<|quote|>"Here s the poker, you see."</|quote|>"When I came into this room," continued the Invisible Man, after presenting the poker to the tip of the nose of each of his visitors, "I did not expect to find it occupied, and I expected to find, in addition to my books of memoranda, an outfit of clothing. Where is it? No don t rise. I can see it s gone. Now, just at present, though the days are quite warm enough for an invisible man to run about stark, the evenings are quite chilly. I want clothing and other accommodation; and I must also have those three books." | roughly," said the Voice, "but it s unavoidable." "Since when did you learn to pry into an investigator s private memoranda," said the Voice; and two chins struck the table simultaneously, and two sets of teeth rattled. "Since when did you learn to invade the private rooms of a man in misfortune?" and the concussion was repeated. "Where have they put my clothes?" "Listen," said the Voice. "The windows are fastened and I ve taken the key out of the door. I am a fairly strong man, and I have the poker handy besides being invisible. There s not the slightest doubt that I could kill you both and get away quite easily if I wanted to do you understand? Very well. If I let you go will you promise not to try any nonsense and do what I tell you?" The vicar and the doctor looked at one another, and the doctor pulled a face. "Yes," said Mr. Bunting, and the doctor repeated it. Then the pressure on the necks relaxed, and the doctor and the vicar sat up, both very red in the face and wriggling their heads. "Please keep sitting where you are," said the Invisible Man.<|quote|>"Here s the poker, you see."</|quote|>"When I came into this room," continued the Invisible Man, after presenting the poker to the tip of the nose of each of his visitors, "I did not expect to find it occupied, and I expected to find, in addition to my books of memoranda, an outfit of clothing. Where is it? No don t rise. I can see it s gone. Now, just at present, though the days are quite warm enough for an invisible man to run about stark, the evenings are quite chilly. I want clothing and other accommodation; and I must also have those three books." CHAPTER XII. THE INVISIBLE MAN LOSES HIS TEMPER It is unavoidable that at this point the narrative should break off again, for a certain very painful reason that will presently be apparent. While these things were going on in the parlour, and while Mr. Huxter was watching Mr. Marvel smoking his pipe against the gate, not a dozen yards away were Mr. Hall and Teddy Henfrey discussing in a state of cloudy puzzlement the one Iping topic. Suddenly there came a violent thud against the door of the parlour, a sharp cry, and then silence. "Hul-lo!" said Teddy Henfrey. "Hul-lo!" | absurd invisibility story" "It s incredible," said Cuss "incredible. But the fact remains that I saw I certainly saw right down his sleeve" "But did you are you sure? Suppose a mirror, for instance hallucinations are so easily produced. I don t know if you have ever seen a really good conjuror" "I won t argue again," said Cuss. "We ve thrashed that out, Bunting. And just now there s these books Ah! here s some of what I take to be Greek! Greek letters certainly." He pointed to the middle of the page. Mr. Bunting flushed slightly and brought his face nearer, apparently finding some difficulty with his glasses. Suddenly he became aware of a strange feeling at the nape of his neck. He tried to raise his head, and encountered an immovable resistance. The feeling was a curious pressure, the grip of a heavy, firm hand, and it bore his chin irresistibly to the table. "Don t move, little men," whispered a voice, "or I ll brain you both!" He looked into the face of Cuss, close to his own, and each saw a horrified reflection of his own sickly astonishment. "I m sorry to handle you so roughly," said the Voice, "but it s unavoidable." "Since when did you learn to pry into an investigator s private memoranda," said the Voice; and two chins struck the table simultaneously, and two sets of teeth rattled. "Since when did you learn to invade the private rooms of a man in misfortune?" and the concussion was repeated. "Where have they put my clothes?" "Listen," said the Voice. "The windows are fastened and I ve taken the key out of the door. I am a fairly strong man, and I have the poker handy besides being invisible. There s not the slightest doubt that I could kill you both and get away quite easily if I wanted to do you understand? Very well. If I let you go will you promise not to try any nonsense and do what I tell you?" The vicar and the doctor looked at one another, and the doctor pulled a face. "Yes," said Mr. Bunting, and the doctor repeated it. Then the pressure on the necks relaxed, and the doctor and the vicar sat up, both very red in the face and wriggling their heads. "Please keep sitting where you are," said the Invisible Man.<|quote|>"Here s the poker, you see."</|quote|>"When I came into this room," continued the Invisible Man, after presenting the poker to the tip of the nose of each of his visitors, "I did not expect to find it occupied, and I expected to find, in addition to my books of memoranda, an outfit of clothing. Where is it? No don t rise. I can see it s gone. Now, just at present, though the days are quite warm enough for an invisible man to run about stark, the evenings are quite chilly. I want clothing and other accommodation; and I must also have those three books." CHAPTER XII. THE INVISIBLE MAN LOSES HIS TEMPER It is unavoidable that at this point the narrative should break off again, for a certain very painful reason that will presently be apparent. While these things were going on in the parlour, and while Mr. Huxter was watching Mr. Marvel smoking his pipe against the gate, not a dozen yards away were Mr. Hall and Teddy Henfrey discussing in a state of cloudy puzzlement the one Iping topic. Suddenly there came a violent thud against the door of the parlour, a sharp cry, and then silence. "Hul-lo!" said Teddy Henfrey. "Hul-lo!" from the Tap. Mr. Hall took things in slowly but surely. "That ain t right," he said, and came round from behind the bar towards the parlour door. He and Teddy approached the door together, with intent faces. Their eyes considered. "Summat wrong," said Hall, and Henfrey nodded agreement. Whiffs of an unpleasant chemical odour met them, and there was a muffled sound of conversation, very rapid and subdued. "You all right thur?" asked Hall, rapping. The muttered conversation ceased abruptly, for a moment silence, then the conversation was resumed, in hissing whispers, then a sharp cry of "No! no, you don t!" There came a sudden motion and the oversetting of a chair, a brief struggle. Silence again. "What the dooce?" exclaimed Henfrey, _sotto voce_. "You all right thur?" asked Mr. Hall, sharply, again. The Vicar s voice answered with a curious jerking intonation: "Quite ri-right. Please don t interrupt." "Odd!" said Mr. Henfrey. "Odd!" said Mr. Hall. "Says, Don t interrupt," said Henfrey. "I heerd n," said Hall. "And a sniff," said Henfrey. They remained listening. The conversation was rapid and subdued. "I _can t_," said Mr. Bunting, his voice rising; "I tell you, sir, I _will_ not." | fly-leaf. Bother! cypher. And figures." The vicar came round to look over his shoulder. Cuss turned the pages over with a face suddenly disappointed. "I m dear me! It s all cypher, Bunting." "There are no diagrams?" asked Mr. Bunting. "No illustrations throwing light" "See for yourself," said Mr. Cuss. "Some of it s mathematical and some of it s Russian or some such language (to judge by the letters), and some of it s Greek. Now the Greek I thought _you_" "Of course," said Mr. Bunting, taking out and wiping his spectacles and feeling suddenly very uncomfortable for he had no Greek left in his mind worth talking about; "yes the Greek, of course, may furnish a clue." "I ll find you a place." "I d rather glance through the volumes first," said Mr. Bunting, still wiping. "A general impression first, Cuss, and _then_, you know, we can go looking for clues." He coughed, put on his glasses, arranged them fastidiously, coughed again, and wished something would happen to avert the seemingly inevitable exposure. Then he took the volume Cuss handed him in a leisurely manner. And then something did happen. The door opened suddenly. Both gentlemen started violently, looked round, and were relieved to see a sporadically rosy face beneath a furry silk hat. "Tap?" asked the face, and stood staring. "No," said both gentlemen at once. "Over the other side, my man," said Mr. Bunting. And "Please shut that door," said Mr. Cuss, irritably. "All right," said the intruder, as it seemed in a low voice curiously different from the huskiness of its first inquiry. "Right you are," said the intruder in the former voice. "Stand clear!" and he vanished and closed the door. "A sailor, I should judge," said Mr. Bunting. "Amusing fellows, they are." Stand clear! "indeed. A nautical term, referring to his getting back out of the room, I suppose." "I daresay so," said Cuss. "My nerves are all loose to-day. It quite made me jump the door opening like that." Mr. Bunting smiled as if he had not jumped. "And now," he said with a sigh, "these books." Someone sniffed as he did so. "One thing is indisputable," said Bunting, drawing up a chair next to that of Cuss. "There certainly have been very strange things happen in Iping during the last few days very strange. I cannot of course believe in this absurd invisibility story" "It s incredible," said Cuss "incredible. But the fact remains that I saw I certainly saw right down his sleeve" "But did you are you sure? Suppose a mirror, for instance hallucinations are so easily produced. I don t know if you have ever seen a really good conjuror" "I won t argue again," said Cuss. "We ve thrashed that out, Bunting. And just now there s these books Ah! here s some of what I take to be Greek! Greek letters certainly." He pointed to the middle of the page. Mr. Bunting flushed slightly and brought his face nearer, apparently finding some difficulty with his glasses. Suddenly he became aware of a strange feeling at the nape of his neck. He tried to raise his head, and encountered an immovable resistance. The feeling was a curious pressure, the grip of a heavy, firm hand, and it bore his chin irresistibly to the table. "Don t move, little men," whispered a voice, "or I ll brain you both!" He looked into the face of Cuss, close to his own, and each saw a horrified reflection of his own sickly astonishment. "I m sorry to handle you so roughly," said the Voice, "but it s unavoidable." "Since when did you learn to pry into an investigator s private memoranda," said the Voice; and two chins struck the table simultaneously, and two sets of teeth rattled. "Since when did you learn to invade the private rooms of a man in misfortune?" and the concussion was repeated. "Where have they put my clothes?" "Listen," said the Voice. "The windows are fastened and I ve taken the key out of the door. I am a fairly strong man, and I have the poker handy besides being invisible. There s not the slightest doubt that I could kill you both and get away quite easily if I wanted to do you understand? Very well. If I let you go will you promise not to try any nonsense and do what I tell you?" The vicar and the doctor looked at one another, and the doctor pulled a face. "Yes," said Mr. Bunting, and the doctor repeated it. Then the pressure on the necks relaxed, and the doctor and the vicar sat up, both very red in the face and wriggling their heads. "Please keep sitting where you are," said the Invisible Man.<|quote|>"Here s the poker, you see."</|quote|>"When I came into this room," continued the Invisible Man, after presenting the poker to the tip of the nose of each of his visitors, "I did not expect to find it occupied, and I expected to find, in addition to my books of memoranda, an outfit of clothing. Where is it? No don t rise. I can see it s gone. Now, just at present, though the days are quite warm enough for an invisible man to run about stark, the evenings are quite chilly. I want clothing and other accommodation; and I must also have those three books." CHAPTER XII. THE INVISIBLE MAN LOSES HIS TEMPER It is unavoidable that at this point the narrative should break off again, for a certain very painful reason that will presently be apparent. While these things were going on in the parlour, and while Mr. Huxter was watching Mr. Marvel smoking his pipe against the gate, not a dozen yards away were Mr. Hall and Teddy Henfrey discussing in a state of cloudy puzzlement the one Iping topic. Suddenly there came a violent thud against the door of the parlour, a sharp cry, and then silence. "Hul-lo!" said Teddy Henfrey. "Hul-lo!" from the Tap. Mr. Hall took things in slowly but surely. "That ain t right," he said, and came round from behind the bar towards the parlour door. He and Teddy approached the door together, with intent faces. Their eyes considered. "Summat wrong," said Hall, and Henfrey nodded agreement. Whiffs of an unpleasant chemical odour met them, and there was a muffled sound of conversation, very rapid and subdued. "You all right thur?" asked Hall, rapping. The muttered conversation ceased abruptly, for a moment silence, then the conversation was resumed, in hissing whispers, then a sharp cry of "No! no, you don t!" There came a sudden motion and the oversetting of a chair, a brief struggle. Silence again. "What the dooce?" exclaimed Henfrey, _sotto voce_. "You all right thur?" asked Mr. Hall, sharply, again. The Vicar s voice answered with a curious jerking intonation: "Quite ri-right. Please don t interrupt." "Odd!" said Mr. Henfrey. "Odd!" said Mr. Hall. "Says, Don t interrupt," said Henfrey. "I heerd n," said Hall. "And a sniff," said Henfrey. They remained listening. The conversation was rapid and subdued. "I _can t_," said Mr. Bunting, his voice rising; "I tell you, sir, I _will_ not." "What was that?" asked Henfrey. "Says he wi nart," said Hall. "Warn t speaking to us, wuz he?" "Disgraceful!" said Mr. Bunting, within. " Disgraceful, " said Mr. Henfrey. "I heard it distinct." "Who s that speaking now?" asked Henfrey. "Mr. Cuss, I s pose," said Hall. "Can you hear anything?" Silence. The sounds within indistinct and perplexing. "Sounds like throwing the table-cloth about," said Hall. Mrs. Hall appeared behind the bar. Hall made gestures of silence and invitation. This aroused Mrs. Hall s wifely opposition. "What yer listenin there for, Hall?" she asked. "Ain t you nothin better to do busy day like this?" Hall tried to convey everything by grimaces and dumb show, but Mrs. Hall was obdurate. She raised her voice. So Hall and Henfrey, rather crestfallen, tiptoed back to the bar, gesticulating to explain to her. At first she refused to see anything in what they had heard at all. Then she insisted on Hall keeping silence, while Henfrey told her his story. She was inclined to think the whole business nonsense perhaps they were just moving the furniture about. "I heerd n say" disgraceful ; "_that_ I did," said Hall. "_I_ heerd that, Mrs. Hall," said Henfrey. "Like as not" began Mrs. Hall. "Hsh!" said Mr. Teddy Henfrey. "Didn t I hear the window?" "What window?" asked Mrs. Hall. "Parlour window," said Henfrey. Everyone stood listening intently. Mrs. Hall s eyes, directed straight before her, saw without seeing the brilliant oblong of the inn door, the road white and vivid, and Huxter s shop-front blistering in the June sun. Abruptly Huxter s door opened and Huxter appeared, eyes staring with excitement, arms gesticulating. "Yap!" cried Huxter. "Stop thief!" and he ran obliquely across the oblong towards the yard gates, and vanished. Simultaneously came a tumult from the parlour, and a sound of windows being closed. Hall, Henfrey, and the human contents of the tap rushed out at once pell-mell into the street. They saw someone whisk round the corner towards the road, and Mr. Huxter executing a complicated leap in the air that ended on his face and shoulder. Down the street people were standing astonished or running towards them. Mr. Huxter was stunned. Henfrey stopped to discover this, but Hall and the two labourers from the Tap rushed at once to the corner, shouting incoherent things, and saw Mr. Marvel vanishing by the corner | produced. I don t know if you have ever seen a really good conjuror" "I won t argue again," said Cuss. "We ve thrashed that out, Bunting. And just now there s these books Ah! here s some of what I take to be Greek! Greek letters certainly." He pointed to the middle of the page. Mr. Bunting flushed slightly and brought his face nearer, apparently finding some difficulty with his glasses. Suddenly he became aware of a strange feeling at the nape of his neck. He tried to raise his head, and encountered an immovable resistance. The feeling was a curious pressure, the grip of a heavy, firm hand, and it bore his chin irresistibly to the table. "Don t move, little men," whispered a voice, "or I ll brain you both!" He looked into the face of Cuss, close to his own, and each saw a horrified reflection of his own sickly astonishment. "I m sorry to handle you so roughly," said the Voice, "but it s unavoidable." "Since when did you learn to pry into an investigator s private memoranda," said the Voice; and two chins struck the table simultaneously, and two sets of teeth rattled. "Since when did you learn to invade the private rooms of a man in misfortune?" and the concussion was repeated. "Where have they put my clothes?" "Listen," said the Voice. "The windows are fastened and I ve taken the key out of the door. I am a fairly strong man, and I have the poker handy besides being invisible. There s not the slightest doubt that I could kill you both and get away quite easily if I wanted to do you understand? Very well. If I let you go will you promise not to try any nonsense and do what I tell you?" The vicar and the doctor looked at one another, and the doctor pulled a face. "Yes," said Mr. Bunting, and the doctor repeated it. Then the pressure on the necks relaxed, and the doctor and the vicar sat up, both very red in the face and wriggling their heads. "Please keep sitting where you are," said the Invisible Man.<|quote|>"Here s the poker, you see."</|quote|>"When I came into this room," continued the Invisible Man, after presenting the poker to the tip of the nose of each of his visitors, "I did not expect to find it occupied, and I expected to find, in addition to my books of memoranda, an outfit of clothing. Where is it? No don t rise. I can see it s gone. Now, just at present, though the days are quite warm enough for an invisible man to run about stark, the evenings are quite chilly. I want clothing and other accommodation; and I must also have those three books." CHAPTER XII. THE INVISIBLE MAN LOSES HIS TEMPER It is unavoidable that at this point the narrative should break off again, for a certain very painful reason that will presently be apparent. While these things were going on in the parlour, and while Mr. Huxter was watching Mr. Marvel smoking his pipe against the gate, not a dozen yards away were Mr. Hall and Teddy Henfrey discussing in a state of cloudy puzzlement the one Iping topic. Suddenly there came a violent thud against the door of the parlour, a sharp cry, and then silence. "Hul-lo!" said Teddy Henfrey. "Hul-lo!" from the Tap. Mr. Hall took things in slowly but surely. "That ain t right," he said, and came round from behind the bar towards the parlour door. He and Teddy approached the door together, with intent faces. Their eyes considered. "Summat wrong," said Hall, and Henfrey nodded agreement. Whiffs of an unpleasant chemical odour met them, and there was a muffled sound of conversation, very rapid and subdued. "You all right thur?" asked Hall, rapping. The muttered conversation ceased abruptly, for a moment silence, then the conversation was resumed, in hissing whispers, then a sharp cry of "No! no, you | The Invisible Man |
Bill said. | No speaker | Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." | day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. | like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and | at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said. "It's too early." "Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa | Outside the paseo was going in under the arcade. There were some English and Americans from Biarritz in sport clothes scattered at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed. "Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said. "It's too early." "Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to | brought them all down, and Don Manuel Orquito's face was sweaty in the light of his complicated fireworks that fell into the crowd and charged and chased, sputtering and cracking, between the legs of the people. The people shouted as each new luminous paper bubble careened, caught fire, and fell. "They're razzing Don Manuel," Bill said. "How do you know he's Don Manuel?" Brett said. "His name's on the programme. Don Manuel Orquito, the pirotecnico of esta ciudad." "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A collection of globos illuminados. That's what the paper said." The wind blew the band music away. "I say, I wish one would go up," Brett said. "That Don Manuel chap is furious." "He's probably worked for weeks fixing them to go off, spelling out 'Hail to San Fermin,'" Bill said. "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A bunch of bloody globos illuminados." "Come on," said Brett. "We can't stand here." "Her ladyship wants a drink," Mike said. "How you know things," Brett said. Inside, the caf was crowded and very noisy. No one noticed us come in. We could not find a table. There was a great noise going on. "Come on, let's get out of here," Bill said. Outside the paseo was going in under the arcade. There were some English and Americans from Biarritz in sport clothes scattered at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed. "Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said. "It's too early." "Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!" "He doesn't add much to the gayety." "He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike." "Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?" "Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." | not wanted, Cohn? Go away. Go away, for God's sake. Take that sad Jewish face away. Don't you think I'm right?" He looked at us. "Sure," I said. "Let's all go over to the Iru a." "No. Don't you think I'm right? I love that woman." "Oh, don't start that again. Do shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "Don't you think I'm right, Jake?" Cohn still sat at the table. His face had the sallow, yellow look it got when he was insulted, but somehow he seemed to be enjoying it. The childish, drunken heroics of it. It was his affair with a lady of title. "Jake," Mike said. He was almost crying. "You know I'm right. Listen, you!" He turned to Cohn: "Go away! Go away now!" "But I won't go, Mike," said Cohn. "Then I'll make you!" Mike started toward him around the table. Cohn stood up and took off his glasses. He stood waiting, his face sallow, his hands fairly low, proudly and firmly waiting for the assault, ready to do battle for his lady love. I grabbed Mike. "Come on to the caf ," I said. "You can't hit him here in the hotel." "Good!" said Mike. "Good idea!" We started off. I looked back as Mike stumbled up the stairs and saw Cohn putting his glasses on again. Bill was sitting at the table pouring another glass of Fundador. Brett was sitting looking straight ahead at nothing. Outside on the square it had stopped raining and the moon was trying to get through the clouds. There was a wind blowing. The military band was playing and the crowd was massed on the far side of the square where the fireworks specialist and his son were trying to send up fire balloons. A balloon would start up jerkily, on a great bias, and be torn by the wind or blown against the houses of the square. Some fell into the crowd. The magnesium flared and the fireworks exploded and chased about in the crowd. There was no one dancing in the square. The gravel was too wet. Brett came out with Bill and joined us. We stood in the crowd and watched Don Manuel Orquito, the fireworks king, standing on a little platform, carefully starting the balloons with sticks, standing above the heads of the crowd to launch the balloons off into the wind. The wind brought them all down, and Don Manuel Orquito's face was sweaty in the light of his complicated fireworks that fell into the crowd and charged and chased, sputtering and cracking, between the legs of the people. The people shouted as each new luminous paper bubble careened, caught fire, and fell. "They're razzing Don Manuel," Bill said. "How do you know he's Don Manuel?" Brett said. "His name's on the programme. Don Manuel Orquito, the pirotecnico of esta ciudad." "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A collection of globos illuminados. That's what the paper said." The wind blew the band music away. "I say, I wish one would go up," Brett said. "That Don Manuel chap is furious." "He's probably worked for weeks fixing them to go off, spelling out 'Hail to San Fermin,'" Bill said. "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A bunch of bloody globos illuminados." "Come on," said Brett. "We can't stand here." "Her ladyship wants a drink," Mike said. "How you know things," Brett said. Inside, the caf was crowded and very noisy. No one noticed us come in. We could not find a table. There was a great noise going on. "Come on, let's get out of here," Bill said. Outside the paseo was going in under the arcade. There were some English and Americans from Biarritz in sport clothes scattered at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed. "Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said. "It's too early." "Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!" "He doesn't add much to the gayety." "He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike." "Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?" "Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on," said Brett. As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade. "He _was_ there," Brett said. "He can't be away from you." "Poor devil!" "I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself." "I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering." We walked arm in arm down the side street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. "Want to go in?" "No." We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we could see the mountains. The wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon. Below us were the dark pits of the fortifications. Behind were the trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon. "Don't feel bad," I said. "I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk." We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black 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. | chased about in the crowd. There was no one dancing in the square. The gravel was too wet. Brett came out with Bill and joined us. We stood in the crowd and watched Don Manuel Orquito, the fireworks king, standing on a little platform, carefully starting the balloons with sticks, standing above the heads of the crowd to launch the balloons off into the wind. The wind brought them all down, and Don Manuel Orquito's face was sweaty in the light of his complicated fireworks that fell into the crowd and charged and chased, sputtering and cracking, between the legs of the people. The people shouted as each new luminous paper bubble careened, caught fire, and fell. "They're razzing Don Manuel," Bill said. "How do you know he's Don Manuel?" Brett said. "His name's on the programme. Don Manuel Orquito, the pirotecnico of esta ciudad." "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A collection of globos illuminados. That's what the paper said." The wind blew the band music away. "I say, I wish one would go up," Brett said. "That Don Manuel chap is furious." "He's probably worked for weeks fixing them to go off, spelling out 'Hail to San Fermin,'" Bill said. "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A bunch of bloody globos illuminados." "Come on," said Brett. "We can't stand here." "Her ladyship wants a drink," Mike said. "How you know things," Brett said. Inside, the caf was crowded and very noisy. No one noticed us come in. We could not find a table. There was a great noise going on. "Come on, let's get out of here," Bill said. Outside the paseo was going in under the arcade. There were some English and Americans from Biarritz in sport clothes scattered at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed. "Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said. "It's too early." "Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!" "He doesn't add much to the gayety." "He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike." "Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?" "Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on," said Brett. As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade. "He _was_ there," Brett said. "He can't be away from you." "Poor devil!" "I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself." "I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering." We walked arm in arm down the side street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. "Want to go in?" "No." We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. | The Sun Also Rises |
"I'm the last person to have about on an occasion like this," | Mrs. Rattery | going to say to Tony?"<|quote|>"I'm the last person to have about on an occasion like this,"</|quote|>said Mrs Rattery. They passed | "What on earth are we going to say to Tony?"<|quote|>"I'm the last person to have about on an occasion like this,"</|quote|>said Mrs Rattery. They passed the scene of the accident; | but at the moment everyone was shocked and silent. Someone lent Jock and Mrs Rattery a car to get home in, and a groom to see to the hirelings. "It's the most appalling thing," said Jock in the borrowed car. "What on earth are we going to say to Tony?"<|quote|>"I'm the last person to have about on an occasion like this,"</|quote|>said Mrs Rattery. They passed the scene of the accident; there were still people hanging about, talking. There were people hanging about, talking in the hall at the house. The doctor was buttoning up his coat, just going. "Killed instantly," he said. "Took it full on the base of the | the hounds back to the kennels. The voices were hushed which, five minutes before, had been proclaiming that they knew it for a fact, Last had given orders to shoot every fox on the place. Later, after their baths, they made up for it in criticism of Miss Ripon's father, but at the moment everyone was shocked and silent. Someone lent Jock and Mrs Rattery a car to get home in, and a groom to see to the hirelings. "It's the most appalling thing," said Jock in the borrowed car. "What on earth are we going to say to Tony?"<|quote|>"I'm the last person to have about on an occasion like this,"</|quote|>said Mrs Rattery. They passed the scene of the accident; there were still people hanging about, talking. There were people hanging about, talking in the hall at the house. The doctor was buttoning up his coat, just going. "Killed instantly," he said. "Took it full on the base of the skull. Very sad, awfully fond of the kid. No one to blame, though." Nanny was there in tears, also Mr Tendril and his niece; a policeman and Ben and two men who had helped bring up the body were in the servants' hall. "It wasn't the kid's fault," said Ben. | plunge away from the bus. "Take a hold of him, Miss. Use your whip," shouted Ben. "The boy's down." She hit him and the horse collected himself and bolted up the road into the village, but before he went one of his heels struck out and sent John into the ditch, where he lay bent double, perfectly still. Everyone agreed that it was nobody's fault. * * * * * It was nearly an hour before the news reached Jock and Mrs Rattery where they were waiting beside another blank covert. Colonel Inch stopped hunting for the day and sent the hounds back to the kennels. The voices were hushed which, five minutes before, had been proclaiming that they knew it for a fact, Last had given orders to shoot every fox on the place. Later, after their baths, they made up for it in criticism of Miss Ripon's father, but at the moment everyone was shocked and silent. Someone lent Jock and Mrs Rattery a car to get home in, and a groom to see to the hirelings. "It's the most appalling thing," said Jock in the borrowed car. "What on earth are we going to say to Tony?"<|quote|>"I'm the last person to have about on an occasion like this,"</|quote|>said Mrs Rattery. They passed the scene of the accident; there were still people hanging about, talking. There were people hanging about, talking in the hall at the house. The doctor was buttoning up his coat, just going. "Killed instantly," he said. "Took it full on the base of the skull. Very sad, awfully fond of the kid. No one to blame, though." Nanny was there in tears, also Mr Tendril and his niece; a policeman and Ben and two men who had helped bring up the body were in the servants' hall. "It wasn't the kid's fault," said Ben. "It wasn't anyone's fault," they said. "He'd had a lousy day, too, poor little bastard," said Ben. "If it was anyone's fault it was Mr Grant-Menzies making him go in." "It wasn't anyone's fault," they said. * * * * * Tony was alone in the library. The first thing he said, when Jock came in, was, "We've got to tell Brenda." "D'you know where to get her?" "She's probably at that school... But we can't tell her over the telephone... Anyway, Ambrose has tried there and the flat but he can't get through... What on earth are we going | covered that neighbourhood. It was not going fast and, seeing the horses, the driver slowed down still further and drew into the side. Mr Tendril's niece, who had also despaired of the day's sport, was following behind them at a short distance on her motor bicycle; she too slowed down, and, observing that Miss Ripon's horse was likely to be difficult, stopped. Ben said, "Let me go first, Miss. He'll follow. Don't hold too hard on his mouth and just give him a tap." Miss Ripon did as she was told; everyone in fact behaved with complete good sense. They drew abreast of the omnibus. Miss Ripon's horse did not like it, but it seemed as though he would get by. The passengers watched with amusement. At that moment the motor bicycle, running gently in neutral gear, fired back into the cylinder with a sharp detonation. For a second Miss Ripon's horse stood rigid with alarm; then, menaced in front and behind, he did what was natural to him and shied sideways, cannoning violently into the pony at his side. John was knocked from the saddle and fell on the road while Miss Ripon's bay, rearing and skidding, continued to plunge away from the bus. "Take a hold of him, Miss. Use your whip," shouted Ben. "The boy's down." She hit him and the horse collected himself and bolted up the road into the village, but before he went one of his heels struck out and sent John into the ditch, where he lay bent double, perfectly still. Everyone agreed that it was nobody's fault. * * * * * It was nearly an hour before the news reached Jock and Mrs Rattery where they were waiting beside another blank covert. Colonel Inch stopped hunting for the day and sent the hounds back to the kennels. The voices were hushed which, five minutes before, had been proclaiming that they knew it for a fact, Last had given orders to shoot every fox on the place. Later, after their baths, they made up for it in criticism of Miss Ripon's father, but at the moment everyone was shocked and silent. Someone lent Jock and Mrs Rattery a car to get home in, and a groom to see to the hirelings. "It's the most appalling thing," said Jock in the borrowed car. "What on earth are we going to say to Tony?"<|quote|>"I'm the last person to have about on an occasion like this,"</|quote|>said Mrs Rattery. They passed the scene of the accident; there were still people hanging about, talking. There were people hanging about, talking in the hall at the house. The doctor was buttoning up his coat, just going. "Killed instantly," he said. "Took it full on the base of the skull. Very sad, awfully fond of the kid. No one to blame, though." Nanny was there in tears, also Mr Tendril and his niece; a policeman and Ben and two men who had helped bring up the body were in the servants' hall. "It wasn't the kid's fault," said Ben. "It wasn't anyone's fault," they said. "He'd had a lousy day, too, poor little bastard," said Ben. "If it was anyone's fault it was Mr Grant-Menzies making him go in." "It wasn't anyone's fault," they said. * * * * * Tony was alone in the library. The first thing he said, when Jock came in, was, "We've got to tell Brenda." "D'you know where to get her?" "She's probably at that school... But we can't tell her over the telephone... Anyway, Ambrose has tried there and the flat but he can't get through... What on earth are we going to say to her?" Jock was silent. He stood in the fireplace with his hands in the pockets of his breeches, with his back to Tony. Presently Tony said, "You weren't anywhere near, were you?" "No, we'd gone on to another covert." "That niece of Mr Tendril's told me first... then we met them coming up, and Ben told me all that happened... It's awful for the girl." "Miss Ripon?" "Yes, she's just left... she had a nasty fall too, just after. Her horse slipped up in the village... she was in a terrible state, poor child, what with that and... John. She didn't know she'd hurt him until quite a time afterwards... she was in the chemist's shop having a bandage put on her head, when they told her. She cut it falling. She was in a terrible state. I sent her back in the car... it wasn't her fault." "No, it wasn't anybody's fault. It just happened." "That's it," said Tony. "It just happened... how are we going to tell Brenda?" "One of us will have to go up." "Yes... I think I shall have to stay here. I don't know why really, but there will be things | how one of the keepers had been observed last week burying Something late in the evening. They moved off again, away from Hetton. Ben began to feel his responsibility. "D'you think I ought to take the young gentleman home, sir?" "What did Mr Last say?" "He said he could go as far as the covert. He didn't say which, sir." "I'm afraid it sounds as if he ought to go." "_Oh, Mr Menzies!_" "Yes, come along, Master John. You've had enough for to-day." "But I haven't had _any_." "If you come back in good time to-day your dad will be all the more willing to let you come out another day." "But there mayn't _be_ another day. The world may come to an end. _Please_, Ben. _Please_, Mr Menzies." "It is a shame they shouldn't have found," said Ben. "He's been looking forward to it." "Still, I think Mr Last would want him to go back," said Jock. So John's fate was decided; hounds went in one direction, he and Ben in another. John was very near tears as they reached the main road. "Look," said Ben, to encourage him. "Here comes Miss Ripon on that nappy bay. Seems as if she's going in, too. Had a fall by the looks of her." Miss Ripon's hat and back were covered with mud and moss. She had had a bad twenty minutes after her disappearance. "I'm taking him away," she said. "I can't do anything with him this morning." She jogged along beside them towards the village. "I thought perhaps Mr Last would let me come up to the house and telephone for the car. I don't feel like hacking him home in his present state. I can't think what's come over him," she added loyally. "He was out on Saturday. I've never known him like this before." "He wants a man up," said Ben. "Oh, he's no better with the groom, and daddy won't go near him," said Miss Ripon, stung to indiscretion. "At least... I mean... I don't think that they'd be any better with him in this state." He was quiet enough at that moment, keeping pace with the other horses. They rode abreast, she on the outside with John's pony between her and Ben. Then this happened: they reached a turn in the road and came face to face with one of the single-decker country buses that covered that neighbourhood. It was not going fast and, seeing the horses, the driver slowed down still further and drew into the side. Mr Tendril's niece, who had also despaired of the day's sport, was following behind them at a short distance on her motor bicycle; she too slowed down, and, observing that Miss Ripon's horse was likely to be difficult, stopped. Ben said, "Let me go first, Miss. He'll follow. Don't hold too hard on his mouth and just give him a tap." Miss Ripon did as she was told; everyone in fact behaved with complete good sense. They drew abreast of the omnibus. Miss Ripon's horse did not like it, but it seemed as though he would get by. The passengers watched with amusement. At that moment the motor bicycle, running gently in neutral gear, fired back into the cylinder with a sharp detonation. For a second Miss Ripon's horse stood rigid with alarm; then, menaced in front and behind, he did what was natural to him and shied sideways, cannoning violently into the pony at his side. John was knocked from the saddle and fell on the road while Miss Ripon's bay, rearing and skidding, continued to plunge away from the bus. "Take a hold of him, Miss. Use your whip," shouted Ben. "The boy's down." She hit him and the horse collected himself and bolted up the road into the village, but before he went one of his heels struck out and sent John into the ditch, where he lay bent double, perfectly still. Everyone agreed that it was nobody's fault. * * * * * It was nearly an hour before the news reached Jock and Mrs Rattery where they were waiting beside another blank covert. Colonel Inch stopped hunting for the day and sent the hounds back to the kennels. The voices were hushed which, five minutes before, had been proclaiming that they knew it for a fact, Last had given orders to shoot every fox on the place. Later, after their baths, they made up for it in criticism of Miss Ripon's father, but at the moment everyone was shocked and silent. Someone lent Jock and Mrs Rattery a car to get home in, and a groom to see to the hirelings. "It's the most appalling thing," said Jock in the borrowed car. "What on earth are we going to say to Tony?"<|quote|>"I'm the last person to have about on an occasion like this,"</|quote|>said Mrs Rattery. They passed the scene of the accident; there were still people hanging about, talking. There were people hanging about, talking in the hall at the house. The doctor was buttoning up his coat, just going. "Killed instantly," he said. "Took it full on the base of the skull. Very sad, awfully fond of the kid. No one to blame, though." Nanny was there in tears, also Mr Tendril and his niece; a policeman and Ben and two men who had helped bring up the body were in the servants' hall. "It wasn't the kid's fault," said Ben. "It wasn't anyone's fault," they said. "He'd had a lousy day, too, poor little bastard," said Ben. "If it was anyone's fault it was Mr Grant-Menzies making him go in." "It wasn't anyone's fault," they said. * * * * * Tony was alone in the library. The first thing he said, when Jock came in, was, "We've got to tell Brenda." "D'you know where to get her?" "She's probably at that school... But we can't tell her over the telephone... Anyway, Ambrose has tried there and the flat but he can't get through... What on earth are we going to say to her?" Jock was silent. He stood in the fireplace with his hands in the pockets of his breeches, with his back to Tony. Presently Tony said, "You weren't anywhere near, were you?" "No, we'd gone on to another covert." "That niece of Mr Tendril's told me first... then we met them coming up, and Ben told me all that happened... It's awful for the girl." "Miss Ripon?" "Yes, she's just left... she had a nasty fall too, just after. Her horse slipped up in the village... she was in a terrible state, poor child, what with that and... John. She didn't know she'd hurt him until quite a time afterwards... she was in the chemist's shop having a bandage put on her head, when they told her. She cut it falling. She was in a terrible state. I sent her back in the car... it wasn't her fault." "No, it wasn't anybody's fault. It just happened." "That's it," said Tony. "It just happened... how are we going to tell Brenda?" "One of us will have to go up." "Yes... I think I shall have to stay here. I don't know why really, but there will be things to see to. It's an awful thing to ask anyone to do..." "I'll go," said Jock. "There'll be things to see to there... there's got to be an inquest the doctor says. It's purely formal, of course, but it will be ghastly for that Ripon girl. She'll have to give evidence... she was in a terrible state. I hope I was all right to her. They'd just brought John in and I was rather muddled. She looked awful. I believe her father's bloody to her... I wish Brenda had been here. She's so good with everyone. I get in a muddle." The two men stood in silence. Tony said, "Can you really face going up and seeing Brenda?" "Yes, I'll go," said Jock. Presently Mrs Rattery came in. "Colonel Inch has been here," she said. "I talked to him. He wanted to give you his sympathy." "Is he still here?" "No, I told him you'd probably prefer to be left alone. He thought you'd be glad to hear he stopped the hunt." "Nice of him to come... Were you having a good day?" "No." "I'm sorry. We saw a fox in Bruton Wood last week. John and I... Jock's going up to London to fetch Brenda." "I'll take him in the aeroplane. It'll be quicker." "Yes, that will be quicker." "I'll go and change now. I won't be ten minutes." "I'll change, too," said Jock. When he was alone Tony rang the bell. A young footman answered; he was quite young and had not been long at Hetton. "Will you tell Mr Ambrose that Mrs Rattery is leaving to-day. She is flying up with Mr Grant-Menzies. Her ladyship will probably be coming by the evening train." "Very good, sir." "They had better have some luncheon before they go. I will have it with them... And will you put a call through to Colonel Inch and thank him for coming? Say I will write. And to Mr Ripon's to enquire how Miss Ripon is? And to the vicarage and ask Mr Tendril if I can see him this evening? He's not here still?" "No, sir, he left a few minutes ago." "Tell him I shall have to discuss arrangements with him." "Very good, sir." Mr Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later. It was perfectly quiet in the library, for the workmen in the morning-room had | loyally. "He was out on Saturday. I've never known him like this before." "He wants a man up," said Ben. "Oh, he's no better with the groom, and daddy won't go near him," said Miss Ripon, stung to indiscretion. "At least... I mean... I don't think that they'd be any better with him in this state." He was quiet enough at that moment, keeping pace with the other horses. They rode abreast, she on the outside with John's pony between her and Ben. Then this happened: they reached a turn in the road and came face to face with one of the single-decker country buses that covered that neighbourhood. It was not going fast and, seeing the horses, the driver slowed down still further and drew into the side. Mr Tendril's niece, who had also despaired of the day's sport, was following behind them at a short distance on her motor bicycle; she too slowed down, and, observing that Miss Ripon's horse was likely to be difficult, stopped. Ben said, "Let me go first, Miss. He'll follow. Don't hold too hard on his mouth and just give him a tap." Miss Ripon did as she was told; everyone in fact behaved with complete good sense. They drew abreast of the omnibus. Miss Ripon's horse did not like it, but it seemed as though he would get by. The passengers watched with amusement. At that moment the motor bicycle, running gently in neutral gear, fired back into the cylinder with a sharp detonation. For a second Miss Ripon's horse stood rigid with alarm; then, menaced in front and behind, he did what was natural to him and shied sideways, cannoning violently into the pony at his side. John was knocked from the saddle and fell on the road while Miss Ripon's bay, rearing and skidding, continued to plunge away from the bus. "Take a hold of him, Miss. Use your whip," shouted Ben. "The boy's down." She hit him and the horse collected himself and bolted up the road into the village, but before he went one of his heels struck out and sent John into the ditch, where he lay bent double, perfectly still. Everyone agreed that it was nobody's fault. * * * * * It was nearly an hour before the news reached Jock and Mrs Rattery where they were waiting beside another blank covert. Colonel Inch stopped hunting for the day and sent the hounds back to the kennels. The voices were hushed which, five minutes before, had been proclaiming that they knew it for a fact, Last had given orders to shoot every fox on the place. Later, after their baths, they made up for it in criticism of Miss Ripon's father, but at the moment everyone was shocked and silent. Someone lent Jock and Mrs Rattery a car to get home in, and a groom to see to the hirelings. "It's the most appalling thing," said Jock in the borrowed car. "What on earth are we going to say to Tony?"<|quote|>"I'm the last person to have about on an occasion like this,"</|quote|>said Mrs Rattery. They passed the scene of the accident; there were still people hanging about, talking. There were people hanging about, talking in the hall at the house. The doctor was buttoning up his coat, just going. "Killed instantly," he said. "Took it full on the base of the skull. Very sad, awfully fond of the kid. No one to blame, though." Nanny was there in tears, also Mr Tendril and his niece; a policeman and Ben and two men who had helped bring up the body were in the servants' hall. "It wasn't the kid's fault," said Ben. "It wasn't anyone's fault," they said. "He'd had a lousy day, too, poor little bastard," said Ben. "If it was anyone's fault it was Mr Grant-Menzies making him go in." "It wasn't anyone's fault," they said. * * * * * Tony was alone in the library. The first thing he said, when Jock came in, was, "We've got to tell Brenda." "D'you know where to get her?" "She's probably at that school... But we can't tell her over the telephone... Anyway, Ambrose has tried there and the flat but he can't get through... What on earth are we going to say to her?" Jock was silent. He stood in the fireplace with his hands in the pockets of his breeches, with his back to Tony. Presently Tony said, "You weren't anywhere near, were you?" "No, we'd gone on to another covert." "That niece of Mr Tendril's told me first... then we met them coming up, and Ben told me all that happened... It's awful for the girl." "Miss Ripon?" "Yes, she's just left... she | A Handful Of Dust |
At the same moment the captain's voice rang out,-- | No speaker | despair,-- "This is cut, too!"<|quote|>At the same moment the captain's voice rang out,--</|quote|>"Look out there, you in | in a voice full of despair,-- "This is cut, too!"<|quote|>At the same moment the captain's voice rang out,--</|quote|>"Look out there, you in the watch forward; two men | in the darkness till he felt the knot by which he had secured the rope. "Here she is, Mas' Don. Now, then, over with you quick, or I shall be a-top of your head." "I've got it," whispered Don. Then in a voice full of despair,-- "This is cut, too!"<|quote|>At the same moment the captain's voice rang out,--</|quote|>"Look out there, you in the watch forward; two men are trying to leave the ship!" CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. WHAT MR. JONES THOUGHT. "What's to be done, Mas' Don?" whispered Jem, whom this second proof of treachery against them seemed to have robbed of the power to act. "This way," | it!" "The rope's cut!" "What? So it is. Never mind. After me! There's the one in the forechains." In the midst of a loud buzz of voices, and the pad, pad--pad, pad of bare feet on the deck, Jem and Don reached the forechains; and Jem ran his hand along in the darkness till he felt the knot by which he had secured the rope. "Here she is, Mas' Don. Now, then, over with you quick, or I shall be a-top of your head." "I've got it," whispered Don. Then in a voice full of despair,-- "This is cut, too!"<|quote|>At the same moment the captain's voice rang out,--</|quote|>"Look out there, you in the watch forward; two men are trying to leave the ship!" CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. WHAT MR. JONES THOUGHT. "What's to be done, Mas' Don?" whispered Jem, whom this second proof of treachery against them seemed to have robbed of the power to act. "This way," cried a voice, which they recognised as Ramsden's. "By the forechains." "Oh, if I had hold of you," snarled Jem, as he ground his teeth. "Do you hear me?" whispered Don. "Come on." He spoke from where he stood on the bulwark, holding by one of the shrouds, and offering | the phosphorescent water grew more plain. "Ready, Jem?" "Yes, I'm ready, lad. Rope's just where you stand." "What!" cried the captain's voice loudly, and then there was a quick murmur of talking. "What's that mean, Mas' Don?" "Don't know. Some order." "Boat ahoy!" cried one of the watch forward, and there was a buzz of excitement which told that the paddling of the canoe had been seen. "Watch there forward!" roared the captain. "Ay, ay, sir," came back. "Follow me, Jem; we must swim to her now." "I'm after you, my lad." "Jem!" in a tone of despair. "What is it!" "The rope's cut!" "What? So it is. Never mind. After me! There's the one in the forechains." In the midst of a loud buzz of voices, and the pad, pad--pad, pad of bare feet on the deck, Jem and Don reached the forechains; and Jem ran his hand along in the darkness till he felt the knot by which he had secured the rope. "Here she is, Mas' Don. Now, then, over with you quick, or I shall be a-top of your head." "I've got it," whispered Don. Then in a voice full of despair,-- "This is cut, too!"<|quote|>At the same moment the captain's voice rang out,--</|quote|>"Look out there, you in the watch forward; two men are trying to leave the ship!" CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. WHAT MR. JONES THOUGHT. "What's to be done, Mas' Don?" whispered Jem, whom this second proof of treachery against them seemed to have robbed of the power to act. "This way," cried a voice, which they recognised as Ramsden's. "By the forechains." "Oh, if I had hold of you," snarled Jem, as he ground his teeth. "Do you hear me?" whispered Don. "Come on." He spoke from where he stood on the bulwark, holding by one of the shrouds, and offering his hand to Jem, who could not see it, but climbed to his side. "Header?" he whispered. "Yes.--Off!" Don gave the word as he glanced in the direction where he believed the canoe to lie; and then, raising his hands above his head, he sprang right off the bulwark into the sea. _Splash_! A moment's pause and then-- _Splash_! Jem had followed suit, and there was a faint display--if the expression is allowable--of water fireworks, as innumerable pinhead-like beads of light flashed away in every direction. "Lanthorns here!" cried the captain. "Sentries, quick! This way." He reached the spot from | "Think it is them, Jem?" "Who could it be?" "Might it be a war canoe coming to try and capture the ship?" "Not it," said Jem sturdily; "it's Ugly, as put out his tongue, coming to help us away. My, Mas' Don, how I should like to chop him under the chin next time he does that pretty trick of his." "Silence, man! Listen, and look out. Let's get close to the rope first." They crept softly toward the rope hanging down from the main chains, ready to their hand, and, as they crept, the dark figure that had seemed to be spying over their movements crept too, but on toward the quarter-deck, where the captain and the first lieutenant were lolling over the rail, and talking gently as they smoked--rather a rare custom in those days. "It's the canoe, Jem," whispered Don; "and it's coming closer." They strained their eyes to try and make out the men in the long, low vessel, but it was too dark. They could not even hear the plash of a paddle, but they knew that some boat--that of friend or foe--was slowly coming toward the ship, for the flashing of the paddles in the phosphorescent water grew more plain. "Ready, Jem?" "Yes, I'm ready, lad. Rope's just where you stand." "What!" cried the captain's voice loudly, and then there was a quick murmur of talking. "What's that mean, Mas' Don?" "Don't know. Some order." "Boat ahoy!" cried one of the watch forward, and there was a buzz of excitement which told that the paddling of the canoe had been seen. "Watch there forward!" roared the captain. "Ay, ay, sir," came back. "Follow me, Jem; we must swim to her now." "I'm after you, my lad." "Jem!" in a tone of despair. "What is it!" "The rope's cut!" "What? So it is. Never mind. After me! There's the one in the forechains." In the midst of a loud buzz of voices, and the pad, pad--pad, pad of bare feet on the deck, Jem and Don reached the forechains; and Jem ran his hand along in the darkness till he felt the knot by which he had secured the rope. "Here she is, Mas' Don. Now, then, over with you quick, or I shall be a-top of your head." "I've got it," whispered Don. Then in a voice full of despair,-- "This is cut, too!"<|quote|>At the same moment the captain's voice rang out,--</|quote|>"Look out there, you in the watch forward; two men are trying to leave the ship!" CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. WHAT MR. JONES THOUGHT. "What's to be done, Mas' Don?" whispered Jem, whom this second proof of treachery against them seemed to have robbed of the power to act. "This way," cried a voice, which they recognised as Ramsden's. "By the forechains." "Oh, if I had hold of you," snarled Jem, as he ground his teeth. "Do you hear me?" whispered Don. "Come on." He spoke from where he stood on the bulwark, holding by one of the shrouds, and offering his hand to Jem, who could not see it, but climbed to his side. "Header?" he whispered. "Yes.--Off!" Don gave the word as he glanced in the direction where he believed the canoe to lie; and then, raising his hands above his head, he sprang right off the bulwark into the sea. _Splash_! A moment's pause and then-- _Splash_! Jem had followed suit, and there was a faint display--if the expression is allowable--of water fireworks, as innumerable pinhead-like beads of light flashed away in every direction. "Lanthorns here!" cried the captain. "Sentries, quick! This way." He reached the spot from which Don and Jem had taken their daring leap, and in less than a minute the light of a couple of lanthorns was thrown upon the sea. "Come back!" roared the captain, "or I fire. Marines, make ready." The lanthorns' light gleamed further on the sea as those who held them clambered up the shrouds and held them at arms' length, and then dimly-seen were the backs of the heads of the two swimmers, who made the water swirl as they struck out with all their might. "Do you hear, you scoundrels?" roared the captain again. "Come back, or I fire." There was no reply and the heads began to grow more faint in the gloom, while now the news had spread through the ship, and officers and men came tumbling up the companion ladder and out of their cabins. "Marines, present--fire!" cried the captain. There were two sharp clicks and as many tiny showers of sparks. That was all. "Why, you were not loaded!" cried the captain, fiercely, "Where is the lieutenant? Where is the sergeant? Load, you scoundrels, load!" The men grounded arms, and began to load quickly, the thudding of their iron ramrods sounding strangely in the | "What of that?" "More couldn't the sharks." "Think not, Jem?" "I feel 'bout sure on it. Look here, Mas' Don, I arn't got any money, but if I had, I'd wager half-a-guinea that all the sharks are at home and fast asleep; and if there's any of 'em shut out and roaming about in the streets--I mean in the sea--it's so dark that they couldn't see more than an inch before their noses; so let's open our knives ready, in case one should come, so that we could dive down and stab him, same as the natives do, and then swim on ashore. I'll risk it: will you?" Don was silent for a few moments. "Don't say _yes_, my lad, if you'd rayther not," said Jem, kindly. "I don't want to persuade you." "I'm ready, Jem. I was thinking whether it was right to let you go." "Oh, never you mind about me, my lad. Now, look here, shall us one go down each rope, or both down one?" "Both down this one close here, and whoever goes down first can wait for the other. Yes, Jem; I'll go first." "When?" "Now, at once." "Hoo--ray!" whispered Jem in Don's ear, so sharply that it produced a strange tickling sensation. "Open your knife, Jem." "Right, my lad; I'm ready." "This way, then. Hist!" Don caught Jem's arm in a firm grip as he was moving along the deck, each feeling somewhat agitated at the daring venture of exchanging firm planks for the treacherous sea, infested as they knew it was by horrible creatures which could tear them limb from limb. Jem had heard a sound at the same moment, and he needed no telling that he should listen. For from some distance off along the shore there was a faint splash, and, as they strained their eyes in the direction from whence it had come, they could see flashes of pale light, which they knew were caused by paddles. "It's them, Jem," whispered Don, excitedly. "We must not start yet till the canoe is close up. I wish I had told him that I would make some signal." "It'll be all right, my lad," said Jem huskily. "Give 'em time. Think the watch 'll see 'em?" "I hope not," panted Don, as he strained his eyes in the direction of the faintly flashing paddles, which seemed to be moved very cautiously. "Think it is them, Jem?" "Who could it be?" "Might it be a war canoe coming to try and capture the ship?" "Not it," said Jem sturdily; "it's Ugly, as put out his tongue, coming to help us away. My, Mas' Don, how I should like to chop him under the chin next time he does that pretty trick of his." "Silence, man! Listen, and look out. Let's get close to the rope first." They crept softly toward the rope hanging down from the main chains, ready to their hand, and, as they crept, the dark figure that had seemed to be spying over their movements crept too, but on toward the quarter-deck, where the captain and the first lieutenant were lolling over the rail, and talking gently as they smoked--rather a rare custom in those days. "It's the canoe, Jem," whispered Don; "and it's coming closer." They strained their eyes to try and make out the men in the long, low vessel, but it was too dark. They could not even hear the plash of a paddle, but they knew that some boat--that of friend or foe--was slowly coming toward the ship, for the flashing of the paddles in the phosphorescent water grew more plain. "Ready, Jem?" "Yes, I'm ready, lad. Rope's just where you stand." "What!" cried the captain's voice loudly, and then there was a quick murmur of talking. "What's that mean, Mas' Don?" "Don't know. Some order." "Boat ahoy!" cried one of the watch forward, and there was a buzz of excitement which told that the paddling of the canoe had been seen. "Watch there forward!" roared the captain. "Ay, ay, sir," came back. "Follow me, Jem; we must swim to her now." "I'm after you, my lad." "Jem!" in a tone of despair. "What is it!" "The rope's cut!" "What? So it is. Never mind. After me! There's the one in the forechains." In the midst of a loud buzz of voices, and the pad, pad--pad, pad of bare feet on the deck, Jem and Don reached the forechains; and Jem ran his hand along in the darkness till he felt the knot by which he had secured the rope. "Here she is, Mas' Don. Now, then, over with you quick, or I shall be a-top of your head." "I've got it," whispered Don. Then in a voice full of despair,-- "This is cut, too!"<|quote|>At the same moment the captain's voice rang out,--</|quote|>"Look out there, you in the watch forward; two men are trying to leave the ship!" CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. WHAT MR. JONES THOUGHT. "What's to be done, Mas' Don?" whispered Jem, whom this second proof of treachery against them seemed to have robbed of the power to act. "This way," cried a voice, which they recognised as Ramsden's. "By the forechains." "Oh, if I had hold of you," snarled Jem, as he ground his teeth. "Do you hear me?" whispered Don. "Come on." He spoke from where he stood on the bulwark, holding by one of the shrouds, and offering his hand to Jem, who could not see it, but climbed to his side. "Header?" he whispered. "Yes.--Off!" Don gave the word as he glanced in the direction where he believed the canoe to lie; and then, raising his hands above his head, he sprang right off the bulwark into the sea. _Splash_! A moment's pause and then-- _Splash_! Jem had followed suit, and there was a faint display--if the expression is allowable--of water fireworks, as innumerable pinhead-like beads of light flashed away in every direction. "Lanthorns here!" cried the captain. "Sentries, quick! This way." He reached the spot from which Don and Jem had taken their daring leap, and in less than a minute the light of a couple of lanthorns was thrown upon the sea. "Come back!" roared the captain, "or I fire. Marines, make ready." The lanthorns' light gleamed further on the sea as those who held them clambered up the shrouds and held them at arms' length, and then dimly-seen were the backs of the heads of the two swimmers, who made the water swirl as they struck out with all their might. "Do you hear, you scoundrels?" roared the captain again. "Come back, or I fire." There was no reply and the heads began to grow more faint in the gloom, while now the news had spread through the ship, and officers and men came tumbling up the companion ladder and out of their cabins. "Marines, present--fire!" cried the captain. There were two sharp clicks and as many tiny showers of sparks. That was all. "Why, you were not loaded!" cried the captain, fiercely, "Where is the lieutenant? Where is the sergeant? Load, you scoundrels, load!" The men grounded arms, and began to load quickly, the thudding of their iron ramrods sounding strangely in the still night air. "Pipe away the first cutter!" cried the captain. "Mr Rogerson, bring those scoundrels back." The shrill pipe of the boatswain was heard, and there was a rush of feet as the captain shouted again,-- "Present--fire!" There was a sharp flash, a loud report, and the captain stamped with rage. "Fire, you scoundrel, fire!" he roared at the second man, who was about to lower his clumsy musket, after tugging in vain at the trigger, when the piece went off, and the bullet fled skyward, sending the nearest lanthorn held up in the shrouds out of its holder's hand, to fall with a splash in the sea, and float for a few moments before it filled and sank, the candle burning till the water touched the wick. "'Pon my word!" cried the captain. "Nice state of discipline. Now you--fire again. And you, sir, load. Can you see the men, marines?" "No, sir. Right out of sight." "Then fire where they were when you saw them last." "But they won't be there now, sir." "Silence, you scoundrel! How dare you? Fire!" _Bang_. "Now you: are you ready?" "Yes, sir." "Fire!" _Bang_. "Load again!" cried the captain. "Now, you scoundrels, come back or you shall have a volley." A strange noise came off the sea. "Hark! What's that?" cried the captain. "A cry for help!" "No, sir." "What was it, then?" "Beg pardon, sir; but I think it was one on 'em a-larfin'." The captain gave the speaker--one of the warrant officers--a furious look. "Now, then, is that boat going to be all night?" he shouted. "All ready, sir. Lower away." The boat kissed the sea with a faint splash; she was thrust off; and as the oars dropped and the men gave way the cutter went rapidly through the water, at a rate which would have soon made the fugitives prisoners but for the fact that boat and swimmers were taking different directions, and the distance between them increased at every stroke. "They've taken no lanthorn!" cried the captain. "Surely no one's orders were ever worse obeyed." "Shall I call them back, sir?" said the second lieutenant. "No, no; let them find it out for themselves. Here, marines, ten of you load. Quick, my lads, clear the way from up here." "Make ready, take good aim at the scoundrels--present--fire!" This time the whole of the pieces went off with | Jem had heard a sound at the same moment, and he needed no telling that he should listen. For from some distance off along the shore there was a faint splash, and, as they strained their eyes in the direction from whence it had come, they could see flashes of pale light, which they knew were caused by paddles. "It's them, Jem," whispered Don, excitedly. "We must not start yet till the canoe is close up. I wish I had told him that I would make some signal." "It'll be all right, my lad," said Jem huskily. "Give 'em time. Think the watch 'll see 'em?" "I hope not," panted Don, as he strained his eyes in the direction of the faintly flashing paddles, which seemed to be moved very cautiously. "Think it is them, Jem?" "Who could it be?" "Might it be a war canoe coming to try and capture the ship?" "Not it," said Jem sturdily; "it's Ugly, as put out his tongue, coming to help us away. My, Mas' Don, how I should like to chop him under the chin next time he does that pretty trick of his." "Silence, man! Listen, and look out. Let's get close to the rope first." They crept softly toward the rope hanging down from the main chains, ready to their hand, and, as they crept, the dark figure that had seemed to be spying over their movements crept too, but on toward the quarter-deck, where the captain and the first lieutenant were lolling over the rail, and talking gently as they smoked--rather a rare custom in those days. "It's the canoe, Jem," whispered Don; "and it's coming closer." They strained their eyes to try and make out the men in the long, low vessel, but it was too dark. They could not even hear the plash of a paddle, but they knew that some boat--that of friend or foe--was slowly coming toward the ship, for the flashing of the paddles in the phosphorescent water grew more plain. "Ready, Jem?" "Yes, I'm ready, lad. Rope's just where you stand." "What!" cried the captain's voice loudly, and then there was a quick murmur of talking. "What's that mean, Mas' Don?" "Don't know. Some order." "Boat ahoy!" cried one of the watch forward, and there was a buzz of excitement which told that the paddling of the canoe had been seen. "Watch there forward!" roared the captain. "Ay, ay, sir," came back. "Follow me, Jem; we must swim to her now." "I'm after you, my lad." "Jem!" in a tone of despair. "What is it!" "The rope's cut!" "What? So it is. Never mind. After me! There's the one in the forechains." In the midst of a loud buzz of voices, and the pad, pad--pad, pad of bare feet on the deck, Jem and Don reached the forechains; and Jem ran his hand along in the darkness till he felt the knot by which he had secured the rope. "Here she is, Mas' Don. Now, then, over with you quick, or I shall be a-top of your head." "I've got it," whispered Don. Then in a voice full of despair,-- "This is cut, too!"<|quote|>At the same moment the captain's voice rang out,--</|quote|>"Look out there, you in the watch forward; two men are trying to leave the ship!" CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. WHAT MR. JONES THOUGHT. "What's to be done, Mas' Don?" whispered Jem, whom this second proof of treachery against them seemed to have robbed of the power to act. "This way," cried a voice, which they recognised as Ramsden's. "By the forechains." "Oh, if I had hold of you," snarled Jem, as he ground his teeth. "Do you hear me?" whispered Don. "Come on." He spoke from where he stood on the bulwark, holding by one of the shrouds, and offering his hand to Jem, who could not see it, but climbed to his side. "Header?" he whispered. "Yes.--Off!" Don gave the word as he glanced in the direction where he believed the canoe to lie; and then, raising his hands above his head, he sprang right off the bulwark into the sea. _Splash_! A moment's pause and then-- _Splash_! Jem had followed suit, and there was a faint display--if the expression is allowable--of water fireworks, as innumerable pinhead-like beads of light flashed away in every direction. "Lanthorns here!" cried the captain. "Sentries, quick! This way." He reached the spot from which Don and Jem had taken their daring leap, and in less than a minute the light of a couple of lanthorns was thrown upon the sea. "Come back!" roared the captain, "or I fire. Marines, make ready." The lanthorns' light gleamed further on the sea as those who held them clambered up the shrouds and held them at arms' length, and then dimly-seen were the backs of the heads of the two swimmers, who made the water swirl as they struck out with all their might. "Do you hear, you scoundrels?" roared the captain again. "Come back, or I fire." There was no reply and the heads began to grow more faint in the gloom, while now the news had spread through the ship, and officers and men came tumbling up the companion ladder and out of their cabins. "Marines, present--fire!" cried the captain. There were two sharp clicks and as many tiny showers of sparks. That was all. "Why, you were not loaded!" cried the captain, fiercely, "Where is the lieutenant? Where is the sergeant? Load, you scoundrels, load!" The men grounded arms, and began to load quickly, the thudding of their iron ramrods sounding strangely in the still night air. "Pipe away the first cutter!" cried the captain. "Mr Rogerson, bring those scoundrels back." The shrill pipe of the boatswain was heard, and there was a rush of feet as the captain shouted again,-- "Present--fire!" There was a sharp flash, a loud report, and the captain stamped with rage. "Fire, you scoundrel, fire!" he roared at the second man, who was about to lower his clumsy musket, after tugging in vain at the trigger, when the piece went off, and the bullet fled skyward, sending the nearest lanthorn held up in the shrouds out of its holder's hand, to fall with a splash in the sea, and float for a few moments before | Don Lavington |
was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling, | No speaker | you, I am _so_ glad,"<|quote|>was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,</|quote|>"And yet why should I | You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad,"<|quote|>was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,</|quote|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I | go, Edmund." The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own. "Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad,"<|quote|>was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,</|quote|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?" In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the | "But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?" "Indeed I think you may." "She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here." "Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home." "Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund." The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own. "Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad,"<|quote|>was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,</|quote|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?" In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought to | after a short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence." "But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?" "Indeed I think you may." "She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here." "Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home." "Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund." The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own. "Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad,"<|quote|>was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,</|quote|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?" In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much as possible. "Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, | She was anxious, she knew more anxious perhaps than she ought to be for what was it after all whether she went or staid? but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It began, on Lady Bertram's part, with "I have something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner." "Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise. "Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?" "She will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is your difficulty?" Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her." "But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?" "Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence." "But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?" "Indeed I think you may." "She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here." "Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home." "Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund." The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own. "Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad,"<|quote|>was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,</|quote|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?" In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much as possible. "Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that there is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is meant as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment is intended to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to _us_ to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come into her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia had been at home, you would not have been asked at all." Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant's part of the favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only say that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her, and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening work in such a state as to prevent her being missed. "Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you | Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?" said Lady Bertram. "How came she to think of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there, you know, in this sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go. Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?" "If you put such a question to her," cried Edmund, preventing his cousin's speaking, "Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she should not." "I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She never did before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never asked Fanny." "If you cannot do without me, ma'am" said Fanny, in a self-denying tone. "But my mother will have my father with her all the evening." "To be sure, so I shall." "Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am." "That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her." "As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion as to the _propriety_ of the invitation's being accepted or not; and I think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by Fanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted." "I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all." There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose, till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did, her own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for a minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she called him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with "Sir Thomas, stop a moment I have something to say to you." Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew more anxious perhaps than she ought to be for what was it after all whether she went or staid? but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It began, on Lady Bertram's part, with "I have something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner." "Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise. "Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?" "She will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is your difficulty?" Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her." "But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?" "Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence." "But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?" "Indeed I think you may." "She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here." "Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home." "Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund." The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own. "Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad,"<|quote|>was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,</|quote|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?" In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much as possible. "Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that there is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is meant as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment is intended to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to _us_ to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come into her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia had been at home, you would not have been asked at all." Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant's part of the favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only say that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her, and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening work in such a state as to prevent her being missed. "Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you would not be allowed to go. _I_ shall be here, so you may be quite easy about your aunt. And I hope you will have a very _agreeable_ day, and find it all mighty _delightful_. But I must observe that five is the very awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I cannot but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant should not contrive better! And round their enormous great wide table, too, which fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the doctor been contented to take my dining-table when I came away, as anybody in their senses would have done, instead of having that absurd new one of his own, which is wider, literally wider than the dinner-table here, how infinitely better it would have been! and how much more he would have been respected! for people are never respected when they step out of their proper sphere. Remember that, Fanny. Five only five to be sitting round that table. However, you will have dinner enough on it for ten, I dare say." Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again. "The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank and trying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give _you_ a hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of us; and I do beseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself forward, and talking and giving your opinion as if you were one of your cousins as if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. _That_ will never do, believe me. Remember, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and last; and though Miss Crawford is in a manner at home at the Parsonage, you are not to be taking place of her. And as to coming away at night, you are to stay just as long as Edmund chuses. Leave him to settle _that_." "Yes, ma'am, I should not think of anything else." "And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely, for I never saw it more threatening for a wet evening in my life, you must manage as well as you can, and not be expecting the carriage to be sent for you. I certainly do not go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage will not be out on my account; so you must make up | said to any purpose, till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did, her own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for a minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she called him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with "Sir Thomas, stop a moment I have something to say to you." Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew more anxious perhaps than she ought to be for what was it after all whether she went or staid? but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It began, on Lady Bertram's part, with "I have something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner." "Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise. "Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?" "She will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is your difficulty?" Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her." "But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?" "Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence." "But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?" "Indeed I think you may." "She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here." "Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home." "Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund." The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own. "Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad,"<|quote|>was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,</|quote|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?" In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much as possible. "Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that there is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is meant as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment is intended to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to _us_ to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come into her head, and you | Mansfield Park |
said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain. | No speaker | "I shall never forgive myself,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain.</|quote|>"I have upset everything. Bursting | the upper lawn for tea. "I shall never forgive myself,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain.</|quote|>"I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But | home except Freddy and his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o'clock, and these, with little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper lawn for tea. "I shall never forgive myself,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain.</|quote|>"I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate." "Our visitors never do such dreadful things," said Lucy, while her brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: "Just | physical beauty. In spite of the clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to bungle her arrival. She was due at the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs. Honeychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at the London and Brighton station, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy and his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o'clock, and these, with little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper lawn for tea. "I shall never forgive myself,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain.</|quote|>"I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate." "Our visitors never do such dreadful things," said Lucy, while her brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: "Just what I've been trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour." "I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor," said Miss Bartlett, and looked at her frayed glove. "All right, if you'd really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to the driver." Miss Bartlett | Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy, and George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy, and was glad that he did not seem shy either. "A nice fellow," said Mr. Beebe afterwards "He will work off his crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life gracefully." Lucy said, "He seems in better spirits. He laughs more." "Yes," replied the clergyman. "He is waking up." That was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences fell, and she entertained an image that had physical beauty. In spite of the clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to bungle her arrival. She was due at the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs. Honeychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at the London and Brighton station, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy and his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o'clock, and these, with little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper lawn for tea. "I shall never forgive myself,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain.</|quote|>"I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate." "Our visitors never do such dreadful things," said Lucy, while her brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: "Just what I've been trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour." "I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor," said Miss Bartlett, and looked at her frayed glove. "All right, if you'd really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to the driver." Miss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: "But who am I to give the sovereign to?" "Let's leave it all till mother comes back," suggested Lucy. "No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts." Here Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be quoted: he | Street, it had upset her nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might upset her nerves. She was nervous at night. When she talked to George--they met again almost immediately at the Rectory--his voice moved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves, which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered from "things that came out of nothing and meant she didn't know what." Now Cecil had explained psychology to her one wet afternoon, and all the troubles of youth in an unknown world could be dismissed. It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, "She loves young Emerson." A reader in Lucy's place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome "nerves" or any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed? But the external situation--she will face that bravely. The meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing between Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy, and George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy, and was glad that he did not seem shy either. "A nice fellow," said Mr. Beebe afterwards "He will work off his crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life gracefully." Lucy said, "He seems in better spirits. He laughs more." "Yes," replied the clergyman. "He is waking up." That was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences fell, and she entertained an image that had physical beauty. In spite of the clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to bungle her arrival. She was due at the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs. Honeychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at the London and Brighton station, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy and his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o'clock, and these, with little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper lawn for tea. "I shall never forgive myself,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain.</|quote|>"I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate." "Our visitors never do such dreadful things," said Lucy, while her brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: "Just what I've been trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour." "I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor," said Miss Bartlett, and looked at her frayed glove. "All right, if you'd really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to the driver." Miss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: "But who am I to give the sovereign to?" "Let's leave it all till mother comes back," suggested Lucy. "No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts." Here Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett's quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance, and turned round. But this did not do, either. "Please--please--I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost." "Freddy owes me fifteen shillings," interposed Cecil. "So it will work out right if you give the pound to me." "Fifteen shillings," said Miss Bartlett dubiously. "How is that, Mr. Vyse?" "Because, don't you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling." Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle. "But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid." | in Freddy. "She thanked me for coming till I felt like such a fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled for my tea just right." "I know, dear. She is kind to everyone, and yet Lucy makes this difficulty when we try to give her some little return." But Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: "I can't help it, mother. I don't like Charlotte. I admit it's horrid of me." "From your own account, you told her as much." "Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried--" The ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real. "I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well," said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable cooking. "I didn't mean the egg was WELL boiled," corrected Freddy, "because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don't care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed." Cecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers, hydrangeas, maids--of such were their lives compact. "May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?" he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence. "We don't want no dessert." Chapter XIV: How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely Of course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior spare room--something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And, equally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday week. Lucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at times strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves. When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might upset her nerves. She was nervous at night. When she talked to George--they met again almost immediately at the Rectory--his voice moved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves, which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered from "things that came out of nothing and meant she didn't know what." Now Cecil had explained psychology to her one wet afternoon, and all the troubles of youth in an unknown world could be dismissed. It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, "She loves young Emerson." A reader in Lucy's place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome "nerves" or any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed? But the external situation--she will face that bravely. The meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing between Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy, and George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy, and was glad that he did not seem shy either. "A nice fellow," said Mr. Beebe afterwards "He will work off his crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life gracefully." Lucy said, "He seems in better spirits. He laughs more." "Yes," replied the clergyman. "He is waking up." That was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences fell, and she entertained an image that had physical beauty. In spite of the clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to bungle her arrival. She was due at the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs. Honeychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at the London and Brighton station, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy and his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o'clock, and these, with little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper lawn for tea. "I shall never forgive myself,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain.</|quote|>"I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate." "Our visitors never do such dreadful things," said Lucy, while her brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: "Just what I've been trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour." "I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor," said Miss Bartlett, and looked at her frayed glove. "All right, if you'd really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to the driver." Miss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: "But who am I to give the sovereign to?" "Let's leave it all till mother comes back," suggested Lucy. "No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts." Here Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett's quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance, and turned round. But this did not do, either. "Please--please--I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost." "Freddy owes me fifteen shillings," interposed Cecil. "So it will work out right if you give the pound to me." "Fifteen shillings," said Miss Bartlett dubiously. "How is that, Mr. Vyse?" "Because, don't you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling." Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle. "But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid." "Because of the fifteen shillings and the five," they said solemnly. "Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see." "But I don't see--" They tried to stifle her with cake. "No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver." "I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?" "I'll get it," said the young hostess, rising with decision. "Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the beginning." "Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?" "No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let me see--a sovereign's worth of silver." She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul. "No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she remarked, when she returned. "I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now." Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. John ascending, which had been framed. "How dreadful!" she murmured, "how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source." "Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the battle. "George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?" Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth." Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get | conclude, "She loves young Emerson." A reader in Lucy's place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome "nerves" or any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed? But the external situation--she will face that bravely. The meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing between Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy, and George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy, and was glad that he did not seem shy either. "A nice fellow," said Mr. Beebe afterwards "He will work off his crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life gracefully." Lucy said, "He seems in better spirits. He laughs more." "Yes," replied the clergyman. "He is waking up." That was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences fell, and she entertained an image that had physical beauty. In spite of the clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to bungle her arrival. She was due at the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs. Honeychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at the London and Brighton station, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy and his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o'clock, and these, with little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper lawn for tea. "I shall never forgive myself,"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain.</|quote|>"I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate." "Our visitors never do such dreadful things," said Lucy, while her brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: "Just what I've been trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour." "I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor," said Miss Bartlett, and looked at her frayed glove. "All right, if you'd really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to the driver." Miss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: "But who am I to give the sovereign to?" "Let's leave it all till mother comes back," suggested Lucy. "No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts." Here Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett's quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance, and turned round. But this did not do, either. "Please--please--I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost." "Freddy owes me fifteen shillings," interposed Cecil. "So it will work out right if you give the pound to me." "Fifteen shillings," said Miss Bartlett dubiously. "How is that, Mr. Vyse?" "Because, don't you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling." Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle. "But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid." "Because of the fifteen shillings and the five," they said solemnly. "Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see." "But I don't see--" They tried to stifle her with cake. "No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver." "I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?" "I'll get it," said the young hostess, rising with decision. "Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the beginning." "Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: | A Room With A View |
said Don contemptuously; | No speaker | I'm a Dutchman." "Beat Bristol!"<|quote|>said Don contemptuously;</|quote|>"why, it's as different as | "If this don't beat Bristol, I'm a Dutchman." "Beat Bristol!"<|quote|>said Don contemptuously;</|quote|>"why, it's as different as can be." "Well, I dunno | ready for reducing sail or any emergency. More were ready in the tops, and all on board watching the glorious scene unfolding before them. "I say, Mas' Don, look ye there," whispered Jem, as they sat together in the foretop. "If this don't beat Bristol, I'm a Dutchman." "Beat Bristol!"<|quote|>said Don contemptuously;</|quote|>"why, it's as different as can be." "Well, I dunno so much about that," said Jem. "There's that mountain yonder smoking puts one in mind of a factory chimney. And look yonder too!--there's another one smoking ever so far off. I say, are those burning mountains?" "I suppose so, unless | Three months had passed since the conversation in the last chapter, when after an adverse voyage from Port Jackson, His Majesty's sloop-of-war under shortened sail made her way slowly towards what was in those days a land of mystery. A stiff breeze was blowing, and the watch were on deck, ready for reducing sail or any emergency. More were ready in the tops, and all on board watching the glorious scene unfolding before them. "I say, Mas' Don, look ye there," whispered Jem, as they sat together in the foretop. "If this don't beat Bristol, I'm a Dutchman." "Beat Bristol!"<|quote|>said Don contemptuously;</|quote|>"why, it's as different as can be." "Well, I dunno so much about that," said Jem. "There's that mountain yonder smoking puts one in mind of a factory chimney. And look yonder too!--there's another one smoking ever so far off. I say, are those burning mountains?" "I suppose so, unless it's steam. But what a lovely place!" There were orders for shortening sail given just then, and they had no more opportunity for talking during the next quarter of an hour, when, much closer in, they lay in the top once more, gazing eagerly at the glorious prospect of sea | took captive in war. "Noo Zealand, eh?" said Jem. "Port Jackson and Botany Bay, I hear, Jem, and then on to New Zealand. We shall see something of the world." "Ay, so we shall, Mas' Don. Bot'ny Bay! That's where they sends the chaps they transports, arn't it?" "Yes, I believe so." "Then we shall be like transported ones when we get there. You're right, after all, Mas' Don. First chance there is, let me and you give up sailoring, and go ashore." "I mean to, Jem; and somehow, come what may, we will." CHAPTER TWENTY. A NATURALISED NEW ZEALANDER. Three months had passed since the conversation in the last chapter, when after an adverse voyage from Port Jackson, His Majesty's sloop-of-war under shortened sail made her way slowly towards what was in those days a land of mystery. A stiff breeze was blowing, and the watch were on deck, ready for reducing sail or any emergency. More were ready in the tops, and all on board watching the glorious scene unfolding before them. "I say, Mas' Don, look ye there," whispered Jem, as they sat together in the foretop. "If this don't beat Bristol, I'm a Dutchman." "Beat Bristol!"<|quote|>said Don contemptuously;</|quote|>"why, it's as different as can be." "Well, I dunno so much about that," said Jem. "There's that mountain yonder smoking puts one in mind of a factory chimney. And look yonder too!--there's another one smoking ever so far off. I say, are those burning mountains?" "I suppose so, unless it's steam. But what a lovely place!" There were orders for shortening sail given just then, and they had no more opportunity for talking during the next quarter of an hour, when, much closer in, they lay in the top once more, gazing eagerly at the glorious prospect of sea and sky, and verdant land and mountain. The vessel slowly rounded what appeared to be a headland, and in a short time the wind seemed to have dropped, and the sea to have grown calm. It was like entering a lovely lake; and as they went slowly on and on, it was to find that they were forging ahead in a perfect archipelago, with fresh beauties opening up each minute. The land was deliciously green, and cut up into valley, hill, and mountain. One island they were passing sent forth into the clear sunny air a cloud of silvery steam, | at home, and save my Sally the trouble, and--" Jem gave a gulp, then sniffed very loudly. "Wish you wouldn't talk about home." Don smiled sadly, and they were separated directly after. The time went swiftly on in their busy life, and though his absence from home could only be counted in months, Don had shot up and altered wonderfully. They had touched at the Cape, at Ceylon, and then made a short stay at Singapore before going on to their station farther east, and cruising to and fro. During that period Don's experience had been varied, but the opportunity he was always looking for did not seem to come. Then a year had passed away, and they were back at Singapore, where letters reached both, and made them go about the deck looking depressed for the rest of the week. Then came one morning when there was no little excitement on board, the news having oozed out that the sloop was bound for New Zealand, a place in those days little known, save as a wonderful country of tree-fern, pine, and volcano, where the natives were a fierce fighting race, and did not scruple to eat those whom they took captive in war. "Noo Zealand, eh?" said Jem. "Port Jackson and Botany Bay, I hear, Jem, and then on to New Zealand. We shall see something of the world." "Ay, so we shall, Mas' Don. Bot'ny Bay! That's where they sends the chaps they transports, arn't it?" "Yes, I believe so." "Then we shall be like transported ones when we get there. You're right, after all, Mas' Don. First chance there is, let me and you give up sailoring, and go ashore." "I mean to, Jem; and somehow, come what may, we will." CHAPTER TWENTY. A NATURALISED NEW ZEALANDER. Three months had passed since the conversation in the last chapter, when after an adverse voyage from Port Jackson, His Majesty's sloop-of-war under shortened sail made her way slowly towards what was in those days a land of mystery. A stiff breeze was blowing, and the watch were on deck, ready for reducing sail or any emergency. More were ready in the tops, and all on board watching the glorious scene unfolding before them. "I say, Mas' Don, look ye there," whispered Jem, as they sat together in the foretop. "If this don't beat Bristol, I'm a Dutchman." "Beat Bristol!"<|quote|>said Don contemptuously;</|quote|>"why, it's as different as can be." "Well, I dunno so much about that," said Jem. "There's that mountain yonder smoking puts one in mind of a factory chimney. And look yonder too!--there's another one smoking ever so far off. I say, are those burning mountains?" "I suppose so, unless it's steam. But what a lovely place!" There were orders for shortening sail given just then, and they had no more opportunity for talking during the next quarter of an hour, when, much closer in, they lay in the top once more, gazing eagerly at the glorious prospect of sea and sky, and verdant land and mountain. The vessel slowly rounded what appeared to be a headland, and in a short time the wind seemed to have dropped, and the sea to have grown calm. It was like entering a lovely lake; and as they went slowly on and on, it was to find that they were forging ahead in a perfect archipelago, with fresh beauties opening up each minute. The land was deliciously green, and cut up into valley, hill, and mountain. One island they were passing sent forth into the clear sunny air a cloud of silvery steam, which floated slowly away, like a white ensign spread to welcome the newcomers from a civilised land. At their distance from the shore it was impossible to make out the individual trees, but there seemed to be clumps of noble pines some distance in, and the valleys were made ornamental with some kind of feathery growth. "Well, all I've got to say, Mas' Don, is this here--Singpore arn't to be grumbled at, and China's all very well, only hot; but if you and me's going to say good-bye to sailoring, let's do it here." "That's exactly what I was thinking, Jem," replied Don. "Say, Mas' Don, p'r'aps it arn't for me, being a servant and you a young master, to make remarks." "Don't talk nonsense, Jem; we are both common sailors." "Well then, sir, as one sailor to another sailor, I says I wish you wouldn't get into bad habits." "I wish so too, Jem." "There you are again!" said Jem testily. "What do you mean?" "Why, so sure as I thinks something sensible and good, you always ketches me up and says you had thought it before." "Nonsense, Jem! Well, have it your way. I quite agree with you." | down on the deck, never to get up again." "You shouldn't think of it, Jem. I try not to." "So do I, but you can't help it sometimes. How long have we been at sea now?" "Six months, Jem." "Is it now? Don't seem so long. I used to think I should get away before we'd been aboard a week, and it's six months, and we arn't gone. You do mean to go if you get a chance?" "Yes, Jem," said Don, frowning. "I said I would, and I will." "Arn't it being a bit obstinate like, Mas' Don?" "Obstinate? What, to do what I said I'd do?" "Well, p'r'aps not, sir; but it do sound obstinate all the same." "You like being a sailor then, Jem?" "Like it? Being ordered about, and drilled, and sent aloft in rough weather, and all the time my Sally thousands o' miles away? Well, I do wonder at you, Mas' Don, talking like that." "It was your own fault, Jem. I can't help feeling as I did. It was such a cruel, cowardly way of kidnapping us, and dragging us away, and never a letter yet to tell us what they think at home, after those I sent. No, Jem, as I've said before, I'd have served the king as a volunteer, but I will not serve a day longer than I can help after being pressed." "T'others seem to have settled down." "So do we seem to, Jem; but perhaps they're like us, and only waiting for a chance to go." "Don't talk out loud, Mas' Don. I want to go home: but somehow I sha'n't quite like going when the time does come." "Why not?" "Well, some of the lads make very good messmates, and the officers arn't bad when they're in a good temper; and I've took to that there hammock, Mas' Don. You can't think of how I shall miss that there hammock." "You'll soon get over that, Jem." "Yes, sir, dessay I shall; and it will be a treat to sit down at a decent table with a white cloth on, and eat bread and butter like a Christian." "Instead of tough salt junk, Jem, and bad, hard biscuits." "And what a waste o' time it do seem learning all this sailoring work, to be no use after all. Holy-stoning might come in. I could holy-stone our floor at home, and save my Sally the trouble, and--" Jem gave a gulp, then sniffed very loudly. "Wish you wouldn't talk about home." Don smiled sadly, and they were separated directly after. The time went swiftly on in their busy life, and though his absence from home could only be counted in months, Don had shot up and altered wonderfully. They had touched at the Cape, at Ceylon, and then made a short stay at Singapore before going on to their station farther east, and cruising to and fro. During that period Don's experience had been varied, but the opportunity he was always looking for did not seem to come. Then a year had passed away, and they were back at Singapore, where letters reached both, and made them go about the deck looking depressed for the rest of the week. Then came one morning when there was no little excitement on board, the news having oozed out that the sloop was bound for New Zealand, a place in those days little known, save as a wonderful country of tree-fern, pine, and volcano, where the natives were a fierce fighting race, and did not scruple to eat those whom they took captive in war. "Noo Zealand, eh?" said Jem. "Port Jackson and Botany Bay, I hear, Jem, and then on to New Zealand. We shall see something of the world." "Ay, so we shall, Mas' Don. Bot'ny Bay! That's where they sends the chaps they transports, arn't it?" "Yes, I believe so." "Then we shall be like transported ones when we get there. You're right, after all, Mas' Don. First chance there is, let me and you give up sailoring, and go ashore." "I mean to, Jem; and somehow, come what may, we will." CHAPTER TWENTY. A NATURALISED NEW ZEALANDER. Three months had passed since the conversation in the last chapter, when after an adverse voyage from Port Jackson, His Majesty's sloop-of-war under shortened sail made her way slowly towards what was in those days a land of mystery. A stiff breeze was blowing, and the watch were on deck, ready for reducing sail or any emergency. More were ready in the tops, and all on board watching the glorious scene unfolding before them. "I say, Mas' Don, look ye there," whispered Jem, as they sat together in the foretop. "If this don't beat Bristol, I'm a Dutchman." "Beat Bristol!"<|quote|>said Don contemptuously;</|quote|>"why, it's as different as can be." "Well, I dunno so much about that," said Jem. "There's that mountain yonder smoking puts one in mind of a factory chimney. And look yonder too!--there's another one smoking ever so far off. I say, are those burning mountains?" "I suppose so, unless it's steam. But what a lovely place!" There were orders for shortening sail given just then, and they had no more opportunity for talking during the next quarter of an hour, when, much closer in, they lay in the top once more, gazing eagerly at the glorious prospect of sea and sky, and verdant land and mountain. The vessel slowly rounded what appeared to be a headland, and in a short time the wind seemed to have dropped, and the sea to have grown calm. It was like entering a lovely lake; and as they went slowly on and on, it was to find that they were forging ahead in a perfect archipelago, with fresh beauties opening up each minute. The land was deliciously green, and cut up into valley, hill, and mountain. One island they were passing sent forth into the clear sunny air a cloud of silvery steam, which floated slowly away, like a white ensign spread to welcome the newcomers from a civilised land. At their distance from the shore it was impossible to make out the individual trees, but there seemed to be clumps of noble pines some distance in, and the valleys were made ornamental with some kind of feathery growth. "Well, all I've got to say, Mas' Don, is this here--Singpore arn't to be grumbled at, and China's all very well, only hot; but if you and me's going to say good-bye to sailoring, let's do it here." "That's exactly what I was thinking, Jem," replied Don. "Say, Mas' Don, p'r'aps it arn't for me, being a servant and you a young master, to make remarks." "Don't talk nonsense, Jem; we are both common sailors." "Well then, sir, as one sailor to another sailor, I says I wish you wouldn't get into bad habits." "I wish so too, Jem." "There you are again!" said Jem testily. "What do you mean?" "Why, so sure as I thinks something sensible and good, you always ketches me up and says you had thought it before." "Nonsense, Jem! Well, have it your way. I quite agree with you." "No, I won't, sir; you're master. Have it your way. I quite agree with you. Let's go ashore here." "If you can get the chance, Jem.--How lovely it looks!" "Lovely's nothing to it, sir. Mike used to brag about what he'd seen in foreign countries, but he never see anything to come up to this." "I don't think any one could see a more beautiful place, Jem." "But I don't like the look o' that, sir." "Of what?" "That there yonder. That smoke." "What, on that little island? No, Jem; it's steam." "Well, don't you know what that means?" "No." "Then I've got something at last as you arn't got first!" cried Jem excitedly, as he sheltered his eyes from the glare of the sun. "Yes; that's it's, sure. Cooking!" "Cooking? What's cooking?" "That place where the steam is, Mas' Don. I say, you know what they do here? That's the place where they do it." "Do what?" "Cook people. That's the spot, safe." "Nonsense!" said Don laughing. "Ah! You may call it nonsense, Mas' Don; but if them sort o' things is done here, I think we'd better stop on board." Just at that moment the captain, who was busy with his spyglass examining the place and looking for a snug anchorage, suddenly gave an order, which was passed on, and with the rapidity customary on board a man-of-war, the stout boarding nettings, ready for use on an emergency, were triced up to the lower rigging, so that before long the vessel, from its bulwarks high up toward the lower yards, presented the appearance of a cage. While this was going on, others of the men stood to their arms, guns were cast loose and loaded, and every precaution taken against a surprise. The reason for all this was that quite a fleet of long canoes, propelled by paddles, suddenly began to glide out from behind one of the islands, each canoe seeming to contain from eighty to a hundred men. The effect was beautiful, for the long, dark vessels, with their grotesque, quaintly carved prows and sterns, seemed to be like some strange living creatures working along paths of silver, so regularly went the paddles, turning the sea into lines of dazzling light. The men were armed with spears and tomahawks, and as they came nearer, some could be seen wearing black feathers tipped with white stuck in | sir, dessay I shall; and it will be a treat to sit down at a decent table with a white cloth on, and eat bread and butter like a Christian." "Instead of tough salt junk, Jem, and bad, hard biscuits." "And what a waste o' time it do seem learning all this sailoring work, to be no use after all. Holy-stoning might come in. I could holy-stone our floor at home, and save my Sally the trouble, and--" Jem gave a gulp, then sniffed very loudly. "Wish you wouldn't talk about home." Don smiled sadly, and they were separated directly after. The time went swiftly on in their busy life, and though his absence from home could only be counted in months, Don had shot up and altered wonderfully. They had touched at the Cape, at Ceylon, and then made a short stay at Singapore before going on to their station farther east, and cruising to and fro. During that period Don's experience had been varied, but the opportunity he was always looking for did not seem to come. Then a year had passed away, and they were back at Singapore, where letters reached both, and made them go about the deck looking depressed for the rest of the week. Then came one morning when there was no little excitement on board, the news having oozed out that the sloop was bound for New Zealand, a place in those days little known, save as a wonderful country of tree-fern, pine, and volcano, where the natives were a fierce fighting race, and did not scruple to eat those whom they took captive in war. "Noo Zealand, eh?" said Jem. "Port Jackson and Botany Bay, I hear, Jem, and then on to New Zealand. We shall see something of the world." "Ay, so we shall, Mas' Don. Bot'ny Bay! That's where they sends the chaps they transports, arn't it?" "Yes, I believe so." "Then we shall be like transported ones when we get there. You're right, after all, Mas' Don. First chance there is, let me and you give up sailoring, and go ashore." "I mean to, Jem; and somehow, come what may, we will." CHAPTER TWENTY. A NATURALISED NEW ZEALANDER. Three months had passed since the conversation in the last chapter, when after an adverse voyage from Port Jackson, His Majesty's sloop-of-war under shortened sail made her way slowly towards what was in those days a land of mystery. A stiff breeze was blowing, and the watch were on deck, ready for reducing sail or any emergency. More were ready in the tops, and all on board watching the glorious scene unfolding before them. "I say, Mas' Don, look ye there," whispered Jem, as they sat together in the foretop. "If this don't beat Bristol, I'm a Dutchman." "Beat Bristol!"<|quote|>said Don contemptuously;</|quote|>"why, it's as different as can be." "Well, I dunno so much about that," said Jem. "There's that mountain yonder smoking puts one in mind of a factory chimney. And look yonder too!--there's another one smoking ever so far off. I say, are those burning mountains?" "I suppose so, unless it's steam. But what a lovely place!" There were orders for shortening sail given just then, and they had no more opportunity for talking during the next quarter of an hour, when, much closer in, they lay in the top once more, gazing eagerly at the glorious prospect of sea and sky, and verdant land and mountain. The vessel slowly rounded what appeared to be a headland, and in a short time the wind seemed to have dropped, and the sea to have grown calm. It was like entering a lovely lake; and as they went slowly on and on, it was to find that they were forging ahead in a perfect archipelago, with fresh beauties opening up each minute. The land was deliciously green, and cut up into valley, hill, and mountain. One island they were passing sent forth into the clear sunny air a cloud of silvery steam, which floated slowly away, like a white ensign spread to welcome the newcomers from a civilised land. At their distance from the shore it was impossible to make out the individual trees, but there seemed to be clumps of noble pines some distance in, and the valleys were made ornamental with some kind of feathery growth. "Well, all I've got to say, Mas' Don, is this here--Singpore arn't to be grumbled at, and China's all very well, only hot; but if you and me's going to say good-bye to sailoring, let's do it here." "That's exactly what I was thinking, Jem," replied Don. "Say, Mas' Don, p'r'aps it arn't for me, being a servant and you a young master, to make remarks." "Don't talk nonsense, Jem; we are both common sailors." "Well then, sir, as one sailor to another sailor, I says I wish you wouldn't get into bad habits." "I wish so too, Jem." "There you are again!" said Jem testily. "What do you mean?" "Why, so sure as I thinks something sensible and good, you always ketches me up and says you had thought it before." "Nonsense, Jem! Well, have it your way. I quite agree with you." "No, I won't, sir; you're master. Have it your way. I quite agree with you. Let's go ashore here." "If you can get the chance, Jem.--How lovely it looks!" "Lovely's nothing to it, sir. Mike used to brag about what he'd seen in foreign countries, but he never see anything to come up to this." "I don't think any one could see a more beautiful place, Jem." "But I don't like the look o' | Don Lavington |
"Dr. Aziz, will you kindly come? a closed conveyance stands in readiness." | Mr. Haq | to fuss about, some blunder."<|quote|>"Dr. Aziz, will you kindly come? a closed conveyance stands in readiness."</|quote|>The young man sobbed his | along, Aziz, old man; nothing to fuss about, some blunder."<|quote|>"Dr. Aziz, will you kindly come? a closed conveyance stands in readiness."</|quote|>The young man sobbed his first sound and tried to | 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."<|quote|>"Dr. Aziz, will you kindly come? a closed conveyance stands in readiness."</|quote|>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. "Oh, for God's sake" cried Fielding, his own nerves breaking under the contagion, and pulled him back before a scandal | 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."<|quote|>"Dr. Aziz, will you kindly come? a closed conveyance stands in readiness."</|quote|>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. "Oh, for God's sake" 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 | 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."<|quote|>"Dr. Aziz, will you kindly come? a closed conveyance stands in readiness."</|quote|>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. "Oh, for God's sake" 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 | 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."<|quote|>"Dr. Aziz, will you kindly come? a closed conveyance stands in readiness."</|quote|>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. "Oh, for God's sake" 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 | as a nullah across the plain, the water draining off this way towards the Ganges. "She would have wanted me, if she was ill, to attend her." "Yes, that sounds sense." "I see you're worrying, let's talk of other things," he said 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."<|quote|>"Dr. Aziz, will you kindly come? a closed conveyance stands in readiness."</|quote|>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. "Oh, for God's sake" 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 | 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."<|quote|>"Dr. Aziz, will you kindly come? a closed conveyance stands in readiness."</|quote|>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. "Oh, for God's sake" 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 | A Passage To India |
"It isn't fit for any human to eat, not even Jerry Boute." | Marilla Cuthbert | to the pigs," said Marilla.<|quote|>"It isn't fit for any human to eat, not even Jerry Boute."</|quote|>CHAPTER XXII. Anne is Invited | go and give that cake to the pigs," said Marilla.<|quote|>"It isn't fit for any human to eat, not even Jerry Boute."</|quote|>CHAPTER XXII. Anne is Invited Out to Tea "AND what | "Oh, don't you see, Marilla? There must be a limit to the mistakes one person can make, and when I get to the end of them, then I'll be through with them. That's a very comforting thought." "Well, you'd better go and give that cake to the pigs," said Marilla.<|quote|>"It isn't fit for any human to eat, not even Jerry Boute."</|quote|>CHAPTER XXII. Anne is Invited Out to Tea "AND what are your eyes popping out of your head about. Now?" asked Marilla, when Anne had just come in from a run to the post office. "Have you discovered another kindred spirit?" Excitement hung around Anne like a garment, shone in | Marilla. "I never saw your beat for making mistakes, Anne." "Yes, and well I know it," admitted Anne mournfully. "But have you ever noticed one encouraging thing about me, Marilla? I never make the same mistake twice." "I don't know as that's much benefit when you're always making new ones." "Oh, don't you see, Marilla? There must be a limit to the mistakes one person can make, and when I get to the end of them, then I'll be through with them. That's a very comforting thought." "Well, you'd better go and give that cake to the pigs," said Marilla.<|quote|>"It isn't fit for any human to eat, not even Jerry Boute."</|quote|>CHAPTER XXII. Anne is Invited Out to Tea "AND what are your eyes popping out of your head about. Now?" asked Marilla, when Anne had just come in from a run to the post office. "Have you discovered another kindred spirit?" Excitement hung around Anne like a garment, shone in her eyes, kindled in every feature. She had come dancing up the lane, like a wind-blown sprite, through the mellow sunshine and lazy shadows of the August evening. "No, Marilla, but oh, what do you think? I am invited to tea at the manse tomorrow afternoon! Mrs. Allan left the | plot all your own. I want to see it, for I'm very much interested in flowers." Anne permitted herself to be led down and comforted, reflecting that it was really providential that Mrs. Allan was a kindred spirit. Nothing more was said about the liniment cake, and when the guests went away Anne found that she had enjoyed the evening more than could have been expected, considering that terrible incident. Nevertheless, she sighed deeply. "Marilla, isn't it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?" "I'll warrant you'll make plenty in it," said Marilla. "I never saw your beat for making mistakes, Anne." "Yes, and well I know it," admitted Anne mournfully. "But have you ever noticed one encouraging thing about me, Marilla? I never make the same mistake twice." "I don't know as that's much benefit when you're always making new ones." "Oh, don't you see, Marilla? There must be a limit to the mistakes one person can make, and when I get to the end of them, then I'll be through with them. That's a very comforting thought." "Well, you'd better go and give that cake to the pigs," said Marilla.<|quote|>"It isn't fit for any human to eat, not even Jerry Boute."</|quote|>CHAPTER XXII. Anne is Invited Out to Tea "AND what are your eyes popping out of your head about. Now?" asked Marilla, when Anne had just come in from a run to the post office. "Have you discovered another kindred spirit?" Excitement hung around Anne like a garment, shone in her eyes, kindled in every feature. She had come dancing up the lane, like a wind-blown sprite, through the mellow sunshine and lazy shadows of the August evening. "No, Marilla, but oh, what do you think? I am invited to tea at the manse tomorrow afternoon! Mrs. Allan left the letter for me at the post office. Just look at it, Marilla. ?Miss Anne Shirley, Green Gables.' That is the first time I was ever called ?Miss.' Such a thrill as it gave me! I shall cherish it forever among my choicest treasures." "Mrs. Allan told me she meant to have all the members of her Sunday-school class to tea in turn," said Marilla, regarding the wonderful event very coolly. "You needn't get in such a fever over it. Do learn to take things calmly, child." For Anne to take things calmly would have been to change her nature. All | after this. I'll wash them when the minister and his wife are gone, but I cannot ever look Mrs. Allan in the face again. Perhaps she'll think I tried to poison her. Mrs. Lynde says she knows an orphan girl who tried to poison her benefactor. But the liniment isn't poisonous. It's meant to be taken internally--although not in cakes. Won't you tell Mrs. Allan so, Marilla?" "Suppose you jump up and tell her so yourself," said a merry voice. Anne flew up, to find Mrs. Allan standing by her bed, surveying her with laughing eyes. "My dear little girl, you mustn't cry like this," she said, genuinely disturbed by Anne's tragic face. "Why, it's all just a funny mistake that anybody might make." "Oh, no, it takes me to make such a mistake," said Anne forlornly. "And I wanted to have that cake so nice for you, Mrs. Allan." "Yes, I know, dear. And I assure you I appreciate your kindness and thoughtfulness just as much as if it had turned out all right. Now, you mustn't cry any more, but come down with me and show me your flower garden. Miss Cuthbert tells me you have a little plot all your own. I want to see it, for I'm very much interested in flowers." Anne permitted herself to be led down and comforted, reflecting that it was really providential that Mrs. Allan was a kindred spirit. Nothing more was said about the liniment cake, and when the guests went away Anne found that she had enjoyed the evening more than could have been expected, considering that terrible incident. Nevertheless, she sighed deeply. "Marilla, isn't it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?" "I'll warrant you'll make plenty in it," said Marilla. "I never saw your beat for making mistakes, Anne." "Yes, and well I know it," admitted Anne mournfully. "But have you ever noticed one encouraging thing about me, Marilla? I never make the same mistake twice." "I don't know as that's much benefit when you're always making new ones." "Oh, don't you see, Marilla? There must be a limit to the mistakes one person can make, and when I get to the end of them, then I'll be through with them. That's a very comforting thought." "Well, you'd better go and give that cake to the pigs," said Marilla.<|quote|>"It isn't fit for any human to eat, not even Jerry Boute."</|quote|>CHAPTER XXII. Anne is Invited Out to Tea "AND what are your eyes popping out of your head about. Now?" asked Marilla, when Anne had just come in from a run to the post office. "Have you discovered another kindred spirit?" Excitement hung around Anne like a garment, shone in her eyes, kindled in every feature. She had come dancing up the lane, like a wind-blown sprite, through the mellow sunshine and lazy shadows of the August evening. "No, Marilla, but oh, what do you think? I am invited to tea at the manse tomorrow afternoon! Mrs. Allan left the letter for me at the post office. Just look at it, Marilla. ?Miss Anne Shirley, Green Gables.' That is the first time I was ever called ?Miss.' Such a thrill as it gave me! I shall cherish it forever among my choicest treasures." "Mrs. Allan told me she meant to have all the members of her Sunday-school class to tea in turn," said Marilla, regarding the wonderful event very coolly. "You needn't get in such a fever over it. Do learn to take things calmly, child." For Anne to take things calmly would have been to change her nature. All "spirit and fire and dew," as she was, the pleasures and pains of life came to her with trebled intensity. Marilla felt this and was vaguely troubled over it, realizing that the ups and downs of existence would probably bear hardly on this impulsive soul and not sufficiently understanding that the equally great capacity for delight might more than compensate. Therefore Marilla conceived it to be her duty to drill Anne into a tranquil uniformity of disposition as impossible and alien to her as to a dancing sunbeam in one of the brook shallows. She did not make much headway, as she sorrowfully admitted to herself. The downfall of some dear hope or plan plunged Anne into "deeps of affliction." The fulfillment thereof exalted her to dizzy realms of delight. Marilla had almost begun to despair of ever fashioning this waif of the world into her model little girl of demure manners and prim deportment. Neither would she have believed that she really liked Anne much better as she was. Anne went to bed that night speechless with misery because Matthew had said the wind was round northeast and he feared it would be a rainy day tomorrow. The rustle | "Oh, you must take a piece of this, Mrs. Allan. Anne made it on purpose for you." "In that case I must sample it," laughed Mrs. Allan, helping herself to a plump triangle, as did also the minister and Marilla. Mrs. Allan took a mouthful of hers and a most peculiar expression crossed her face; not a word did she say, however, but steadily ate away at it. Marilla saw the expression and hastened to taste the cake. "Anne Shirley!" she exclaimed, "what on earth did you put into that cake?" "Nothing but what the recipe said, Marilla," cried Anne with a look of anguish. "Oh, isn't it all right?" "All right! It's simply horrible. Mr. Allan, don't try to eat it. Anne, taste it yourself. What flavoring did you use?" "Vanilla," said Anne, her face scarlet with mortification after tasting the cake. "Only vanilla. Oh, Marilla, it must have been the baking powder. I had my suspicions of that bak--" "Baking powder fiddlesticks! Go and bring me the bottle of vanilla you used." Anne fled to the pantry and returned with a small bottle partially filled with a brown liquid and labeled yellowly, "Best Vanilla." Marilla took it, uncorked it, smelled it. "Mercy on us, Anne, you've flavored that cake with _Anodyne Liniment_. I broke the liniment bottle last week and poured what was left into an old empty vanilla bottle. I suppose it's partly my fault--I should have warned you--but for pity's sake why couldn't you have smelled it?" Anne dissolved into tears under this double disgrace. "I couldn't--I had such a cold!" and with this she fairly fled to the gable chamber, where she cast herself on the bed and wept as one who refuses to be comforted. Presently a light step sounded on the stairs and somebody entered the room. "Oh, Marilla," sobbed Anne, without looking up, "I'm disgraced forever. I shall never be able to live this down. It will get out--things always do get out in Avonlea. Diana will ask me how my cake turned out and I shall have to tell her the truth. I shall always be pointed at as the girl who flavored a cake with anodyne liniment. Gil--the boys in school will never get over laughing at it. Oh, Marilla, if you have a spark of Christian pity don't tell me that I must go down and wash the dishes after this. I'll wash them when the minister and his wife are gone, but I cannot ever look Mrs. Allan in the face again. Perhaps she'll think I tried to poison her. Mrs. Lynde says she knows an orphan girl who tried to poison her benefactor. But the liniment isn't poisonous. It's meant to be taken internally--although not in cakes. Won't you tell Mrs. Allan so, Marilla?" "Suppose you jump up and tell her so yourself," said a merry voice. Anne flew up, to find Mrs. Allan standing by her bed, surveying her with laughing eyes. "My dear little girl, you mustn't cry like this," she said, genuinely disturbed by Anne's tragic face. "Why, it's all just a funny mistake that anybody might make." "Oh, no, it takes me to make such a mistake," said Anne forlornly. "And I wanted to have that cake so nice for you, Mrs. Allan." "Yes, I know, dear. And I assure you I appreciate your kindness and thoughtfulness just as much as if it had turned out all right. Now, you mustn't cry any more, but come down with me and show me your flower garden. Miss Cuthbert tells me you have a little plot all your own. I want to see it, for I'm very much interested in flowers." Anne permitted herself to be led down and comforted, reflecting that it was really providential that Mrs. Allan was a kindred spirit. Nothing more was said about the liniment cake, and when the guests went away Anne found that she had enjoyed the evening more than could have been expected, considering that terrible incident. Nevertheless, she sighed deeply. "Marilla, isn't it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?" "I'll warrant you'll make plenty in it," said Marilla. "I never saw your beat for making mistakes, Anne." "Yes, and well I know it," admitted Anne mournfully. "But have you ever noticed one encouraging thing about me, Marilla? I never make the same mistake twice." "I don't know as that's much benefit when you're always making new ones." "Oh, don't you see, Marilla? There must be a limit to the mistakes one person can make, and when I get to the end of them, then I'll be through with them. That's a very comforting thought." "Well, you'd better go and give that cake to the pigs," said Marilla.<|quote|>"It isn't fit for any human to eat, not even Jerry Boute."</|quote|>CHAPTER XXII. Anne is Invited Out to Tea "AND what are your eyes popping out of your head about. Now?" asked Marilla, when Anne had just come in from a run to the post office. "Have you discovered another kindred spirit?" Excitement hung around Anne like a garment, shone in her eyes, kindled in every feature. She had come dancing up the lane, like a wind-blown sprite, through the mellow sunshine and lazy shadows of the August evening. "No, Marilla, but oh, what do you think? I am invited to tea at the manse tomorrow afternoon! Mrs. Allan left the letter for me at the post office. Just look at it, Marilla. ?Miss Anne Shirley, Green Gables.' That is the first time I was ever called ?Miss.' Such a thrill as it gave me! I shall cherish it forever among my choicest treasures." "Mrs. Allan told me she meant to have all the members of her Sunday-school class to tea in turn," said Marilla, regarding the wonderful event very coolly. "You needn't get in such a fever over it. Do learn to take things calmly, child." For Anne to take things calmly would have been to change her nature. All "spirit and fire and dew," as she was, the pleasures and pains of life came to her with trebled intensity. Marilla felt this and was vaguely troubled over it, realizing that the ups and downs of existence would probably bear hardly on this impulsive soul and not sufficiently understanding that the equally great capacity for delight might more than compensate. Therefore Marilla conceived it to be her duty to drill Anne into a tranquil uniformity of disposition as impossible and alien to her as to a dancing sunbeam in one of the brook shallows. She did not make much headway, as she sorrowfully admitted to herself. The downfall of some dear hope or plan plunged Anne into "deeps of affliction." The fulfillment thereof exalted her to dizzy realms of delight. Marilla had almost begun to despair of ever fashioning this waif of the world into her model little girl of demure manners and prim deportment. Neither would she have believed that she really liked Anne much better as she was. Anne went to bed that night speechless with misery because Matthew had said the wind was round northeast and he feared it would be a rainy day tomorrow. The rustle of the poplar leaves about the house worried her, it sounded so like pattering raindrops, and the full, faraway roar of the gulf, to which she listened delightedly at other times, loving its strange, sonorous, haunting rhythm, now seemed like a prophecy of storm and disaster to a small maiden who particularly wanted a fine day. Anne thought that the morning would never come. But all things have an end, even nights before the day on which you are invited to take tea at the manse. The morning, in spite of Matthew's predictions, was fine and Anne's spirits soared to their highest. "Oh, Marilla, there is something in me today that makes me just love everybody I see," she exclaimed as she washed the breakfast dishes. "You don't know how good I feel! Wouldn't it be nice if it could last? I believe I could be a model child if I were just invited out to tea every day. But oh, Marilla, it's a solemn occasion too. I feel so anxious. What if I shouldn't behave properly? You know I never had tea at a manse before, and I'm not sure that I know all the rules of etiquette, although I've been studying the rules given in the Etiquette Department of the Family Herald ever since I came here. I'm so afraid I'll do something silly or forget to do something I should do. Would it be good manners to take a second helping of anything if you wanted to _very_ much?" "The trouble with you, Anne, is that you're thinking too much about yourself. You should just think of Mrs. Allan and what would be nicest and most agreeable to her," said Marilla, hitting for once in her life on a very sound and pithy piece of advice. Anne instantly realized this. "You are right, Marilla. I'll try not to think about myself at all." Anne evidently got through her visit without any serious breach of "etiquette," for she came home through the twilight, under a great, high-sprung sky gloried over with trails of saffron and rosy cloud, in a beatified state of mind and told Marilla all about it happily, sitting on the big red-sandstone slab at the kitchen door with her tired curly head in Marilla's gingham lap. A cool wind was blowing down over the long harvest fields from the rims of firry western hills and | refuses to be comforted. Presently a light step sounded on the stairs and somebody entered the room. "Oh, Marilla," sobbed Anne, without looking up, "I'm disgraced forever. I shall never be able to live this down. It will get out--things always do get out in Avonlea. Diana will ask me how my cake turned out and I shall have to tell her the truth. I shall always be pointed at as the girl who flavored a cake with anodyne liniment. Gil--the boys in school will never get over laughing at it. Oh, Marilla, if you have a spark of Christian pity don't tell me that I must go down and wash the dishes after this. I'll wash them when the minister and his wife are gone, but I cannot ever look Mrs. Allan in the face again. Perhaps she'll think I tried to poison her. Mrs. Lynde says she knows an orphan girl who tried to poison her benefactor. But the liniment isn't poisonous. It's meant to be taken internally--although not in cakes. Won't you tell Mrs. Allan so, Marilla?" "Suppose you jump up and tell her so yourself," said a merry voice. Anne flew up, to find Mrs. Allan standing by her bed, surveying her with laughing eyes. "My dear little girl, you mustn't cry like this," she said, genuinely disturbed by Anne's tragic face. "Why, it's all just a funny mistake that anybody might make." "Oh, no, it takes me to make such a mistake," said Anne forlornly. "And I wanted to have that cake so nice for you, Mrs. Allan." "Yes, I know, dear. And I assure you I appreciate your kindness and thoughtfulness just as much as if it had turned out all right. Now, you mustn't cry any more, but come down with me and show me your flower garden. Miss Cuthbert tells me you have a little plot all your own. I want to see it, for I'm very much interested in flowers." Anne permitted herself to be led down and comforted, reflecting that it was really providential that Mrs. Allan was a kindred spirit. Nothing more was said about the liniment cake, and when the guests went away Anne found that she had enjoyed the evening more than could have been expected, considering that terrible incident. Nevertheless, she sighed deeply. "Marilla, isn't it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?" "I'll warrant you'll make plenty in it," said Marilla. "I never saw your beat for making mistakes, Anne." "Yes, and well I know it," admitted Anne mournfully. "But have you ever noticed one encouraging thing about me, Marilla? I never make the same mistake twice." "I don't know as that's much benefit when you're always making new ones." "Oh, don't you see, Marilla? There must be a limit to the mistakes one person can make, and when I get to the end of them, then I'll be through with them. That's a very comforting thought." "Well, you'd better go and give that cake to the pigs," said Marilla.<|quote|>"It isn't fit for any human to eat, not even Jerry Boute."</|quote|>CHAPTER XXII. Anne is Invited Out to Tea "AND what are your eyes popping out of your head about. Now?" asked Marilla, when Anne had just come in from a run to the post office. "Have you discovered another kindred spirit?" Excitement hung around Anne like a garment, shone in her eyes, kindled in every feature. She had come dancing up the lane, like a wind-blown sprite, through the mellow sunshine and lazy shadows of the August evening. "No, Marilla, but oh, what do you think? I am invited to tea at the manse tomorrow afternoon! Mrs. Allan left the letter for me at the post office. Just look at it, Marilla. ?Miss Anne Shirley, Green Gables.' That is the first time I was ever called ?Miss.' Such a thrill as it gave me! I shall cherish it forever among my choicest treasures." "Mrs. Allan told me she meant to have all the members of her Sunday-school class to tea in turn," said Marilla, regarding the wonderful event very coolly. "You needn't get in such a fever over it. Do learn to take things calmly, child." For Anne to take things calmly would have been to change her nature. All "spirit and fire and dew," as she was, the pleasures and pains of life came to her with trebled intensity. Marilla felt this and was vaguely troubled over it, realizing that the ups and downs of existence would probably bear hardly on this impulsive soul and not sufficiently understanding that the equally great capacity for delight might more than compensate. Therefore Marilla conceived it to be her duty to drill Anne into a tranquil uniformity of disposition as impossible and alien to her as to a dancing sunbeam in one of the brook shallows. She did not make much headway, as she sorrowfully admitted to herself. The downfall of some dear hope or plan plunged Anne into "deeps of affliction." The fulfillment thereof exalted her to dizzy realms of delight. Marilla had almost begun to despair of ever fashioning this waif of the world into her model little girl of demure manners and prim deportment. Neither would she have believed that she really liked Anne much better as she was. Anne went to bed | Anne Of Green Gables |
he said, irritably. | No speaker | will take cold out there,"<|quote|>he said, irritably.</|quote|>"What folly is this? Why | head through the door. "You will take cold out there,"<|quote|>he said, irritably.</|quote|>"What folly is this? Why don't you come in?" "It | know it is past one o'clock? Come on," and he mounted the steps and went into their room. "Edna!" called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone by. "Don't wait for me," she answered. He thrust his head through the door. "You will take cold out there,"<|quote|>he said, irritably.</|quote|>"What folly is this? Why don't you come in?" "It isn't cold; I have my shawl." "The mosquitoes will devour you." "There are no mosquitoes." She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience and irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She would, | lying there. He had walked up with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did not reply. "Are you asleep?" he asked, bending down close to look at her. "No." Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as they looked into his. "Do you know it is past one o'clock? Come on," and he mounted the steps and went into their room. "Edna!" called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone by. "Don't wait for me," she answered. He thrust his head through the door. "You will take cold out there,"<|quote|>he said, irritably.</|quote|>"What folly is this? Why don't you come in?" "It isn't cold; I have my shawl." "The mosquitoes will devour you." "There are no mosquitoes." She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience and irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She would, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as we walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life which has been portioned out to us. "Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?" | and rolled a cigarette, which he smoked in silence. Neither did Mrs. Pontellier speak. No multitude of words could have been more significant than those moments of silence, or more pregnant with the first-felt throbbings of desire. When the voices of the bathers were heard approaching, Robert said good-night. She did not answer him. He thought she was asleep. Again she watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight as he walked away. XI "What are you doing out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in bed," said her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had walked up with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did not reply. "Are you asleep?" he asked, bending down close to look at her. "No." Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as they looked into his. "Do you know it is past one o'clock? Come on," and he mounted the steps and went into their room. "Edna!" called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone by. "Don't wait for me," she answered. He thrust his head through the door. "You will take cold out there,"<|quote|>he said, irritably.</|quote|>"What folly is this? Why don't you come in?" "It isn't cold; I have my shawl." "The mosquitoes will devour you." "There are no mosquitoes." She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience and irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She would, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as we walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life which has been portioned out to us. "Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?" he asked again, this time fondly, with a note of entreaty. "No; I am going to stay out here." "This is more than folly," he blurted out. "I can't permit you to stay out there all night. You must come in the house instantly." With a writhing motion she settled herself more securely in the hammock. She perceived that her will had blazed up, stubborn and resistant. She could not at that moment have done other than denied and resisted. She wondered if her husband had ever spoken to her like that before, and if she had submitted to his | did so it was with no cat-like suggestion of voluptuous ease, but with a beneficent repose which seemed to invade her whole body. "Shall I stay with you till Mr. Pontellier comes?" asked Robert, seating himself on the outer edge of one of the steps and taking hold of the hammock rope which was fastened to the post. "If you wish. Don't swing the hammock. Will you get my white shawl which I left on the window-sill over at the house?" "Are you chilly?" "No; but I shall be presently." "Presently?" he laughed. "Do you know what time it is? How long are you going to stay out here?" "I don't know. Will you get the shawl?" "Of course I will," he said, rising. He went over to the house, walking along the grass. She watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight. It was past midnight. It was very quiet. When he returned with the shawl she took it and kept it in her hand. She did not put it around her. "Did you say I should stay till Mr. Pontellier came back?" "I said you might if you wished to." He seated himself again and rolled a cigarette, which he smoked in silence. Neither did Mrs. Pontellier speak. No multitude of words could have been more significant than those moments of silence, or more pregnant with the first-felt throbbings of desire. When the voices of the bathers were heard approaching, Robert said good-night. She did not answer him. He thought she was asleep. Again she watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight as he walked away. XI "What are you doing out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in bed," said her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had walked up with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did not reply. "Are you asleep?" he asked, bending down close to look at her. "No." Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as they looked into his. "Do you know it is past one o'clock? Come on," and he mounted the steps and went into their room. "Edna!" called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone by. "Don't wait for me," she answered. He thrust his head through the door. "You will take cold out there,"<|quote|>he said, irritably.</|quote|>"What folly is this? Why don't you come in?" "It isn't cold; I have my shawl." "The mosquitoes will devour you." "There are no mosquitoes." She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience and irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She would, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as we walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life which has been portioned out to us. "Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?" he asked again, this time fondly, with a note of entreaty. "No; I am going to stay out here." "This is more than folly," he blurted out. "I can't permit you to stay out there all night. You must come in the house instantly." With a writhing motion she settled herself more securely in the hammock. She perceived that her will had blazed up, stubborn and resistant. She could not at that moment have done other than denied and resisted. She wondered if her husband had ever spoken to her like that before, and if she had submitted to his command. Of course she had; she remembered that she had. But she could not realize why or how she should have yielded, feeling as she then did. "L once, go to bed," she said, "I mean to stay out here. I don't wish to go in, and I don't intend to. Don't speak to me like that again; I shall not answer you." Mr. Pontellier had prepared for bed, but he slipped on an extra garment. He opened a bottle of wine, of which he kept a small and select supply in a buffet of his own. He drank a glass of the wine and went out on the gallery and offered a glass to his wife. She did not wish any. He drew up the rocker, hoisted his slippered feet on the rail, and proceeded to smoke a cigar. He smoked two cigars; then he went inside and drank another glass of wine. Mrs. Pontellier again declined to accept a glass when it was offered to her. Mr. Pontellier once more seated himself with elevated feet, and after a reasonable interval of time smoked some more cigars. Edna began to feel like one who awakens gradually out of a | will ever again be like this one. It is like a night in a dream. The people about me are like some uncanny, half-human beings. There must be spirits abroad to-night." "There are," whispered Robert, "Didn't you know this was the twenty-eighth of August?" "The twenty-eighth of August?" "Yes. On the twenty-eighth of August, at the hour of midnight, and if the moon is shining the moon must be shining a spirit that has haunted these shores for ages rises up from the Gulf. With its own penetrating vision the spirit seeks some one mortal worthy to hold him company, worthy of being exalted for a few hours into realms of the semi-celestials. His search has always hitherto been fruitless, and he has sunk back, disheartened, into the sea. But to-night he found Mrs. Pontellier. Perhaps he will never wholly release her from the spell. Perhaps she will never again suffer a poor, unworthy earthling to walk in the shadow of her divine presence." "Don't banter me," she said, wounded at what appeared to be his flippancy. He did not mind the entreaty, but the tone with its delicate note of pathos was like a reproach. He could not explain; he could not tell her that he had penetrated her mood and understood. He said nothing except to offer her his arm, for, by her own admission, she was exhausted. She had been walking alone with her arms hanging limp, letting her white skirts trail along the dewy path. She took his arm, but she did not lean upon it. She let her hand lie listlessly, as though her thoughts were elsewhere somewhere in advance of her body, and she was striving to overtake them. Robert assisted her into the hammock which swung from the post before her door out to the trunk of a tree. "Will you stay out here and wait for Mr. Pontellier?" he asked. "I'll stay out here. Good-night." "Shall I get you a pillow?" "There's one here," she said, feeling about, for they were in the shadow. "It must be soiled; the children have been tumbling it about." "No matter." And having discovered the pillow, she adjusted it beneath her head. She extended herself in the hammock with a deep breath of relief. She was not a supercilious or an over-dainty woman. She was not much given to reclining in the hammock, and when she did so it was with no cat-like suggestion of voluptuous ease, but with a beneficent repose which seemed to invade her whole body. "Shall I stay with you till Mr. Pontellier comes?" asked Robert, seating himself on the outer edge of one of the steps and taking hold of the hammock rope which was fastened to the post. "If you wish. Don't swing the hammock. Will you get my white shawl which I left on the window-sill over at the house?" "Are you chilly?" "No; but I shall be presently." "Presently?" he laughed. "Do you know what time it is? How long are you going to stay out here?" "I don't know. Will you get the shawl?" "Of course I will," he said, rising. He went over to the house, walking along the grass. She watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight. It was past midnight. It was very quiet. When he returned with the shawl she took it and kept it in her hand. She did not put it around her. "Did you say I should stay till Mr. Pontellier came back?" "I said you might if you wished to." He seated himself again and rolled a cigarette, which he smoked in silence. Neither did Mrs. Pontellier speak. No multitude of words could have been more significant than those moments of silence, or more pregnant with the first-felt throbbings of desire. When the voices of the bathers were heard approaching, Robert said good-night. She did not answer him. He thought she was asleep. Again she watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight as he walked away. XI "What are you doing out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in bed," said her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had walked up with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did not reply. "Are you asleep?" he asked, bending down close to look at her. "No." Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as they looked into his. "Do you know it is past one o'clock? Come on," and he mounted the steps and went into their room. "Edna!" called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone by. "Don't wait for me," she answered. He thrust his head through the door. "You will take cold out there,"<|quote|>he said, irritably.</|quote|>"What folly is this? Why don't you come in?" "It isn't cold; I have my shawl." "The mosquitoes will devour you." "There are no mosquitoes." She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience and irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She would, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as we walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life which has been portioned out to us. "Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?" he asked again, this time fondly, with a note of entreaty. "No; I am going to stay out here." "This is more than folly," he blurted out. "I can't permit you to stay out there all night. You must come in the house instantly." With a writhing motion she settled herself more securely in the hammock. She perceived that her will had blazed up, stubborn and resistant. She could not at that moment have done other than denied and resisted. She wondered if her husband had ever spoken to her like that before, and if she had submitted to his command. Of course she had; she remembered that she had. But she could not realize why or how she should have yielded, feeling as she then did. "L once, go to bed," she said, "I mean to stay out here. I don't wish to go in, and I don't intend to. Don't speak to me like that again; I shall not answer you." Mr. Pontellier had prepared for bed, but he slipped on an extra garment. He opened a bottle of wine, of which he kept a small and select supply in a buffet of his own. He drank a glass of the wine and went out on the gallery and offered a glass to his wife. She did not wish any. He drew up the rocker, hoisted his slippered feet on the rail, and proceeded to smoke a cigar. He smoked two cigars; then he went inside and drank another glass of wine. Mrs. Pontellier again declined to accept a glass when it was offered to her. Mr. Pontellier once more seated himself with elevated feet, and after a reasonable interval of time smoked some more cigars. Edna began to feel like one who awakens gradually out of a dream, a delicious, grotesque, impossible dream, to feel again the realities pressing into her soul. The physical need for sleep began to overtake her; the exuberance which had sustained and exalted her spirit left her helpless and yielding to the conditions which crowded her in. The stillest hour of the night had come, the hour before dawn, when the world seems to hold its breath. The moon hung low, and had turned from silver to copper in the sleeping sky. The old owl no longer hooted, and the water-oaks had ceased to moan as they bent their heads. Edna arose, cramped from lying so long and still in the hammock. She tottered up the steps, clutching feebly at the post before passing into the house. "Are you coming in, L once?" she asked, turning her face toward her husband. "Yes, dear," he answered, with a glance following a misty puff of smoke. "Just as soon as I have finished my cigar." XII She slept but a few hours. They were troubled and feverish hours, disturbed with dreams that were intangible, that eluded her, leaving only an impression upon her half-awakened senses of something unattainable. She was up and dressed in the cool of the early morning. The air was invigorating and steadied somewhat her faculties. However, she was not seeking refreshment or help from any source, either external or from within. She was blindly following whatever impulse moved her, as if she had placed herself in alien hands for direction, and freed her soul of responsibility. Most of the people at that early hour were still in bed and asleep. A few, who intended to go over to the _Ch ni re_ for mass, were moving about. The lovers, who had laid their plans the night before, were already strolling toward the wharf. The lady in black, with her Sunday prayer-book, velvet and gold-clasped, and her Sunday silver beads, was following them at no great distance. Old Monsieur Farival was up, and was more than half inclined to do anything that suggested itself. He put on his big straw hat, and taking his umbrella from the stand in the hall, followed the lady in black, never overtaking her. The little negro girl who worked Madame Lebrun's sewing-machine was sweeping the galleries with long, absent-minded strokes of the broom. Edna sent her up into the house to awaken Robert. "Tell him | She let her hand lie listlessly, as though her thoughts were elsewhere somewhere in advance of her body, and she was striving to overtake them. Robert assisted her into the hammock which swung from the post before her door out to the trunk of a tree. "Will you stay out here and wait for Mr. Pontellier?" he asked. "I'll stay out here. Good-night." "Shall I get you a pillow?" "There's one here," she said, feeling about, for they were in the shadow. "It must be soiled; the children have been tumbling it about." "No matter." And having discovered the pillow, she adjusted it beneath her head. She extended herself in the hammock with a deep breath of relief. She was not a supercilious or an over-dainty woman. She was not much given to reclining in the hammock, and when she did so it was with no cat-like suggestion of voluptuous ease, but with a beneficent repose which seemed to invade her whole body. "Shall I stay with you till Mr. Pontellier comes?" asked Robert, seating himself on the outer edge of one of the steps and taking hold of the hammock rope which was fastened to the post. "If you wish. Don't swing the hammock. Will you get my white shawl which I left on the window-sill over at the house?" "Are you chilly?" "No; but I shall be presently." "Presently?" he laughed. "Do you know what time it is? How long are you going to stay out here?" "I don't know. Will you get the shawl?" "Of course I will," he said, rising. He went over to the house, walking along the grass. She watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight. It was past midnight. It was very quiet. When he returned with the shawl she took it and kept it in her hand. She did not put it around her. "Did you say I should stay till Mr. Pontellier came back?" "I said you might if you wished to." He seated himself again and rolled a cigarette, which he smoked in silence. Neither did Mrs. Pontellier speak. No multitude of words could have been more significant than those moments of silence, or more pregnant with the first-felt throbbings of desire. When the voices of the bathers were heard approaching, Robert said good-night. She did not answer him. He thought she was asleep. Again she watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight as he walked away. XI "What are you doing out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in bed," said her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had walked up with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did not reply. "Are you asleep?" he asked, bending down close to look at her. "No." Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as they looked into his. "Do you know it is past one o'clock? Come on," and he mounted the steps and went into their room. "Edna!" called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone by. "Don't wait for me," she answered. He thrust his head through the door. "You will take cold out there,"<|quote|>he said, irritably.</|quote|>"What folly is this? Why don't you come in?" "It isn't cold; I have my shawl." "The mosquitoes will devour you." "There are no mosquitoes." She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience and irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She would, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as we walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life which has been portioned out to us. "Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?" he asked again, this time fondly, with a note of entreaty. "No; I am going to stay out here." "This is more than folly," he blurted out. "I can't permit you to stay out there all night. You must come in the house instantly." With a writhing motion she settled herself more securely in the hammock. She perceived that her will had blazed up, stubborn and resistant. She could not at that moment have done other than denied and resisted. She wondered if her husband had ever spoken to her like that before, and if she had submitted to his command. Of course she had; she remembered that she had. But she could not realize why or how she should have yielded, feeling as she then did. "L once, go to bed," she said, "I mean to stay out here. I don't wish to go in, and I don't intend to. Don't speak to me like that again; I shall not answer you." Mr. Pontellier had prepared for bed, but he slipped on an extra garment. He opened a bottle of wine, of which he kept a small and select supply in a buffet of his own. He drank a glass of the wine and went out on the gallery and offered a glass to his wife. She did not wish any. He drew up the rocker, hoisted his slippered feet on the rail, and proceeded to smoke a cigar. He smoked two cigars; then he went inside and drank another glass of wine. Mrs. Pontellier again declined to accept a glass when it was offered to her. Mr. Pontellier once more seated himself with elevated feet, and after a reasonable interval of time smoked some more cigars. Edna began to feel like one who awakens gradually out of a dream, a delicious, grotesque, impossible dream, to feel again the realities pressing into her soul. The physical need for sleep began to overtake her; the exuberance which had sustained and exalted her spirit left her helpless and yielding to the conditions which crowded her in. The stillest hour of the night had come, the hour before dawn, when the world seems to hold its breath. The moon hung low, and had turned from silver to copper in the | The Awakening |
And, swinging himself, at one jerk, clean out of the big coat, which he left in the Jew's hands, the Dodger snatched up the toasting fork, and made a pass at the merry old gentleman's waistcoat; which, if it had taken effect, would have let a little more merriment out than could have been easily replaced. The Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more agility than could have been anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the pot, prepared to hurl it at his assailant's head. But Charley Bates, at this moment, calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl, he suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full at that young gentleman. | No speaker | go o' me, will you!"<|quote|>And, swinging himself, at one jerk, clean out of the big coat, which he left in the Jew's hands, the Dodger snatched up the toasting fork, and made a pass at the merry old gentleman's waistcoat; which, if it had taken effect, would have let a little more merriment out than could have been easily replaced. The Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more agility than could have been anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the pot, prepared to hurl it at his assailant's head. But Charley Bates, at this moment, calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl, he suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full at that young gentleman.</|quote|>"Why, what the blazes is | the Dodger, sullenly. "Come, let go o' me, will you!"<|quote|>And, swinging himself, at one jerk, clean out of the big coat, which he left in the Jew's hands, the Dodger snatched up the toasting fork, and made a pass at the merry old gentleman's waistcoat; which, if it had taken effect, would have let a little more merriment out than could have been easily replaced. The Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more agility than could have been anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the pot, prepared to hurl it at his assailant's head. But Charley Bates, at this moment, calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl, he suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full at that young gentleman.</|quote|>"Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!" growled | bull and a speaking trumpet. "Will you speak?" thundered the Jew: shaking the Dodger so much that his keeping in the big coat at all, seemed perfectly miraculous. "Why, the traps have got him, and that's all about it," said the Dodger, sullenly. "Come, let go o' me, will you!"<|quote|>And, swinging himself, at one jerk, clean out of the big coat, which he left in the Jew's hands, the Dodger snatched up the toasting fork, and made a pass at the merry old gentleman's waistcoat; which, if it had taken effect, would have let a little more merriment out than could have been easily replaced. The Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more agility than could have been anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the pot, prepared to hurl it at his assailant's head. But Charley Bates, at this moment, calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl, he suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full at that young gentleman.</|quote|>"Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!" growled a deep voice. "Who pitched that 'ere at me? It's well it's the beer, and not the pot, as hit me, or I'd have settled somebody. I might have know'd, as nobody but an infernal, rich, plundering, thundering old Jew | that Charley Bates, who deemed it prudent in all cases to be on the safe side, and who conceived it by no means improbable that it might be his turn to be throttled second, dropped upon his knees, and raised a loud, well-sustained, and continuous roar something between a mad bull and a speaking trumpet. "Will you speak?" thundered the Jew: shaking the Dodger so much that his keeping in the big coat at all, seemed perfectly miraculous. "Why, the traps have got him, and that's all about it," said the Dodger, sullenly. "Come, let go o' me, will you!"<|quote|>And, swinging himself, at one jerk, clean out of the big coat, which he left in the Jew's hands, the Dodger snatched up the toasting fork, and made a pass at the merry old gentleman's waistcoat; which, if it had taken effect, would have let a little more merriment out than could have been easily replaced. The Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more agility than could have been anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the pot, prepared to hurl it at his assailant's head. But Charley Bates, at this moment, calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl, he suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full at that young gentleman.</|quote|>"Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!" growled a deep voice. "Who pitched that 'ere at me? It's well it's the beer, and not the pot, as hit me, or I'd have settled somebody. I might have know'd, as nobody but an infernal, rich, plundering, thundering old Jew could afford to throw away any drink but water and not that, unless he done the River Company every quarter. Wot's it all about, Fagin? D me, if my neck-handkercher an't lined with beer! Come in, you sneaking warmint; wot are you stopping outside for, as if you was ashamed | closing it behind them. CHAPTER XIII. SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES ARE INTRODUCED TO THE INTELLIGENT READER, CONNECTED WITH WHOM VARIOUS PLEASANT MATTERS ARE RELATED, APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY "Where's Oliver?" said the Jew, rising with a menacing look. "Where's the boy?" The young thieves eyed their preceptor as if they were alarmed at his violence; and looked uneasily at each other. But they made no reply. "What's become of the boy?" said the Jew, seizing the Dodger tightly by the collar, and threatening him with horrid imprecations. "Speak out, or I'll throttle you!" Mr. Fagin looked so very much in earnest, that Charley Bates, who deemed it prudent in all cases to be on the safe side, and who conceived it by no means improbable that it might be his turn to be throttled second, dropped upon his knees, and raised a loud, well-sustained, and continuous roar something between a mad bull and a speaking trumpet. "Will you speak?" thundered the Jew: shaking the Dodger so much that his keeping in the big coat at all, seemed perfectly miraculous. "Why, the traps have got him, and that's all about it," said the Dodger, sullenly. "Come, let go o' me, will you!"<|quote|>And, swinging himself, at one jerk, clean out of the big coat, which he left in the Jew's hands, the Dodger snatched up the toasting fork, and made a pass at the merry old gentleman's waistcoat; which, if it had taken effect, would have let a little more merriment out than could have been easily replaced. The Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more agility than could have been anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the pot, prepared to hurl it at his assailant's head. But Charley Bates, at this moment, calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl, he suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full at that young gentleman.</|quote|>"Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!" growled a deep voice. "Who pitched that 'ere at me? It's well it's the beer, and not the pot, as hit me, or I'd have settled somebody. I might have know'd, as nobody but an infernal, rich, plundering, thundering old Jew could afford to throw away any drink but water and not that, unless he done the River Company every quarter. Wot's it all about, Fagin? D me, if my neck-handkercher an't lined with beer! Come in, you sneaking warmint; wot are you stopping outside for, as if you was ashamed of your master! Come in!" The man who growled out these words, was a stoutly-built fellow of about five-and-thirty, in a black velveteen coat, very soiled drab breeches, lace-up half boots, and grey cotton stockings which inclosed a bulky pair of legs, with large swelling calves; the kind of legs, which in such costume, always look in an unfinished and incomplete state without a set of fetters to garnish them. He had a brown hat on his head, and a dirty belcher handkerchief round his neck: with the long frayed ends of which he smeared the beer from his face | This was explanatory, but not satisfactory. Master Bates felt it so; and again said, "What do you mean?" The Dodger made no reply; but putting his hat on again, and gathering the skirts of his long-tailed coat under his arm, thrust his tongue into his cheek, slapped the bridge of his nose some half-dozen times in a familiar but expressive manner, and turning on his heel, slunk down the court. Master Bates followed, with a thoughtful countenance. The noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs, a few minutes after the occurrence of this conversation, roused the merry old gentleman as he sat over the fire with a saveloy and a small loaf in his hand; a pocket-knife in his right; and a pewter pot on the trivet. There was a rascally smile on his white face as he turned round, and looking sharply out from under his thick red eyebrows, bent his ear towards the door, and listened. "Why, how's this?" muttered the Jew: changing countenance; "only two of 'em? Where's the third? They can't have got into trouble. Hark!" The footsteps approached nearer; they reached the landing. The door was slowly opened; and the Dodger and Charley Bates entered, closing it behind them. CHAPTER XIII. SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES ARE INTRODUCED TO THE INTELLIGENT READER, CONNECTED WITH WHOM VARIOUS PLEASANT MATTERS ARE RELATED, APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY "Where's Oliver?" said the Jew, rising with a menacing look. "Where's the boy?" The young thieves eyed their preceptor as if they were alarmed at his violence; and looked uneasily at each other. But they made no reply. "What's become of the boy?" said the Jew, seizing the Dodger tightly by the collar, and threatening him with horrid imprecations. "Speak out, or I'll throttle you!" Mr. Fagin looked so very much in earnest, that Charley Bates, who deemed it prudent in all cases to be on the safe side, and who conceived it by no means improbable that it might be his turn to be throttled second, dropped upon his knees, and raised a loud, well-sustained, and continuous roar something between a mad bull and a speaking trumpet. "Will you speak?" thundered the Jew: shaking the Dodger so much that his keeping in the big coat at all, seemed perfectly miraculous. "Why, the traps have got him, and that's all about it," said the Dodger, sullenly. "Come, let go o' me, will you!"<|quote|>And, swinging himself, at one jerk, clean out of the big coat, which he left in the Jew's hands, the Dodger snatched up the toasting fork, and made a pass at the merry old gentleman's waistcoat; which, if it had taken effect, would have let a little more merriment out than could have been easily replaced. The Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more agility than could have been anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the pot, prepared to hurl it at his assailant's head. But Charley Bates, at this moment, calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl, he suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full at that young gentleman.</|quote|>"Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!" growled a deep voice. "Who pitched that 'ere at me? It's well it's the beer, and not the pot, as hit me, or I'd have settled somebody. I might have know'd, as nobody but an infernal, rich, plundering, thundering old Jew could afford to throw away any drink but water and not that, unless he done the River Company every quarter. Wot's it all about, Fagin? D me, if my neck-handkercher an't lined with beer! Come in, you sneaking warmint; wot are you stopping outside for, as if you was ashamed of your master! Come in!" The man who growled out these words, was a stoutly-built fellow of about five-and-thirty, in a black velveteen coat, very soiled drab breeches, lace-up half boots, and grey cotton stockings which inclosed a bulky pair of legs, with large swelling calves; the kind of legs, which in such costume, always look in an unfinished and incomplete state without a set of fetters to garnish them. He had a brown hat on his head, and a dirty belcher handkerchief round his neck: with the long frayed ends of which he smeared the beer from his face as he spoke. He disclosed, when he had done so, a broad heavy countenance with a beard of three days' growth, and two scowling eyes; one of which displayed various parti-coloured symptoms of having been recently damaged by a blow. "Come in, d'ye hear?" growled this engaging ruffian. A white shaggy dog, with his face scratched and torn in twenty different places, skulked into the room. "Why didn't you come in afore?" said the man. "You're getting too proud to own me afore company, are you? Lie down!" This command was accompanied with a kick, which sent the animal to the other end of the room. He appeared well used to it, however; for he coiled himself up in a corner very quietly, without uttering a sound, and winking his very ill-looking eyes twenty times in a minute, appeared to occupy himself in taking a survey of the apartment. "What are you up to? Ill-treating the boys, you covetous, avaricious, in-sa-ti-a-ble old fence?" said the man, seating himself deliberately. "I wonder they don't murder you! I would if I was them. If I'd been your 'prentice, I'd have done it long ago, and no, I couldn't have sold you afterwards, | practice of many mighty philosophers, in carrying out their theories, to evince great wisdom and foresight in providing against every possible contingency which can be supposed at all likely to affect themselves. Thus, to do a great right, you may do a little wrong; and you may take any means which the end to be attained, will justify; the amount of the right, or the amount of the wrong, or indeed the distinction between the two, being left entirely to the philosopher concerned, to be settled and determined by his clear, comprehensive, and impartial view of his own particular case. It was not until the two boys had scoured, with great rapidity, through a most intricate maze of narrow streets and courts, that they ventured to halt beneath a low and dark archway. Having remained silent here, just long enough to recover breath to speak, Master Bates uttered an exclamation of amusement and delight; and, bursting into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, flung himself upon a doorstep, and rolled thereon in a transport of mirth. "What's the matter?" inquired the Dodger. "Ha! ha! ha!" roared Charley Bates. "Hold your noise," remonstrated the Dodger, looking cautiously round. "Do you want to be grabbed, stupid?" "I can't help it," said Charley, "I can't help it! To see him splitting away at that pace, and cutting round the corners, and knocking up again' the posts, and starting on again as if he was made of iron as well as them, and me with the wipe in my pocket, singing out arter him oh, my eye!" The vivid imagination of Master Bates presented the scene before him in too strong colours. As he arrived at this apostrophe, he again rolled upon the door-step, and laughed louder than before. "What'll Fagin say?" inquired the Dodger; taking advantage of the next interval of breathlessness on the part of his friend to propound the question. "What?" repeated Charley Bates. "Ah, what?" said the Dodger. "Why, what should he say?" inquired Charley: stopping rather suddenly in his merriment; for the Dodger's manner was impressive. "What should he say?" Mr. Dawkins whistled for a couple of minutes; then, taking off his hat, scratched his head, and nodded thrice. "What do you mean?" said Charley. "Toor rul lol loo, gammon and spinnage, the frog he wouldn't, and high cockolorum," said the Dodger: with a slight sneer on his intellectual countenance. This was explanatory, but not satisfactory. Master Bates felt it so; and again said, "What do you mean?" The Dodger made no reply; but putting his hat on again, and gathering the skirts of his long-tailed coat under his arm, thrust his tongue into his cheek, slapped the bridge of his nose some half-dozen times in a familiar but expressive manner, and turning on his heel, slunk down the court. Master Bates followed, with a thoughtful countenance. The noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs, a few minutes after the occurrence of this conversation, roused the merry old gentleman as he sat over the fire with a saveloy and a small loaf in his hand; a pocket-knife in his right; and a pewter pot on the trivet. There was a rascally smile on his white face as he turned round, and looking sharply out from under his thick red eyebrows, bent his ear towards the door, and listened. "Why, how's this?" muttered the Jew: changing countenance; "only two of 'em? Where's the third? They can't have got into trouble. Hark!" The footsteps approached nearer; they reached the landing. The door was slowly opened; and the Dodger and Charley Bates entered, closing it behind them. CHAPTER XIII. SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES ARE INTRODUCED TO THE INTELLIGENT READER, CONNECTED WITH WHOM VARIOUS PLEASANT MATTERS ARE RELATED, APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY "Where's Oliver?" said the Jew, rising with a menacing look. "Where's the boy?" The young thieves eyed their preceptor as if they were alarmed at his violence; and looked uneasily at each other. But they made no reply. "What's become of the boy?" said the Jew, seizing the Dodger tightly by the collar, and threatening him with horrid imprecations. "Speak out, or I'll throttle you!" Mr. Fagin looked so very much in earnest, that Charley Bates, who deemed it prudent in all cases to be on the safe side, and who conceived it by no means improbable that it might be his turn to be throttled second, dropped upon his knees, and raised a loud, well-sustained, and continuous roar something between a mad bull and a speaking trumpet. "Will you speak?" thundered the Jew: shaking the Dodger so much that his keeping in the big coat at all, seemed perfectly miraculous. "Why, the traps have got him, and that's all about it," said the Dodger, sullenly. "Come, let go o' me, will you!"<|quote|>And, swinging himself, at one jerk, clean out of the big coat, which he left in the Jew's hands, the Dodger snatched up the toasting fork, and made a pass at the merry old gentleman's waistcoat; which, if it had taken effect, would have let a little more merriment out than could have been easily replaced. The Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more agility than could have been anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the pot, prepared to hurl it at his assailant's head. But Charley Bates, at this moment, calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl, he suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full at that young gentleman.</|quote|>"Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!" growled a deep voice. "Who pitched that 'ere at me? It's well it's the beer, and not the pot, as hit me, or I'd have settled somebody. I might have know'd, as nobody but an infernal, rich, plundering, thundering old Jew could afford to throw away any drink but water and not that, unless he done the River Company every quarter. Wot's it all about, Fagin? D me, if my neck-handkercher an't lined with beer! Come in, you sneaking warmint; wot are you stopping outside for, as if you was ashamed of your master! Come in!" The man who growled out these words, was a stoutly-built fellow of about five-and-thirty, in a black velveteen coat, very soiled drab breeches, lace-up half boots, and grey cotton stockings which inclosed a bulky pair of legs, with large swelling calves; the kind of legs, which in such costume, always look in an unfinished and incomplete state without a set of fetters to garnish them. He had a brown hat on his head, and a dirty belcher handkerchief round his neck: with the long frayed ends of which he smeared the beer from his face as he spoke. He disclosed, when he had done so, a broad heavy countenance with a beard of three days' growth, and two scowling eyes; one of which displayed various parti-coloured symptoms of having been recently damaged by a blow. "Come in, d'ye hear?" growled this engaging ruffian. A white shaggy dog, with his face scratched and torn in twenty different places, skulked into the room. "Why didn't you come in afore?" said the man. "You're getting too proud to own me afore company, are you? Lie down!" This command was accompanied with a kick, which sent the animal to the other end of the room. He appeared well used to it, however; for he coiled himself up in a corner very quietly, without uttering a sound, and winking his very ill-looking eyes twenty times in a minute, appeared to occupy himself in taking a survey of the apartment. "What are you up to? Ill-treating the boys, you covetous, avaricious, in-sa-ti-a-ble old fence?" said the man, seating himself deliberately. "I wonder they don't murder you! I would if I was them. If I'd been your 'prentice, I'd have done it long ago, and no, I couldn't have sold you afterwards, for you're fit for nothing but keeping as a curiousity of ugliness in a glass bottle, and I suppose they don't blow glass bottles large enough." "Hush! hush! Mr. Sikes," said the Jew, trembling; "don't speak so loud!" "None of your mistering," replied the ruffian; "you always mean mischief when you come that. You know my name: out with it! I shan't disgrace it when the time comes." "Well, well, then Bill Sikes," said the Jew, with abject humility. "You seem out of humour, Bill." "Perhaps I am," replied Sikes; "I should think you was rather out of sorts too, unless you mean as little harm when you throw pewter pots about, as you do when you blab and" "Are you mad?" said the Jew, catching the man by the sleeve, and pointing towards the boys. Mr. Sikes contented himself with tying an imaginary knot under his left ear, and jerking his head over on the right shoulder; a piece of dumb show which the Jew appeared to understand perfectly. He then, in cant terms, with which his whole conversation was plentifully besprinkled, but which would be quite unintelligible if they were recorded here, demanded a glass of liquor. "And mind you don't poison it," said Mr. Sikes, laying his hat upon the table. This was said in jest; but if the speaker could have seen the evil leer with which the Jew bit his pale lip as he turned round to the cupboard, he might have thought the caution not wholly unnecessary, or the wish (at all events) to improve upon the distiller's ingenuity not very far from the old gentleman's merry heart. After swallowing two of three glasses of spirits, Mr. Sikes condescended to take some notice of the young gentlemen; which gracious act led to a conversation, in which the cause and manner of Oliver's capture were circumstantially detailed, with such alterations and improvements on the truth, as to the Dodger appeared most advisable under the circumstances. "I'm afraid," said the Jew, "that he may say something which will get us into trouble." "That's very likely," returned Sikes with a malicious grin. "You're blowed upon, Fagin." "And I'm afraid, you see," added the Jew, speaking as if he had not noticed the interruption; and regarding the other closely as he did so, "I'm afraid that, if the game was up with us, it might be up with | of his nose some half-dozen times in a familiar but expressive manner, and turning on his heel, slunk down the court. Master Bates followed, with a thoughtful countenance. The noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs, a few minutes after the occurrence of this conversation, roused the merry old gentleman as he sat over the fire with a saveloy and a small loaf in his hand; a pocket-knife in his right; and a pewter pot on the trivet. There was a rascally smile on his white face as he turned round, and looking sharply out from under his thick red eyebrows, bent his ear towards the door, and listened. "Why, how's this?" muttered the Jew: changing countenance; "only two of 'em? Where's the third? They can't have got into trouble. Hark!" The footsteps approached nearer; they reached the landing. The door was slowly opened; and the Dodger and Charley Bates entered, closing it behind them. CHAPTER XIII. SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES ARE INTRODUCED TO THE INTELLIGENT READER, CONNECTED WITH WHOM VARIOUS PLEASANT MATTERS ARE RELATED, APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY "Where's Oliver?" said the Jew, rising with a menacing look. "Where's the boy?" The young thieves eyed their preceptor as if they were alarmed at his violence; and looked uneasily at each other. But they made no reply. "What's become of the boy?" said the Jew, seizing the Dodger tightly by the collar, and threatening him with horrid imprecations. "Speak out, or I'll throttle you!" Mr. Fagin looked so very much in earnest, that Charley Bates, who deemed it prudent in all cases to be on the safe side, and who conceived it by no means improbable that it might be his turn to be throttled second, dropped upon his knees, and raised a loud, well-sustained, and continuous roar something between a mad bull and a speaking trumpet. "Will you speak?" thundered the Jew: shaking the Dodger so much that his keeping in the big coat at all, seemed perfectly miraculous. "Why, the traps have got him, and that's all about it," said the Dodger, sullenly. "Come, let go o' me, will you!"<|quote|>And, swinging himself, at one jerk, clean out of the big coat, which he left in the Jew's hands, the Dodger snatched up the toasting fork, and made a pass at the merry old gentleman's waistcoat; which, if it had taken effect, would have let a little more merriment out than could have been easily replaced. The Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more agility than could have been anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the pot, prepared to hurl it at his assailant's head. But Charley Bates, at this moment, calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl, he suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full at that young gentleman.</|quote|>"Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!" growled a deep voice. "Who pitched that 'ere at me? It's well it's the beer, and not the pot, as hit me, or I'd have settled somebody. I might have know'd, as nobody but an infernal, rich, plundering, thundering old Jew could afford to throw away any drink but water and not that, unless he done the River Company every quarter. Wot's it all about, Fagin? D me, if my neck-handkercher an't lined with beer! Come in, you sneaking warmint; wot are you stopping outside for, as if you was ashamed of your master! Come in!" The man who growled out these words, was a stoutly-built fellow of about five-and-thirty, in a black velveteen coat, very soiled drab breeches, lace-up half boots, and grey cotton stockings which inclosed a bulky pair of legs, with large swelling calves; the kind of legs, which in such costume, always look in an unfinished and incomplete state without a set of fetters to garnish them. He had a brown hat on his head, and a dirty belcher handkerchief round his neck: with the long frayed ends of which he smeared the beer from his face as he spoke. He disclosed, when he had done so, a broad heavy | Oliver Twist |
"What I say," | Eeyore | at the end, after Eeyore."<|quote|>"What I say,"</|quote|>said Eeyore, "is that it's | always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore."<|quote|>"What I say,"</|quote|>said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to | Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore."<|quote|>"What I say,"</|quote|>said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit | He just said it had an 'x'." "It isn't their necks I mind," said Piglet earnestly. "It's their teeth. But if Christopher Robin is coming I don't mind anything." In a little while they were all ready at the top of the Forest, and the Expotition started. First came Christopher Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore."<|quote|>"What I say,"</|quote|>said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody," | down to Piglet's house. The Piglet was sitting on the ground at the door of his house blowing happily at a dandelion, and wondering whether it would be this year, next year, sometime or never. He had just discovered that it would be never, and was trying to remember what "_it_" was, and hoping it wasn't anything nice, when Pooh came up. "Oh! Piglet," said Pooh excitedly, "we're going on an Expotition, all of us, with things to eat. To discover something." "To discover what?" said Piglet anxiously. "Oh! just something." "Nothing fierce?" "Christopher Robin didn't say anything about fierce. He just said it had an 'x'." "It isn't their necks I mind," said Piglet earnestly. "It's their teeth. But if Christopher Robin is coming I don't mind anything." In a little while they were all ready at the top of the Forest, and the Expotition started. First came Christopher Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore."<|quote|>"What I say,"</|quote|>said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody," said Eeyore. "I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher Robin. "Come on!" called Pooh and Piglet "Come on!" called Owl. "We're starting," said Rabbit. "I must go." And he hurried off to the front of the Expotition with Christopher Robin. "All right," said Eeyore. "We're going. Only Don't Blame Me." So off they all went to discover | Pooh. "Are bears any good at discovering it?" "Of course they are. And Rabbit and Kanga and all of you. It's an Expedition. That's what an Expedition means. A long line of everybody. You'd better tell the others to get ready, while I see if my gun's all right. And we must all bring Provisions." "Bring what?" "Things to eat." "Oh!" said Pooh happily. "I thought you said Provisions. I'll go and tell them." And he stumped off. The first person he met was Rabbit. "Hallo, Rabbit," he said, "is that you?" "Let's pretend it isn't," said Rabbit, "and see what happens." "I've got a message for you." "I'll give it to him." "We're all going on an Expotition with Christopher Robin!" "What is it when we're on it?" "A sort of boat, I think," said Pooh. "Oh! that sort." "Yes. And we're going to discover a Pole or something. Or was it a Mole? Anyhow we're going to discover it." "We are, are we?" said Rabbit. "Yes. And we've got to bring Pro--things to eat with us. In case we want to eat them. Now I'm going down to Piglet's. Tell Kanga, will you?" He left Rabbit and hurried down to Piglet's house. The Piglet was sitting on the ground at the door of his house blowing happily at a dandelion, and wondering whether it would be this year, next year, sometime or never. He had just discovered that it would be never, and was trying to remember what "_it_" was, and hoping it wasn't anything nice, when Pooh came up. "Oh! Piglet," said Pooh excitedly, "we're going on an Expotition, all of us, with things to eat. To discover something." "To discover what?" said Piglet anxiously. "Oh! just something." "Nothing fierce?" "Christopher Robin didn't say anything about fierce. He just said it had an 'x'." "It isn't their necks I mind," said Piglet earnestly. "It's their teeth. But if Christopher Robin is coming I don't mind anything." In a little while they were all ready at the top of the Forest, and the Expotition started. First came Christopher Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore."<|quote|>"What I say,"</|quote|>said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody," said Eeyore. "I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher Robin. "Come on!" called Pooh and Piglet "Come on!" called Owl. "We're starting," said Rabbit. "I must go." And he hurried off to the front of the Expotition with Christopher Robin. "All right," said Eeyore. "We're going. Only Don't Blame Me." So off they all went to discover the Pole. And as they walked, they chattered to each other of this and that, all except Pooh, who was making up a song. "This is the first verse," he said to Piglet, when he was ready with it. "First verse of what?" "My song." "What song?" "This one." "Which one?" "Well, if you listen, Piglet, you'll hear it." "How do you know I'm not listening?" Pooh couldn't answer that one, so he began 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 | and fourth lines before I have time to think of them, and that will be a Good Song. Now then:" "Sing Ho! for the life of a Bear! Sing Ho! for the life of a Bear! I don't much mind if it rains or snows, 'Cos I've got a lot of honey on my nice new nose, I don't much care if it snows or thaws, 'Cos I've got a lot of honey on my nice clean paws! Sing Ho! for a Bear! Sing Ho! for a Pooh! And I'll have a little something in an hour or two!" He was so pleased with this song that he sang it all the way to the top of the Forest, "and if I go on singing it much longer," he thought, "it will be time for the little something, and then the last line won't be true." So he turned it into a hum instead. Christopher Robin was sitting outside his door, putting on his Big Boots. As soon as he saw the Big Boots, Pooh knew that an Adventure was going to happen, and he brushed the honey off his nose with the back of his paw, and spruced himself up as well as he could, so as to look Ready for Anything. "Good-morning, Christopher Robin," he called out. "Hallo, Pooh Bear. I can't get this boot on." "That's bad," said Pooh. "Do you think you could very kindly lean against me, 'cos I keep pulling so hard that I fall over backwards." Pooh sat down, dug his feet into the ground, and pushed hard against Christopher Robin's back, and Christopher Robin pushed hard against his, and pulled and pulled at his boot until he had got it on. "And that's that," said Pooh. "What do we do next?" "We are all going on an Expedition," said Christopher Robin, as he got up and brushed himself. "Thank you, Pooh." "Going on an Expotition?" said Pooh eagerly. "I don't think I've ever been on one of those. Where are we going to on this Expotition?" "Expedition, silly old Bear. It's got an 'x' in it." "Oh!" said Pooh. "I know." But he didn't really. "We're going to discover the North Pole." "Oh!" said Pooh again. "What _is_ the North Pole?" he asked. "It's just a thing you discover," said Christopher Robin carelessly, not being quite sure himself. "Oh! I see," said Pooh. "Are bears any good at discovering it?" "Of course they are. And Rabbit and Kanga and all of you. It's an Expedition. That's what an Expedition means. A long line of everybody. You'd better tell the others to get ready, while I see if my gun's all right. And we must all bring Provisions." "Bring what?" "Things to eat." "Oh!" said Pooh happily. "I thought you said Provisions. I'll go and tell them." And he stumped off. The first person he met was Rabbit. "Hallo, Rabbit," he said, "is that you?" "Let's pretend it isn't," said Rabbit, "and see what happens." "I've got a message for you." "I'll give it to him." "We're all going on an Expotition with Christopher Robin!" "What is it when we're on it?" "A sort of boat, I think," said Pooh. "Oh! that sort." "Yes. And we're going to discover a Pole or something. Or was it a Mole? Anyhow we're going to discover it." "We are, are we?" said Rabbit. "Yes. And we've got to bring Pro--things to eat with us. In case we want to eat them. Now I'm going down to Piglet's. Tell Kanga, will you?" He left Rabbit and hurried down to Piglet's house. The Piglet was sitting on the ground at the door of his house blowing happily at a dandelion, and wondering whether it would be this year, next year, sometime or never. He had just discovered that it would be never, and was trying to remember what "_it_" was, and hoping it wasn't anything nice, when Pooh came up. "Oh! Piglet," said Pooh excitedly, "we're going on an Expotition, all of us, with things to eat. To discover something." "To discover what?" said Piglet anxiously. "Oh! just something." "Nothing fierce?" "Christopher Robin didn't say anything about fierce. He just said it had an 'x'." "It isn't their necks I mind," said Piglet earnestly. "It's their teeth. But if Christopher Robin is coming I don't mind anything." In a little while they were all ready at the top of the Forest, and the Expotition started. First came Christopher Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore."<|quote|>"What I say,"</|quote|>said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody," said Eeyore. "I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher Robin. "Come on!" called Pooh and Piglet "Come on!" called Owl. "We're starting," said Rabbit. "I must go." And he hurried off to the front of the Expotition with Christopher Robin. "All right," said Eeyore. "We're going. Only Don't Blame Me." So off they all went to discover the Pole. And as they walked, they chattered to each other of this and that, all except Pooh, who was making up a song. "This is the first verse," he said to Piglet, when he was ready with it. "First verse of what?" "My song." "What song?" "This one." "Which one?" "Well, if you listen, Piglet, you'll hear it." "How do you know I'm not listening?" Pooh couldn't answer that one, so he began 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 | means. A long line of everybody. You'd better tell the others to get ready, while I see if my gun's all right. And we must all bring Provisions." "Bring what?" "Things to eat." "Oh!" said Pooh happily. "I thought you said Provisions. I'll go and tell them." And he stumped off. The first person he met was Rabbit. "Hallo, Rabbit," he said, "is that you?" "Let's pretend it isn't," said Rabbit, "and see what happens." "I've got a message for you." "I'll give it to him." "We're all going on an Expotition with Christopher Robin!" "What is it when we're on it?" "A sort of boat, I think," said Pooh. "Oh! that sort." "Yes. And we're going to discover a Pole or something. Or was it a Mole? Anyhow we're going to discover it." "We are, are we?" said Rabbit. "Yes. And we've got to bring Pro--things to eat with us. In case we want to eat them. Now I'm going down to Piglet's. Tell Kanga, will you?" He left Rabbit and hurried down to Piglet's house. The Piglet was sitting on the ground at the door of his house blowing happily at a dandelion, and wondering whether it would be this year, next year, sometime or never. He had just discovered that it would be never, and was trying to remember what "_it_" was, and hoping it wasn't anything nice, when Pooh came up. "Oh! Piglet," said Pooh excitedly, "we're going on an Expotition, all of us, with things to eat. To discover something." "To discover what?" said Piglet anxiously. "Oh! just something." "Nothing fierce?" "Christopher Robin didn't say anything about fierce. He just said it had an 'x'." "It isn't their necks I mind," said Piglet earnestly. "It's their teeth. But if Christopher Robin is coming I don't mind anything." In a little while they were all ready at the top of the Forest, and the Expotition started. First came Christopher Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore."<|quote|>"What I say,"</|quote|>said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody," said Eeyore. "I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher Robin. "Come on!" called Pooh and Piglet "Come on!" called Owl. "We're starting," said Rabbit. "I must go." And he hurried off to the front of the Expotition with Christopher Robin. "All right," said Eeyore. "We're going. Only Don't Blame Me." So off they all went to discover the Pole. And as they walked, they chattered to each other of this and that, all except Pooh, who was making up a song. "This is the first verse," he said to Piglet, when he was ready with it. "First verse of what?" "My song." "What song?" "This one." "Which one?" "Well, if you listen, Piglet, you'll hear it." "How do you know I'm not listening?" Pooh couldn't answer that one, so he began 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 | Winnie The Pooh |
"I do think you were very much to be pitied," | _unknowable | upon my word" "; and,<|quote|>"I do think you were very much to be pitied,"</|quote|>were the kind responses of | "It was a hard case, upon my word" "; and,<|quote|>"I do think you were very much to be pitied,"</|quote|>were the kind responses of listening sympathy. "It is not | Sir Henry such a stick. Luckily the strength of the piece did not depend upon him. Our Agatha was inimitable, and the duke was thought very great by many. And upon the whole, it would certainly have gone off wonderfully." "It was a hard case, upon my word" "; and,<|quote|>"I do think you were very much to be pitied,"</|quote|>were the kind responses of listening sympathy. "It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the poor old dowager could not have died at a worse time; and it is impossible to help wishing that the news could have been suppressed for just the three days we wanted. | It must have injured the piece materially; but _I_ was resolved to make no difficulties. Sir Henry thought the duke not equal to Frederick, but that was because Sir Henry wanted the part himself; whereas it was certainly in the best hands of the two. I was surprised to see Sir Henry such a stick. Luckily the strength of the piece did not depend upon him. Our Agatha was inimitable, and the duke was thought very great by many. And upon the whole, it would certainly have gone off wonderfully." "It was a hard case, upon my word" "; and,<|quote|>"I do think you were very much to be pitied,"</|quote|>were the kind responses of listening sympathy. "It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the poor old dowager could not have died at a worse time; and it is impossible to help wishing that the news could have been suppressed for just the three days we wanted. It was but three days; and being only a grandmother, and all happening two hundred miles off, I think there would have been no great harm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw, who I suppose is one of the most correct men in England, would not hear | part," said he, "and not at all to my taste, and such a one as I certainly would not accept again; but I was determined to make no difficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had appropriated the only two characters worth playing before I reached Ecclesford; and though Lord Ravenshaw offered to resign his to me, it was impossible to take it, you know. I was sorry for _him_ that he should have so mistaken his powers, for he was no more equal to the Baron a little man with a weak voice, always hoarse after the first ten minutes. It must have injured the piece materially; but _I_ was resolved to make no difficulties. Sir Henry thought the duke not equal to Frederick, but that was because Sir Henry wanted the part himself; whereas it was certainly in the best hands of the two. I was surprised to see Sir Henry such a stick. Luckily the strength of the piece did not depend upon him. Our Agatha was inimitable, and the duke was thought very great by many. And upon the whole, it would certainly have gone off wonderfully." "It was a hard case, upon my word" "; and,<|quote|>"I do think you were very much to be pitied,"</|quote|>were the kind responses of listening sympathy. "It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the poor old dowager could not have died at a worse time; and it is impossible to help wishing that the news could have been suppressed for just the three days we wanted. It was but three days; and being only a grandmother, and all happening two hundred miles off, I think there would have been no great harm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw, who I suppose is one of the most correct men in England, would not hear of it." "An afterpiece instead of a comedy," said Mr. Bertram. "Lovers' Vows were at an end, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw left to act My Grandmother by themselves. Well, the jointure may comfort _him_; and perhaps, between friends, he began to tremble for his credit and his lungs in the Baron, and was not sorry to withdraw; and to make _you_ amends, Yates, I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you to be our manager." This, though the thought of the moment, did not end with the moment; for the inclination to act was | days of representation, when the sudden death of one of the nearest connexions of the family had destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers. To be so near happiness, so near fame, so near the long paragraph in praise of the private theatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw, in Cornwall, which would of course have immortalised the whole party for at least a twelvemonth! and being so near, to lose it all, was an injury to be keenly felt, and Mr. Yates could talk of nothing else. Ecclesford and its theatre, with its arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing subject, and to boast of the past his only consolation. Happily for him, a love of the theatre is so general, an itch for acting so strong among young people, that he could hardly out-talk the interest of his hearers. From the first casting of the parts to the epilogue it was all bewitching, and there were few who did not wish to have been a party concerned, or would have hesitated to try their skill. The play had been Lovers' Vows, and Mr. Yates was to have been Count Cassel. "A trifling part," said he, "and not at all to my taste, and such a one as I certainly would not accept again; but I was determined to make no difficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had appropriated the only two characters worth playing before I reached Ecclesford; and though Lord Ravenshaw offered to resign his to me, it was impossible to take it, you know. I was sorry for _him_ that he should have so mistaken his powers, for he was no more equal to the Baron a little man with a weak voice, always hoarse after the first ten minutes. It must have injured the piece materially; but _I_ was resolved to make no difficulties. Sir Henry thought the duke not equal to Frederick, but that was because Sir Henry wanted the part himself; whereas it was certainly in the best hands of the two. I was surprised to see Sir Henry such a stick. Luckily the strength of the piece did not depend upon him. Our Agatha was inimitable, and the duke was thought very great by many. And upon the whole, it would certainly have gone off wonderfully." "It was a hard case, upon my word" "; and,<|quote|>"I do think you were very much to be pitied,"</|quote|>were the kind responses of listening sympathy. "It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the poor old dowager could not have died at a worse time; and it is impossible to help wishing that the news could have been suppressed for just the three days we wanted. It was but three days; and being only a grandmother, and all happening two hundred miles off, I think there would have been no great harm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw, who I suppose is one of the most correct men in England, would not hear of it." "An afterpiece instead of a comedy," said Mr. Bertram. "Lovers' Vows were at an end, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw left to act My Grandmother by themselves. Well, the jointure may comfort _him_; and perhaps, between friends, he began to tremble for his credit and his lungs in the Baron, and was not sorry to withdraw; and to make _you_ amends, Yates, I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you to be our manager." This, though the thought of the moment, did not end with the moment; for the inclination to act was awakened, and in no one more strongly than in him who was now master of the house; and who, having so much leisure as to make almost any novelty a certain good, had likewise such a degree of lively talents and comic taste, as were exactly adapted to the novelty of acting. The thought returned again and again. "Oh for the Ecclesford theatre and scenery to try something with." Each sister could echo the wish; and Henry Crawford, to whom, in all the riot of his gratifications it was yet an untasted pleasure, was quite alive at the idea. "I really believe," said he, "I could be fool enough at this moment to undertake any character that ever was written, from Shylock or Richard III down to the singing hero of a farce in his scarlet coat and cocked hat. I feel as if I could be anything or everything; as if I could rant and storm, or sigh or cut capers, in any tragedy or comedy in the English language. Let us be doing something. Be it only half a play, an act, a scene; what should prevent us? Not these countenances, I am sure," looking towards the Miss | moment going to dance. Come, Fanny," taking her hand, "do not be dawdling any longer, or the dance will be over." Fanny was led off very willingly, though it was impossible for her to feel much gratitude towards her cousin, or distinguish, as he certainly did, between the selfishness of another person and his own. "A pretty modest request upon my word," he indignantly exclaimed as they walked away. "To want to nail me to a card-table for the next two hours with herself and Dr. Grant, who are always quarrelling, and that poking old woman, who knows no more of whist than of algebra. I wish my good aunt would be a little less busy! And to ask me in such a way too! without ceremony, before them all, so as to leave me no possibility of refusing. _That_ is what I dislike most particularly. It raises my spleen more than anything, to have the pretence of being asked, of being given a choice, and at the same time addressed in such a way as to oblige one to do the very thing, whatever it be! If I had not luckily thought of standing up with you I could not have got out of it. It is a great deal too bad. But when my aunt has got a fancy in her head, nothing can stop her." CHAPTER XIII The Honourable John Yates, this new friend, had not much to recommend him beyond habits of fashion and expense, and being the younger son of a lord with a tolerable independence; and Sir Thomas would probably have thought his introduction at Mansfield by no means desirable. Mr. Bertram's acquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth, where they had spent ten days together in the same society, and the friendship, if friendship it might be called, had been proved and perfected by Mr. Yates's being invited to take Mansfield in his way, whenever he could, and by his promising to come; and he did come rather earlier than had been expected, in consequence of the sudden breaking-up of a large party assembled for gaiety at the house of another friend, which he had left Weymouth to join. He came on the wings of disappointment, and with his head full of acting, for it had been a theatrical party; and the play in which he had borne a part was within two days of representation, when the sudden death of one of the nearest connexions of the family had destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers. To be so near happiness, so near fame, so near the long paragraph in praise of the private theatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw, in Cornwall, which would of course have immortalised the whole party for at least a twelvemonth! and being so near, to lose it all, was an injury to be keenly felt, and Mr. Yates could talk of nothing else. Ecclesford and its theatre, with its arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing subject, and to boast of the past his only consolation. Happily for him, a love of the theatre is so general, an itch for acting so strong among young people, that he could hardly out-talk the interest of his hearers. From the first casting of the parts to the epilogue it was all bewitching, and there were few who did not wish to have been a party concerned, or would have hesitated to try their skill. The play had been Lovers' Vows, and Mr. Yates was to have been Count Cassel. "A trifling part," said he, "and not at all to my taste, and such a one as I certainly would not accept again; but I was determined to make no difficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had appropriated the only two characters worth playing before I reached Ecclesford; and though Lord Ravenshaw offered to resign his to me, it was impossible to take it, you know. I was sorry for _him_ that he should have so mistaken his powers, for he was no more equal to the Baron a little man with a weak voice, always hoarse after the first ten minutes. It must have injured the piece materially; but _I_ was resolved to make no difficulties. Sir Henry thought the duke not equal to Frederick, but that was because Sir Henry wanted the part himself; whereas it was certainly in the best hands of the two. I was surprised to see Sir Henry such a stick. Luckily the strength of the piece did not depend upon him. Our Agatha was inimitable, and the duke was thought very great by many. And upon the whole, it would certainly have gone off wonderfully." "It was a hard case, upon my word" "; and,<|quote|>"I do think you were very much to be pitied,"</|quote|>were the kind responses of listening sympathy. "It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the poor old dowager could not have died at a worse time; and it is impossible to help wishing that the news could have been suppressed for just the three days we wanted. It was but three days; and being only a grandmother, and all happening two hundred miles off, I think there would have been no great harm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw, who I suppose is one of the most correct men in England, would not hear of it." "An afterpiece instead of a comedy," said Mr. Bertram. "Lovers' Vows were at an end, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw left to act My Grandmother by themselves. Well, the jointure may comfort _him_; and perhaps, between friends, he began to tremble for his credit and his lungs in the Baron, and was not sorry to withdraw; and to make _you_ amends, Yates, I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you to be our manager." This, though the thought of the moment, did not end with the moment; for the inclination to act was awakened, and in no one more strongly than in him who was now master of the house; and who, having so much leisure as to make almost any novelty a certain good, had likewise such a degree of lively talents and comic taste, as were exactly adapted to the novelty of acting. The thought returned again and again. "Oh for the Ecclesford theatre and scenery to try something with." Each sister could echo the wish; and Henry Crawford, to whom, in all the riot of his gratifications it was yet an untasted pleasure, was quite alive at the idea. "I really believe," said he, "I could be fool enough at this moment to undertake any character that ever was written, from Shylock or Richard III down to the singing hero of a farce in his scarlet coat and cocked hat. I feel as if I could be anything or everything; as if I could rant and storm, or sigh or cut capers, in any tragedy or comedy in the English language. Let us be doing something. Be it only half a play, an act, a scene; what should prevent us? Not these countenances, I am sure," looking towards the Miss Bertrams; "and for a theatre, what signifies a theatre? We shall be only amusing ourselves. Any room in this house might suffice." "We must have a curtain," said Tom Bertram; "a few yards of green baize for a curtain, and perhaps that may be enough." "Oh, quite enough," cried Mr. Yates, "with only just a side wing or two run up, doors in flat, and three or four scenes to be let down; nothing more would be necessary on such a plan as this. For mere amusement among ourselves we should want nothing more." "I believe we must be satisfied with _less_," said Maria. "There would not be time, and other difficulties would arise. We must rather adopt Mr. Crawford's views, and make the _performance_, not the _theatre_, our object. Many parts of our best plays are independent of scenery." "Nay," said Edmund, who began to listen with alarm. "Let us do nothing by halves. If we are to act, let it be in a theatre completely fitted up with pit, boxes, and gallery, and let us have a play entire from beginning to end; so as it be a German play, no matter what, with a good tricking, shifting afterpiece, and a figure-dance, and a hornpipe, and a song between the acts. If we do not outdo Ecclesford, we do nothing." "Now, Edmund, do not be disagreeable," said Julia. "Nobody loves a play better than you do, or can have gone much farther to see one." "True, to see real acting, good hardened real acting; but I would hardly walk from this room to the next to look at the raw efforts of those who have not been bred to the trade: a set of gentlemen and ladies, who have all the disadvantages of education and decorum to struggle through." After a short pause, however, the subject still continued, and was discussed with unabated eagerness, every one's inclination increasing by the discussion, and a knowledge of the inclination of the rest; and though nothing was settled but that Tom Bertram would prefer a comedy, and his sisters and Henry Crawford a tragedy, and that nothing in the world could be easier than to find a piece which would please them all, the resolution to act something or other seemed so decided as to make Edmund quite uncomfortable. He was determined to prevent it, if possible, though his mother, who | at Mansfield by no means desirable. Mr. Bertram's acquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth, where they had spent ten days together in the same society, and the friendship, if friendship it might be called, had been proved and perfected by Mr. Yates's being invited to take Mansfield in his way, whenever he could, and by his promising to come; and he did come rather earlier than had been expected, in consequence of the sudden breaking-up of a large party assembled for gaiety at the house of another friend, which he had left Weymouth to join. He came on the wings of disappointment, and with his head full of acting, for it had been a theatrical party; and the play in which he had borne a part was within two days of representation, when the sudden death of one of the nearest connexions of the family had destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers. To be so near happiness, so near fame, so near the long paragraph in praise of the private theatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw, in Cornwall, which would of course have immortalised the whole party for at least a twelvemonth! and being so near, to lose it all, was an injury to be keenly felt, and Mr. Yates could talk of nothing else. Ecclesford and its theatre, with its arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing subject, and to boast of the past his only consolation. Happily for him, a love of the theatre is so general, an itch for acting so strong among young people, that he could hardly out-talk the interest of his hearers. From the first casting of the parts to the epilogue it was all bewitching, and there were few who did not wish to have been a party concerned, or would have hesitated to try their skill. The play had been Lovers' Vows, and Mr. Yates was to have been Count Cassel. "A trifling part," said he, "and not at all to my taste, and such a one as I certainly would not accept again; but I was determined to make no difficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had appropriated the only two characters worth playing before I reached Ecclesford; and though Lord Ravenshaw offered to resign his to me, it was impossible to take it, you know. I was sorry for _him_ that he should have so mistaken his powers, for he was no more equal to the Baron a little man with a weak voice, always hoarse after the first ten minutes. It must have injured the piece materially; but _I_ was resolved to make no difficulties. Sir Henry thought the duke not equal to Frederick, but that was because Sir Henry wanted the part himself; whereas it was certainly in the best hands of the two. I was surprised to see Sir Henry such a stick. Luckily the strength of the piece did not depend upon him. Our Agatha was inimitable, and the duke was thought very great by many. And upon the whole, it would certainly have gone off wonderfully." "It was a hard case, upon my word" "; and,<|quote|>"I do think you were very much to be pitied,"</|quote|>were the kind responses of listening sympathy. "It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the poor old dowager could not have died at a worse time; and it is impossible to help wishing that the news could have been suppressed for just the three days we wanted. It was but three days; and being only a grandmother, and all happening two hundred miles off, I think there would have been no great harm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw, who I suppose is one of the most correct men in England, would not hear of it." "An afterpiece instead of a comedy," said Mr. Bertram. "Lovers' Vows were at an end, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw left to act My Grandmother by themselves. Well, the jointure may comfort _him_; and perhaps, between friends, he began to tremble for his credit and his lungs in the Baron, and was not sorry to withdraw; and to make _you_ amends, Yates, I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you to be our manager." This, though the thought of the moment, did not end with the moment; for the inclination to act was awakened, and in no one more strongly than in him who was now master of the house; and who, having so much leisure as to make almost any novelty a certain good, had likewise such a degree of lively talents and comic taste, as were exactly adapted to the novelty of acting. The thought returned again and again. "Oh for the Ecclesford theatre and scenery to try something with." Each sister could echo the wish; and Henry Crawford, to whom, in all the riot of his gratifications it was yet an untasted pleasure, was quite alive at the idea. "I really believe," said he, "I could be fool enough at this moment to undertake any character that ever was written, from Shylock or Richard III down to the singing hero of a farce in his scarlet coat and cocked hat. I feel as if I could be anything or everything; as if I could rant and storm, or sigh or cut capers, in any tragedy or comedy in the English language. Let us be doing something. Be it only half a play, an act, a scene; what should prevent us? Not these countenances, I am sure," looking towards the Miss Bertrams; "and for a theatre, what signifies a theatre? We shall be only amusing ourselves. Any room in this house might suffice." "We must have a curtain," said Tom Bertram; "a few yards of green baize for a curtain, and perhaps that may be enough." "Oh, quite enough," | Mansfield Park |
"He said Brett was a sadist," | Mike Campbell | it along, Michael," Brett said.<|quote|>"He said Brett was a sadist,"</|quote|>Mike said. "Brett's not a | such a mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said.<|quote|>"He said Brett was a sadist,"</|quote|>Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, | up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it." "He was, you know. He was positively green." "Oh, shove it along, Michael." "You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert," Mike said. "It might make such a mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said.<|quote|>"He said Brett was a sadist,"</|quote|>Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter | all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored." "He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be sick." "I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute." "I thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you, Robert?" "Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it." "He was, you know. He was positively green." "Oh, shove it along, Michael." "You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert," Mike said. "It might make such a mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said.<|quote|>"He said Brett was a sadist,"</|quote|>Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while | go?" "Wonderfully! Simply perfect. I say, it is a spectacle!" "How about the horses?" "I couldn't help looking at them." "She couldn't take her eyes off them," Mike said. "She's an extraordinary wench." "They do have some rather awful things happen to them," Brett said. "I couldn't look away, though." "Did you feel all right?" "I didn't feel badly at all." "Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert." "The first horse did bother me," Cohn said. "You weren't bored, were you?" asked Bill. Cohn laughed. "No. I wasn't bored. I wish you'd forgive me that." "It's all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored." "He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be sick." "I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute." "I thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you, Robert?" "Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it." "He was, you know. He was positively green." "Oh, shove it along, Michael." "You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert," Mike said. "It might make such a mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said.<|quote|>"He said Brett was a sadist,"</|quote|>Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid." "How | for the caf . The waiter saved chairs for the others, and we each ordered an absinthe and watched the crowd in the square and the dancers. "What do you suppose that dance is?" Bill asked. "It's a sort of jota." "They're not all the same," Bill said. "They dance differently to all the different tunes." "It's swell dancing." In front of us on a clear part of the street a company of boys were dancing. The steps were very intricate and their faces were intent and concentrated. They all looked down while they danced. Their rope-soled shoes tapped and spatted on the pavement. The toes touched. The heels touched. The balls of the feet touched. Then the music broke wildly and the step was finished and they were all dancing on up the street. "Here come the gentry," Bill said. They were crossing the street "Hello, men," I said. "Hello, gents!" said Brett. "You saved us seats? How nice." "I say," Mike said, "that Romero what'shisname is somebody. Am I wrong?" "Oh, isn't he lovely," Brett said. "And those green trousers." "Brett never took her eyes off them." "I say, I must borrow your glasses to-morrow." "How did it go?" "Wonderfully! Simply perfect. I say, it is a spectacle!" "How about the horses?" "I couldn't help looking at them." "She couldn't take her eyes off them," Mike said. "She's an extraordinary wench." "They do have some rather awful things happen to them," Brett said. "I couldn't look away, though." "Did you feel all right?" "I didn't feel badly at all." "Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert." "The first horse did bother me," Cohn said. "You weren't bored, were you?" asked Bill. Cohn laughed. "No. I wasn't bored. I wish you'd forgive me that." "It's all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored." "He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be sick." "I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute." "I thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you, Robert?" "Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it." "He was, you know. He was positively green." "Oh, shove it along, Michael." "You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert," Mike said. "It might make such a mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said.<|quote|>"He said Brett was a sadist,"</|quote|>Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid." "How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it." The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the | Pedro Romero?" We thanked him. What was there that you would like to ask? The boy was nineteen years old, alone except for his sword-handler, and the three hangers-on, and the bull-fight was to commence in twenty minutes. We wished him "Mucha suerte," shook hands, and went out. He was standing, straight and handsome and altogether by himself, alone in the room with the hangers-on as we shut the door. "He's a fine boy, don't you think so?" Montoya asked. "He's a good-looking kid," I said. "He looks like a torero," Montoya said. "He has the type." "He's a fine boy." "We'll see how he is in the ring," Montoya said. We found the big leather wine-bottle leaning against the wall in my room, took it and the field-glasses, locked the door, and went down-stairs. It was a good bull-light. Bill and I were very excited about Pedro Romero. Montoya was sitting about ten places away. After Romero had killed his first bull Montoya caught my eye and nodded his head. This was a real one. There had not been a real one for a long time. Of the other two matadors, one was very fair and the other was passable. But there was no comparison with Romero, although neither of his bulls was much. Several times during the bull-fight I looked up at Mike and Brett and Cohn, with the glasses. They seemed to be all right. Brett did not look upset. All three were leaning forward on the concrete railing in front of them. "Let me take the glasses," Bill said. "Does Cohn look bored?" I asked. "That kike!" Outside the ring, after the bull-fight was over, you could not move in the crowd. We could not make our way through but had to be moved with the whole thing, slowly, as a glacier, back to town. We had that disturbed emotional feeling that always comes after a bull-fight, and the feeling of elation that comes after a good bull-fight. The fiesta was going on. The drums pounded and the pipe music was shrill, and everywhere the flow of the crowd was broken by patches of dancers. The dancers were in a crowd, so you did not see the intricate play of the feet. All you saw was the heads and shoulders going up and down, up and down. Finally, we got out of the crowd and made for the caf . The waiter saved chairs for the others, and we each ordered an absinthe and watched the crowd in the square and the dancers. "What do you suppose that dance is?" Bill asked. "It's a sort of jota." "They're not all the same," Bill said. "They dance differently to all the different tunes." "It's swell dancing." In front of us on a clear part of the street a company of boys were dancing. The steps were very intricate and their faces were intent and concentrated. They all looked down while they danced. Their rope-soled shoes tapped and spatted on the pavement. The toes touched. The heels touched. The balls of the feet touched. Then the music broke wildly and the step was finished and they were all dancing on up the street. "Here come the gentry," Bill said. They were crossing the street "Hello, men," I said. "Hello, gents!" said Brett. "You saved us seats? How nice." "I say," Mike said, "that Romero what'shisname is somebody. Am I wrong?" "Oh, isn't he lovely," Brett said. "And those green trousers." "Brett never took her eyes off them." "I say, I must borrow your glasses to-morrow." "How did it go?" "Wonderfully! Simply perfect. I say, it is a spectacle!" "How about the horses?" "I couldn't help looking at them." "She couldn't take her eyes off them," Mike said. "She's an extraordinary wench." "They do have some rather awful things happen to them," Brett said. "I couldn't look away, though." "Did you feel all right?" "I didn't feel badly at all." "Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert." "The first horse did bother me," Cohn said. "You weren't bored, were you?" asked Bill. Cohn laughed. "No. I wasn't bored. I wish you'd forgive me that." "It's all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored." "He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be sick." "I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute." "I thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you, Robert?" "Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it." "He was, you know. He was positively green." "Oh, shove it along, Michael." "You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert," Mike said. "It might make such a mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said.<|quote|>"He said Brett was a sadist,"</|quote|>Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid." "How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it." The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing. "I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, | bull-fight I looked up at Mike and Brett and Cohn, with the glasses. They seemed to be all right. Brett did not look upset. All three were leaning forward on the concrete railing in front of them. "Let me take the glasses," Bill said. "Does Cohn look bored?" I asked. "That kike!" Outside the ring, after the bull-fight was over, you could not move in the crowd. We could not make our way through but had to be moved with the whole thing, slowly, as a glacier, back to town. We had that disturbed emotional feeling that always comes after a bull-fight, and the feeling of elation that comes after a good bull-fight. The fiesta was going on. The drums pounded and the pipe music was shrill, and everywhere the flow of the crowd was broken by patches of dancers. The dancers were in a crowd, so you did not see the intricate play of the feet. All you saw was the heads and shoulders going up and down, up and down. Finally, we got out of the crowd and made for the caf . The waiter saved chairs for the others, and we each ordered an absinthe and watched the crowd in the square and the dancers. "What do you suppose that dance is?" Bill asked. "It's a sort of jota." "They're not all the same," Bill said. "They dance differently to all the different tunes." "It's swell dancing." In front of us on a clear part of the street a company of boys were dancing. The steps were very intricate and their faces were intent and concentrated. They all looked down while they danced. Their rope-soled shoes tapped and spatted on the pavement. The toes touched. The heels touched. The balls of the feet touched. Then the music broke wildly and the step was finished and they were all dancing on up the street. "Here come the gentry," Bill said. They were crossing the street "Hello, men," I said. "Hello, gents!" said Brett. "You saved us seats? How nice." "I say," Mike said, "that Romero what'shisname is somebody. Am I wrong?" "Oh, isn't he lovely," Brett said. "And those green trousers." "Brett never took her eyes off them." "I say, I must borrow your glasses to-morrow." "How did it go?" "Wonderfully! Simply perfect. I say, it is a spectacle!" "How about the horses?" "I couldn't help looking at them." "She couldn't take her eyes off them," Mike said. "She's an extraordinary wench." "They do have some rather awful things happen to them," Brett said. "I couldn't look away, though." "Did you feel all right?" "I didn't feel badly at all." "Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert." "The first horse did bother me," Cohn said. "You weren't bored, were you?" asked Bill. Cohn laughed. "No. I wasn't bored. I wish you'd forgive me that." "It's all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored." "He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be sick." "I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute." "I thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you, Robert?" "Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it." "He was, you know. He was positively green." "Oh, shove it along, Michael." "You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert," Mike said. "It might make such a mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said.<|quote|>"He said Brett was a sadist,"</|quote|>Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid." "How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it." The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat | The Sun Also Rises |
said his companion with fine generosity. | No speaker | "Pshaw, your money 's counterfeit,"<|quote|>said his companion with fine generosity.</|quote|>"This is on me, I | cried Joe, trembling with joy. "Pshaw, your money 's counterfeit,"<|quote|>said his companion with fine generosity.</|quote|>"This is on me, I say. Jack, what 'll you | Sadness to do his part," said the portly proprietor; and Thomas went back to the lamb. "Nothin' doin' so early," he said; "let 's go an' have a drink." They went, and Thomas ordered. "No, no, this is on me," cried Joe, trembling with joy. "Pshaw, your money 's counterfeit,"<|quote|>said his companion with fine generosity.</|quote|>"This is on me, I say. Jack, what 'll you have yourself?" As they stood at the bar, the men began strolling up one by one. Each in his turn was introduced to Joe. They were very polite. They treated him with a pale, dignified, high-minded respect that menaced his | 'll all act." "Be slow to take a drink from him." "Thomas, my boy, you 're an angel. I recognise that more and more every day, but bid me do anything else but that. That I refuse: it 's against nature;" and Sadness looked more mournful than ever. "Trust old Sadness to do his part," said the portly proprietor; and Thomas went back to the lamb. "Nothin' doin' so early," he said; "let 's go an' have a drink." They went, and Thomas ordered. "No, no, this is on me," cried Joe, trembling with joy. "Pshaw, your money 's counterfeit,"<|quote|>said his companion with fine generosity.</|quote|>"This is on me, I say. Jack, what 'll you have yourself?" As they stood at the bar, the men began strolling up one by one. Each in his turn was introduced to Joe. They were very polite. They treated him with a pale, dignified, high-minded respect that menaced his pocket-book and possessions. The proprietor, Mr. Turner, asked him why he had never been in before. He really seemed much hurt about it, and on being told that Joe had only been in the city for a couple of weeks expressed emphatic surprise, even disbelief, and assured the rest that | gloom, was called Sadness. "This is what I 've been looking for for a month. My hat was getting decidedly shabby. Do you think he would stand for a touch on the first night of our acquaintance?" "Don't you dare? Do you want to frighten him off? Make him believe that you 've got coin to burn and that it 's an honour to be with you." "But, you know, he may expect a glimpse of the gold." "A smart man don't need to show nothin'. All he 's got to do is to act." "Oh, I 'll act; we 'll all act." "Be slow to take a drink from him." "Thomas, my boy, you 're an angel. I recognise that more and more every day, but bid me do anything else but that. That I refuse: it 's against nature;" and Sadness looked more mournful than ever. "Trust old Sadness to do his part," said the portly proprietor; and Thomas went back to the lamb. "Nothin' doin' so early," he said; "let 's go an' have a drink." They went, and Thomas ordered. "No, no, this is on me," cried Joe, trembling with joy. "Pshaw, your money 's counterfeit,"<|quote|>said his companion with fine generosity.</|quote|>"This is on me, I say. Jack, what 'll you have yourself?" As they stood at the bar, the men began strolling up one by one. Each in his turn was introduced to Joe. They were very polite. They treated him with a pale, dignified, high-minded respect that menaced his pocket-book and possessions. The proprietor, Mr. Turner, asked him why he had never been in before. He really seemed much hurt about it, and on being told that Joe had only been in the city for a couple of weeks expressed emphatic surprise, even disbelief, and assured the rest that any one would have taken Mr. Hamilton for an old New Yorker. Sadness was introduced last. He bowed to Joe's "Happy to know you, Mr. Williams." "Better known as Sadness," he said, with an expression of deep gloom. "A distant relative of mine once had a great grief. I have never recovered from it." Joe was not quite sure how to take this; but the others laughed and he joined them, and then, to cover his own embarrassment, he did what he thought the only correct and manly thing to do,--he ordered a drink. "I don't know as I ought | will cluck to her chicks, had treated Mrs. Hamilton with marked deference and kindness. This had been without success, as both the girl and her mother held themselves politely aloof from him. He began to see that his hope of winning Kitty's affections lay, not in courting the older woman but in making a friend of the boy. So on a certain Saturday night when the Banner Club was to give one of its smokers, he asked Joe to go with him. Joe was glad to, and they set out together. Arrived, Thomas left his companion for a few moments while he attended, as he said, to a little business. What he really did was to seek out the proprietor of the club and some of its hangers on. "I say," he said, "I 've got a friend with me to-night. He 's got some dough on him. He 's fresh and young and easy." "Whew!" exclaimed the proprietor. "Yes, he 's a good thing, but push it along kin' o' light at first; he might get skittish." "Thomas, let me fall on your bosom and weep," said a young man who, on account of his usual expression of innocent gloom, was called Sadness. "This is what I 've been looking for for a month. My hat was getting decidedly shabby. Do you think he would stand for a touch on the first night of our acquaintance?" "Don't you dare? Do you want to frighten him off? Make him believe that you 've got coin to burn and that it 's an honour to be with you." "But, you know, he may expect a glimpse of the gold." "A smart man don't need to show nothin'. All he 's got to do is to act." "Oh, I 'll act; we 'll all act." "Be slow to take a drink from him." "Thomas, my boy, you 're an angel. I recognise that more and more every day, but bid me do anything else but that. That I refuse: it 's against nature;" and Sadness looked more mournful than ever. "Trust old Sadness to do his part," said the portly proprietor; and Thomas went back to the lamb. "Nothin' doin' so early," he said; "let 's go an' have a drink." They went, and Thomas ordered. "No, no, this is on me," cried Joe, trembling with joy. "Pshaw, your money 's counterfeit,"<|quote|>said his companion with fine generosity.</|quote|>"This is on me, I say. Jack, what 'll you have yourself?" As they stood at the bar, the men began strolling up one by one. Each in his turn was introduced to Joe. They were very polite. They treated him with a pale, dignified, high-minded respect that menaced his pocket-book and possessions. The proprietor, Mr. Turner, asked him why he had never been in before. He really seemed much hurt about it, and on being told that Joe had only been in the city for a couple of weeks expressed emphatic surprise, even disbelief, and assured the rest that any one would have taken Mr. Hamilton for an old New Yorker. Sadness was introduced last. He bowed to Joe's "Happy to know you, Mr. Williams." "Better known as Sadness," he said, with an expression of deep gloom. "A distant relative of mine once had a great grief. I have never recovered from it." Joe was not quite sure how to take this; but the others laughed and he joined them, and then, to cover his own embarrassment, he did what he thought the only correct and manly thing to do,--he ordered a drink. "I don't know as I ought to," said Sadness. "Oh, come on," his companions called out, "don't be stiff with a stranger. Make him feel at home." "Mr. Hamilton will believe me when I say that I have no intention of being stiff, but duty is duty. I 've got to go down town to pay a bill, and if I get too much aboard, it would n't be safe walking around with money on me." "Aw, shut up, Sadness," said Thomas. "My friend Mr. Hamilton 'll feel hurt if you don't drink with him." "I cert'n'y will," was Joe's opportune remark, and he was pleased to see that it caused the reluctant one to yield. They took a drink. There was quite a line of them. Joe asked the bartender what he would have. The men warmed towards him. They took several more drinks with him and he was happy. Sadness put his arm about his shoulder and told him, with tears in his eyes, that he looked like a cousin of his that had died. "Aw, shut up, Sadness!" said some one else. "Be respectable." Sadness turned his mournful eyes upon the speaker. "I won't," he replied. "Being respectable is very nice as a | have a little lunch." "Oh, no, thank you," said the girl; "I 've had a nice time and I don't care for a thing to eat." Joe told himself that Kitty was the biggest fool that it had ever been his lot to meet, and the disappointed suitor satisfied himself with the reflection that the girl was green yet, but would get bravely over that. He attempted to hold her hand as they parted at the parlour door, but she drew her fingers out of his clasp and said, "Good-night; thank you," as if he had been one of her mother's old friends. Joe lingered a little longer. "Say, that was out o' sight," he said. "Think so?" asked the other carelessly. "I 'd like to get out with you some time to see the town," the boy went on eagerly. "All right, we 'll go some time. So long." "So long." Some time. Was it true? Would he really take him out and let him meet stage people? Joe went to bed with his head in a whirl. He slept little that night for thinking of his heart's desire. IX HIS HEART'S DESIRE Whatever else his visit to the theatre may have done for Joe, it inspired him with a desire to go to work and earn money of his own, to be independent both of parental help and control, and so be able to spend as he pleased. With this end in view he set out to hunt for work. It was a pleasant contrast to his last similar quest, and he felt it with joy. He was treated everywhere he went with courtesy, even when no situation was forthcoming. Finally he came upon a man who was willing to try him for an afternoon. From the moment the boy rightly considered himself engaged, for he was master of his trade. He began his work with heart elate. Now he had within his grasp the possibility of being all that he wanted to be. Now Thomas might take him out at any time and not be ashamed of him. With Thomas, the fact that Joe was working put the boy in an entirely new light. He decided that now he might be worth cultivating. For a week or two he had ignored him, and, proceeding upon the principle that if you give corn to the old hen she will cluck to her chicks, had treated Mrs. Hamilton with marked deference and kindness. This had been without success, as both the girl and her mother held themselves politely aloof from him. He began to see that his hope of winning Kitty's affections lay, not in courting the older woman but in making a friend of the boy. So on a certain Saturday night when the Banner Club was to give one of its smokers, he asked Joe to go with him. Joe was glad to, and they set out together. Arrived, Thomas left his companion for a few moments while he attended, as he said, to a little business. What he really did was to seek out the proprietor of the club and some of its hangers on. "I say," he said, "I 've got a friend with me to-night. He 's got some dough on him. He 's fresh and young and easy." "Whew!" exclaimed the proprietor. "Yes, he 's a good thing, but push it along kin' o' light at first; he might get skittish." "Thomas, let me fall on your bosom and weep," said a young man who, on account of his usual expression of innocent gloom, was called Sadness. "This is what I 've been looking for for a month. My hat was getting decidedly shabby. Do you think he would stand for a touch on the first night of our acquaintance?" "Don't you dare? Do you want to frighten him off? Make him believe that you 've got coin to burn and that it 's an honour to be with you." "But, you know, he may expect a glimpse of the gold." "A smart man don't need to show nothin'. All he 's got to do is to act." "Oh, I 'll act; we 'll all act." "Be slow to take a drink from him." "Thomas, my boy, you 're an angel. I recognise that more and more every day, but bid me do anything else but that. That I refuse: it 's against nature;" and Sadness looked more mournful than ever. "Trust old Sadness to do his part," said the portly proprietor; and Thomas went back to the lamb. "Nothin' doin' so early," he said; "let 's go an' have a drink." They went, and Thomas ordered. "No, no, this is on me," cried Joe, trembling with joy. "Pshaw, your money 's counterfeit,"<|quote|>said his companion with fine generosity.</|quote|>"This is on me, I say. Jack, what 'll you have yourself?" As they stood at the bar, the men began strolling up one by one. Each in his turn was introduced to Joe. They were very polite. They treated him with a pale, dignified, high-minded respect that menaced his pocket-book and possessions. The proprietor, Mr. Turner, asked him why he had never been in before. He really seemed much hurt about it, and on being told that Joe had only been in the city for a couple of weeks expressed emphatic surprise, even disbelief, and assured the rest that any one would have taken Mr. Hamilton for an old New Yorker. Sadness was introduced last. He bowed to Joe's "Happy to know you, Mr. Williams." "Better known as Sadness," he said, with an expression of deep gloom. "A distant relative of mine once had a great grief. I have never recovered from it." Joe was not quite sure how to take this; but the others laughed and he joined them, and then, to cover his own embarrassment, he did what he thought the only correct and manly thing to do,--he ordered a drink. "I don't know as I ought to," said Sadness. "Oh, come on," his companions called out, "don't be stiff with a stranger. Make him feel at home." "Mr. Hamilton will believe me when I say that I have no intention of being stiff, but duty is duty. I 've got to go down town to pay a bill, and if I get too much aboard, it would n't be safe walking around with money on me." "Aw, shut up, Sadness," said Thomas. "My friend Mr. Hamilton 'll feel hurt if you don't drink with him." "I cert'n'y will," was Joe's opportune remark, and he was pleased to see that it caused the reluctant one to yield. They took a drink. There was quite a line of them. Joe asked the bartender what he would have. The men warmed towards him. They took several more drinks with him and he was happy. Sadness put his arm about his shoulder and told him, with tears in his eyes, that he looked like a cousin of his that had died. "Aw, shut up, Sadness!" said some one else. "Be respectable." Sadness turned his mournful eyes upon the speaker. "I won't," he replied. "Being respectable is very nice as a diversion, but it 's tedious if done steadily." Joe did not quite take this, so he ordered another drink. A group of young fellows came in and passed up the stairs. "Shearing another lamb?" said one of them significantly. "Well, with that gang it will be well done." Thomas and Joe left the crowd after a while, and went to the upper floor, where, in a long, brilliantly lighted room, tables were set out for drinking-parties. At one end of the room was a piano, and a man sat at it listlessly strumming some popular air. The proprietor joined them pretty soon, and steered them to a table opposite the door. "Just sit down here, Mr. Hamilton," he said, "and you can see everybody that comes in. We have lots of nice people here on smoker nights, especially after the shows are out and the girls come in." Joe's heart gave a great leap, and then settled as cold as lead. Of course, those girls would n't speak to him. But his hopes rose as the proprietor went on talking to him and to no one else. Mr. Turner always made a man feel as if he were of some consequence in the world, and men a good deal older than Joe had been fooled by his manner. He talked to one in a soft, ingratiating way, giving his whole attention apparently. He tapped one confidentially on the shoulder, as who should say, "My dear boy, I have but two friends in the world, and you are both of them." Joe, charmed and pleased, kept his head well. There is a great deal in heredity, and his father had not been Maurice Oakley's butler for so many years for nothing. The Banner Club was an institution for the lower education of negro youth. It drew its pupils from every class of people and from every part of the country. It was composed of all sorts and conditions of men, educated and uneducated, dishonest and less so, of the good, the bad, and the--unexposed. Parasites came there to find victims, politicians for votes, reporters for news, and artists of all kinds for colour and inspiration. It was the place of assembly for a number of really bright men, who after days of hard and often unrewarded work came there and drunk themselves drunk in each other's company, and when they were | for he was master of his trade. He began his work with heart elate. Now he had within his grasp the possibility of being all that he wanted to be. Now Thomas might take him out at any time and not be ashamed of him. With Thomas, the fact that Joe was working put the boy in an entirely new light. He decided that now he might be worth cultivating. For a week or two he had ignored him, and, proceeding upon the principle that if you give corn to the old hen she will cluck to her chicks, had treated Mrs. Hamilton with marked deference and kindness. This had been without success, as both the girl and her mother held themselves politely aloof from him. He began to see that his hope of winning Kitty's affections lay, not in courting the older woman but in making a friend of the boy. So on a certain Saturday night when the Banner Club was to give one of its smokers, he asked Joe to go with him. Joe was glad to, and they set out together. Arrived, Thomas left his companion for a few moments while he attended, as he said, to a little business. What he really did was to seek out the proprietor of the club and some of its hangers on. "I say," he said, "I 've got a friend with me to-night. He 's got some dough on him. He 's fresh and young and easy." "Whew!" exclaimed the proprietor. "Yes, he 's a good thing, but push it along kin' o' light at first; he might get skittish." "Thomas, let me fall on your bosom and weep," said a young man who, on account of his usual expression of innocent gloom, was called Sadness. "This is what I 've been looking for for a month. My hat was getting decidedly shabby. Do you think he would stand for a touch on the first night of our acquaintance?" "Don't you dare? Do you want to frighten him off? Make him believe that you 've got coin to burn and that it 's an honour to be with you." "But, you know, he may expect a glimpse of the gold." "A smart man don't need to show nothin'. All he 's got to do is to act." "Oh, I 'll act; we 'll all act." "Be slow to take a drink from him." "Thomas, my boy, you 're an angel. I recognise that more and more every day, but bid me do anything else but that. That I refuse: it 's against nature;" and Sadness looked more mournful than ever. "Trust old Sadness to do his part," said the portly proprietor; and Thomas went back to the lamb. "Nothin' doin' so early," he said; "let 's go an' have a drink." They went, and Thomas ordered. "No, no, this is on me," cried Joe, trembling with joy. "Pshaw, your money 's counterfeit,"<|quote|>said his companion with fine generosity.</|quote|>"This is on me, I say. Jack, what 'll you have yourself?" As they stood at the bar, the men began strolling up one by one. Each in his turn was introduced to Joe. They were very polite. They treated him with a pale, dignified, high-minded respect that menaced his pocket-book and possessions. The proprietor, Mr. Turner, asked him why he had never been in before. He really seemed much hurt about it, and on being told that Joe had only been in the city for a couple of weeks expressed emphatic surprise, even disbelief, and assured the rest that any one would have taken Mr. Hamilton for an old New Yorker. Sadness was introduced last. He bowed to Joe's "Happy to know you, Mr. Williams." "Better known as Sadness," he said, with an expression of deep gloom. "A distant relative of mine once had a great grief. I have never recovered from it." Joe was not quite sure how to take this; but the others laughed and he joined them, and then, to cover his own embarrassment, he did what he thought the only correct and manly thing to do,--he ordered a drink. "I don't know as I ought to," said Sadness. "Oh, come on," his companions called out, "don't be stiff with a stranger. Make him feel at home." "Mr. Hamilton will believe me when I say that I have no intention of being stiff, but duty is duty. I 've got to go down town to pay a bill, and if I get too much aboard, it would n't be safe walking around with money on me." "Aw, shut up, Sadness," said Thomas. "My friend Mr. Hamilton 'll feel hurt if you don't drink with him." "I cert'n'y will," was Joe's opportune remark, and he was pleased to see that it caused the reluctant one to yield. They took a drink. There was quite a line of them. Joe asked the bartender what he would have. The men warmed towards him. They took several more drinks with him and he was happy. Sadness put his arm about his shoulder and told him, with tears in his eyes, that he looked like a cousin of his that had died. "Aw, shut up, Sadness!" said some one else. "Be respectable." Sadness turned his mournful eyes upon the speaker. "I won't," he replied. "Being respectable is very nice as a diversion, but it 's tedious if done steadily." Joe did not quite take this, so he ordered another drink. A group of young fellows came in and passed up the stairs. "Shearing another lamb?" said one of them significantly. "Well, with that gang it will be well done." Thomas and Joe left the crowd after a while, and went to the upper floor, where, in a long, brilliantly lighted room, tables were set out for drinking-parties. At one end of the room was a piano, and a man sat at it listlessly strumming some popular air. The proprietor joined them pretty soon, and steered them to a | The Sport Of The Gods |
This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. | No speaker | all specialists, the “well-rounded man.”<|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.</|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion | again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.”<|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.</|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” | many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.”<|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.</|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and | I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.”<|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.</|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the | to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.”<|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.</|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end | aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.”<|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.</|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me | but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament” —it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.”<|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.</|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d | a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.”<|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.</|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into | The Great Gatsby |
his eye sweeping the whole length of the wall | No speaker | quickly. "Yes, it is suggestive"<|quote|>his eye sweeping the whole length of the wall</|quote|>"but it was not his | "That is interesting," said Poirot quickly. "Yes, it is suggestive"<|quote|>his eye sweeping the whole length of the wall</|quote|>"but it was not his candle that made this great | Mrs. Inglethorp herself dropped her candle." "You brought only one candle into the room?" "Yes. Lawrence Cavendish was carrying it. But he was very upset. He seemed to see something over here" I indicated the mantelpiece "that absolutely paralysed him." "That is interesting," said Poirot quickly. "Yes, it is suggestive"<|quote|>his eye sweeping the whole length of the wall</|quote|>"but it was not his candle that made this great patch, for you perceive that this is white grease; whereas Monsieur Lawrence's candle, which is still on the dressing-table, is pink. On the other hand, Mrs. Inglethorp had no candlestick in the room, only a reading-lamp." "Then," I said, "what | writing-table. "It must have been done since yesterday, otherwise a good housemaid would have at once removed it with blotting-paper and a hot iron. One of my best hats once but that is not to the point." "It was very likely done last night. We were very agitated. Or perhaps Mrs. Inglethorp herself dropped her candle." "You brought only one candle into the room?" "Yes. Lawrence Cavendish was carrying it. But he was very upset. He seemed to see something over here" I indicated the mantelpiece "that absolutely paralysed him." "That is interesting," said Poirot quickly. "Yes, it is suggestive"<|quote|>his eye sweeping the whole length of the wall</|quote|>"but it was not his candle that made this great patch, for you perceive that this is white grease; whereas Monsieur Lawrence's candle, which is still on the dressing-table, is pink. On the other hand, Mrs. Inglethorp had no candlestick in the room, only a reading-lamp." "Then," I said, "what do you deduce?" To which my friend only made a rather irritating reply, urging me to use my own natural faculties. "And the sixth point?" I asked. "I suppose it is the sample of cocoa." "No," said Poirot thoughtfully. "I might have included that in the six, but I did | key in the lock; three, a stain on the floor." "That may have been done some time ago," I interrupted. "No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells of coffee. Four, a fragment of some dark green fabric only a thread or two, but recognizable." "Ah!" I cried. "That was what you sealed up in the envelope." "Yes. It may turn out to be a piece of one of Mrs. Inglethorp's own dresses, and quite unimportant. We shall see. Five, _this_!" With a dramatic gesture, he pointed to a large splash of candle grease on the floor by the writing-table. "It must have been done since yesterday, otherwise a good housemaid would have at once removed it with blotting-paper and a hot iron. One of my best hats once but that is not to the point." "It was very likely done last night. We were very agitated. Or perhaps Mrs. Inglethorp herself dropped her candle." "You brought only one candle into the room?" "Yes. Lawrence Cavendish was carrying it. But he was very upset. He seemed to see something over here" I indicated the mantelpiece "that absolutely paralysed him." "That is interesting," said Poirot quickly. "Yes, it is suggestive"<|quote|>his eye sweeping the whole length of the wall</|quote|>"but it was not his candle that made this great patch, for you perceive that this is white grease; whereas Monsieur Lawrence's candle, which is still on the dressing-table, is pink. On the other hand, Mrs. Inglethorp had no candlestick in the room, only a reading-lamp." "Then," I said, "what do you deduce?" To which my friend only made a rather irritating reply, urging me to use my own natural faculties. "And the sixth point?" I asked. "I suppose it is the sample of cocoa." "No," said Poirot thoughtfully. "I might have included that in the six, but I did not. No, the sixth point I will keep to myself for the present." He looked quickly round the room. "There is nothing more to be done here, I think, unless" he stared earnestly and long at the dead ashes in the grate. "The fire burns and it destroys. But by chance there might be let us see!" Deftly, on hands and knees, he began to sort the ashes from the grate into the fender, handling them with the greatest caution. Suddenly, he gave a faint exclamation. "The forceps, Hastings!" I quickly handed them to him, and with skill he extracted | and twirling them round in his fingers finally selected one, very bright and shining, which he tried in the lock of the purple despatch-case. It fitted, and he opened the box, but after a moment's hesitation, closed and relocked it, and slipped the bunch of keys, as well as the key that had originally stood in the lock, into his own pocket. "I have no authority to go through these papers. But it should be done at once!" He then made a very careful examination of the drawers of the wash-stand. Crossing the room to the left-hand window, a round stain, hardly visible on the dark brown carpet, seemed to interest him particularly. He went down on his knees, examining it minutely even going so far as to smell it. Finally, he poured a few drops of the cocoa into a test tube, sealing it up carefully. His next proceeding was to take out a little notebook. "We have found in this room," he said, writing busily, "six points of interest. Shall I enumerate them, or will you?" "Oh, you," I replied hastily. "Very well, then. One, a coffee-cup that has been ground into powder; two, a despatch-case with a key in the lock; three, a stain on the floor." "That may have been done some time ago," I interrupted. "No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells of coffee. Four, a fragment of some dark green fabric only a thread or two, but recognizable." "Ah!" I cried. "That was what you sealed up in the envelope." "Yes. It may turn out to be a piece of one of Mrs. Inglethorp's own dresses, and quite unimportant. We shall see. Five, _this_!" With a dramatic gesture, he pointed to a large splash of candle grease on the floor by the writing-table. "It must have been done since yesterday, otherwise a good housemaid would have at once removed it with blotting-paper and a hot iron. One of my best hats once but that is not to the point." "It was very likely done last night. We were very agitated. Or perhaps Mrs. Inglethorp herself dropped her candle." "You brought only one candle into the room?" "Yes. Lawrence Cavendish was carrying it. But he was very upset. He seemed to see something over here" I indicated the mantelpiece "that absolutely paralysed him." "That is interesting," said Poirot quickly. "Yes, it is suggestive"<|quote|>his eye sweeping the whole length of the wall</|quote|>"but it was not his candle that made this great patch, for you perceive that this is white grease; whereas Monsieur Lawrence's candle, which is still on the dressing-table, is pink. On the other hand, Mrs. Inglethorp had no candlestick in the room, only a reading-lamp." "Then," I said, "what do you deduce?" To which my friend only made a rather irritating reply, urging me to use my own natural faculties. "And the sixth point?" I asked. "I suppose it is the sample of cocoa." "No," said Poirot thoughtfully. "I might have included that in the six, but I did not. No, the sixth point I will keep to myself for the present." He looked quickly round the room. "There is nothing more to be done here, I think, unless" he stared earnestly and long at the dead ashes in the grate. "The fire burns and it destroys. But by chance there might be let us see!" Deftly, on hands and knees, he began to sort the ashes from the grate into the fender, handling them with the greatest caution. Suddenly, he gave a faint exclamation. "The forceps, Hastings!" I quickly handed them to him, and with skill he extracted a small piece of half charred paper. "There, _mon ami!_" he cried. "What do you think of that?" I scrutinized the fragment. This is an exact reproduction of it: [Illustration] I was puzzled. It was unusually thick, quite unlike ordinary notepaper. Suddenly an idea struck me. "Poirot!" I cried. "This is a fragment of a will!" "Exactly." I looked up at him sharply. "You are not surprised?" "No," he said gravely, "I expected it." I relinquished the piece of paper, and watched him put it away in his case, with the same methodical care that he bestowed on everything. My brain was in a whirl. What was this complication of a will? Who had destroyed it? The person who had left the candle grease on the floor? Obviously. But how had anyone gained admission? All the doors had been bolted on the inside. "Now, my friend," said Poirot briskly, "we will go. I should like to ask a few questions of the parlourmaid Dorcas, her name is, is it not?" We passed through Alfred Inglethorp's room, and Poirot delayed long enough to make a brief but fairly comprehensive examination of it. We went out through that door, locking both it | the bolt had really been shot. Then he went to the door opposite leading into Cynthia's room. That door was also bolted, as I had stated. However, he went to the length of unbolting it, and opening and shutting it several times; this he did with the utmost precaution against making any noise. Suddenly something in the bolt itself seemed to rivet his attention. He examined it carefully, and then, nimbly whipping out a pair of small forceps from his case, he drew out some minute particle which he carefully sealed up in a tiny envelope. On the chest of drawers there was a tray with a spirit lamp and a small saucepan on it. A small quantity of a dark fluid remained in the saucepan, and an empty cup and saucer that had been drunk out of stood near it. I wondered how I could have been so unobservant as to overlook this. Here was a clue worth having. Poirot delicately dipped his finger into liquid, and tasted it gingerly. He made a grimace. "Cocoa with I think rum in it." He passed on to the debris on the floor, where the table by the bed had been overturned. A reading-lamp, some books, matches, a bunch of keys, and the crushed fragments of a coffee-cup lay scattered about. "Ah, this is curious," said Poirot. "I must confess that I see nothing particularly curious about it." "You do not? Observe the lamp the chimney is broken in two places; they lie there as they fell. But see, the coffee-cup is absolutely smashed to powder." "Well," I said wearily, "I suppose someone must have stepped on it." "Exactly," said Poirot, in an odd voice. "Someone stepped on it." He rose from his knees, and walked slowly across to the mantelpiece, where he stood abstractedly fingering the ornaments, and straightening them a trick of his when he was agitated. "_Mon ami_," he said, turning to me, "somebody stepped on that cup, grinding it to powder, and the reason they did so was either because it contained strychnine or which is far more serious because it did not contain strychnine!" I made no reply. I was bewildered, but I knew that it was no good asking him to explain. In a moment or two he roused himself, and went on with his investigations. He picked up the bunch of keys from the floor, and twirling them round in his fingers finally selected one, very bright and shining, which he tried in the lock of the purple despatch-case. It fitted, and he opened the box, but after a moment's hesitation, closed and relocked it, and slipped the bunch of keys, as well as the key that had originally stood in the lock, into his own pocket. "I have no authority to go through these papers. But it should be done at once!" He then made a very careful examination of the drawers of the wash-stand. Crossing the room to the left-hand window, a round stain, hardly visible on the dark brown carpet, seemed to interest him particularly. He went down on his knees, examining it minutely even going so far as to smell it. Finally, he poured a few drops of the cocoa into a test tube, sealing it up carefully. His next proceeding was to take out a little notebook. "We have found in this room," he said, writing busily, "six points of interest. Shall I enumerate them, or will you?" "Oh, you," I replied hastily. "Very well, then. One, a coffee-cup that has been ground into powder; two, a despatch-case with a key in the lock; three, a stain on the floor." "That may have been done some time ago," I interrupted. "No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells of coffee. Four, a fragment of some dark green fabric only a thread or two, but recognizable." "Ah!" I cried. "That was what you sealed up in the envelope." "Yes. It may turn out to be a piece of one of Mrs. Inglethorp's own dresses, and quite unimportant. We shall see. Five, _this_!" With a dramatic gesture, he pointed to a large splash of candle grease on the floor by the writing-table. "It must have been done since yesterday, otherwise a good housemaid would have at once removed it with blotting-paper and a hot iron. One of my best hats once but that is not to the point." "It was very likely done last night. We were very agitated. Or perhaps Mrs. Inglethorp herself dropped her candle." "You brought only one candle into the room?" "Yes. Lawrence Cavendish was carrying it. But he was very upset. He seemed to see something over here" I indicated the mantelpiece "that absolutely paralysed him." "That is interesting," said Poirot quickly. "Yes, it is suggestive"<|quote|>his eye sweeping the whole length of the wall</|quote|>"but it was not his candle that made this great patch, for you perceive that this is white grease; whereas Monsieur Lawrence's candle, which is still on the dressing-table, is pink. On the other hand, Mrs. Inglethorp had no candlestick in the room, only a reading-lamp." "Then," I said, "what do you deduce?" To which my friend only made a rather irritating reply, urging me to use my own natural faculties. "And the sixth point?" I asked. "I suppose it is the sample of cocoa." "No," said Poirot thoughtfully. "I might have included that in the six, but I did not. No, the sixth point I will keep to myself for the present." He looked quickly round the room. "There is nothing more to be done here, I think, unless" he stared earnestly and long at the dead ashes in the grate. "The fire burns and it destroys. But by chance there might be let us see!" Deftly, on hands and knees, he began to sort the ashes from the grate into the fender, handling them with the greatest caution. Suddenly, he gave a faint exclamation. "The forceps, Hastings!" I quickly handed them to him, and with skill he extracted a small piece of half charred paper. "There, _mon ami!_" he cried. "What do you think of that?" I scrutinized the fragment. This is an exact reproduction of it: [Illustration] I was puzzled. It was unusually thick, quite unlike ordinary notepaper. Suddenly an idea struck me. "Poirot!" I cried. "This is a fragment of a will!" "Exactly." I looked up at him sharply. "You are not surprised?" "No," he said gravely, "I expected it." I relinquished the piece of paper, and watched him put it away in his case, with the same methodical care that he bestowed on everything. My brain was in a whirl. What was this complication of a will? Who had destroyed it? The person who had left the candle grease on the floor? Obviously. But how had anyone gained admission? All the doors had been bolted on the inside. "Now, my friend," said Poirot briskly, "we will go. I should like to ask a few questions of the parlourmaid Dorcas, her name is, is it not?" We passed through Alfred Inglethorp's room, and Poirot delayed long enough to make a brief but fairly comprehensive examination of it. We went out through that door, locking both it and that of Mrs. Inglethorp's room as before. I took him down to the boudoir which he had expressed a wish to see, and went myself in search of Dorcas. When I returned with her, however, the boudoir was empty. "Poirot," I cried, "where are you?" "I am here, my friend." He had stepped outside the French window, and was standing, apparently lost in admiration, before the various shaped flower beds. "Admirable!" he murmured. "Admirable! What symmetry! Observe that crescent; and those diamonds their neatness rejoices the eye. The spacing of the plants, also, is perfect. It has been recently done; is it not so?" "Yes, I believe they were at it yesterday afternoon. But come in Dorcas is here." "_Eh bien, eh bien!_ Do not grudge me a moment's satisfaction of the eye." "Yes, but this affair is more important." "And how do you know that these fine begonias are not of equal importance?" I shrugged my shoulders. There was really no arguing with him if he chose to take that line. "You do not agree? But such things have been. Well, we will come in and interview the brave Dorcas." Dorcas was standing in the boudoir, her hands folded in front of her, and her grey hair rose in stiff waves under her white cap. She was the very model and picture of a good old-fashioned servant. In her attitude towards Poirot, she was inclined to be suspicious, but he soon broke down her defences. He drew forward a chair. "Pray be seated, mademoiselle." "Thank you, sir." "You have been with your mistress many years, is it not so?" "Ten years, sir." "That is a long time, and very faithful service. You were much attached to her, were you not?" "She was a very good mistress to me, sir." "Then you will not object to answering a few questions. I put them to you with Mr. Cavendish's full approval." "Oh, certainly, sir." "Then I will begin by asking you about the events of yesterday afternoon. Your mistress had a quarrel?" "Yes, sir. But I don't know that I ought" Dorcas hesitated. Poirot looked at her keenly. "My good Dorcas, it is necessary that I should know every detail of that quarrel as fully as possible. Do not think that you are betraying your mistress's secrets. Your mistress lies dead, and it is necessary that we should know all | done at once!" He then made a very careful examination of the drawers of the wash-stand. Crossing the room to the left-hand window, a round stain, hardly visible on the dark brown carpet, seemed to interest him particularly. He went down on his knees, examining it minutely even going so far as to smell it. Finally, he poured a few drops of the cocoa into a test tube, sealing it up carefully. His next proceeding was to take out a little notebook. "We have found in this room," he said, writing busily, "six points of interest. Shall I enumerate them, or will you?" "Oh, you," I replied hastily. "Very well, then. One, a coffee-cup that has been ground into powder; two, a despatch-case with a key in the lock; three, a stain on the floor." "That may have been done some time ago," I interrupted. "No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells of coffee. Four, a fragment of some dark green fabric only a thread or two, but recognizable." "Ah!" I cried. "That was what you sealed up in the envelope." "Yes. It may turn out to be a piece of one of Mrs. Inglethorp's own dresses, and quite unimportant. We shall see. Five, _this_!" With a dramatic gesture, he pointed to a large splash of candle grease on the floor by the writing-table. "It must have been done since yesterday, otherwise a good housemaid would have at once removed it with blotting-paper and a hot iron. One of my best hats once but that is not to the point." "It was very likely done last night. We were very agitated. Or perhaps Mrs. Inglethorp herself dropped her candle." "You brought only one candle into the room?" "Yes. Lawrence Cavendish was carrying it. But he was very upset. He seemed to see something over here" I indicated the mantelpiece "that absolutely paralysed him." "That is interesting," said Poirot quickly. "Yes, it is suggestive"<|quote|>his eye sweeping the whole length of the wall</|quote|>"but it was not his candle that made this great patch, for you perceive that this is white grease; whereas Monsieur Lawrence's candle, which is still on the dressing-table, is pink. On the other hand, Mrs. Inglethorp had no candlestick in the room, only a reading-lamp." "Then," I said, "what do you deduce?" To which my friend only made a rather irritating reply, urging me to use my own natural faculties. "And the sixth point?" I asked. "I suppose it is the sample of cocoa." "No," said Poirot thoughtfully. "I might have included that in the six, but I did not. No, the sixth point I will keep to myself for the present." He looked quickly round the room. "There is nothing more to be done here, I think, unless" he stared earnestly and long at the dead ashes in the grate. "The fire burns and it destroys. But by chance there might be let us see!" Deftly, on hands and knees, he began to sort the ashes from the grate into the fender, handling them with the greatest caution. Suddenly, he gave a faint exclamation. "The forceps, Hastings!" I quickly handed them to him, and with skill he extracted a small piece of half charred paper. "There, _mon ami!_" he cried. "What do you think of that?" I scrutinized the fragment. This is an exact reproduction of it: [Illustration] I was puzzled. It was unusually thick, quite unlike ordinary notepaper. Suddenly an idea struck me. "Poirot!" I cried. "This is a fragment of a will!" "Exactly." I looked up at him sharply. "You are not surprised?" "No," he said gravely, "I expected it." I relinquished the piece of paper, and watched him put it away in his case, with the same methodical care that he bestowed on everything. My brain was in a whirl. What was this complication of a will? Who had destroyed it? The person who had left the candle grease on the floor? Obviously. But how had anyone gained admission? All the doors had been bolted on the inside. "Now, my friend," said Poirot briskly, "we will go. I should like to ask a few questions of the parlourmaid Dorcas, her name is, is it not?" We passed through Alfred Inglethorp's room, and Poirot delayed long enough to make a brief but fairly comprehensive examination of it. We went | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
he concluded, with a frown. | No speaker | in it all the same,"<|quote|>he concluded, with a frown.</|quote|>"Not even that. It may | "--Yet there may be something in it all the same,"<|quote|>he concluded, with a frown.</|quote|>"Not even that. It may be halfway in the wrong | you really believe in the supernatural and all that?" "Too difficult a question." "Why s that? Gruyere or Stilton?" "Gruyere, please." "Better have Stilton." "Stilton. Because, though I don t believe in auras, and think Theosophy s only a halfway-house--" "--Yet there may be something in it all the same,"<|quote|>he concluded, with a frown.</|quote|>"Not even that. It may be halfway in the wrong direction. I can t explain. I don t believe in all these fads, and yet I don t like saying that I don t believe in them." He seemed unsatisfied, and said: "So you wouldn t give me your word | to come to you two girls. No one s ever asked me about my--what d ye call it? Perhaps I ve not got one." "You re bound to have one, but it may be such a terrible colour that no one dares mention it." "Tell me, though, Miss Schlegel, do you really believe in the supernatural and all that?" "Too difficult a question." "Why s that? Gruyere or Stilton?" "Gruyere, please." "Better have Stilton." "Stilton. Because, though I don t believe in auras, and think Theosophy s only a halfway-house--" "--Yet there may be something in it all the same,"<|quote|>he concluded, with a frown.</|quote|>"Not even that. It may be halfway in the wrong direction. I can t explain. I don t believe in all these fads, and yet I don t like saying that I don t believe in them." He seemed unsatisfied, and said: "So you wouldn t give me your word that you DON T hold with astral bodies and all the rest of it?" "I could," said Margaret, surprised that the point was of any importance to him. "Indeed, I will. When I talked about scrubbing my aura, I was only trying to be funny. But why do you want | pushing her glass towards him for some more cider. "It s all proteids and body buildings, and people come up to you and beg your pardon, but you have such a beautiful aura." "A what?" "Never heard of an aura? Oh, happy, happy man! I scrub at mine for hours. Nor of an astral plane?" He had heard of astral planes, and censured them. "Just so. Luckily it was Helen s aura, not mine, and she had to chaperone it and do the politenesses. I just sat with my handkerchief in my mouth till the man went." "Funny experiences seem to come to you two girls. No one s ever asked me about my--what d ye call it? Perhaps I ve not got one." "You re bound to have one, but it may be such a terrible colour that no one dares mention it." "Tell me, though, Miss Schlegel, do you really believe in the supernatural and all that?" "Too difficult a question." "Why s that? Gruyere or Stilton?" "Gruyere, please." "Better have Stilton." "Stilton. Because, though I don t believe in auras, and think Theosophy s only a halfway-house--" "--Yet there may be something in it all the same,"<|quote|>he concluded, with a frown.</|quote|>"Not even that. It may be halfway in the wrong direction. I can t explain. I don t believe in all these fads, and yet I don t like saying that I don t believe in them." He seemed unsatisfied, and said: "So you wouldn t give me your word that you DON T hold with astral bodies and all the rest of it?" "I could," said Margaret, surprised that the point was of any importance to him. "Indeed, I will. When I talked about scrubbing my aura, I was only trying to be funny. But why do you want this settled?" "I don t know." "Now, Mr. Wilcox, you do know." "Yes, I am," "No, you re not," burst from the lovers opposite. Margaret was silent for a moment, and then changed the subject. "How s your house?" "Much the same as when you honoured it last week." "I don t mean Ducie Street. Howards End, of course." "Why of course ?" "Can t you turn out your tenant and let it to us? We re nearly demented." "Let me think. I wish I could help you. But I thought you wanted to be in town. One bit of | never any good." "Never any good. Just listen to her! Never any good. Oh, come!" "Well, you aren t. Miss Schlegel, is he?" The torrent of their love, having splashed these drops at Margaret, swept away on its habitual course. She sympathised with it now, for a little comfort had restored her geniality. Speech and silence pleased her equally, and while Mr. Wilcox made some preliminary inquiries about cheese, her eyes surveyed the restaurant, and aired its well-calculated tributes to the solidity of our past. Though no more Old English than the works of Kipling, it had selected its reminiscences so adroitly that her criticism was lulled, and the guests whom it was nourishing for imperial purposes bore the outer semblance of Parson Adams or Tom Jones. Scraps of their talk jarred oddly on the ear. "Right you are! I ll cable out to Uganda this evening," came from the table behind. "Their Emperor wants war; well, let him have it," was the opinion of a clergyman. She smiled at such incongruities. "Next time," she said to Mr. Wilcox, "you shall come to lunch with me at Mr. Eustace Miles s." "With pleasure." "No, you d hate it," she said, pushing her glass towards him for some more cider. "It s all proteids and body buildings, and people come up to you and beg your pardon, but you have such a beautiful aura." "A what?" "Never heard of an aura? Oh, happy, happy man! I scrub at mine for hours. Nor of an astral plane?" He had heard of astral planes, and censured them. "Just so. Luckily it was Helen s aura, not mine, and she had to chaperone it and do the politenesses. I just sat with my handkerchief in my mouth till the man went." "Funny experiences seem to come to you two girls. No one s ever asked me about my--what d ye call it? Perhaps I ve not got one." "You re bound to have one, but it may be such a terrible colour that no one dares mention it." "Tell me, though, Miss Schlegel, do you really believe in the supernatural and all that?" "Too difficult a question." "Why s that? Gruyere or Stilton?" "Gruyere, please." "Better have Stilton." "Stilton. Because, though I don t believe in auras, and think Theosophy s only a halfway-house--" "--Yet there may be something in it all the same,"<|quote|>he concluded, with a frown.</|quote|>"Not even that. It may be halfway in the wrong direction. I can t explain. I don t believe in all these fads, and yet I don t like saying that I don t believe in them." He seemed unsatisfied, and said: "So you wouldn t give me your word that you DON T hold with astral bodies and all the rest of it?" "I could," said Margaret, surprised that the point was of any importance to him. "Indeed, I will. When I talked about scrubbing my aura, I was only trying to be funny. But why do you want this settled?" "I don t know." "Now, Mr. Wilcox, you do know." "Yes, I am," "No, you re not," burst from the lovers opposite. Margaret was silent for a moment, and then changed the subject. "How s your house?" "Much the same as when you honoured it last week." "I don t mean Ducie Street. Howards End, of course." "Why of course ?" "Can t you turn out your tenant and let it to us? We re nearly demented." "Let me think. I wish I could help you. But I thought you wanted to be in town. One bit of advice: fix your district, then fix your price, and then don t budge. That s how I got both Ducie Street and Oniton. I said to myself, I mean to be exactly here, and I was, and Oniton s a place in a thousand." "But I do budge. Gentlemen seem to mesmerise houses--cow them with an eye, and up they come, trembling. Ladies can t. It s the houses that are mesmerising me. I ve no control over the saucy things. Houses are alive. No?" "I m out of my depth," he said, and added: "Didn t you talk rather like that to your office boy?" "Did I?--I mean I did, more or less. I talk the same way to every one--or try to." "Yes, I know. And how much of it do you suppose he understood?" "That s his lookout. I don t believe in suiting my conversation to my company. One can doubtless hit upon some medium of exchange that seems to do well enough, but it s no more like the real thing than money is like food. There s no nourishment in it. You pass it to the lower classes, and they pass it back to | "That s good. What ll you have?" "Fish pie," said she, with a glance at the menu. "Fish pie! Fancy coming for fish pie to Simpson s. It s not a bit the thing to go for here." "Go for something for me, then," said Margaret, pulling off her gloves. Her spirits were rising, and his reference to Leonard Bast had warmed her curiously. "Saddle of mutton," said he after profound reflection; "and cider to drink. That s the type of thing. I like this place, for a joke, once in a way. It is so thoroughly Old English. Don t you agree?" "Yes," said Margaret, who didn t. The order was given, the joint rolled up, and the carver, under Mr. Wilcox s direction, cut the meat where it was succulent, and piled their plates high. Mr. Cahill insisted on sirloin, but admitted that he had made a mistake later on. He and Evie soon fell into a conversation of the "No, I didn t; yes, you did" type--conversation which, though fascinating to those who are engaged in it, neither desires nor deserves the attention of others. "It s a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip everywhere s my motto." "Perhaps it does make life more human." "Then the fellows know one again. Especially in the East, if you tip, they remember you from year s end to year s end." "Have you been in the East?" "Oh, Greece and the Levant. I used to go out for sport and business to Cyprus; some military society of a sort there. A few piastres, properly distributed, help to keep one s memory green. But you, of course, think this shockingly cynical. How s your discussion society getting on? Any new Utopias lately?" "No, I m house-hunting, Mr. Wilcox, as I ve already told you once. Do you know of any houses?" "Afraid I don t." "Well, what s the point of being practical if you can t find two distressed females a house? We merely want a small house with large rooms, and plenty of them." "Evie, I like that! Miss Schlegel expects me to turn house-agent for her!" "What s that, father?" "I want a new home in September, and some one must find it. I can t." "Percy, do you know of anything?" "I can t say I do," said Mr. Cahill. "How like you! You re never any good." "Never any good. Just listen to her! Never any good. Oh, come!" "Well, you aren t. Miss Schlegel, is he?" The torrent of their love, having splashed these drops at Margaret, swept away on its habitual course. She sympathised with it now, for a little comfort had restored her geniality. Speech and silence pleased her equally, and while Mr. Wilcox made some preliminary inquiries about cheese, her eyes surveyed the restaurant, and aired its well-calculated tributes to the solidity of our past. Though no more Old English than the works of Kipling, it had selected its reminiscences so adroitly that her criticism was lulled, and the guests whom it was nourishing for imperial purposes bore the outer semblance of Parson Adams or Tom Jones. Scraps of their talk jarred oddly on the ear. "Right you are! I ll cable out to Uganda this evening," came from the table behind. "Their Emperor wants war; well, let him have it," was the opinion of a clergyman. She smiled at such incongruities. "Next time," she said to Mr. Wilcox, "you shall come to lunch with me at Mr. Eustace Miles s." "With pleasure." "No, you d hate it," she said, pushing her glass towards him for some more cider. "It s all proteids and body buildings, and people come up to you and beg your pardon, but you have such a beautiful aura." "A what?" "Never heard of an aura? Oh, happy, happy man! I scrub at mine for hours. Nor of an astral plane?" He had heard of astral planes, and censured them. "Just so. Luckily it was Helen s aura, not mine, and she had to chaperone it and do the politenesses. I just sat with my handkerchief in my mouth till the man went." "Funny experiences seem to come to you two girls. No one s ever asked me about my--what d ye call it? Perhaps I ve not got one." "You re bound to have one, but it may be such a terrible colour that no one dares mention it." "Tell me, though, Miss Schlegel, do you really believe in the supernatural and all that?" "Too difficult a question." "Why s that? Gruyere or Stilton?" "Gruyere, please." "Better have Stilton." "Stilton. Because, though I don t believe in auras, and think Theosophy s only a halfway-house--" "--Yet there may be something in it all the same,"<|quote|>he concluded, with a frown.</|quote|>"Not even that. It may be halfway in the wrong direction. I can t explain. I don t believe in all these fads, and yet I don t like saying that I don t believe in them." He seemed unsatisfied, and said: "So you wouldn t give me your word that you DON T hold with astral bodies and all the rest of it?" "I could," said Margaret, surprised that the point was of any importance to him. "Indeed, I will. When I talked about scrubbing my aura, I was only trying to be funny. But why do you want this settled?" "I don t know." "Now, Mr. Wilcox, you do know." "Yes, I am," "No, you re not," burst from the lovers opposite. Margaret was silent for a moment, and then changed the subject. "How s your house?" "Much the same as when you honoured it last week." "I don t mean Ducie Street. Howards End, of course." "Why of course ?" "Can t you turn out your tenant and let it to us? We re nearly demented." "Let me think. I wish I could help you. But I thought you wanted to be in town. One bit of advice: fix your district, then fix your price, and then don t budge. That s how I got both Ducie Street and Oniton. I said to myself, I mean to be exactly here, and I was, and Oniton s a place in a thousand." "But I do budge. Gentlemen seem to mesmerise houses--cow them with an eye, and up they come, trembling. Ladies can t. It s the houses that are mesmerising me. I ve no control over the saucy things. Houses are alive. No?" "I m out of my depth," he said, and added: "Didn t you talk rather like that to your office boy?" "Did I?--I mean I did, more or less. I talk the same way to every one--or try to." "Yes, I know. And how much of it do you suppose he understood?" "That s his lookout. I don t believe in suiting my conversation to my company. One can doubtless hit upon some medium of exchange that seems to do well enough, but it s no more like the real thing than money is like food. There s no nourishment in it. You pass it to the lower classes, and they pass it back to you, and this you call social intercourse or mutual endeavour, when it s mutual priggishness if it s anything. Our friends at Chelsea don t see this. They say one ought to be at all costs intelligible, and sacrifice--" "Lower classes," interrupted Mr. Wilcox, as it were thrusting his hand into her speech. "Well, you do admit that there are rich and poor. That s something." Margaret could not reply. Was he incredibly stupid, or did he understand her better than she understood herself? "You do admit that, if wealth was divided up equally, in a few years there would be rich and poor again just the same. The hard-working man would come to the top, the wastrel sink to the bottom." "Every one admits that." "Your Socialists don t." "My Socialists do. Yours mayn t; but I strongly suspect yours of being not Socialists, but ninepins, which you have constructed for your own amusement. I can t imagine any living creature who would bowl over quite so easily." He would have resented this had she not been a woman. But women may say anything--it was one of his holiest beliefs--and he only retorted, with a gay smile: "I don t care. You ve made two damaging admissions, and I m heartily with you in both." In time they finished lunch, and Margaret, who had excused herself from the Hippodrome, took her leave. Evie had scarcely addressed her, and she suspected that the entertainment had been planned by the father. He and she were advancing out of their respective families towards a more intimate acquaintance. It had begun long ago. She had been his wife s friend and, as such, he had given her that silver vinaigrette as a memento. It was pretty of him to have given that vinaigrette, and he had always preferred her to Helen--unlike most men. But the advance had been astonishing lately. They had done more in a week than in two years, and were really beginning to know each other. She did not forget his promise to sample Eustace Miles, and asked him as soon as she could secure Tibby as his chaperon. He came, and partook of body-building dishes with humility. Next morning the Schlegels left for Swanage. They had not succeeded in finding a new home. CHAPTER XVIII As they were seated at Aunt Juley s breakfast-table at The Bays, parrying her | table behind. "Their Emperor wants war; well, let him have it," was the opinion of a clergyman. She smiled at such incongruities. "Next time," she said to Mr. Wilcox, "you shall come to lunch with me at Mr. Eustace Miles s." "With pleasure." "No, you d hate it," she said, pushing her glass towards him for some more cider. "It s all proteids and body buildings, and people come up to you and beg your pardon, but you have such a beautiful aura." "A what?" "Never heard of an aura? Oh, happy, happy man! I scrub at mine for hours. Nor of an astral plane?" He had heard of astral planes, and censured them. "Just so. Luckily it was Helen s aura, not mine, and she had to chaperone it and do the politenesses. I just sat with my handkerchief in my mouth till the man went." "Funny experiences seem to come to you two girls. No one s ever asked me about my--what d ye call it? Perhaps I ve not got one." "You re bound to have one, but it may be such a terrible colour that no one dares mention it." "Tell me, though, Miss Schlegel, do you really believe in the supernatural and all that?" "Too difficult a question." "Why s that? Gruyere or Stilton?" "Gruyere, please." "Better have Stilton." "Stilton. Because, though I don t believe in auras, and think Theosophy s only a halfway-house--" "--Yet there may be something in it all the same,"<|quote|>he concluded, with a frown.</|quote|>"Not even that. It may be halfway in the wrong direction. I can t explain. I don t believe in all these fads, and yet I don t like saying that I don t believe in them." He seemed unsatisfied, and said: "So you wouldn t give me your word that you DON T hold with astral bodies and all the rest of it?" "I could," said Margaret, surprised that the point was of any importance to him. "Indeed, I will. When I talked about scrubbing my aura, I was only trying to be funny. But why do you want this settled?" "I don t know." "Now, Mr. Wilcox, you do know." "Yes, I am," "No, you re not," burst from the lovers opposite. Margaret was silent for a moment, and then changed the subject. "How s your house?" "Much the same as when you honoured it last week." "I don t mean Ducie Street. Howards End, of course." "Why of course ?" "Can t you turn out your tenant and let it to us? We re nearly demented." "Let me think. I wish I could help you. But I thought you wanted to be in town. One bit of advice: fix your district, then fix your price, and then don t budge. That s how I got both Ducie Street and Oniton. I said to myself, I mean to be exactly here, and I was, and Oniton s a place in a thousand." "But I do budge. Gentlemen seem to mesmerise houses--cow them with an eye, and up they come, trembling. Ladies can t. It s the houses that are mesmerising me. I ve no control over the saucy things. Houses are alive. No?" "I m out of my depth," he said, and added: "Didn t you talk rather like that to your office boy?" "Did I?--I mean I did, more or less. I talk the same way to every one--or try to." "Yes, I know. And how much of it do you suppose he understood?" "That s his lookout. I don t believe in suiting my conversation to my company. One can doubtless hit upon some medium of exchange that seems to do well enough, but it s no more like the real thing than money is like food. There s no nourishment in it. You pass it to the lower classes, and they pass it back to you, and this you call social intercourse or mutual endeavour, when it s mutual priggishness if it s anything. Our | Howards End |
"You seem pretty low to-night." | Tony Last | have some port." Tony said,<|quote|>"You seem pretty low to-night."</|quote|>"I am rather. Worried about | economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said,<|quote|>"You seem pretty low to-night."</|quote|>"I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep | had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said,<|quote|>"You seem pretty low to-night."</|quote|>"I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. | said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said,<|quote|>"You seem pretty low to-night."</|quote|>"I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." | believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said,<|quote|>"You seem pretty low to-night."</|quote|>"I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she | up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said,<|quote|>"You seem pretty low to-night."</|quote|>"I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see | good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said,<|quote|>"You seem pretty low to-night."</|quote|>"I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit." "Oh dear, can I trust you?" "I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John, you've got to go. Those hooligans may turn up at any moment. Have you got your taxi fare? You'll find some change in my bag." * * * * * "Was that your girl?" "Yes." "Made it up?" "Not exactly." "Far better to make it up. Shall we have some more brandy or go round to Brenda straight away?" "Let's have some more brandy." "Jock, you aren't still feeling low, are you? Doesn't do to feel low. _I'm_ not feeling low. I _was_, but I'm not any more." "No, I'm not feeling low." "Then we'll have some brandy and then go to Brenda's." "All right." Half an hour later they got into Jock's car. "Tell you what, I shouldn't drive if I were you." "Not drive?" "No, I shouldn't drive. They'd say you were drunk." "Who would?" "Anyone you ran over. They'd say you were drunk." "Well, so I am." "Then I shouldn't drive." "Too far to walk." "We'll take a taxi." "Oh, hell, I can drive." "Or let's not go to Brenda's at all." "We'd better go to Brenda's," said Jock. "She's expecting | We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said,<|quote|>"You seem pretty low to-night."</|quote|>"I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep | A Handful Of Dust |
"Zero!" | The Croupier | into one of the notches.<|quote|>"Zero!"</|quote|>cried the croupier. "Ah!!!" screamed | length the ball dropped off into one of the notches.<|quote|>"Zero!"</|quote|>cried the croupier. "Ah!!!" screamed the old lady as she | 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.<|quote|>"Zero!"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"Zero!"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"Zero!"</|quote|>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 her in gold, and the remainder in bank notes. This time the old lady | 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.<|quote|>"Zero!"</|quote|>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 her in gold, and the remainder in bank notes. This time the old lady did not call for Potapitch; for that she was too preoccupied. Though not outwardly shaken by the event (indeed, she seemed perfectly calm), she was trembling inwardly from head to foot. At length, completely absorbed in the game, she burst out: "Alexis Ivanovitch, did not the croupier just say that 4000 florins were the most that could be staked at any one time? Well, take these 4000, and stake them upon the red." To oppose her was useless. Once more the wheel revolved. "Rouge!" proclaimed the croupier. Again 4000 florins in all 8000! "Give me them," commanded the Grandmother, "and stake the other 4000 upon the red again." I did so. "Rouge!" proclaimed the croupier. "Twelve thousand!" cried the old lady. "Hand me the whole lot. Put the gold into this purse here, and count the bank notes. Enough! Let us go home. Wheel my chair away." XI The chair, with the old lady beaming in it, was wheeled away towards the doors at the further end of the salon, while our party hastened to crowd around her, and to offer her their congratulations. In fact, eccentric as was her conduct, it was also overshadowed by her triumph; with the | 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. "To listen to him!" 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.<|quote|>"Zero!"</|quote|>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 her in gold, and the remainder in bank notes. This time the old lady did not call for Potapitch; for that she was too preoccupied. Though not outwardly shaken by the event (indeed, she seemed perfectly calm), she was trembling inwardly from head to foot. At length, completely absorbed in the game, she burst out: "Alexis Ivanovitch, did not the croupier just say that 4000 florins were the most that could be staked at any one time? Well, take these 4000, and stake them upon the red." To oppose her was useless. Once more the wheel revolved. "Rouge!" proclaimed the croupier. Again 4000 florins in all 8000! "Give me them," commanded the Grandmother, "and stake the other 4000 upon the red again." I did so. "Rouge!" proclaimed the croupier. "Twelve thousand!" cried the old lady. "Hand me the whole lot. Put the gold into this purse here, and count the bank notes. Enough! Let us go home. Wheel my chair away." XI The chair, with the old lady beaming in it, was wheeled away towards the doors at the further end of the salon, while our party hastened to crowd around her, and to offer her their congratulations. In fact, eccentric as was her conduct, it was also overshadowed by her triumph; with the result that the General no longer feared to be publicly compromised by being seen with such a strange woman, but, smiling in a condescending, cheerfully familiar way, as though he were soothing a child, he offered his greetings to the old lady. At the same time, both he and the rest of the spectators were visibly impressed. Everywhere people kept pointing to the Grandmother, and talking about her. Many people even walked beside her chair, in order to view her the better while, at a little distance, Astley was carrying on a conversation on the subject with two English acquaintances of his. De Griers was simply overflowing with smiles and compliments, and a number of fine ladies were staring at the Grandmother as though she had been something curious. "Quelle victoire!" exclaimed De Griers. "Mais, Madame, c tait du feu!" added Mlle. Blanche with an elusive smile. "Yes, I have won twelve thousand florins," replied the old lady. "And then there is all this gold. With it the total ought to come to nearly thirteen thousand. How much is that in Russian money? Six thousand roubles, I think?" However, I calculated that the sum would exceed seven thousand roubles or, at the present rate of exchange, even eight thousand. "Eight thousand roubles! What a splendid thing! And to think of you simpletons sitting there and doing nothing! Potapitch! Martha! See what I have won!" "How _did_ you do it, Madame?" Martha exclaimed ecstatically. "Eight thousand roubles!" "And I am going to give you fifty g lden apiece. There they are." Potapitch and Martha rushed towards her to kiss her hand. "And to each bearer also I will give a ten-g lden piece. Let them have it out of the gold, Alexis Ivanovitch. But why is this footman bowing to me, and that other man as well? Are they congratulating me? Well, let them have ten g lden apiece." "Madame la princesse Un pauvre expatri Malheur continuel Les princes russes sont si g n reux!" said a man who for some time past had been hanging around the old lady s chair a personage who, dressed in a shabby frockcoat and coloured waistcoat, kept taking off his cap, and smiling pathetically. "Give him ten g lden," said the Grandmother. "No, give him twenty. Now, enough of that, or I shall never get done with you all. Take a moment s rest, | 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.<|quote|>"Zero!"</|quote|>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 her in gold, and the remainder in bank notes. This time the old lady did not call for Potapitch; for that she was too preoccupied. Though not outwardly shaken by the event (indeed, she seemed perfectly calm), she was trembling inwardly from head to foot. At length, completely absorbed in the game, she burst out: "Alexis Ivanovitch, did not the croupier just say that 4000 florins were the most that could be staked at any one time? Well, take these 4000, and stake them upon the red." To oppose her was useless. Once more the wheel revolved. "Rouge!" proclaimed the croupier. Again 4000 florins in all 8000! "Give me them," commanded the Grandmother, "and stake the other 4000 upon the red again." I did so. "Rouge!" proclaimed the croupier. "Twelve thousand!" cried the old lady. "Hand me the whole lot. Put the gold into this purse here, and count the bank notes. Enough! Let us go home. Wheel my chair away." XI The chair, with the old lady beaming in it, was wheeled away towards the doors at the further end of the salon, while our party hastened to crowd around her, and to offer her their congratulations. In fact, eccentric as was her conduct, it was also overshadowed by her triumph; with the result that the General no longer feared to be publicly compromised by being seen with such a strange woman, but, smiling in a condescending, cheerfully familiar way, as though he were soothing a child, he offered his greetings to the old lady. At the same time, both he and the rest of the spectators were visibly impressed. Everywhere people kept pointing to the Grandmother, and talking about her. Many people even walked beside her chair, in order to view her | The Gambler |
"Ah, then he has been at fault too," | Mr. Athelney Jones | the scent again," said I.<|quote|>"Ah, then he has been at fault too,"</|quote|>exclaimed Jones, with evident satisfaction. | He has evidently picked up the scent again," said I.<|quote|>"Ah, then he has been at fault too,"</|quote|>exclaimed Jones, with evident satisfaction. "Even the best of us | at once," it said. "If I have not returned, wait for me. I am close on the track of the Sholto gang. You can come with us to-night if you want to be in at the finish." "This sounds well. He has evidently picked up the scent again," said I.<|quote|>"Ah, then he has been at fault too,"</|quote|>exclaimed Jones, with evident satisfaction. "Even the best of us are thrown off sometimes. Of course this may prove to be a false alarm; but it is my duty as an officer of the law to allow no chance to slip. But there is some one at the door. Perhaps | a wire from him this morning, by which I understand that he has got some clue to this Sholto business. Here is the message." He took the telegram out of his pocket, and handed it to me. It was dated from Poplar at twelve o clock. "Go to Baker Street at once," it said. "If I have not returned, wait for me. I am close on the track of the Sholto gang. You can come with us to-night if you want to be in at the finish." "This sounds well. He has evidently picked up the scent again," said I.<|quote|>"Ah, then he has been at fault too,"</|quote|>exclaimed Jones, with evident satisfaction. "Even the best of us are thrown off sometimes. Of course this may prove to be a false alarm; but it is my duty as an officer of the law to allow no chance to slip. But there is some one at the door. Perhaps this is he." A heavy step was heard ascending the stair, with a great wheezing and rattling as from a man who was sorely put to it for breath. Once or twice he stopped, as though the climb were too much for him, but at last he made his way | need help sometimes," said I. "Your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes is a wonderful man, sir," said he, in a husky and confidential voice. "He s a man who is not to be beat. I have known that young man go into a good many cases, but I never saw the case yet that he could not throw a light upon. He is irregular in his methods, and a little quick perhaps in jumping at theories, but, on the whole, I think he would have made a most promising officer, and I don t care who knows it. I have had a wire from him this morning, by which I understand that he has got some clue to this Sholto business. Here is the message." He took the telegram out of his pocket, and handed it to me. It was dated from Poplar at twelve o clock. "Go to Baker Street at once," it said. "If I have not returned, wait for me. I am close on the track of the Sholto gang. You can come with us to-night if you want to be in at the finish." "This sounds well. He has evidently picked up the scent again," said I.<|quote|>"Ah, then he has been at fault too,"</|quote|>exclaimed Jones, with evident satisfaction. "Even the best of us are thrown off sometimes. Of course this may prove to be a false alarm; but it is my duty as an officer of the law to allow no chance to slip. But there is some one at the door. Perhaps this is he." A heavy step was heard ascending the stair, with a great wheezing and rattling as from a man who was sorely put to it for breath. Once or twice he stopped, as though the climb were too much for him, but at last he made his way to our door and entered. His appearance corresponded to the sounds which we had heard. He was an aged man, clad in seafaring garb, with an old pea-jacket buttoned up to his throat. His back was bowed, his knees were shaky, and his breathing was painfully asthmatic. As he leaned upon a thick oaken cudgel his shoulders heaved in the effort to draw the air into his lungs. He had a coloured scarf round his chin, and I could see little of his face save a pair of keen dark eyes, overhung by bushy white brows, and long grey side-whiskers. | "Good-day, sir; good-day," said he. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes is out, I understand." "Yes, and I cannot be sure when he will be back. But perhaps you would care to wait. Take that chair and try one of these cigars." "Thank you; I don t mind if I do," said he, mopping his face with a red bandanna handkerchief. "And a whiskey-and-soda?" "Well, half a glass. It is very hot for the time of year; and I have had a good deal to worry and try me. You know my theory about this Norwood case?" "I remember that you expressed one." "Well, I have been obliged to reconsider it. I had my net drawn tightly round Mr. Sholto, sir, when pop he went through a hole in the middle of it. He was able to prove an alibi which could not be shaken. From the time that he left his brother s room he was never out of sight of some one or other. So it could not be he who climbed over roofs and through trap-doors. It s a very dark case, and my professional credit is at stake. I should be very glad of a little assistance." "We all need help sometimes," said I. "Your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes is a wonderful man, sir," said he, in a husky and confidential voice. "He s a man who is not to be beat. I have known that young man go into a good many cases, but I never saw the case yet that he could not throw a light upon. He is irregular in his methods, and a little quick perhaps in jumping at theories, but, on the whole, I think he would have made a most promising officer, and I don t care who knows it. I have had a wire from him this morning, by which I understand that he has got some clue to this Sholto business. Here is the message." He took the telegram out of his pocket, and handed it to me. It was dated from Poplar at twelve o clock. "Go to Baker Street at once," it said. "If I have not returned, wait for me. I am close on the track of the Sholto gang. You can come with us to-night if you want to be in at the finish." "This sounds well. He has evidently picked up the scent again," said I.<|quote|>"Ah, then he has been at fault too,"</|quote|>exclaimed Jones, with evident satisfaction. "Even the best of us are thrown off sometimes. Of course this may prove to be a false alarm; but it is my duty as an officer of the law to allow no chance to slip. But there is some one at the door. Perhaps this is he." A heavy step was heard ascending the stair, with a great wheezing and rattling as from a man who was sorely put to it for breath. Once or twice he stopped, as though the climb were too much for him, but at last he made his way to our door and entered. His appearance corresponded to the sounds which we had heard. He was an aged man, clad in seafaring garb, with an old pea-jacket buttoned up to his throat. His back was bowed, his knees were shaky, and his breathing was painfully asthmatic. As he leaned upon a thick oaken cudgel his shoulders heaved in the effort to draw the air into his lungs. He had a coloured scarf round his chin, and I could see little of his face save a pair of keen dark eyes, overhung by bushy white brows, and long grey side-whiskers. Altogether he gave me the impression of a respectable master mariner who had fallen into years and poverty. "What is it, my man?" I asked. He looked about him in the slow methodical fashion of old age. "Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?" said he. "No; but I am acting for him. You can tell me any message you have for him." "It was to him himself I was to tell it," said he. "But I tell you that I am acting for him. Was it about Mordecai Smith s boat?" "Yes. I knows well where it is. An I knows where the men he is after are. An I knows where the treasure is. I knows all about it." "Then tell me, and I shall let him know." "It was to him I was to tell it," he repeated, with the petulant obstinacy of a very old man. "Well, you must wait for him." "No, no; I ain t goin to lose a whole day to please no one. If Mr. Holmes ain t here, then Mr. Holmes must find it all out for himself. I don t care about the look of either of you, and I won t | last Tuesday morning in the steam launch _Aurora_, black with two red stripes, funnel black with a white band, the sum of five pounds will be paid to any one who can give information to Mrs. Smith, at Smith s Wharf, or at 221_b_ Baker Street, as to the whereabouts of the said Mordecai Smith and the launch _Aurora_." This was clearly Holmes s doing. The Baker Street address was enough to prove that. It struck me as rather ingenious, because it might be read by the fugitives without their seeing in it more than the natural anxiety of a wife for her missing husband. It was a long day. Every time that a knock came to the door, or a sharp step passed in the street, I imagined that it was either Holmes returning or an answer to his advertisement. I tried to read, but my thoughts would wander off to our strange quest and to the ill-assorted and villainous pair whom we were pursuing. Could there be, I wondered, some radical flaw in my companion s reasoning. Might he be suffering from some huge self-deception? Was it not possible that his nimble and speculative mind had built up this wild theory upon faulty premises? I had never known him to be wrong; and yet the keenest reasoner may occasionally be deceived. He was likely, I thought, to fall into error through the over-refinement of his logic, his preference for a subtle and bizarre explanation when a plainer and more commonplace one lay ready to his hand. Yet, on the other hand, I had myself seen the evidence, and I had heard the reasons for his deductions. When I looked back on the long chain of curious circumstances, many of them trivial in themselves, but all tending in the same direction, I could not disguise from myself that even if Holmes s explanation were incorrect the true theory must be equally _outr _ and startling. At three o clock in the afternoon there was a loud peal at the bell, an authoritative voice in the hall, and, to my surprise, no less a person than Mr. Athelney Jones was shown up to me. Very different was he, however, from the brusque and masterful professor of common sense who had taken over the case so confidently at Upper Norwood. His expression was downcast, and his bearing meek and even apologetic. "Good-day, sir; good-day," said he. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes is out, I understand." "Yes, and I cannot be sure when he will be back. But perhaps you would care to wait. Take that chair and try one of these cigars." "Thank you; I don t mind if I do," said he, mopping his face with a red bandanna handkerchief. "And a whiskey-and-soda?" "Well, half a glass. It is very hot for the time of year; and I have had a good deal to worry and try me. You know my theory about this Norwood case?" "I remember that you expressed one." "Well, I have been obliged to reconsider it. I had my net drawn tightly round Mr. Sholto, sir, when pop he went through a hole in the middle of it. He was able to prove an alibi which could not be shaken. From the time that he left his brother s room he was never out of sight of some one or other. So it could not be he who climbed over roofs and through trap-doors. It s a very dark case, and my professional credit is at stake. I should be very glad of a little assistance." "We all need help sometimes," said I. "Your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes is a wonderful man, sir," said he, in a husky and confidential voice. "He s a man who is not to be beat. I have known that young man go into a good many cases, but I never saw the case yet that he could not throw a light upon. He is irregular in his methods, and a little quick perhaps in jumping at theories, but, on the whole, I think he would have made a most promising officer, and I don t care who knows it. I have had a wire from him this morning, by which I understand that he has got some clue to this Sholto business. Here is the message." He took the telegram out of his pocket, and handed it to me. It was dated from Poplar at twelve o clock. "Go to Baker Street at once," it said. "If I have not returned, wait for me. I am close on the track of the Sholto gang. You can come with us to-night if you want to be in at the finish." "This sounds well. He has evidently picked up the scent again," said I.<|quote|>"Ah, then he has been at fault too,"</|quote|>exclaimed Jones, with evident satisfaction. "Even the best of us are thrown off sometimes. Of course this may prove to be a false alarm; but it is my duty as an officer of the law to allow no chance to slip. But there is some one at the door. Perhaps this is he." A heavy step was heard ascending the stair, with a great wheezing and rattling as from a man who was sorely put to it for breath. Once or twice he stopped, as though the climb were too much for him, but at last he made his way to our door and entered. His appearance corresponded to the sounds which we had heard. He was an aged man, clad in seafaring garb, with an old pea-jacket buttoned up to his throat. His back was bowed, his knees were shaky, and his breathing was painfully asthmatic. As he leaned upon a thick oaken cudgel his shoulders heaved in the effort to draw the air into his lungs. He had a coloured scarf round his chin, and I could see little of his face save a pair of keen dark eyes, overhung by bushy white brows, and long grey side-whiskers. Altogether he gave me the impression of a respectable master mariner who had fallen into years and poverty. "What is it, my man?" I asked. He looked about him in the slow methodical fashion of old age. "Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?" said he. "No; but I am acting for him. You can tell me any message you have for him." "It was to him himself I was to tell it," said he. "But I tell you that I am acting for him. Was it about Mordecai Smith s boat?" "Yes. I knows well where it is. An I knows where the men he is after are. An I knows where the treasure is. I knows all about it." "Then tell me, and I shall let him know." "It was to him I was to tell it," he repeated, with the petulant obstinacy of a very old man. "Well, you must wait for him." "No, no; I ain t goin to lose a whole day to please no one. If Mr. Holmes ain t here, then Mr. Holmes must find it all out for himself. I don t care about the look of either of you, and I won t tell a word." He shuffled towards the door, but Athelney Jones got in front of him. "Wait a bit, my friend," said he. "You have important information, and you must not walk off. We shall keep you, whether you like or not, until our friend returns." The old man made a little run towards the door, but, as Athelney Jones put his broad back up against it, he recognised the uselessness of resistance. "Pretty sort o treatment this!" he cried, stamping his stick. "I come here to see a gentleman, and you two, who I never saw in my life, seize me and treat me in this fashion!" "You will be none the worse," I said. "We shall recompense you for the loss of your time. Sit over here on the sofa, and you will not have long to wait." He came across sullenly enough, and seated himself with his face resting on his hands. Jones and I resumed our cigars and our talk. Suddenly, however, Holmes s voice broke in upon us. "I think that you might offer me a cigar too," he said. We both started in our chairs. There was Holmes sitting close to us with an air of quiet amusement. "Holmes!" I exclaimed. "You here! But where is the old man?" "Here is the old man," said he, holding out a heap of white hair. "Here he is, wig, whiskers, eyebrows, and all. I thought my disguise was pretty good, but I hardly expected that it would stand that test." "Ah, You rogue!" cried Jones, highly delighted. "You would have made an actor, and a rare one. You had the proper workhouse cough, and those weak legs of yours are worth ten pounds a week. I thought I knew the glint of your eye, though. You didn t get away from us so easily, You see." "I have been working in that get-up all day," said he, lighting his cigar. "You see, a good many of the criminal classes begin to know me, especially since our friend here took to publishing some of my cases: so I can only go on the war-path under some simple disguise like this. You got my wire?" "Yes; that was what brought me here." "How has your case prospered?" "It has all come to nothing. I have had to release two of my prisoners, and there is no evidence against | I looked back on the long chain of curious circumstances, many of them trivial in themselves, but all tending in the same direction, I could not disguise from myself that even if Holmes s explanation were incorrect the true theory must be equally _outr _ and startling. At three o clock in the afternoon there was a loud peal at the bell, an authoritative voice in the hall, and, to my surprise, no less a person than Mr. Athelney Jones was shown up to me. Very different was he, however, from the brusque and masterful professor of common sense who had taken over the case so confidently at Upper Norwood. His expression was downcast, and his bearing meek and even apologetic. "Good-day, sir; good-day," said he. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes is out, I understand." "Yes, and I cannot be sure when he will be back. But perhaps you would care to wait. Take that chair and try one of these cigars." "Thank you; I don t mind if I do," said he, mopping his face with a red bandanna handkerchief. "And a whiskey-and-soda?" "Well, half a glass. It is very hot for the time of year; and I have had a good deal to worry and try me. You know my theory about this Norwood case?" "I remember that you expressed one." "Well, I have been obliged to reconsider it. I had my net drawn tightly round Mr. Sholto, sir, when pop he went through a hole in the middle of it. He was able to prove an alibi which could not be shaken. From the time that he left his brother s room he was never out of sight of some one or other. So it could not be he who climbed over roofs and through trap-doors. It s a very dark case, and my professional credit is at stake. I should be very glad of a little assistance." "We all need help sometimes," said I. "Your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes is a wonderful man, sir," said he, in a husky and confidential voice. "He s a man who is not to be beat. I have known that young man go into a good many cases, but I never saw the case yet that he could not throw a light upon. He is irregular in his methods, and a little quick perhaps in jumping at theories, but, on the whole, I think he would have made a most promising officer, and I don t care who knows it. I have had a wire from him this morning, by which I understand that he has got some clue to this Sholto business. Here is the message." He took the telegram out of his pocket, and handed it to me. It was dated from Poplar at twelve o clock. "Go to Baker Street at once," it said. "If I have not returned, wait for me. I am close on the track of the Sholto gang. You can come with us to-night if you want to be in at the finish." "This sounds well. He has evidently picked up the scent again," said I.<|quote|>"Ah, then he has been at fault too,"</|quote|>exclaimed Jones, with evident satisfaction. "Even the best of us are thrown off sometimes. Of course this may prove to be a false alarm; but it is my duty as an officer of the law to allow no chance to slip. But there is some one at the door. Perhaps this is he." A heavy step was heard ascending the stair, with a great wheezing and rattling as from a man who was sorely put to it for breath. Once or twice he stopped, as though the climb were too much for him, but at last he made his way to our door and entered. His appearance corresponded to the sounds which we had heard. He was an aged man, clad in seafaring garb, with an old pea-jacket buttoned up to his throat. His back was bowed, his knees were shaky, and his breathing was painfully asthmatic. As he leaned upon a thick oaken cudgel his shoulders heaved in the effort to draw the air into his lungs. He had a coloured scarf round his chin, and I could see little of his face save a pair of keen dark eyes, overhung by bushy white brows, and long grey side-whiskers. Altogether he gave me the impression of a respectable master mariner who had fallen into years and poverty. "What is it, my man?" I asked. He looked about him in the slow methodical fashion of old age. "Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?" said he. "No; but I am acting for him. You can tell me any message you have for him." "It was to him himself I was to tell it," said he. "But I tell you that I am acting for him. Was it about Mordecai Smith s boat?" "Yes. I knows well where it is. An I knows where the men he is after are. An I knows where the treasure is. I knows all about it." "Then tell me, and I shall let him know." "It was to him I was to tell it," he repeated, with the petulant obstinacy of a very old man. "Well, you must wait for him." "No, no; I ain t goin to lose a whole day to please no one. If Mr. Holmes ain t here, then Mr. Holmes must find it all out for himself. I don t care about the look of either of you, and I won t tell a word." He shuffled towards the door, but Athelney Jones got in front of him. "Wait a bit, my friend," said he. "You have important information, and you must not walk off. We shall keep you, whether you like or not, until our friend returns." The old man made a little run towards the door, but, as | The Sign Of The Four |
"and what I was saying to my husband this morning. It will be an education for the child, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her nothing, she would learn to be good and clever from _them_." | Mrs. Norris | I think," cried Mrs. Norris,<|quote|>"and what I was saying to my husband this morning. It will be an education for the child, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her nothing, she would learn to be good and clever from _them_."</|quote|>"I hope she will not | association." "That is exactly what I think," cried Mrs. Norris,<|quote|>"and what I was saying to my husband this morning. It will be an education for the child, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her nothing, she would learn to be good and clever from _them_."</|quote|>"I hope she will not tease my poor pug," said | herself, I should have considered the introduction of such a companion as a matter of very serious moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be nothing to fear for _them_, and everything to hope for _her_, from the association." "That is exactly what I think," cried Mrs. Norris,<|quote|>"and what I was saying to my husband this morning. It will be an education for the child, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her nothing, she would learn to be good and clever from _them_."</|quote|>"I hope she will not tease my poor pug," said Lady Bertram; "I have but just got Julia to leave it alone." "There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris," observed Sir Thomas, "as to the distinction proper to be made between the girls as they grow up: | evil. We shall probably see much to wish altered in her, and must prepare ourselves for gross ignorance, some meanness of opinions, and very distressing vulgarity of manner; but these are not incurable faults; nor, I trust, can they be dangerous for her associates. Had my daughters been _younger_ than herself, I should have considered the introduction of such a companion as a matter of very serious moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be nothing to fear for _them_, and everything to hope for _her_, from the association." "That is exactly what I think," cried Mrs. Norris,<|quote|>"and what I was saying to my husband this morning. It will be an education for the child, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her nothing, she would learn to be good and clever from _them_."</|quote|>"I hope she will not tease my poor pug," said Lady Bertram; "I have but just got Julia to leave it alone." "There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris," observed Sir Thomas, "as to the distinction proper to be made between the girls as they grow up: how to preserve in the minds of my _daughters_ the consciousness of what they are, without making them think too lowly of their cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make her remember that she is not a _Miss Bertram_. I should wish to see them very | and take care of her clothes, for I suppose you would not think it fair to expect Ellis to wait on her as well as the others. Indeed, I do not see that you could possibly place her anywhere else." Lady Bertram made no opposition. "I hope she will prove a well-disposed girl," continued Mrs. Norris, "and be sensible of her uncommon good fortune in having such friends." "Should her disposition be really bad," said Sir Thomas, "we must not, for our own children's sake, continue her in the family; but there is no reason to expect so great an evil. We shall probably see much to wish altered in her, and must prepare ourselves for gross ignorance, some meanness of opinions, and very distressing vulgarity of manner; but these are not incurable faults; nor, I trust, can they be dangerous for her associates. Had my daughters been _younger_ than herself, I should have considered the introduction of such a companion as a matter of very serious moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be nothing to fear for _them_, and everything to hope for _her_, from the association." "That is exactly what I think," cried Mrs. Norris,<|quote|>"and what I was saying to my husband this morning. It will be an education for the child, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her nothing, she would learn to be good and clever from _them_."</|quote|>"I hope she will not tease my poor pug," said Lady Bertram; "I have but just got Julia to leave it alone." "There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris," observed Sir Thomas, "as to the distinction proper to be made between the girls as they grow up: how to preserve in the minds of my _daughters_ the consciousness of what they are, without making them think too lowly of their cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make her remember that she is not a _Miss Bertram_. I should wish to see them very good friends, and would, on no account, authorise in my girls the smallest degree of arrogance towards their relation; but still they cannot be equals. Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations will always be different. It is a point of great delicacy, and you must assist us in our endeavours to choose exactly the right line of conduct." Mrs. Norris was quite at his service; and though she perfectly agreed with him as to its being a most difficult thing, encouraged him to hope that between them it would be easily managed. It will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris | sure would distract him. "Then she had better come to us," said Lady Bertram, with the utmost composure. After a short pause Sir Thomas added with dignity, "Yes, let her home be in this house. We will endeavour to do our duty by her, and she will, at least, have the advantage of companions of her own age, and of a regular instructress." "Very true," cried Mrs. Norris, "which are both very important considerations; and it will be just the same to Miss Lee whether she has three girls to teach, or only two there can be no difference. I only wish I could be more useful; but you see I do all in my power. I am not one of those that spare their own trouble; and Nanny shall fetch her, however it may put me to inconvenience to have my chief counsellor away for three days. I suppose, sister, you will put the child in the little white attic, near the old nurseries. It will be much the best place for her, so near Miss Lee, and not far from the girls, and close by the housemaids, who could either of them help to dress her, you know, and take care of her clothes, for I suppose you would not think it fair to expect Ellis to wait on her as well as the others. Indeed, I do not see that you could possibly place her anywhere else." Lady Bertram made no opposition. "I hope she will prove a well-disposed girl," continued Mrs. Norris, "and be sensible of her uncommon good fortune in having such friends." "Should her disposition be really bad," said Sir Thomas, "we must not, for our own children's sake, continue her in the family; but there is no reason to expect so great an evil. We shall probably see much to wish altered in her, and must prepare ourselves for gross ignorance, some meanness of opinions, and very distressing vulgarity of manner; but these are not incurable faults; nor, I trust, can they be dangerous for her associates. Had my daughters been _younger_ than herself, I should have considered the introduction of such a companion as a matter of very serious moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be nothing to fear for _them_, and everything to hope for _her_, from the association." "That is exactly what I think," cried Mrs. Norris,<|quote|>"and what I was saying to my husband this morning. It will be an education for the child, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her nothing, she would learn to be good and clever from _them_."</|quote|>"I hope she will not tease my poor pug," said Lady Bertram; "I have but just got Julia to leave it alone." "There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris," observed Sir Thomas, "as to the distinction proper to be made between the girls as they grow up: how to preserve in the minds of my _daughters_ the consciousness of what they are, without making them think too lowly of their cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make her remember that she is not a _Miss Bertram_. I should wish to see them very good friends, and would, on no account, authorise in my girls the smallest degree of arrogance towards their relation; but still they cannot be equals. Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations will always be different. It is a point of great delicacy, and you must assist us in our endeavours to choose exactly the right line of conduct." Mrs. Norris was quite at his service; and though she perfectly agreed with him as to its being a most difficult thing, encouraged him to hope that between them it would be easily managed. It will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris did not write to her sister in vain. Mrs. Price seemed rather surprised that a girl should be fixed on, when she had so many fine boys, but accepted the offer most thankfully, assuring them of her daughter's being a very well-disposed, good-humoured girl, and trusting they would never have cause to throw her off. She spoke of her farther as somewhat delicate and puny, but was sanguine in the hope of her being materially better for change of air. Poor woman! she probably thought change of air might agree with many of her children. CHAPTER II The little girl performed her long journey in safety; and at Northampton was met by Mrs. Norris, who thus regaled in the credit of being foremost to welcome her, and in the importance of leading her in to the others, and recommending her to their kindness. Fanny Price was at this time just ten years old, and though there might not be much in her first appearance to captivate, there was, at least, nothing to disgust her relations. She was small of her age, with no glow of complexion, nor any other striking beauty; exceedingly timid and shy, and shrinking from notice; but | her love of money was equal to her love of directing, and she knew quite as well how to save her own as to spend that of her friends. Having married on a narrower income than she had been used to look forward to, she had, from the first, fancied a very strict line of economy necessary; and what was begun as a matter of prudence, soon grew into a matter of choice, as an object of that needful solicitude which there were no children to supply. Had there been a family to provide for, Mrs. Norris might never have saved her money; but having no care of that kind, there was nothing to impede her frugality, or lessen the comfort of making a yearly addition to an income which they had never lived up to. Under this infatuating principle, counteracted by no real affection for her sister, it was impossible for her to aim at more than the credit of projecting and arranging so expensive a charity; though perhaps she might so little know herself as to walk home to the Parsonage, after this conversation, in the happy belief of being the most liberal-minded sister and aunt in the world. When the subject was brought forward again, her views were more fully explained; and, in reply to Lady Bertram's calm inquiry of "Where shall the child come to first, sister, to you or to us?" Sir Thomas heard with some surprise that it would be totally out of Mrs. Norris's power to take any share in the personal charge of her. He had been considering her as a particularly welcome addition at the Parsonage, as a desirable companion to an aunt who had no children of her own; but he found himself wholly mistaken. Mrs. Norris was sorry to say that the little girl's staying with them, at least as things then were, was quite out of the question. Poor Mr. Norris's indifferent state of health made it an impossibility: he could no more bear the noise of a child than he could fly; if, indeed, he should ever get well of his gouty complaints, it would be a different matter: she should then be glad to take her turn, and think nothing of the inconvenience; but just now, poor Mr. Norris took up every moment of her time, and the very mention of such a thing she was sure would distract him. "Then she had better come to us," said Lady Bertram, with the utmost composure. After a short pause Sir Thomas added with dignity, "Yes, let her home be in this house. We will endeavour to do our duty by her, and she will, at least, have the advantage of companions of her own age, and of a regular instructress." "Very true," cried Mrs. Norris, "which are both very important considerations; and it will be just the same to Miss Lee whether she has three girls to teach, or only two there can be no difference. I only wish I could be more useful; but you see I do all in my power. I am not one of those that spare their own trouble; and Nanny shall fetch her, however it may put me to inconvenience to have my chief counsellor away for three days. I suppose, sister, you will put the child in the little white attic, near the old nurseries. It will be much the best place for her, so near Miss Lee, and not far from the girls, and close by the housemaids, who could either of them help to dress her, you know, and take care of her clothes, for I suppose you would not think it fair to expect Ellis to wait on her as well as the others. Indeed, I do not see that you could possibly place her anywhere else." Lady Bertram made no opposition. "I hope she will prove a well-disposed girl," continued Mrs. Norris, "and be sensible of her uncommon good fortune in having such friends." "Should her disposition be really bad," said Sir Thomas, "we must not, for our own children's sake, continue her in the family; but there is no reason to expect so great an evil. We shall probably see much to wish altered in her, and must prepare ourselves for gross ignorance, some meanness of opinions, and very distressing vulgarity of manner; but these are not incurable faults; nor, I trust, can they be dangerous for her associates. Had my daughters been _younger_ than herself, I should have considered the introduction of such a companion as a matter of very serious moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be nothing to fear for _them_, and everything to hope for _her_, from the association." "That is exactly what I think," cried Mrs. Norris,<|quote|>"and what I was saying to my husband this morning. It will be an education for the child, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her nothing, she would learn to be good and clever from _them_."</|quote|>"I hope she will not tease my poor pug," said Lady Bertram; "I have but just got Julia to leave it alone." "There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris," observed Sir Thomas, "as to the distinction proper to be made between the girls as they grow up: how to preserve in the minds of my _daughters_ the consciousness of what they are, without making them think too lowly of their cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make her remember that she is not a _Miss Bertram_. I should wish to see them very good friends, and would, on no account, authorise in my girls the smallest degree of arrogance towards their relation; but still they cannot be equals. Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations will always be different. It is a point of great delicacy, and you must assist us in our endeavours to choose exactly the right line of conduct." Mrs. Norris was quite at his service; and though she perfectly agreed with him as to its being a most difficult thing, encouraged him to hope that between them it would be easily managed. It will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris did not write to her sister in vain. Mrs. Price seemed rather surprised that a girl should be fixed on, when she had so many fine boys, but accepted the offer most thankfully, assuring them of her daughter's being a very well-disposed, good-humoured girl, and trusting they would never have cause to throw her off. She spoke of her farther as somewhat delicate and puny, but was sanguine in the hope of her being materially better for change of air. Poor woman! she probably thought change of air might agree with many of her children. CHAPTER II The little girl performed her long journey in safety; and at Northampton was met by Mrs. Norris, who thus regaled in the credit of being foremost to welcome her, and in the importance of leading her in to the others, and recommending her to their kindness. Fanny Price was at this time just ten years old, and though there might not be much in her first appearance to captivate, there was, at least, nothing to disgust her relations. She was small of her age, with no glow of complexion, nor any other striking beauty; exceedingly timid and shy, and shrinking from notice; but her air, though awkward, was not vulgar, her voice was sweet, and when she spoke her countenance was pretty. Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram received her very kindly; and Sir Thomas, seeing how much she needed encouragement, tried to be all that was conciliating: but he had to work against a most untoward gravity of deportment; and Lady Bertram, without taking half so much trouble, or speaking one word where he spoke ten, by the mere aid of a good-humoured smile, became immediately the less awful character of the two. The young people were all at home, and sustained their share in the introduction very well, with much good humour, and no embarrassment, at least on the part of the sons, who, at seventeen and sixteen, and tall of their age, had all the grandeur of men in the eyes of their little cousin. The two girls were more at a loss from being younger and in greater awe of their father, who addressed them on the occasion with rather an injudicious particularity. But they were too much used to company and praise to have anything like natural shyness; and their confidence increasing from their cousin's total want of it, they were soon able to take a full survey of her face and her frock in easy indifference. They were a remarkably fine family, the sons very well-looking, the daughters decidedly handsome, and all of them well-grown and forward of their age, which produced as striking a difference between the cousins in person, as education had given to their address; and no one would have supposed the girls so nearly of an age as they really were. There were in fact but two years between the youngest and Fanny. Julia Bertram was only twelve, and Maria but a year older. The little visitor meanwhile was as unhappy as possible. Afraid of everybody, ashamed of herself, and longing for the home she had left, she knew not how to look up, and could scarcely speak to be heard, or without crying. Mrs. Norris had been talking to her the whole way from Northampton of her wonderful good fortune, and the extraordinary degree of gratitude and good behaviour which it ought to produce, and her consciousness of misery was therefore increased by the idea of its being a wicked thing for her not to be happy. The fatigue, too, of so long | up every moment of her time, and the very mention of such a thing she was sure would distract him. "Then she had better come to us," said Lady Bertram, with the utmost composure. After a short pause Sir Thomas added with dignity, "Yes, let her home be in this house. We will endeavour to do our duty by her, and she will, at least, have the advantage of companions of her own age, and of a regular instructress." "Very true," cried Mrs. Norris, "which are both very important considerations; and it will be just the same to Miss Lee whether she has three girls to teach, or only two there can be no difference. I only wish I could be more useful; but you see I do all in my power. I am not one of those that spare their own trouble; and Nanny shall fetch her, however it may put me to inconvenience to have my chief counsellor away for three days. I suppose, sister, you will put the child in the little white attic, near the old nurseries. It will be much the best place for her, so near Miss Lee, and not far from the girls, and close by the housemaids, who could either of them help to dress her, you know, and take care of her clothes, for I suppose you would not think it fair to expect Ellis to wait on her as well as the others. Indeed, I do not see that you could possibly place her anywhere else." Lady Bertram made no opposition. "I hope she will prove a well-disposed girl," continued Mrs. Norris, "and be sensible of her uncommon good fortune in having such friends." "Should her disposition be really bad," said Sir Thomas, "we must not, for our own children's sake, continue her in the family; but there is no reason to expect so great an evil. We shall probably see much to wish altered in her, and must prepare ourselves for gross ignorance, some meanness of opinions, and very distressing vulgarity of manner; but these are not incurable faults; nor, I trust, can they be dangerous for her associates. Had my daughters been _younger_ than herself, I should have considered the introduction of such a companion as a matter of very serious moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be nothing to fear for _them_, and everything to hope for _her_, from the association." "That is exactly what I think," cried Mrs. Norris,<|quote|>"and what I was saying to my husband this morning. It will be an education for the child, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her nothing, she would learn to be good and clever from _them_."</|quote|>"I hope she will not tease my poor pug," said Lady Bertram; "I have but just got Julia to leave it alone." "There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris," observed Sir Thomas, "as to the distinction proper to be made between the girls as they grow up: how to preserve in the minds of my _daughters_ the consciousness of what they are, without making them think too lowly of their cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make her remember that she is not a _Miss Bertram_. I should wish to see them very good friends, and would, on no account, authorise in my girls the smallest degree of arrogance towards their relation; but still they cannot be equals. Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations will always be different. It is a point of great delicacy, and you must assist us in our endeavours to choose exactly the right line of conduct." Mrs. Norris was quite at his service; and though she perfectly agreed with him as to its being a most difficult thing, encouraged him to hope that between them it would be easily managed. It will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris did not write to her sister in vain. Mrs. Price seemed rather surprised that a girl should be fixed on, when she had so many fine boys, but accepted the offer most thankfully, assuring them of her daughter's being a very well-disposed, good-humoured girl, and trusting they would never have cause to throw her off. She spoke of her farther as somewhat delicate and puny, but was sanguine in the hope of her being materially better for change of air. Poor woman! she probably thought change of air might agree with many of her children. CHAPTER II The little girl | Mansfield Park |
It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. | No speaker | should have stopped without leave."<|quote|>It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her.</|quote|>"Expect me back before dark. | "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave."<|quote|>It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her.</|quote|>"Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to | the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles. "Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave."<|quote|>It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her.</|quote|>"Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left | how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles. "Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave."<|quote|>It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her.</|quote|>"Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many | poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles. "Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave."<|quote|>It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her.</|quote|>"Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the man s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who had not been "told," ran out with offers of tea. He refused them, and ordered them to wheel baby s perambulator away, as they desired to be alone. "But the diddums can t listen; he isn t nine months old," she pleaded. "That s not what I was saying," retorted her father-in-law. Baby was wheeled out of | intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little," said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles. "Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave."<|quote|>It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her.</|quote|>"Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the man s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who had not been "told," ran out with offers of tea. He refused them, and ordered them to wheel baby s perambulator away, as they desired to be alone. "But the diddums can t listen; he isn t nine months old," she pleaded. "That s not what I was saying," retorted her father-in-law. Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear about the crisis till later years. It was now the turn of Margaret. "Is it what we feared?" he asked. "It is." "Dear girl," he began, "there is a troublesome business ahead of us, and nothing but the most absolute honesty and plain speech will see us through." Margaret bent her head. "I am obliged to question you on subjects we d both prefer to leave untouched. As you know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who consider nothing sacred. To speak as I must will pain me, but there are occasions--We are husband and wife, not children. I am a man of the world, and you are a most exceptional woman." All Margaret s senses forsook her. She blushed, and looked past him at the Six Hills, covered with spring herbage. Noting her colour, he grew still more kind. "I see that you feel as I felt when--My poor little wife! Oh, be brave! Just one or two questions, and I have done with you. Was your sister wearing a wedding-ring?" Margaret stammered a "No." There was an appalling silence. "Henry, I really came to ask a favour about Howards End." "One | lop-eareds," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit. "You re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.--Isn t he charming?" "Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers." "What do you mean?" "I don t know." "Because I probably agree with you." "It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live." "I do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "But you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago." "Meaning that I was dead. I felt it." "Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I ve a startling idea." "What is it?" "Drink some milk to steady you." Margaret obeyed. "No, I won t tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry. Let s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing." They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn t you and I camp out in this house for the night?" "I don t think we could well do that," said Margaret. "Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little," said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles. "Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave."<|quote|>It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her.</|quote|>"Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the man s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who had not been "told," ran out with offers of tea. He refused them, and ordered them to wheel baby s perambulator away, as they desired to be alone. "But the diddums can t listen; he isn t nine months old," she pleaded. "That s not what I was saying," retorted her father-in-law. Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear about the crisis till later years. It was now the turn of Margaret. "Is it what we feared?" he asked. "It is." "Dear girl," he began, "there is a troublesome business ahead of us, and nothing but the most absolute honesty and plain speech will see us through." Margaret bent her head. "I am obliged to question you on subjects we d both prefer to leave untouched. As you know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who consider nothing sacred. To speak as I must will pain me, but there are occasions--We are husband and wife, not children. I am a man of the world, and you are a most exceptional woman." All Margaret s senses forsook her. She blushed, and looked past him at the Six Hills, covered with spring herbage. Noting her colour, he grew still more kind. "I see that you feel as I felt when--My poor little wife! Oh, be brave! Just one or two questions, and I have done with you. Was your sister wearing a wedding-ring?" Margaret stammered a "No." There was an appalling silence. "Henry, I really came to ask a favour about Howards End." "One point at a time. I am now obliged to ask for the name of her seducer." She rose to her feet and held the chair between them. Her colour had ebbed, and she was grey. It did not displease him that she should receive his question thus. "Take your time," he counselled her. "Remember that this is far worse for me than for you." She swayed; he feared she was going to faint. Then speech came, and she said slowly: "Seducer? No; I do not know her seducer s name." "Would she not tell you?" "I never even asked her who seduced her," said Margaret, dwelling on the hateful word thoughtfully. "That is singular." Then he changed his mind. "Natural perhaps, dear girl, that you shouldn t ask. But until his name is known, nothing can be done. Sit down. How terrible it is to see you so upset! I knew you weren t fit for it. I wish I hadn t taken you." Margaret answered, "I like to stand, if you don t mind, for it gives me a pleasant view of the Six Hills." "As you like." "Have you anything else to ask me, Henry?" "Next you must tell me whether you have gathered anything. I have often noticed your insight, dear. I only wish my own was as good. You may have guessed something, even though your sister said nothing. The slightest hint would help us." "Who is we ?" "I thought it best to ring up Charles." "That was unnecessary," said Margaret, growing warmer. "This news will give Charles disproportionate pain." "He has at once gone to call on your brother." "That too was unnecessary." "Let me explain, dear, how the matter stands. You don t think that I and my son are other than gentlemen? It is in Helen s interests that we are acting. It is still not too late to save her name." Then Margaret hit out for the first time. "Are we to make her seducer marry her?" she asked. "If possible, yes." "But, Henry, suppose he turned out to be married already? One has heard of such cases." "In that case he must pay heavily for his misconduct, and be thrashed within an inch of his life." So her first blow missed. She was thankful of it. What had tempted her to imperil both of their lives. Henry s obtuseness had | for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn t you and I camp out in this house for the night?" "I don t think we could well do that," said Margaret. "Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little," said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles. "Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave."<|quote|>It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her.</|quote|>"Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the man s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who had not been "told," ran out with offers of tea. He refused them, and ordered them to wheel baby s perambulator away, as they desired to be alone. "But the diddums can t listen; he isn t nine months old," she pleaded. "That s not what I was saying," retorted her father-in-law. Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear about the crisis till later years. It was now the turn of Margaret. "Is it what we feared?" he asked. "It is." "Dear girl," he began, "there is a troublesome business ahead of us, and nothing but the most absolute honesty and plain speech will see us through." Margaret bent her head. "I am obliged to question you on subjects we d both prefer to leave untouched. As you know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who consider nothing sacred. To speak as I must will pain me, but there are occasions--We are husband | Howards End |
"See on the back where they come out." | Count Mippipopolous | were two raised white welts.<|quote|>"See on the back where they come out."</|quote|>Above the small of the | line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts.<|quote|>"See on the back where they come out."</|quote|>Above the small of the back were the same two | look at them." The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts.<|quote|>"See on the back where they come out."</|quote|>Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through." The count was tucking in his shirt. "Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old." "What were you doing?" | have seen a lot, too." "Of course you have, my dear," Brett said. "I was only ragging." "I have been in seven wars and four revolutions," the count said. "Soldiering?" Brett asked. "Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?" "Let's have a look at them." The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts.<|quote|>"See on the back where they come out."</|quote|>Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through." The count was tucking in his shirt. "Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old." "What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?" "I was on a business trip, my dear." "I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to me. "I love you, count. You're a darling." "You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true." "Don't be an | are drunk." "Listen to the man." "Mr. Barnes," the count poured my glass full. "She is the only lady I have ever known who was as charming when she was drunk as when she was sober." "You haven't been around much, have you?" "Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I have been around a very great deal." "Drink your wine," said Brett. "We've all been around. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have." "My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don't think I don't think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too." "Of course you have, my dear," Brett said. "I was only ragging." "I have been in seven wars and four revolutions," the count said. "Soldiering?" Brett asked. "Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?" "Let's have a look at them." The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts.<|quote|>"See on the back where they come out."</|quote|>Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through." The count was tucking in his shirt. "Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old." "What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?" "I was on a business trip, my dear." "I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to me. "I love you, count. You're a darling." "You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true." "Don't be an ass." "You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?" "Yes. Absolutely." "I know," said the count. "That is the secret. You must get to know the values." "Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?" Brett asked. "No. Not any more." "Never fall in love?" "Always," said the count. "I am always in love." "What does that do to your values?" "That, too, has got a place in my values." "You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all." "No, my dear. You're not | you talk some time." "Isn't he a fool?" Brett asked. "Now," the count brought up a bottle. "I think this is cool." I brought a towel and he wiped the bottle dry and held it up. "I like to drink champagne from magnums. The wine is better but it would have been too hard to cool." He held the bottle, looking at it. I put out the glasses. "I say. You might open it," Brett suggested. "Yes, my dear. Now I'll open it." It was amazing champagne. "I say that is wine," Brett held up her glass. "We ought to toast something. 'Here's to royalty.'" "This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste." Brett's glass was empty. "You ought to write a book on wines, count," I said. "Mr. Barnes," answered the count, "all I want out of wines is to enjoy them." "Let's enjoy a little more of this," Brett pushed her glass forward. The count poured very carefully. "There, my dear. Now you enjoy that slowly, and then you can get drunk." "Drunk? Drunk?" "My dear, you are charming when you are drunk." "Listen to the man." "Mr. Barnes," the count poured my glass full. "She is the only lady I have ever known who was as charming when she was drunk as when she was sober." "You haven't been around much, have you?" "Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I have been around a very great deal." "Drink your wine," said Brett. "We've all been around. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have." "My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don't think I don't think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too." "Of course you have, my dear," Brett said. "I was only ragging." "I have been in seven wars and four revolutions," the count said. "Soldiering?" Brett asked. "Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?" "Let's have a look at them." The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts.<|quote|>"See on the back where they come out."</|quote|>Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through." The count was tucking in his shirt. "Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old." "What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?" "I was on a business trip, my dear." "I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to me. "I love you, count. You're a darling." "You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true." "Don't be an ass." "You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?" "Yes. Absolutely." "I know," said the count. "That is the secret. You must get to know the values." "Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?" Brett asked. "No. Not any more." "Never fall in love?" "Always," said the count. "I am always in love." "What does that do to your values?" "That, too, has got a place in my values." "You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all." "No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at all." We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the Bois. It was a good dinner. Food had an excellent place in the count's values. So did wine. The count was in fine form during the meal. So was Brett. It was a good party. "Where would you like to go?" asked the count after dinner. We were the only people left in the restaurant. The two waiters were standing over against the door. They wanted to go home. "We might go up on the hill," Brett said. "Haven't we had a splendid party?" The count was beaming. He was very happy. "You are very nice people," he said. He was smoking a cigar again. "Why don't you get married, you two?" "We want to lead our own lives," I said. "We have our careers," Brett said. "Come on. Let's get out of this." "Have another brandy," the count said. "Get it on the hill." "No. Have it here where it is quiet." "You and your quiet," said Brett. "What is it men feel about quiet?" "We like it," said the | you like," Brett said. "I couldn't eat a thing." "I always like a good meal," said the count. "Should I bring the wine in, sir?" asked the chauffeur. "Yes. Bring it in, Henry," said the count. He took out a heavy pigskin cigar-case and offered it to me. "Like to try a real American cigar?" "Thanks," I said. "I'll finish the cigarette." He cut off the end of his cigar with a gold cutter he wore on one end of his watch-chain. "I like a cigar to really draw," said the count "Half the cigars you smoke don't draw." He lit the cigar, puffed at it, looking across the table at Brett. "And when you're divorced, Lady Ashley, then you won't have a title." "No. What a pity." "No," said the count. "You don't need a title. You got class all over you." "Thanks. Awfully decent of you." "I'm not joking you," the count blew a cloud of smoke. "You got the most class of anybody I ever seen. You got it. That's all." "Nice of you," said Brett. "Mummy would be pleased. Couldn't you write it out, and I'll send it in a letter to her." "I'd tell her, too," said the count. "I'm not joking you. I never joke people. Joke people and you make enemies. That's what I always say." "You're right," Brett said. "You're terribly right. I always joke people and I haven't a friend in the world. Except Jake here." "You don't joke him." "That's it." "Do you, now?" asked the count. "Do you joke him?" Brett looked at me and wrinkled up the corners of her eyes. "No," she said. "I wouldn't joke him." "See," said the count. "You don't joke him." "This is a hell of a dull talk," Brett said. "How about some of that champagne?" The count reached down and twirled the bottles in the shiny bucket. "It isn't cold, yet. You're always drinking, my dear. Why don't you just talk?" "I've talked too ruddy much. I've talked myself all out to Jake." "I should like to hear you really talk, my dear. When you talk to me you never finish your sentences at all." "Leave 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they like." "It is a very interesting system," the count reached down and gave the bottles a twirl. "Still I would like to hear you talk some time." "Isn't he a fool?" Brett asked. "Now," the count brought up a bottle. "I think this is cool." I brought a towel and he wiped the bottle dry and held it up. "I like to drink champagne from magnums. The wine is better but it would have been too hard to cool." He held the bottle, looking at it. I put out the glasses. "I say. You might open it," Brett suggested. "Yes, my dear. Now I'll open it." It was amazing champagne. "I say that is wine," Brett held up her glass. "We ought to toast something. 'Here's to royalty.'" "This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste." Brett's glass was empty. "You ought to write a book on wines, count," I said. "Mr. Barnes," answered the count, "all I want out of wines is to enjoy them." "Let's enjoy a little more of this," Brett pushed her glass forward. The count poured very carefully. "There, my dear. Now you enjoy that slowly, and then you can get drunk." "Drunk? Drunk?" "My dear, you are charming when you are drunk." "Listen to the man." "Mr. Barnes," the count poured my glass full. "She is the only lady I have ever known who was as charming when she was drunk as when she was sober." "You haven't been around much, have you?" "Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I have been around a very great deal." "Drink your wine," said Brett. "We've all been around. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have." "My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don't think I don't think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too." "Of course you have, my dear," Brett said. "I was only ragging." "I have been in seven wars and four revolutions," the count said. "Soldiering?" Brett asked. "Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?" "Let's have a look at them." The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts.<|quote|>"See on the back where they come out."</|quote|>Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through." The count was tucking in his shirt. "Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old." "What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?" "I was on a business trip, my dear." "I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to me. "I love you, count. You're a darling." "You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true." "Don't be an ass." "You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?" "Yes. Absolutely." "I know," said the count. "That is the secret. You must get to know the values." "Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?" Brett asked. "No. Not any more." "Never fall in love?" "Always," said the count. "I am always in love." "What does that do to your values?" "That, too, has got a place in my values." "You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all." "No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at all." We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the Bois. It was a good dinner. Food had an excellent place in the count's values. So did wine. The count was in fine form during the meal. So was Brett. It was a good party. "Where would you like to go?" asked the count after dinner. We were the only people left in the restaurant. The two waiters were standing over against the door. They wanted to go home. "We might go up on the hill," Brett said. "Haven't we had a splendid party?" The count was beaming. He was very happy. "You are very nice people," he said. He was smoking a cigar again. "Why don't you get married, you two?" "We want to lead our own lives," I said. "We have our careers," Brett said. "Come on. Let's get out of this." "Have another brandy," the count said. "Get it on the hill." "No. Have it here where it is quiet." "You and your quiet," said Brett. "What is it men feel about quiet?" "We like it," said the count. "Like you like noise, my dear." "All right," said Brett. "Let's have one." "Sommelier!" the count called. "Yes, sir." "What is the oldest brandy you have?" "Eighteen eleven, sir." "Bring us a bottle." "I say. Don't be ostentatious. Call him off, Jake." "Listen, my dear. I get more value for my money in old brandy than in any other antiquities." "Got many antiquities?" "I got a houseful." Finally we went up to Montmartre. Inside Zelli's it was crowded, smoky, and noisy. The music hit you as you went in. Brett and I danced. It was so crowded we could barely move. The nigger drummer waved at Brett. We were caught in the jam, dancing in one place in front of him. "Hahre you?" "Great." "Thaats good." He was all teeth and lips. "He's a great friend of mine," Brett said. "Damn good drummer." The music stopped and we started toward the table where the count sat. Then the music started again and we danced. I looked at the count. He was sitting at the table smoking a cigar. The music stopped again. "Let's go over." Brett started toward the table. The music started and again we danced, tight in the crowd. "You are a rotten dancer, Jake. Michael's the best dancer I know." "He's splendid." "He's got his points." "I like him," I said. "I'm damned fond of him." "I'm going to marry him," Brett said. "Funny. I haven't thought about him for a week." "Don't you write him?" "Not I. Never write letters." "I'll bet he writes to you." "Rather. Damned good letters, too." "When are you going to get married?" "How do I know? As soon as we can get the divorce. Michael's trying to get his mother to put up for it." "Could I help you?" "Don't be an ass. Michael's people have loads of money." The music stopped. We walked over to the table. The count stood up. "Very nice," he said. "You looked very, very nice." "Don't you dance, count?" I asked. "No. I'm too old." "Oh, come off it," Brett said. "My dear, I would do it if I would enjoy it. I enjoy to watch you dance." "Splendid," Brett said. "I'll dance again for you some time. I say. What about your little friend, Zizi?" "Let me tell you. I support that boy, but I don't want to have him around." "He | put out the glasses. "I say. You might open it," Brett suggested. "Yes, my dear. Now I'll open it." It was amazing champagne. "I say that is wine," Brett held up her glass. "We ought to toast something. 'Here's to royalty.'" "This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste." Brett's glass was empty. "You ought to write a book on wines, count," I said. "Mr. Barnes," answered the count, "all I want out of wines is to enjoy them." "Let's enjoy a little more of this," Brett pushed her glass forward. The count poured very carefully. "There, my dear. Now you enjoy that slowly, and then you can get drunk." "Drunk? Drunk?" "My dear, you are charming when you are drunk." "Listen to the man." "Mr. Barnes," the count poured my glass full. "She is the only lady I have ever known who was as charming when she was drunk as when she was sober." "You haven't been around much, have you?" "Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I have been around a very great deal." "Drink your wine," said Brett. "We've all been around. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have." "My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don't think I don't think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too." "Of course you have, my dear," Brett said. "I was only ragging." "I have been in seven wars and four revolutions," the count said. "Soldiering?" Brett asked. "Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?" "Let's have a look at them." The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts.<|quote|>"See on the back where they come out."</|quote|>Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through." The count was tucking in his shirt. "Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old." "What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?" "I was on a business trip, my dear." "I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to me. "I love you, count. You're a darling." "You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true." "Don't be an ass." "You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?" "Yes. Absolutely." "I know," said the count. "That is the secret. You must get to know the values." "Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?" Brett asked. "No. Not any more." "Never fall in love?" "Always," said the count. "I am always in love." "What does that do to your values?" "That, too, has got a place in my values." "You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all." "No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at all." We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the Bois. It was a good dinner. Food had an excellent place in the count's values. So did wine. The count was in fine form during the meal. So was Brett. It was a good party. "Where would you like to go?" asked the count after dinner. We were the only people left in the restaurant. The two waiters were standing over against the door. They wanted to go home. "We might go up on the hill," Brett said. "Haven't we had a splendid party?" The count was beaming. He was very happy. "You are very nice people," he said. He was smoking a cigar again. "Why don't you get married, you two?" "We want to lead our own lives," I said. "We have our careers," Brett said. "Come on. Let's get out of this." "Have another brandy," the count said. "Get it on the hill." "No. Have it here where it is quiet." "You and your quiet," said Brett. "What is it men feel about quiet?" "We like it," said the count. "Like you like noise, my dear." "All right," said Brett. "Let's have one." "Sommelier!" the count called. "Yes, sir." "What is the oldest brandy you have?" "Eighteen eleven, sir." "Bring us a bottle." "I say. Don't be ostentatious. Call him off, Jake." "Listen, my dear. I get more value for my money in old brandy than in any other antiquities." "Got many antiquities?" "I got a houseful." Finally we went up to Montmartre. Inside Zelli's it was crowded, smoky, and noisy. The music hit you as you went in. Brett and I danced. It was so crowded we could barely move. The nigger drummer waved at Brett. We were caught in the jam, dancing in one place in front of him. "Hahre you?" "Great." "Thaats good." He was all teeth and lips. "He's a great friend of mine," Brett said. "Damn good drummer." The music stopped and we started toward the table where the count sat. Then the music started again and we danced. I looked at the count. He was sitting at the table | The Sun Also Rises |
"Don't let's ever talk about it. Please don't let's ever talk about it." | Brett Ashley | put my arms around her.<|quote|>"Don't let's ever talk about it. Please don't let's ever talk about it."</|quote|>"Dear Brett." "I'm going back | She wouldn't look up. I put my arms around her.<|quote|>"Don't let's ever talk about it. Please don't let's ever talk about it."</|quote|>"Dear Brett." "I'm going back to Mike." I could feel | be that way. I feel rather good, you know. I feel rather set up." "Good." She looked away. I thought she was looking for another cigarette. Then I saw she was crying. I could feel her crying. Shaking and crying. She wouldn't look up. I put my arms around her.<|quote|>"Don't let's ever talk about it. Please don't let's ever talk about it."</|quote|>"Dear Brett." "I'm going back to Mike." I could feel her crying as I held her close. "He's so damned nice and he's so awful. He's my sort of thing." She would not look up. I stroked her hair. I could feel her shaking. "I won't be one of those | hadn't seen it was bad for him. We got along damned well." "Outside of your personal appearance." "Oh, he'd have gotten used to that." She put out the cigarette. "I'm thirty-four, you know. I'm not going to be one of these bitches that ruins children." "No." "I'm not going to be that way. I feel rather good, you know. I feel rather set up." "Good." She looked away. I thought she was looking for another cigarette. Then I saw she was crying. I could feel her crying. Shaking and crying. She wouldn't look up. I put my arms around her.<|quote|>"Don't let's ever talk about it. Please don't let's ever talk about it."</|quote|>"Dear Brett." "I'm going back to Mike." I could feel her crying as I held her close. "He's so damned nice and he's so awful. He's my sort of thing." She would not look up. I stroked her hair. I could feel her shaking. "I won't be one of those bitches," she said. "But, oh, Jake, please let's never talk about it." We left the Hotel Montana. The woman who ran the hotel would not let me pay the bill. The bill had been paid. "Oh, well. Let it go," Brett said. "It doesn't matter now." We rode in a | "He learned his English as a waiter in Gib." "Yes." "He wanted to marry me, finally." "Really?" "Of course. I can't even marry Mike." "Maybe he thought that would make him Lord Ashley." "No. It wasn't that. He really wanted to marry me. So I couldn't go away from him, he said. He wanted to make it sure I could never go away from him. After I'd gotten more womanly, of course." "You ought to feel set up." "I do. I'm all right again. He's wiped out that damned Cohn." "Good." "You know I'd have lived with him if I hadn't seen it was bad for him. We got along damned well." "Outside of your personal appearance." "Oh, he'd have gotten used to that." She put out the cigarette. "I'm thirty-four, you know. I'm not going to be one of these bitches that ruins children." "No." "I'm not going to be that way. I feel rather good, you know. I feel rather set up." "Good." She looked away. I thought she was looking for another cigarette. Then I saw she was crying. I could feel her crying. Shaking and crying. She wouldn't look up. I put my arms around her.<|quote|>"Don't let's ever talk about it. Please don't let's ever talk about it."</|quote|>"Dear Brett." "I'm going back to Mike." I could feel her crying as I held her close. "He's so damned nice and he's so awful. He's my sort of thing." She would not look up. I stroked her hair. I could feel her shaking. "I won't be one of those bitches," she said. "But, oh, Jake, please let's never talk about it." We left the Hotel Montana. The woman who ran the hotel would not let me pay the bill. The bill had been paid. "Oh, well. Let it go," Brett said. "It doesn't matter now." We rode in a taxi down to the Palace Hotel, left the bags, arranged for berths on the Sud Express for the night, and went into the bar of the hotel for a cocktail. We sat on high stools at the bar while the barman shook the Martinis in a large nickelled shaker. "It's funny what a wonderful gentility you get in the bar of a big hotel," I said. "Barmen and jockeys are the only people who are polite any more." "No matter how vulgar a hotel is, the bar is always nice." "It's odd." "Bartenders have always been fine." "You know," Brett | I hurt him any." "You were probably damn good for him." "He shouldn't be living with any one. I realized that right away." "No." "Oh, hell!" she said, "let's not talk about it. Let's never talk about it." "All right." "It was rather a knock his being ashamed of me. He was ashamed of me for a while, you know." "No." "Oh, yes. They ragged him about me at the caf , I guess. He wanted me to grow my hair out. Me, with long hair. I'd look so like hell." "It's funny." "He said it would make me more womanly. I'd look a fright." "What happened?" "Oh, he got over that. He wasn't ashamed of me long." "What was it about being in trouble?" "I didn't know whether I could make him go, and I didn't have a sou to go away and leave him. He tried to give me a lot of money, you know. I told him I had scads of it. He knew that was a lie. I couldn't take his money, you know." "No." "Oh, let's not talk about it. There were some funny things, though. Do give me a cigarette." I lit the cigarette. "He learned his English as a waiter in Gib." "Yes." "He wanted to marry me, finally." "Really?" "Of course. I can't even marry Mike." "Maybe he thought that would make him Lord Ashley." "No. It wasn't that. He really wanted to marry me. So I couldn't go away from him, he said. He wanted to make it sure I could never go away from him. After I'd gotten more womanly, of course." "You ought to feel set up." "I do. I'm all right again. He's wiped out that damned Cohn." "Good." "You know I'd have lived with him if I hadn't seen it was bad for him. We got along damned well." "Outside of your personal appearance." "Oh, he'd have gotten used to that." She put out the cigarette. "I'm thirty-four, you know. I'm not going to be one of these bitches that ruins children." "No." "I'm not going to be that way. I feel rather good, you know. I feel rather set up." "Good." She looked away. I thought she was looking for another cigarette. Then I saw she was crying. I could feel her crying. Shaking and crying. She wouldn't look up. I put my arms around her.<|quote|>"Don't let's ever talk about it. Please don't let's ever talk about it."</|quote|>"Dear Brett." "I'm going back to Mike." I could feel her crying as I held her close. "He's so damned nice and he's so awful. He's my sort of thing." She would not look up. I stroked her hair. I could feel her shaking. "I won't be one of those bitches," she said. "But, oh, Jake, please let's never talk about it." We left the Hotel Montana. The woman who ran the hotel would not let me pay the bill. The bill had been paid. "Oh, well. Let it go," Brett said. "It doesn't matter now." We rode in a taxi down to the Palace Hotel, left the bags, arranged for berths on the Sud Express for the night, and went into the bar of the hotel for a cocktail. We sat on high stools at the bar while the barman shook the Martinis in a large nickelled shaker. "It's funny what a wonderful gentility you get in the bar of a big hotel," I said. "Barmen and jockeys are the only people who are polite any more." "No matter how vulgar a hotel is, the bar is always nice." "It's odd." "Bartenders have always been fine." "You know," Brett said, "it's quite true. He is only nineteen. Isn't it amazing?" We touched the two glasses as they stood side by side on the bar. They were coldly beaded. Outside the curtained window was the summer heat of Madrid. "I like an olive in a Martini," I said to the barman. "Right you are, sir. There you are." "Thanks." "I should have asked, you know." The barman went far enough up the bar so that he would not hear our conversation. Brett had sipped from the Martini as it stood, on the wood. Then she picked it up. Her hand was steady enough to lift it after that first sip. "It's good. Isn't it a nice bar?" "They're all nice bars." "You know I didn't believe it at first. He was born in 1905. I was in school in Paris, then. Think of that." "Anything you want me to think about it?" "Don't be an ass. _Would_ you buy a lady a drink?" "We'll have two more Martinis." "As they were before, sir?" "They were very good." Brett smiled at him. "Thank you, ma'am." "Well, bung-o," Brett said. "Bung-o!" "You know," Brett said, "he'd only been with two women before. | rang again and a maid with a sullen face opened the door. "Is Lady Ashley here?" I asked. She looked at me dully. "Is an Englishwoman here?" She turned and called some one inside. A very fat woman came to the door. Her hair was gray and stiffly oiled in scallops around her face. She was short and commanding. "Muy buenos," I said. "Is there an Englishwoman here? I would like to see this English lady." "Muy buenos. Yes, there is a female English. Certainly you can see her if she wishes to see you." "She wishes to see me." "The chica will ask her." "It is very hot." "It is very hot in the summer in Madrid." "And how cold in winter." "Yes, it is very cold in winter." Did I want to stay myself in person in the Hotel Montana? Of that as yet I was undecided, but it would give me pleasure if my bags were brought up from the ground floor in order that they might not be stolen. Nothing was ever stolen in the Hotel Montana. In other fondas, yes. Not here. No. The personages of this establishment were rigidly selectioned. I was happy to hear it. Nevertheless I would welcome the upbringal of my bags. The maid came in and said that the female English wanted to see the male English now, at once. "Good," I said. "You see. It is as I said." "Clearly." I followed the maid's back down a long, dark corridor. At the end she knocked on a door. "Hello," said Brett. "Is it you, Jake?" "It's me." "Come in. Come in." I opened the door. The maid closed it after me. Brett was in bed. She had just been brushing her hair and held the brush in her hand. The room was in that disorder produced only by those who have always had servants. "Darling!" Brett said. I went over to the bed and put my arms around her. She kissed me, and while she kissed me I could feel she was thinking of something else. She was trembling in my arms. She felt very small. "Darling! I've had such a hell of a time." "Tell me about it." "Nothing to tell. He only left yesterday. I made him go." "Why didn't you keep him?" "I don't know. It isn't the sort of thing one does. I don't think I hurt him any." "You were probably damn good for him." "He shouldn't be living with any one. I realized that right away." "No." "Oh, hell!" she said, "let's not talk about it. Let's never talk about it." "All right." "It was rather a knock his being ashamed of me. He was ashamed of me for a while, you know." "No." "Oh, yes. They ragged him about me at the caf , I guess. He wanted me to grow my hair out. Me, with long hair. I'd look so like hell." "It's funny." "He said it would make me more womanly. I'd look a fright." "What happened?" "Oh, he got over that. He wasn't ashamed of me long." "What was it about being in trouble?" "I didn't know whether I could make him go, and I didn't have a sou to go away and leave him. He tried to give me a lot of money, you know. I told him I had scads of it. He knew that was a lie. I couldn't take his money, you know." "No." "Oh, let's not talk about it. There were some funny things, though. Do give me a cigarette." I lit the cigarette. "He learned his English as a waiter in Gib." "Yes." "He wanted to marry me, finally." "Really?" "Of course. I can't even marry Mike." "Maybe he thought that would make him Lord Ashley." "No. It wasn't that. He really wanted to marry me. So I couldn't go away from him, he said. He wanted to make it sure I could never go away from him. After I'd gotten more womanly, of course." "You ought to feel set up." "I do. I'm all right again. He's wiped out that damned Cohn." "Good." "You know I'd have lived with him if I hadn't seen it was bad for him. We got along damned well." "Outside of your personal appearance." "Oh, he'd have gotten used to that." She put out the cigarette. "I'm thirty-four, you know. I'm not going to be one of these bitches that ruins children." "No." "I'm not going to be that way. I feel rather good, you know. I feel rather set up." "Good." She looked away. I thought she was looking for another cigarette. Then I saw she was crying. I could feel her crying. Shaking and crying. She wouldn't look up. I put my arms around her.<|quote|>"Don't let's ever talk about it. Please don't let's ever talk about it."</|quote|>"Dear Brett." "I'm going back to Mike." I could feel her crying as I held her close. "He's so damned nice and he's so awful. He's my sort of thing." She would not look up. I stroked her hair. I could feel her shaking. "I won't be one of those bitches," she said. "But, oh, Jake, please let's never talk about it." We left the Hotel Montana. The woman who ran the hotel would not let me pay the bill. The bill had been paid. "Oh, well. Let it go," Brett said. "It doesn't matter now." We rode in a taxi down to the Palace Hotel, left the bags, arranged for berths on the Sud Express for the night, and went into the bar of the hotel for a cocktail. We sat on high stools at the bar while the barman shook the Martinis in a large nickelled shaker. "It's funny what a wonderful gentility you get in the bar of a big hotel," I said. "Barmen and jockeys are the only people who are polite any more." "No matter how vulgar a hotel is, the bar is always nice." "It's odd." "Bartenders have always been fine." "You know," Brett said, "it's quite true. He is only nineteen. Isn't it amazing?" We touched the two glasses as they stood side by side on the bar. They were coldly beaded. Outside the curtained window was the summer heat of Madrid. "I like an olive in a Martini," I said to the barman. "Right you are, sir. There you are." "Thanks." "I should have asked, you know." The barman went far enough up the bar so that he would not hear our conversation. Brett had sipped from the Martini as it stood, on the wood. Then she picked it up. Her hand was steady enough to lift it after that first sip. "It's good. Isn't it a nice bar?" "They're all nice bars." "You know I didn't believe it at first. He was born in 1905. I was in school in Paris, then. Think of that." "Anything you want me to think about it?" "Don't be an ass. _Would_ you buy a lady a drink?" "We'll have two more Martinis." "As they were before, sir?" "They were very good." Brett smiled at him. "Thank you, ma'am." "Well, bung-o," Brett said. "Bung-o!" "You know," Brett said, "he'd only been with two women before. He never cared about anything but bull-fighting." "He's got plenty of time." "I don't know. He thinks it was me. Not the show in general." "Well, it was you." "Yes. It was me." "I thought you weren't going to ever talk about it." "How can I help it?" "You'll lose it if you talk about it." "I just talk around it. You know I feel rather damned good, Jake." "You should." "You know it makes one feel rather good deciding not to be a bitch." "Yes." "It's sort of what we have instead of God." "Some people have God," I said. "Quite a lot." "He never worked very well with me." "Should we have another Martini?" The barman shook up two more Martinis and poured them out into fresh glasses. "Where will we have lunch?" I asked Brett. The bar was cool. You could feel the heat outside through the window. "Here?" asked Brett. "It's rotten here in the hotel. Do you know a place called Botin's?" I asked the barman. "Yes, sir. Would you like to have me write out the address?" "Thank you." We lunched up-stairs at Botin's. It is one of the best restaurants in the world. We had roast young suckling pig and drank _rioja alta_. Brett did not eat much. She never ate much. I ate a very big meal and drank three bottles of _rioja alta_. "How do you feel, Jake?" Brett asked. "My God! what a meal you've eaten." "I feel fine. Do you want a dessert?" "Lord, no." Brett was smoking. "You like to eat, don't you?" she said. "Yes." I said. "I like to do a lot of things." "What do you like to do?" "Oh," I said, "I like to do a lot of things. Don't you want a dessert?" "You asked me that once," Brett said. "Yes," I said. "So I did. Let's have another bottle of _rioja alta_." "It's very good." "You haven't drunk much of it," I said. "I have. You haven't seen." "Let's get two bottles," I said. The bottles came. I poured a little in my glass, then a glass for Brett, then filled my glass. We touched glasses. "Bung-o!" Brett said. I drank my glass and poured out another. Brett put her hand on my arm. "Don't get drunk, Jake," she said. "You don't have to." "How do you know?" "Don't," she said. "You'll | him I had scads of it. He knew that was a lie. I couldn't take his money, you know." "No." "Oh, let's not talk about it. There were some funny things, though. Do give me a cigarette." I lit the cigarette. "He learned his English as a waiter in Gib." "Yes." "He wanted to marry me, finally." "Really?" "Of course. I can't even marry Mike." "Maybe he thought that would make him Lord Ashley." "No. It wasn't that. He really wanted to marry me. So I couldn't go away from him, he said. He wanted to make it sure I could never go away from him. After I'd gotten more womanly, of course." "You ought to feel set up." "I do. I'm all right again. He's wiped out that damned Cohn." "Good." "You know I'd have lived with him if I hadn't seen it was bad for him. We got along damned well." "Outside of your personal appearance." "Oh, he'd have gotten used to that." She put out the cigarette. "I'm thirty-four, you know. I'm not going to be one of these bitches that ruins children." "No." "I'm not going to be that way. I feel rather good, you know. I feel rather set up." "Good." She looked away. I thought she was looking for another cigarette. Then I saw she was crying. I could feel her crying. Shaking and crying. She wouldn't look up. I put my arms around her.<|quote|>"Don't let's ever talk about it. Please don't let's ever talk about it."</|quote|>"Dear Brett." "I'm going back to Mike." I could feel her crying as I held her close. "He's so damned nice and he's so awful. He's my sort of thing." She would not look up. I stroked her hair. I could feel her shaking. "I won't be one of those bitches," she said. "But, oh, Jake, please let's never talk about it." We left the Hotel Montana. The woman who ran the hotel would not let me pay the bill. The bill had been paid. "Oh, well. Let it go," Brett said. "It doesn't matter now." We rode in a taxi down to the Palace Hotel, left the bags, arranged for berths on the Sud Express for the night, and went into the bar of the hotel for a cocktail. We sat on high stools at the bar while the barman shook the Martinis in a large nickelled shaker. "It's funny what a wonderful gentility you get in the bar of a big hotel," I said. "Barmen and jockeys are the only people who are polite any more." "No matter how vulgar a hotel is, the bar is always nice." "It's odd." "Bartenders have always been fine." "You know," Brett said, "it's quite true. He is only nineteen. Isn't it amazing?" We touched the two glasses as they stood side by side on the bar. They were coldly beaded. Outside the curtained window was the summer heat of Madrid. "I like an | The Sun Also Rises |
"Or" | Cassandra Otway | widow of a distinguished poet."<|quote|>"Or"</|quote|>Cassandra began, but checked herself | be given rooms as the widow of a distinguished poet."<|quote|>"Or"</|quote|>Cassandra began, but checked herself from the liberty of envisaging | four abreast, and fancied themselves the owners of the place, and calculated the amount of good to the world produced indubitably by such a tenancy. "The only hope for us," said Katharine, "is that William shall die, and Cassandra shall be given rooms as the widow of a distinguished poet."<|quote|>"Or"</|quote|>Cassandra began, but checked herself from the liberty of envisaging Katharine as the widow of a distinguished lawyer. Upon this, the third day of junketing, it was tiresome to have to restrain oneself even from such innocent excursions of fancy. She dared not question William; he was inscrutable; he never | about lunch-time on a fine Sunday morning. Such unity marked their expressions of admiration for the red-brick building that they might have come there for no other purpose than to assure each other that this palace was the stateliest palace in the world. They walked up and down the Terrace, four abreast, and fancied themselves the owners of the place, and calculated the amount of good to the world produced indubitably by such a tenancy. "The only hope for us," said Katharine, "is that William shall die, and Cassandra shall be given rooms as the widow of a distinguished poet."<|quote|>"Or"</|quote|>Cassandra began, but checked herself from the liberty of envisaging Katharine as the widow of a distinguished lawyer. Upon this, the third day of junketing, it was tiresome to have to restrain oneself even from such innocent excursions of fancy. She dared not question William; he was inscrutable; he never seemed even to follow the other couple with curiosity when they separated, as they frequently did, to name a plant, or examine a fresco. Cassandra was constantly studying their backs. She noticed how sometimes the impulse to move came from Katharine, and sometimes from Ralph; how, sometimes, they walked slow, | Ralph Denham talking to a boatman on the banks of the Thames could move any one to such an attitude of adoration. That afternoon, what with tea and the curiosities of the Thames tunnel and the unfamiliarity of the streets, passed so quickly that the only method of prolonging it was to plan another expedition for the following day. Hampton Court was decided upon, in preference to Hampstead, for though Cassandra had dreamt as a child of the brigands of Hampstead, she had now transferred her affections completely and for ever to William III. Accordingly, they arrived at Hampton Court about lunch-time on a fine Sunday morning. Such unity marked their expressions of admiration for the red-brick building that they might have come there for no other purpose than to assure each other that this palace was the stateliest palace in the world. They walked up and down the Terrace, four abreast, and fancied themselves the owners of the place, and calculated the amount of good to the world produced indubitably by such a tenancy. "The only hope for us," said Katharine, "is that William shall die, and Cassandra shall be given rooms as the widow of a distinguished poet."<|quote|>"Or"</|quote|>Cassandra began, but checked herself from the liberty of envisaging Katharine as the widow of a distinguished lawyer. Upon this, the third day of junketing, it was tiresome to have to restrain oneself even from such innocent excursions of fancy. She dared not question William; he was inscrutable; he never seemed even to follow the other couple with curiosity when they separated, as they frequently did, to name a plant, or examine a fresco. Cassandra was constantly studying their backs. She noticed how sometimes the impulse to move came from Katharine, and sometimes from Ralph; how, sometimes, they walked slow, as if in profound intercourse, and sometimes fast, as if in passionate. When they came together again nothing could be more unconcerned than their manner. "We have been wondering whether they ever catch a fish..." or, "We must leave time to visit the Maze." Then, to puzzle her further, William and Ralph filled in all interstices of meal-times or railway journeys with perfectly good-tempered arguments; or they discussed politics, or they told stories, or they did sums together upon the backs of old envelopes to prove something. She suspected that Katharine was absent-minded, but it was impossible to tell. There | blind?" But it was unnecessary to follow out such riddles when the presence of Ralph supplied her with more interesting problems, which somehow became involved with the little boat crossing the river, the majestic and careworn City, and the steamers homecoming with their treasury, or starting in search of it, so that infinite leisure would be necessary for the proper disentanglement of one from the other. He stopped, moreover, and began inquiring of an old boatman as to the tides and the ships. In thus talking he seemed different, and even looked different, she thought, against the river, with the steeples and towers for background. His strangeness, his romance, his power to leave her side and take part in the affairs of men, the possibility that they should together hire a boat and cross the river, the speed and wildness of this enterprise filled her mind and inspired her with such rapture, half of love and half of adventure, that William and Cassandra were startled from their talk, and Cassandra exclaimed, "She looks as if she were offering up a sacrifice! Very beautiful," she added quickly, though she repressed, in deference to William, her own wonder that the sight of Ralph Denham talking to a boatman on the banks of the Thames could move any one to such an attitude of adoration. That afternoon, what with tea and the curiosities of the Thames tunnel and the unfamiliarity of the streets, passed so quickly that the only method of prolonging it was to plan another expedition for the following day. Hampton Court was decided upon, in preference to Hampstead, for though Cassandra had dreamt as a child of the brigands of Hampstead, she had now transferred her affections completely and for ever to William III. Accordingly, they arrived at Hampton Court about lunch-time on a fine Sunday morning. Such unity marked their expressions of admiration for the red-brick building that they might have come there for no other purpose than to assure each other that this palace was the stateliest palace in the world. They walked up and down the Terrace, four abreast, and fancied themselves the owners of the place, and calculated the amount of good to the world produced indubitably by such a tenancy. "The only hope for us," said Katharine, "is that William shall die, and Cassandra shall be given rooms as the widow of a distinguished poet."<|quote|>"Or"</|quote|>Cassandra began, but checked herself from the liberty of envisaging Katharine as the widow of a distinguished lawyer. Upon this, the third day of junketing, it was tiresome to have to restrain oneself even from such innocent excursions of fancy. She dared not question William; he was inscrutable; he never seemed even to follow the other couple with curiosity when they separated, as they frequently did, to name a plant, or examine a fresco. Cassandra was constantly studying their backs. She noticed how sometimes the impulse to move came from Katharine, and sometimes from Ralph; how, sometimes, they walked slow, as if in profound intercourse, and sometimes fast, as if in passionate. When they came together again nothing could be more unconcerned than their manner. "We have been wondering whether they ever catch a fish..." or, "We must leave time to visit the Maze." Then, to puzzle her further, William and Ralph filled in all interstices of meal-times or railway journeys with perfectly good-tempered arguments; or they discussed politics, or they told stories, or they did sums together upon the backs of old envelopes to prove something. She suspected that Katharine was absent-minded, but it was impossible to tell. There were moments when she felt so young and inexperienced that she almost wished herself back with the silkworms at Stogdon House, and not embarked upon this bewildering intrigue. These moments, however, were only the necessary shadow or chill which proved the substance of her bliss, and did not damage the radiance which seemed to rest equally upon the whole party. The fresh air of spring, the sky washed of clouds and already shedding warmth from its blue, seemed the reply vouchsafed by nature to the mood of her chosen spirits. These chosen spirits were to be found also among the deer, dumbly basking, and among the fish, set still in mid-stream, for they were mute sharers in a benignant state not needing any exposition by the tongue. No words that Cassandra could come by expressed the stillness, the brightness, the air of expectancy which lay upon the orderly beauty of the grass walks and gravel paths down which they went walking four abreast that Sunday afternoon. Silently the shadows of the trees lay across the broad sunshine; silence wrapt her heart in its folds. The quivering stillness of the butterfly on the half-opened flower, the silent grazing of the deer | of great shadows. Looking back over her shoulder as she followed Ralph through the swing doors, Cassandra marveled to see how the stage was already entirely without romance. But, she wondered, did they really cover all the seats in brown holland every night? The success of this entertainment was such that before they separated another expedition had been planned for the next day. The next day was Saturday; therefore both William and Ralph were free to devote the whole afternoon to an expedition to Greenwich, which Cassandra had never seen, and Katharine confused with Dulwich. On this occasion Ralph was their guide. He brought them without accident to Greenwich. What exigencies of state or fantasies of imagination first gave birth to the cluster of pleasant places by which London is surrounded is matter of indifference now that they have adapted themselves so admirably to the needs of people between the ages of twenty and thirty with Saturday afternoons to spend. Indeed, if ghosts have any interest in the affections of those who succeed them they must reap their richest harvests when the fine weather comes again and the lovers, the sightseers, and the holiday-makers pour themselves out of trains and omnibuses into their old pleasure-grounds. It is true that they go, for the most part, unthanked by name, although upon this occasion William was ready to give such discriminating praise as the dead architects and painters received seldom in the course of the year. They were walking by the river bank, and Katharine and Ralph, lagging a little behind, caught fragments of his lecture. Katharine smiled at the sound of his voice; she listened as if she found it a little unfamiliar, intimately though she knew it; she tested it. The note of assurance and happiness was new. William was very happy. She learnt every hour what sources of his happiness she had neglected. She had never asked him to teach her anything; she had never consented to read Macaulay; she had never expressed her belief that his play was second only to the works of Shakespeare. She followed dreamily in their wake, smiling and delighting in the sound which conveyed, she knew, the rapturous and yet not servile assent of Cassandra. Then she murmured, "How can Cassandra" but changed her sentence to the opposite of what she meant to say and ended, "how could she herself have been so blind?" But it was unnecessary to follow out such riddles when the presence of Ralph supplied her with more interesting problems, which somehow became involved with the little boat crossing the river, the majestic and careworn City, and the steamers homecoming with their treasury, or starting in search of it, so that infinite leisure would be necessary for the proper disentanglement of one from the other. He stopped, moreover, and began inquiring of an old boatman as to the tides and the ships. In thus talking he seemed different, and even looked different, she thought, against the river, with the steeples and towers for background. His strangeness, his romance, his power to leave her side and take part in the affairs of men, the possibility that they should together hire a boat and cross the river, the speed and wildness of this enterprise filled her mind and inspired her with such rapture, half of love and half of adventure, that William and Cassandra were startled from their talk, and Cassandra exclaimed, "She looks as if she were offering up a sacrifice! Very beautiful," she added quickly, though she repressed, in deference to William, her own wonder that the sight of Ralph Denham talking to a boatman on the banks of the Thames could move any one to such an attitude of adoration. That afternoon, what with tea and the curiosities of the Thames tunnel and the unfamiliarity of the streets, passed so quickly that the only method of prolonging it was to plan another expedition for the following day. Hampton Court was decided upon, in preference to Hampstead, for though Cassandra had dreamt as a child of the brigands of Hampstead, she had now transferred her affections completely and for ever to William III. Accordingly, they arrived at Hampton Court about lunch-time on a fine Sunday morning. Such unity marked their expressions of admiration for the red-brick building that they might have come there for no other purpose than to assure each other that this palace was the stateliest palace in the world. They walked up and down the Terrace, four abreast, and fancied themselves the owners of the place, and calculated the amount of good to the world produced indubitably by such a tenancy. "The only hope for us," said Katharine, "is that William shall die, and Cassandra shall be given rooms as the widow of a distinguished poet."<|quote|>"Or"</|quote|>Cassandra began, but checked herself from the liberty of envisaging Katharine as the widow of a distinguished lawyer. Upon this, the third day of junketing, it was tiresome to have to restrain oneself even from such innocent excursions of fancy. She dared not question William; he was inscrutable; he never seemed even to follow the other couple with curiosity when they separated, as they frequently did, to name a plant, or examine a fresco. Cassandra was constantly studying their backs. She noticed how sometimes the impulse to move came from Katharine, and sometimes from Ralph; how, sometimes, they walked slow, as if in profound intercourse, and sometimes fast, as if in passionate. When they came together again nothing could be more unconcerned than their manner. "We have been wondering whether they ever catch a fish..." or, "We must leave time to visit the Maze." Then, to puzzle her further, William and Ralph filled in all interstices of meal-times or railway journeys with perfectly good-tempered arguments; or they discussed politics, or they told stories, or they did sums together upon the backs of old envelopes to prove something. She suspected that Katharine was absent-minded, but it was impossible to tell. There were moments when she felt so young and inexperienced that she almost wished herself back with the silkworms at Stogdon House, and not embarked upon this bewildering intrigue. These moments, however, were only the necessary shadow or chill which proved the substance of her bliss, and did not damage the radiance which seemed to rest equally upon the whole party. The fresh air of spring, the sky washed of clouds and already shedding warmth from its blue, seemed the reply vouchsafed by nature to the mood of her chosen spirits. These chosen spirits were to be found also among the deer, dumbly basking, and among the fish, set still in mid-stream, for they were mute sharers in a benignant state not needing any exposition by the tongue. No words that Cassandra could come by expressed the stillness, the brightness, the air of expectancy which lay upon the orderly beauty of the grass walks and gravel paths down which they went walking four abreast that Sunday afternoon. Silently the shadows of the trees lay across the broad sunshine; silence wrapt her heart in its folds. The quivering stillness of the butterfly on the half-opened flower, the silent grazing of the deer in the sun, were the sights her eye rested upon and received as the images of her own nature laid open to happiness and trembling in its ecstasy. But the afternoon wore on, and it became time to leave the gardens. As they drove from Waterloo to Chelsea, Katharine began to have some compunction about her father, which, together with the opening of offices and the need of working in them on Monday, made it difficult to plan another festival for the following day. Mr. Hilbery had taken their absence, so far, with paternal benevolence, but they could not trespass upon it indefinitely. Indeed, had they known it, he was already suffering from their absence, and longing for their return. He had no dislike of solitude, and Sunday, in particular, was pleasantly adapted for letter-writing, paying calls, or a visit to his club. He was leaving the house on some such suitable expedition towards tea-time when he found himself stopped on his own doorstep by his sister, Mrs. Milvain. She should, on hearing that no one was at home, have withdrawn submissively, but instead she accepted his half-hearted invitation to come in, and he found himself in the melancholy position of being forced to order tea for her and sit in the drawing-room while she drank it. She speedily made it plain that she was only thus exacting because she had come on a matter of business. He was by no means exhilarated at the news. "Katharine is out this afternoon," he remarked. "Why not come round later and discuss it with her with us both, eh?" "My dear Trevor, I have particular reasons for wishing to talk to you alone.... Where is Katharine?" "She s out with her young man, naturally. Cassandra plays the part of chaperone very usefully. A charming young woman that a great favorite of mine." He turned his stone between his fingers, and conceived different methods of leading Celia away from her obsession, which, he supposed, must have reference to the domestic affairs of Cyril as usual. "With Cassandra," Mrs. Milvain repeated significantly. "With Cassandra." "Yes, with Cassandra," Mr. Hilbery agreed urbanely, pleased at the diversion. "I think they said they were going to Hampton Court, and I rather believe they were taking a protege of mine, Ralph Denham, a very clever fellow, too, to amuse Cassandra. I thought the arrangement very suitable." He was | her anything; she had never consented to read Macaulay; she had never expressed her belief that his play was second only to the works of Shakespeare. She followed dreamily in their wake, smiling and delighting in the sound which conveyed, she knew, the rapturous and yet not servile assent of Cassandra. Then she murmured, "How can Cassandra" but changed her sentence to the opposite of what she meant to say and ended, "how could she herself have been so blind?" But it was unnecessary to follow out such riddles when the presence of Ralph supplied her with more interesting problems, which somehow became involved with the little boat crossing the river, the majestic and careworn City, and the steamers homecoming with their treasury, or starting in search of it, so that infinite leisure would be necessary for the proper disentanglement of one from the other. He stopped, moreover, and began inquiring of an old boatman as to the tides and the ships. In thus talking he seemed different, and even looked different, she thought, against the river, with the steeples and towers for background. His strangeness, his romance, his power to leave her side and take part in the affairs of men, the possibility that they should together hire a boat and cross the river, the speed and wildness of this enterprise filled her mind and inspired her with such rapture, half of love and half of adventure, that William and Cassandra were startled from their talk, and Cassandra exclaimed, "She looks as if she were offering up a sacrifice! Very beautiful," she added quickly, though she repressed, in deference to William, her own wonder that the sight of Ralph Denham talking to a boatman on the banks of the Thames could move any one to such an attitude of adoration. That afternoon, what with tea and the curiosities of the Thames tunnel and the unfamiliarity of the streets, passed so quickly that the only method of prolonging it was to plan another expedition for the following day. Hampton Court was decided upon, in preference to Hampstead, for though Cassandra had dreamt as a child of the brigands of Hampstead, she had now transferred her affections completely and for ever to William III. Accordingly, they arrived at Hampton Court about lunch-time on a fine Sunday morning. Such unity marked their expressions of admiration for the red-brick building that they might have come there for no other purpose than to assure each other that this palace was the stateliest palace in the world. They walked up and down the Terrace, four abreast, and fancied themselves the owners of the place, and calculated the amount of good to the world produced indubitably by such a tenancy. "The only hope for us," said Katharine, "is that William shall die, and Cassandra shall be given rooms as the widow of a distinguished poet."<|quote|>"Or"</|quote|>Cassandra began, but checked herself from the liberty of envisaging Katharine as the widow of a distinguished lawyer. Upon this, the third day of junketing, it was tiresome to have to restrain oneself even from such innocent excursions of fancy. She dared not question William; he was inscrutable; he never seemed even to follow the other couple with curiosity when they separated, as they frequently did, to name a plant, or examine a fresco. Cassandra was constantly studying their backs. She noticed how sometimes the impulse to move came from Katharine, and sometimes from Ralph; how, sometimes, they walked slow, as if in profound intercourse, and sometimes fast, as if in passionate. When they came together again nothing could be more unconcerned than their manner. "We have been wondering whether they ever catch a fish..." or, "We must leave time to visit the Maze." Then, to puzzle her further, William and Ralph filled in all interstices of meal-times or railway journeys with perfectly good-tempered arguments; or they discussed politics, or they told stories, or they did sums together upon the backs of old envelopes to prove something. She suspected that Katharine was absent-minded, but it was impossible to tell. There were moments when she felt so young and inexperienced that she almost wished herself back with the silkworms at Stogdon House, and not embarked upon this bewildering intrigue. These moments, however, were only the necessary shadow or chill which proved the substance of her bliss, and did not damage the radiance which seemed to rest equally upon the whole party. The fresh air of spring, the sky washed of clouds and already shedding warmth from its blue, seemed the reply vouchsafed by nature to the mood of her chosen spirits. These chosen spirits were to be found also among the deer, dumbly basking, and among the fish, set still in mid-stream, for they were mute sharers in a benignant state not needing any exposition by the tongue. No words that Cassandra could come by expressed the stillness, the brightness, the air of expectancy which lay upon the orderly beauty of the grass walks and gravel paths down which they went walking four abreast that Sunday afternoon. Silently the shadows of the trees lay across the broad sunshine; silence wrapt her heart in its folds. The quivering stillness of the butterfly on the half-opened flower, the silent grazing of the deer in the sun, were the sights her eye rested upon and received as the images of her own nature laid open to happiness and trembling in its ecstasy. But the afternoon wore on, and it became time to leave the gardens. As they drove from Waterloo to Chelsea, Katharine began to have some compunction about her father, which, together | Night And Day |
"I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either." | Don Lavington | afraid so," said Don, sadly.<|quote|>"I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either."</|quote|>"More can't I, Mas' Don. | s'pose poor Ngati's dead." "I'm afraid so," said Don, sadly.<|quote|>"I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either."</|quote|>"More can't I, Mas' Don. It's a werry bad job. | land, and now they're going back by water. Well, I s'pose, they'll do as they like." "Isn't this nearest one Ngati's canoe, Jem?" "Yes, my lad; that's she. I know her by that handsome face cut in the front. I s'pose poor Ngati's dead." "I'm afraid so," said Don, sadly.<|quote|>"I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either."</|quote|>"More can't I, Mas' Don. It's a werry bad job. Lookye yonder now." Don was already looking, for a great deal of excited business was going on below, where the victorious tribe was at work, going and coming, and bringing down loads of plunder taken from the various huts. One | canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water. "That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land, and now they're going back by water. Well, I s'pose, they'll do as they like." "Isn't this nearest one Ngati's canoe, Jem?" "Yes, my lad; that's she. I know her by that handsome face cut in the front. I s'pose poor Ngati's dead." "I'm afraid so," said Don, sadly.<|quote|>"I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either."</|quote|>"More can't I, Mas' Don. It's a werry bad job. Lookye yonder now." Don was already looking, for a great deal of excited business was going on below, where the victorious tribe was at work, going and coming, and bringing down loads of plunder taken from the various huts. One man bore a bundle of spears, another some stone tomahawks, which were rattled into the bottom of the canoes. Then paddles, and bundles of hempen garments were carried down, with other objects of value in the savage eye. This went on for hours amidst a great deal of shouting and | one o' these here savages. Not all at once, of course." "Look, Jem. What are they doing there?" Don nodded his head in the direction of the broken fence; and together they looked down from the eminence on which the _pah_ was formed, right upon the black volcanic sand, over which the sea ran foaming like so much glistening silver. There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water. "That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land, and now they're going back by water. Well, I s'pose, they'll do as they like." "Isn't this nearest one Ngati's canoe, Jem?" "Yes, my lad; that's she. I know her by that handsome face cut in the front. I s'pose poor Ngati's dead." "I'm afraid so," said Don, sadly.<|quote|>"I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either."</|quote|>"More can't I, Mas' Don. It's a werry bad job. Lookye yonder now." Don was already looking, for a great deal of excited business was going on below, where the victorious tribe was at work, going and coming, and bringing down loads of plunder taken from the various huts. One man bore a bundle of spears, another some stone tomahawks, which were rattled into the bottom of the canoes. Then paddles, and bundles of hempen garments were carried down, with other objects of value in the savage eye. This went on for hours amidst a great deal of shouting and laughter, till a large amount of spoil was loaded into the canoes, one being filled up and deep in the water. Then there seemed to be a pause, the canoes being secured to trees growing close down to the shore, and the party busy there a short time before absent. "Coming to fetch us now, I suppose, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Wonder whether they've got your pistol and cutlash." But no one but the guards came in sight, and a couple of weary hours passed, during which the other prisoners sat crouched together, talking in a low tone, apparently quite | uninjured man, for a guard was keeping watch over them ready to advance threateningly, spear in hand, if a prisoner attempted to move. Where Don and Jem were sitting a portion of the great fence was broken, and they could see through it down to the shore. "What a shame it seems on such a glorious morning, Jem!" "Shame! Mas' Don? I should just like to shame 'em. Head hurt much?" "Not so very much, Jem. How is your shoulder?" "Rather pickly." "Rather what?" "Pickly, as if there was vinegar and pepper and salt being rubbed into it. But my old mother used to say that it was a good sign when a cut smarted a lot. So I s'pose my wound's first rate, for it smarts like a furze bush in a fit." "I wish I could bathe it for you, Jem." "Thank ye, Mas' Don. I wish my Sally could do it. More in her way." "We must try and bear it all, I suppose, Jem. How hot the sun is; and, ill as I am, I should be so glad of something to eat and drink." "I'm that hungry, Mas' Don," growled Jem, "that I could eat one o' these here savages. Not all at once, of course." "Look, Jem. What are they doing there?" Don nodded his head in the direction of the broken fence; and together they looked down from the eminence on which the _pah_ was formed, right upon the black volcanic sand, over which the sea ran foaming like so much glistening silver. There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water. "That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land, and now they're going back by water. Well, I s'pose, they'll do as they like." "Isn't this nearest one Ngati's canoe, Jem?" "Yes, my lad; that's she. I know her by that handsome face cut in the front. I s'pose poor Ngati's dead." "I'm afraid so," said Don, sadly.<|quote|>"I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either."</|quote|>"More can't I, Mas' Don. It's a werry bad job. Lookye yonder now." Don was already looking, for a great deal of excited business was going on below, where the victorious tribe was at work, going and coming, and bringing down loads of plunder taken from the various huts. One man bore a bundle of spears, another some stone tomahawks, which were rattled into the bottom of the canoes. Then paddles, and bundles of hempen garments were carried down, with other objects of value in the savage eye. This went on for hours amidst a great deal of shouting and laughter, till a large amount of spoil was loaded into the canoes, one being filled up and deep in the water. Then there seemed to be a pause, the canoes being secured to trees growing close down to the shore, and the party busy there a short time before absent. "Coming to fetch us now, I suppose, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Wonder whether they've got your pistol and cutlash." But no one but the guards came in sight, and a couple of weary hours passed, during which the other prisoners sat crouched together, talking in a low tone, apparently quite indifferent to their fate; and this indifference seemed so great that some of the thoughtless children began to laugh and talk aloud. For some time this was passed over unnoticed; but at last one of the guards, a tall Maori, whose face was so lined in curves that it seemed to be absolutely blue, walked slowly over to the merry group, spear in hand, to give one child a poke with the butt, another a sharp blow over the head, evidently with the intention of producing silence; but in the case of the younger children his movements had the opposite effect, and this roused the ire of some of the women, who spoke out angrily enough to make the tall, blue-faced savage give a threatening gesture with his spear. Just at that moment, however, a loud shouting and singing arose, which took the man's attention, and he and his fellows mounted on a stage at one corner of the _pah_ to stand leaning upon their spears, gazing down at the festivities being carried on at the edge of the sands below. For some time past it had seemed to Don that the plundering party had fired the village, for a | low moan of some wounded savage now and then making him shudder, the scene of the desperate fight seemed to come back, and he felt feverish and wild. But after a time that passed off, and the pain and chill troubled him, but only to pass off as well, and be succeeded by a drowsy sensation. And then as he lay there, the words of the old, old prayers he had repeated at his mother's knee rose to his lips, and he was repeating them as sleep fell upon his weary eyes; and the agony and horrors of that terrible time were as nothing to him then. The Adventures of Don Lavington--by George Manville Fenn CHAPTER FORTY ONE. PRISONERS OF WAR. "I wish our old ship was here, and I was at one of the guns to help give these beggars a broadside." "It is very, very horrible, Jem." "Ten times as horrid as that, Mas' Don. Here was we all as quiet and comf'table as could be--taking our warm baths. I say, shouldn't I like one now! I'm that stiff and sore I can hardly move." "Yes, it would be a comfort, Jem." "Yes, and as I was saying, here was we going on as quiet as could be, and interfering with nobody, when these warmints came; and look at things now." "Yes," said Don, sadly, as he looked round; "half the men dead, the others wounded and prisoners, with the women and children." "And the village--I s'pose they calls this a village; I don't, for there arn't no church--all racked and ruined." They sat together, with their hands tightly bound behind them, gazing at the desolation. The prisoners were all huddled together, perfectly silent, and with a dull, sullen, despairing look in their countenances, which seemed to suggest that they were accepting their fate as a matter of course. It was a horrible scene, so many of the warriors being badly wounded, but they made no complaint; and, truth to tell, most of those who were now helpless prisoners had taken part in raids to inflict the pain they now suffered themselves. The dead had been dragged away before Don woke that morning, but there were hideous traces on the trampled ground, with broken weapons scattered here and there, while the wounded were lying together perfectly untended, many of them bound, to prevent escape--hardly possible even to an uninjured man, for a guard was keeping watch over them ready to advance threateningly, spear in hand, if a prisoner attempted to move. Where Don and Jem were sitting a portion of the great fence was broken, and they could see through it down to the shore. "What a shame it seems on such a glorious morning, Jem!" "Shame! Mas' Don? I should just like to shame 'em. Head hurt much?" "Not so very much, Jem. How is your shoulder?" "Rather pickly." "Rather what?" "Pickly, as if there was vinegar and pepper and salt being rubbed into it. But my old mother used to say that it was a good sign when a cut smarted a lot. So I s'pose my wound's first rate, for it smarts like a furze bush in a fit." "I wish I could bathe it for you, Jem." "Thank ye, Mas' Don. I wish my Sally could do it. More in her way." "We must try and bear it all, I suppose, Jem. How hot the sun is; and, ill as I am, I should be so glad of something to eat and drink." "I'm that hungry, Mas' Don," growled Jem, "that I could eat one o' these here savages. Not all at once, of course." "Look, Jem. What are they doing there?" Don nodded his head in the direction of the broken fence; and together they looked down from the eminence on which the _pah_ was formed, right upon the black volcanic sand, over which the sea ran foaming like so much glistening silver. There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water. "That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land, and now they're going back by water. Well, I s'pose, they'll do as they like." "Isn't this nearest one Ngati's canoe, Jem?" "Yes, my lad; that's she. I know her by that handsome face cut in the front. I s'pose poor Ngati's dead." "I'm afraid so," said Don, sadly.<|quote|>"I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either."</|quote|>"More can't I, Mas' Don. It's a werry bad job. Lookye yonder now." Don was already looking, for a great deal of excited business was going on below, where the victorious tribe was at work, going and coming, and bringing down loads of plunder taken from the various huts. One man bore a bundle of spears, another some stone tomahawks, which were rattled into the bottom of the canoes. Then paddles, and bundles of hempen garments were carried down, with other objects of value in the savage eye. This went on for hours amidst a great deal of shouting and laughter, till a large amount of spoil was loaded into the canoes, one being filled up and deep in the water. Then there seemed to be a pause, the canoes being secured to trees growing close down to the shore, and the party busy there a short time before absent. "Coming to fetch us now, I suppose, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Wonder whether they've got your pistol and cutlash." But no one but the guards came in sight, and a couple of weary hours passed, during which the other prisoners sat crouched together, talking in a low tone, apparently quite indifferent to their fate; and this indifference seemed so great that some of the thoughtless children began to laugh and talk aloud. For some time this was passed over unnoticed; but at last one of the guards, a tall Maori, whose face was so lined in curves that it seemed to be absolutely blue, walked slowly over to the merry group, spear in hand, to give one child a poke with the butt, another a sharp blow over the head, evidently with the intention of producing silence; but in the case of the younger children his movements had the opposite effect, and this roused the ire of some of the women, who spoke out angrily enough to make the tall, blue-faced savage give a threatening gesture with his spear. Just at that moment, however, a loud shouting and singing arose, which took the man's attention, and he and his fellows mounted on a stage at one corner of the _pah_ to stand leaning upon their spears, gazing down at the festivities being carried on at the edge of the sands below. For some time past it had seemed to Don that the plundering party had fired the village, for a tall column of smoke had risen up, and this had died down and risen again as combustible matter had caught. The fire was too far below to be seen, but the smoke rose in clouds as the work of destruction seemed to be going on. The singing and shouting increased, and once or twice the other prisoners appeared to take an excited interest in the sounds that came up to them; but they only sank directly after into a state of moody apathy, letting their chins go down upon their chests, and many of them dropping off to sleep. The noise and shouting had been going on for some time, and then ceased, to be succeeded by a low, busy murmur, as of a vast swarm of bees; and now, after sitting very silent and thoughtful, watching the faint smoke which came up from the fire, and eagerly drinking in the various sounds, Don turned his eyes in a curiously furtive manner to steal a look at Jem. He did not move his head, but proceeded with the greatest caution, so as to try and read his companion's countenance, when, to his surprise, he found that Jem was stealing a look at him, and both, as it were, snatched their eyes away, and began looking at the prisoners. But at that time it was as if the eyes of both were filled with some strange attractive force, which made them turn and gaze in a peculiarly hard, wild way. Don seemed to be reading Jem's thoughts as his sight plunged deeply into the eyes of his companion, and as he gazed, he shuddered, and tried to look elsewhere. But he could not look elsewhere, only hard at Jem, who also shuddered, and looked shame-faced and horrified. For they were reading each other's thoughts only too correctly, and the effect of that perusal was to make big drops of perspiration roll down Jem's face, and to turn Don deadly pale. At last each snatched his eyes away, Jem to watch the prisoners, Don to close his, and sit trembling and listening to the bursts of merriment which came up. At such times, in spite of their efforts, they could not imitate the apathy of the New Zealanders, but gazed wildly at each other, trying to make themselves believe that what they imagined was false, or else the prisoners would have shown | Don woke that morning, but there were hideous traces on the trampled ground, with broken weapons scattered here and there, while the wounded were lying together perfectly untended, many of them bound, to prevent escape--hardly possible even to an uninjured man, for a guard was keeping watch over them ready to advance threateningly, spear in hand, if a prisoner attempted to move. Where Don and Jem were sitting a portion of the great fence was broken, and they could see through it down to the shore. "What a shame it seems on such a glorious morning, Jem!" "Shame! Mas' Don? I should just like to shame 'em. Head hurt much?" "Not so very much, Jem. How is your shoulder?" "Rather pickly." "Rather what?" "Pickly, as if there was vinegar and pepper and salt being rubbed into it. But my old mother used to say that it was a good sign when a cut smarted a lot. So I s'pose my wound's first rate, for it smarts like a furze bush in a fit." "I wish I could bathe it for you, Jem." "Thank ye, Mas' Don. I wish my Sally could do it. More in her way." "We must try and bear it all, I suppose, Jem. How hot the sun is; and, ill as I am, I should be so glad of something to eat and drink." "I'm that hungry, Mas' Don," growled Jem, "that I could eat one o' these here savages. Not all at once, of course." "Look, Jem. What are they doing there?" Don nodded his head in the direction of the broken fence; and together they looked down from the eminence on which the _pah_ was formed, right upon the black volcanic sand, over which the sea ran foaming like so much glistening silver. There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water. "That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land, and now they're going back by water. Well, I s'pose, they'll do as they like." "Isn't this nearest one Ngati's canoe, Jem?" "Yes, my lad; that's she. I know her by that handsome face cut in the front. I s'pose poor Ngati's dead." "I'm afraid so," said Don, sadly.<|quote|>"I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either."</|quote|>"More can't I, Mas' Don. It's a werry bad job. Lookye yonder now." Don was already looking, for a great deal of excited business was going on below, where the victorious tribe was at work, going and coming, and bringing down loads of plunder taken from the various huts. One man bore a bundle of spears, another some stone tomahawks, which were rattled into the bottom of the canoes. Then paddles, and bundles of hempen garments were carried down, with other objects of value in the savage eye. This went on for hours amidst a great deal of shouting and laughter, till a large amount of spoil was loaded into the canoes, one being filled up and deep in the water. Then there seemed to be a pause, the canoes being secured to trees growing close down to the shore, and the party busy there a short time before absent. "Coming to fetch us now, I suppose, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Wonder whether they've got your pistol and cutlash." But no one but the guards came in sight, and a couple of weary hours passed, during which the other prisoners sat crouched together, talking in a low tone, apparently quite indifferent to their fate; and this indifference seemed so great that some of the thoughtless children began to laugh and talk aloud. For some time this was passed over unnoticed; but at last one of the guards, a tall Maori, whose face was so lined in curves that it seemed to be absolutely blue, walked slowly over to the merry group, spear in hand, to give one child a poke with the butt, another a sharp blow over the head, evidently with the intention of producing silence; but in the case of the younger children his movements had the opposite effect, and this roused the ire of some of the women, who spoke out angrily enough to make the tall, blue-faced savage give a threatening gesture with his spear. Just at that moment, however, a loud shouting and singing arose, which took | Don Lavington |
"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." | Freddy | "Not a bit!" he pleaded.<|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."</|quote|>He glanced at the curtains | him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded.<|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."</|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," | air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded.<|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."</|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, | I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded.<|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."</|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I | you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded.<|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."</|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy | normal in its wording, had been to the same effect. "The bother is this," began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window. "Freddy, you must come. There they still are!" "I don't see you ought to go peeping like that." "Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?" But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, "Still page 322?" Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the curtains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation had never ceased. "The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully." He gave a nervous gulp. "Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said," 'I don't mind' "--well, not content with that, he wanted to know whether I wasn't off my head with joy. He practically put it like this: Wasn't it a splendid thing for Lucy and for Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would have an answer--he said it would strengthen his hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded.<|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."</|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would | groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication. "Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more." "It's his third go, isn't it?" "Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind." "I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added: "But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don't know how girls manage things, but she can't have said" 'No' "properly before, or she wouldn't have to say it again now. Over the whole thing--I can't explain--I do feel so uncomfortable." "Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!" "I feel--never mind." He returned to his work. "Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'" "Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter." "I said:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading, "I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded. "What do you mean?" "He asked me for my permission also." She exclaimed: "How very odd of him!" "Why so?" asked the son and heir. "Why shouldn't my permission be asked?" "What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?" "I said to Cecil," 'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'" "What a helpful answer!" But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect. "The bother is this," began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window. "Freddy, you must come. There they still are!" "I don't see you ought to go peeping like that." "Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?" But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, "Still page 322?" Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the curtains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation had never ceased. "The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully." He gave a nervous gulp. "Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said," 'I don't mind' "--well, not content with that, he wanted to know whether I wasn't off my head with joy. He practically put it like this: Wasn't it a splendid thing for Lucy and for Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would have an answer--he said it would strengthen his hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded.<|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."</|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing | a long conversation had never ceased. "The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully." He gave a nervous gulp. "Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said," 'I don't mind' "--well, not content with that, he wanted to know whether I wasn't off my head with joy. He practically put it like this: Wasn't it a splendid thing for Lucy and for Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would have an answer--he said it would strengthen his hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded.<|quote|>"I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."</|quote|>He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy | A Room With A View |
"Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?" | Henry Tilney | _want_ to talk to anybody."<|quote|>"Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?"</|quote|>"Yes, quite more so, indeed." | and, besides, I do not _want_ to talk to anybody."<|quote|>"Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?"</|quote|>"Yes, quite more so, indeed." "More so! Take care, or | I have any acquaintance with." "And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!" "Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not _want_ to talk to anybody."<|quote|>"Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?"</|quote|>"Yes, quite more so, indeed." "More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper time. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks." "I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months." "Bath, | nothing to restrain you from conversing with him as long as you chose?" "Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother s, that if he talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young men in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with." "And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!" "Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not _want_ to talk to anybody."<|quote|>"Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?"</|quote|>"Yes, quite more so, indeed." "More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper time. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks." "I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months." "Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds out every year. For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but beyond _that_, it is the most tiresome place in the world. You would be told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every winter, lengthen | you, as rendering the conditions incapable of comparison." "No, indeed, I never thought of that." "Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe. This disposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any similarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your notions of the duties of the dancing state are not so strict as your partner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman were to address you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing with him as long as you chose?" "Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother s, that if he talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young men in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with." "And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!" "Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not _want_ to talk to anybody."<|quote|>"Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?"</|quote|>"Yes, quite more so, indeed." "More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper time. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks." "I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months." "Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds out every year. For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but beyond _that_, it is the most tiresome place in the world. You would be told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because they can afford to stay no longer." "Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of there." "You are not fond of the country." "Yes, | man and woman, formed for the advantage of each; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each other till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their duty, each to endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had bestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their own imaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their neighbours, or fancying that they should have been better off with anyone else. You will allow all this?" "Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well; but still they are so very different. I cannot look upon them at all in the same light, nor think the same duties belong to them." "In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man is supposed to provide for the support of the woman, the woman to make the home agreeable to the man; he is to purvey, and she is to smile. But in dancing, their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness, the compliance are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and the lavender water. _That_, I suppose, was the difference of duties which struck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of comparison." "No, indeed, I never thought of that." "Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe. This disposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any similarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your notions of the duties of the dancing state are not so strict as your partner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman were to address you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing with him as long as you chose?" "Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother s, that if he talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young men in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with." "And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!" "Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not _want_ to talk to anybody."<|quote|>"Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?"</|quote|>"Yes, quite more so, indeed." "More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper time. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks." "I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months." "Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds out every year. For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but beyond _that_, it is the most tiresome place in the world. You would be told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because they can afford to stay no longer." "Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of there." "You are not fond of the country." "Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another." "But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country." "Do I?" "Do you not?" "I do not believe there is much difference." "Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long." "And so I am at home only I do not find so much of it. I walk about here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen." Mr. Tilney was very much amused. "Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What a picture of intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here." "Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs. Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath, | curiosity. "Tilney," he repeated. "Hum I do not know him. A good figure of a man; well put together. Does he want a horse? Here is a friend of mine, Sam Fletcher, has got one to sell that would suit anybody. A famous clever animal for the road only forty guineas. I had fifty minds to buy it myself, for it is one of my maxims always to buy a good horse when I meet with one; but it would not answer my purpose, it would not do for the field. I would give any money for a real good hunter. I have three now, the best that ever were backed. I would not take eight hundred guineas for them. Fletcher and I mean to get a house in Leicestershire, against the next season. It is so d uncomfortable, living at an inn." This was the last sentence by which he could weary Catherine s attention, for he was just then borne off by the resistless pressure of a long string of passing ladies. Her partner now drew near, and said, "That gentleman would have put me out of patience, had he stayed with you half a minute longer. He has no business to withdraw the attention of my partner from me. We have entered into a contract of mutual agreeableness for the space of an evening, and all our agreeableness belongs solely to each other for that time. Nobody can fasten themselves on the notice of one, without injuring the rights of the other. I consider a country-dance as an emblem of marriage. Fidelity and complaisance are the principal duties of both; and those men who do not choose to dance or marry themselves, have no business with the partners or wives of their neighbours." "But they are such very different things!" "That you think they cannot be compared together." "To be sure not. People that marry can never part, but must go and keep house together. People that dance only stand opposite each other in a long room for half an hour." "And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing. Taken in that light certainly, their resemblance is not striking; but I think I could place them in such a view. You will allow, that in both, man has the advantage of choice, woman only the power of refusal; that in both, it is an engagement between man and woman, formed for the advantage of each; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each other till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their duty, each to endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had bestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their own imaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their neighbours, or fancying that they should have been better off with anyone else. You will allow all this?" "Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well; but still they are so very different. I cannot look upon them at all in the same light, nor think the same duties belong to them." "In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man is supposed to provide for the support of the woman, the woman to make the home agreeable to the man; he is to purvey, and she is to smile. But in dancing, their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness, the compliance are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and the lavender water. _That_, I suppose, was the difference of duties which struck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of comparison." "No, indeed, I never thought of that." "Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe. This disposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any similarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your notions of the duties of the dancing state are not so strict as your partner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman were to address you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing with him as long as you chose?" "Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother s, that if he talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young men in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with." "And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!" "Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not _want_ to talk to anybody."<|quote|>"Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?"</|quote|>"Yes, quite more so, indeed." "More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper time. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks." "I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months." "Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds out every year. For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but beyond _that_, it is the most tiresome place in the world. You would be told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because they can afford to stay no longer." "Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of there." "You are not fond of the country." "Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another." "But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country." "Do I?" "Do you not?" "I do not believe there is much difference." "Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long." "And so I am at home only I do not find so much of it. I walk about here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen." Mr. Tilney was very much amused. "Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What a picture of intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here." "Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs. Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath, when I am at home again I _do_ like it so very much. If I could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I should be too happy! James s coming (my eldest brother) is quite delightful and especially as it turns out that the very family we are just got so intimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?" "Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do. But papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good deal gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath and the honest relish of balls and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them." Here their conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now too importunate for a divided attention. Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the lookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man, of a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of life; and with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him presently address Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his notice, and blushing from the fear of its being excited by something wrong in her appearance, she turned away her head. But while she did so, the gentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer, said, "I see that you guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows your name, and you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my father." Catherine s answer was only "Oh!" but it was an "Oh!" expressing everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on their truth. With real interest and strong admiration did her eye now follow the general, as he moved through the crowd, and "How handsome a family they are!" was her secret remark. In chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded, a new source of felicity arose to her. She had never taken a country walk since her arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom all the commonly frequented environs were familiar, spoke of them in terms which made her all eagerness to know them too; and on her openly fearing that she might find nobody to go with her, it | marriage. Fidelity and complaisance are the principal duties of both; and those men who do not choose to dance or marry themselves, have no business with the partners or wives of their neighbours." "But they are such very different things!" "That you think they cannot be compared together." "To be sure not. People that marry can never part, but must go and keep house together. People that dance only stand opposite each other in a long room for half an hour." "And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing. Taken in that light certainly, their resemblance is not striking; but I think I could place them in such a view. You will allow, that in both, man has the advantage of choice, woman only the power of refusal; that in both, it is an engagement between man and woman, formed for the advantage of each; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each other till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their duty, each to endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had bestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their own imaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their neighbours, or fancying that they should have been better off with anyone else. You will allow all this?" "Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well; but still they are so very different. I cannot look upon them at all in the same light, nor think the same duties belong to them." "In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man is supposed to provide for the support of the woman, the woman to make the home agreeable to the man; he is to purvey, and she is to smile. But in dancing, their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness, the compliance are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and the lavender water. _That_, I suppose, was the difference of duties which struck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of comparison." "No, indeed, I never thought of that." "Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe. This disposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any similarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your notions of the duties of the dancing state are not so strict as your partner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman were to address you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing with him as long as you chose?" "Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother s, that if he talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young men in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with." "And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!" "Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not _want_ to talk to anybody."<|quote|>"Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?"</|quote|>"Yes, quite more so, indeed." "More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper time. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks." "I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months." "Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds out every year. For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but beyond _that_, it is the most tiresome place in the world. You would be told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because they can afford to stay no longer." "Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of there." "You are not fond of the country." "Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another." "But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country." "Do I?" "Do you not?" "I do not believe there is much difference." "Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long." "And so I am at home only I do not find so much of it. I walk | Northanger Abbey |
"I know," | The Policeman | sighed and shook his head.<|quote|>"I know,"</|quote|>he said solemnly, "I know | be a policeman!" The policeman sighed and shook his head.<|quote|>"I know,"</|quote|>he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But | "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said, "you oughtn't to be a policeman!" The policeman sighed and shook his head.<|quote|>"I know,"</|quote|>he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for | "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said, "you oughtn't to be a policeman!" The policeman sighed and shook his head.<|quote|>"I know,"</|quote|>he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear." "If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself | I tell you that if that were literally human blood, spilt and shining, you would still be standing here as solid as ever, looking out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on. You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm." "If we are calm," replied the policeman, "it is the calm of organised resistance." "Eh?" said Syme, staring. "The soldier must be calm in the thick of the battle," pursued the policeman. "The composure of an army is the anger of a nation." "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said, "you oughtn't to be a policeman!" The policeman sighed and shook his head.<|quote|>"I know,"</|quote|>he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear." "If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?" "You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other. "I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us." "Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This | flame than the sunset it mirrored. It looked like a stream of literal fire winding under the vast caverns of a subterranean country. Syme was shabby in those days. He wore an old-fashioned black chimney-pot hat; he was wrapped in a yet more old-fashioned cloak, black and ragged; and the combination gave him the look of the early villains in Dickens and Bulwer Lytton. Also his yellow beard and hair were more unkempt and leonine than when they appeared long afterwards, cut and pointed, on the lawns of Saffron Park. A long, lean, black cigar, bought in Soho for twopence, stood out from between his tightened teeth, and altogether he looked a very satisfactory specimen of the anarchists upon whom he had vowed a holy war. Perhaps this was why a policeman on the Embankment spoke to him, and said "Good evening." Syme, at a crisis of his morbid fears for humanity, seemed stung by the mere stolidity of the automatic official, a mere bulk of blue in the twilight. "A good evening is it?" he said sharply. "You fellows would call the end of the world a good evening. Look at that bloody red sun and that bloody river! I tell you that if that were literally human blood, spilt and shining, you would still be standing here as solid as ever, looking out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on. You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm." "If we are calm," replied the policeman, "it is the calm of organised resistance." "Eh?" said Syme, staring. "The soldier must be calm in the thick of the battle," pursued the policeman. "The composure of an army is the anger of a nation." "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said, "you oughtn't to be a policeman!" The policeman sighed and shook his head.<|quote|>"I know,"</|quote|>he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear." "If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?" "You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other. "I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us." "Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation. He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense. I am a democrat myself, and I am fully aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue. But it would obviously be undesirable to employ the common policeman in an investigation which is also a heresy hunt." Syme's eyes were bright with a sympathetic curiosity. "What do you do, then?" he said. "The work of the philosophical policeman," replied the man in blue, "is at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea-parties to detect pessimists. The ordinary detective discovers from a ledger or | and nothing else. His father cultivated art and self-realisation; his mother went in for simplicity and hygiene. Hence the child, during his tenderer years, was wholly unacquainted with any drink between the extremes of absinth and cocoa, of both of which he had a healthy dislike. The more his mother preached a more than Puritan abstinence the more did his father expand into a more than pagan latitude; and by the time the former had come to enforcing vegetarianism, the latter had pretty well reached the point of defending cannibalism. Being surrounded with every conceivable kind of revolt from infancy, Gabriel had to revolt into something, so he revolted into the only thing left sanity. But there was just enough in him of the blood of these fanatics to make even his protest for common sense a little too fierce to be sensible. His hatred of modern lawlessness had been crowned also by an accident. It happened that he was walking in a side street at the instant of a dynamite outrage. He had been blind and deaf for a moment, and then seen, the smoke clearing, the broken windows and the bleeding faces. After that he went about as usual quiet, courteous, rather gentle; but there was a spot on his mind that was not sane. He did not regard anarchists, as most of us do, as a handful of morbid men, combining ignorance with intellectualism. He regarded them as a huge and pitiless peril, like a Chinese invasion. He poured perpetually into newspapers and their waste-paper baskets a torrent of tales, verses and violent articles, warning men of this deluge of barbaric denial. But he seemed to be getting no nearer his enemy, and, what was worse, no nearer a living. As he paced the Thames embankment, bitterly biting a cheap cigar and brooding on the advance of Anarchy, there was no anarchist with a bomb in his pocket so savage or so solitary as he. Indeed, he always felt that Government stood alone and desperate, with its back to the wall. He was too quixotic to have cared for it otherwise. He walked on the Embankment once under a dark red sunset. The red river reflected the red sky, and they both reflected his anger. The sky, indeed, was so swarthy, and the light on the river relatively so lurid, that the water almost seemed of fiercer flame than the sunset it mirrored. It looked like a stream of literal fire winding under the vast caverns of a subterranean country. Syme was shabby in those days. He wore an old-fashioned black chimney-pot hat; he was wrapped in a yet more old-fashioned cloak, black and ragged; and the combination gave him the look of the early villains in Dickens and Bulwer Lytton. Also his yellow beard and hair were more unkempt and leonine than when they appeared long afterwards, cut and pointed, on the lawns of Saffron Park. A long, lean, black cigar, bought in Soho for twopence, stood out from between his tightened teeth, and altogether he looked a very satisfactory specimen of the anarchists upon whom he had vowed a holy war. Perhaps this was why a policeman on the Embankment spoke to him, and said "Good evening." Syme, at a crisis of his morbid fears for humanity, seemed stung by the mere stolidity of the automatic official, a mere bulk of blue in the twilight. "A good evening is it?" he said sharply. "You fellows would call the end of the world a good evening. Look at that bloody red sun and that bloody river! I tell you that if that were literally human blood, spilt and shining, you would still be standing here as solid as ever, looking out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on. You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm." "If we are calm," replied the policeman, "it is the calm of organised resistance." "Eh?" said Syme, staring. "The soldier must be calm in the thick of the battle," pursued the policeman. "The composure of an army is the anger of a nation." "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said, "you oughtn't to be a policeman!" The policeman sighed and shook his head.<|quote|>"I know,"</|quote|>he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear." "If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?" "You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other. "I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us." "Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation. He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense. I am a democrat myself, and I am fully aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue. But it would obviously be undesirable to employ the common policeman in an investigation which is also a heresy hunt." Syme's eyes were bright with a sympathetic curiosity. "What do you do, then?" he said. "The work of the philosophical policeman," replied the man in blue, "is at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea-parties to detect pessimists. The ordinary detective discovers from a ledger or a diary that a crime has been committed. We discover from a book of sonnets that a crime will be committed. We have to trace the origin of those dreadful thoughts that drive men on at last to intellectual fanaticism and intellectual crime. We were only just in time to prevent the assassination at Hartlepool, and that was entirely due to the fact that our Mr. Wilks (a smart young fellow) thoroughly understood a triolet." "Do you mean," asked Syme, "that there is really as much connection between crime and the modern intellect as all that?" "You are not sufficiently democratic," answered the policeman, "but you were right when you said just now that our ordinary treatment of the poor criminal was a pretty brutal business. I tell you I am sometimes sick of my trade when I see how perpetually it means merely a war upon the ignorant and the desperate. But this new movement of ours is a very different affair. We deny the snobbish English assumption that the uneducated are the dangerous criminals. We remember the Roman Emperors. We remember the great poisoning princes of the Renaissance. We say that the dangerous criminal is the educated criminal. We say that the most dangerous criminal now is the entirely lawless modern philosopher. Compared to him, burglars and bigamists are essentially moral men; my heart goes out to them. They accept the essential ideal of man; they merely seek it wrongly. Thieves respect property. They merely wish the property to become their property that they may more perfectly respect it. But philosophers dislike property as property; they wish to destroy the very idea of personal possession. Bigamists respect marriage, or they would not go through the highly ceremonial and even ritualistic formality of bigamy. But philosophers despise marriage as marriage. Murderers respect human life; they merely wish to attain a greater fulness of human life in themselves by the sacrifice of what seems to them to be lesser lives. But philosophers hate life itself, their own as much as other people's." Syme struck his hands together. "How true that is," he cried. "I have felt it from my boyhood, but never could state the verbal antithesis. The common criminal is a bad man, but at least he is, as it were, a conditional good man. He says that if only a certain obstacle be removed say a wealthy uncle | quixotic to have cared for it otherwise. He walked on the Embankment once under a dark red sunset. The red river reflected the red sky, and they both reflected his anger. The sky, indeed, was so swarthy, and the light on the river relatively so lurid, that the water almost seemed of fiercer flame than the sunset it mirrored. It looked like a stream of literal fire winding under the vast caverns of a subterranean country. Syme was shabby in those days. He wore an old-fashioned black chimney-pot hat; he was wrapped in a yet more old-fashioned cloak, black and ragged; and the combination gave him the look of the early villains in Dickens and Bulwer Lytton. Also his yellow beard and hair were more unkempt and leonine than when they appeared long afterwards, cut and pointed, on the lawns of Saffron Park. A long, lean, black cigar, bought in Soho for twopence, stood out from between his tightened teeth, and altogether he looked a very satisfactory specimen of the anarchists upon whom he had vowed a holy war. Perhaps this was why a policeman on the Embankment spoke to him, and said "Good evening." Syme, at a crisis of his morbid fears for humanity, seemed stung by the mere stolidity of the automatic official, a mere bulk of blue in the twilight. "A good evening is it?" he said sharply. "You fellows would call the end of the world a good evening. Look at that bloody red sun and that bloody river! I tell you that if that were literally human blood, spilt and shining, you would still be standing here as solid as ever, looking out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on. You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm." "If we are calm," replied the policeman, "it is the calm of organised resistance." "Eh?" said Syme, staring. "The soldier must be calm in the thick of the battle," pursued the policeman. "The composure of an army is the anger of a nation." "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said, "you oughtn't to be a policeman!" The policeman sighed and shook his head.<|quote|>"I know,"</|quote|>he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear." "If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?" "You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other. "I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us." "Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation. He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense. I am a democrat myself, and I am fully aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue. But it would obviously be undesirable to employ the common policeman in an investigation which is also a heresy hunt." Syme's eyes were bright with a sympathetic curiosity. "What do you do, then?" he said. "The work of the philosophical policeman," replied the man in blue, "is at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea-parties to detect pessimists. The ordinary detective discovers from a ledger or a diary that a crime has been committed. We discover from a book of sonnets that a crime will be committed. We have to trace the origin of those dreadful thoughts that drive men on at last to intellectual fanaticism and intellectual crime. We were only just in time to prevent the assassination at Hartlepool, and that was entirely due to the fact that our Mr. Wilks (a smart young fellow) thoroughly understood a triolet." "Do you mean," asked Syme, "that there is really as much connection between crime and the | The Man Who Was Thursday |
"I shall have only a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time and his own very different to-morrow." | Henry Crawford | a lower tone to Fanny,<|quote|>"I shall have only a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time and his own very different to-morrow."</|quote|>After a short consideration, Sir | up for _me_." And in a lower tone to Fanny,<|quote|>"I shall have only a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time and his own very different to-morrow."</|quote|>After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join | for denial; and it ended in a gracious "Well, well!" which was permission. "Yes, half-past nine," said Crawford to William as the latter was leaving them, "and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind sister to get up for _me_." And in a lower tone to Fanny,<|quote|>"I shall have only a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time and his own very different to-morrow."</|quote|>After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the early breakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he should himself be of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to himself, this very ball | It will be the last time, you know; the last morning." "You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?" Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for denial; and it ended in a gracious "Well, well!" which was permission. "Yes, half-past nine," said Crawford to William as the latter was leaving them, "and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind sister to get up for _me_." And in a lower tone to Fanny,<|quote|>"I shall have only a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time and his own very different to-morrow."</|quote|>After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the early breakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he should himself be of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to himself, this very ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded. Mr. Crawford was in love with Fanny. He had a pleasing anticipation of what would be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had just done. She had hoped to have William all to herself the last morning. It | it up these two hours. How can you be tired so soon?" "So soon! my good friend," said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with all necessary caution; "it is three o'clock, and your sister is not used to these sort of hours." "Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep as long as you can, and never mind me." "Oh! William." "What! Did she think of being up before you set off?" "Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer her uncle; "I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last time, you know; the last morning." "You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?" Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for denial; and it ended in a gracious "Well, well!" which was permission. "Yes, half-past nine," said Crawford to William as the latter was leaving them, "and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind sister to get up for _me_." And in a lower tone to Fanny,<|quote|>"I shall have only a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time and his own very different to-morrow."</|quote|>After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the early breakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he should himself be of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to himself, this very ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded. Mr. Crawford was in love with Fanny. He had a pleasing anticipation of what would be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had just done. She had hoped to have William all to herself the last morning. It would have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though her wishes were overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring within her. On the contrary, she was so totally unused to have her pleasure consulted, or to have anything take place at all in the way she could desire, that she was more disposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point so far, than to repine at the counteraction which followed. Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little with her inclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed. "Advise" was his word, but it was the advice | than raised his comfort; and afterwards, for he found himself still impelled to seek her again, she had absolutely pained him by her manner of speaking of the profession to which he was now on the point of belonging. They had talked, and they had been silent; he had reasoned, she had ridiculed; and they had parted at last with mutual vexation. Fanny, not able to refrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably satisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet some happiness must and would arise from the very conviction that he did suffer. When her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength for more were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas, having seen her walk rather than dance down the shortening set, breathless, and with her hand at her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely. From that time Mr. Crawford sat down likewise. "Poor Fanny!" cried William, coming for a moment to visit her, and working away his partner's fan as if for life, "how soon she is knocked up! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up these two hours. How can you be tired so soon?" "So soon! my good friend," said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with all necessary caution; "it is three o'clock, and your sister is not used to these sort of hours." "Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep as long as you can, and never mind me." "Oh! William." "What! Did she think of being up before you set off?" "Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer her uncle; "I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last time, you know; the last morning." "You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?" Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for denial; and it ended in a gracious "Well, well!" which was permission. "Yes, half-past nine," said Crawford to William as the latter was leaving them, "and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind sister to get up for _me_." And in a lower tone to Fanny,<|quote|>"I shall have only a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time and his own very different to-morrow."</|quote|>After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the early breakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he should himself be of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to himself, this very ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded. Mr. Crawford was in love with Fanny. He had a pleasing anticipation of what would be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had just done. She had hoped to have William all to herself the last morning. It would have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though her wishes were overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring within her. On the contrary, she was so totally unused to have her pleasure consulted, or to have anything take place at all in the way she could desire, that she was more disposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point so far, than to repine at the counteraction which followed. Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little with her inclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed. "Advise" was his word, but it was the advice of absolute power, and she had only to rise, and, with Mr. Crawford's very cordial adieus, pass quietly away; stopping at the entrance-door, like the Lady of Branxholm Hall, "one moment and no more," to view the happy scene, and take a last look at the five or six determined couple who were still hard at work; and then, creeping slowly up the principal staircase, pursued by the ceaseless country-dance, feverish with hopes and fears, soup and negus, sore-footed and fatigued, restless and agitated, yet feeling, in spite of everything, that a ball was indeed delightful. In thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might not be thinking merely of her health. It might occur to him that Mr. Crawford had been sitting by her long enough, or he might mean to recommend her as a wife by shewing her persuadableness. CHAPTER XXIX The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too; the last kiss was given, and William was gone. Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been very punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal. After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to the breakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve | the course of the evening; but Henry's attentions had very little to do with it. She would much rather _not_ have been asked by him again so very soon, and she wished she had not been obliged to suspect that his previous inquiries of Mrs. Norris, about the supper hour, were all for the sake of securing her at that part of the evening. But it was not to be avoided: he made her feel that she was the object of all; though she could not say that it was unpleasantly done, that there was indelicacy or ostentation in his manner; and sometimes, when he talked of William, he was really not unagreeable, and shewed even a warmth of heart which did him credit. But still his attentions made no part of her satisfaction. She was happy whenever she looked at William, and saw how perfectly he was enjoying himself, in every five minutes that she could walk about with him and hear his account of his partners; she was happy in knowing herself admired; and she was happy in having the two dances with Edmund still to look forward to, during the greatest part of the evening, her hand being so eagerly sought after that her indefinite engagement with _him_ was in continual perspective. She was happy even when they did take place; but not from any flow of spirits on his side, or any such expressions of tender gallantry as had blessed the morning. His mind was fagged, and her happiness sprung from being the friend with whom it could find repose. "I am worn out with civility," said he. "I have been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say. But with _you_, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not want to be talked to. Let us have the luxury of silence." Fanny would hardly even speak her agreement. A weariness, arising probably, in great measure, from the same feelings which he had acknowledged in the morning, was peculiarly to be respected, and they went down their two dances together with such sober tranquillity as might satisfy any looker-on that Sir Thomas had been bringing up no wife for his younger son. The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss Crawford had been in gay spirits when they first danced together, but it was not her gaiety that could do him good: it rather sank than raised his comfort; and afterwards, for he found himself still impelled to seek her again, she had absolutely pained him by her manner of speaking of the profession to which he was now on the point of belonging. They had talked, and they had been silent; he had reasoned, she had ridiculed; and they had parted at last with mutual vexation. Fanny, not able to refrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably satisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet some happiness must and would arise from the very conviction that he did suffer. When her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength for more were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas, having seen her walk rather than dance down the shortening set, breathless, and with her hand at her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely. From that time Mr. Crawford sat down likewise. "Poor Fanny!" cried William, coming for a moment to visit her, and working away his partner's fan as if for life, "how soon she is knocked up! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up these two hours. How can you be tired so soon?" "So soon! my good friend," said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with all necessary caution; "it is three o'clock, and your sister is not used to these sort of hours." "Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep as long as you can, and never mind me." "Oh! William." "What! Did she think of being up before you set off?" "Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer her uncle; "I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last time, you know; the last morning." "You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?" Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for denial; and it ended in a gracious "Well, well!" which was permission. "Yes, half-past nine," said Crawford to William as the latter was leaving them, "and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind sister to get up for _me_." And in a lower tone to Fanny,<|quote|>"I shall have only a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time and his own very different to-morrow."</|quote|>After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the early breakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he should himself be of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to himself, this very ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded. Mr. Crawford was in love with Fanny. He had a pleasing anticipation of what would be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had just done. She had hoped to have William all to herself the last morning. It would have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though her wishes were overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring within her. On the contrary, she was so totally unused to have her pleasure consulted, or to have anything take place at all in the way she could desire, that she was more disposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point so far, than to repine at the counteraction which followed. Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little with her inclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed. "Advise" was his word, but it was the advice of absolute power, and she had only to rise, and, with Mr. Crawford's very cordial adieus, pass quietly away; stopping at the entrance-door, like the Lady of Branxholm Hall, "one moment and no more," to view the happy scene, and take a last look at the five or six determined couple who were still hard at work; and then, creeping slowly up the principal staircase, pursued by the ceaseless country-dance, feverish with hopes and fears, soup and negus, sore-footed and fatigued, restless and agitated, yet feeling, in spite of everything, that a ball was indeed delightful. In thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might not be thinking merely of her health. It might occur to him that Mr. Crawford had been sitting by her long enough, or he might mean to recommend her as a wife by shewing her persuadableness. CHAPTER XXIX The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too; the last kiss was given, and William was gone. Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been very punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal. After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to the breakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over the melancholy change; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving, perhaps, that the deserted chair of each young man might exercise her tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones and mustard in William's plate might but divide her feelings with the broken egg-shells in Mr. Crawford's. She sat and cried _con_ _amore_ as her uncle intended, but it was _con_ _amore_ fraternal and no other. William was gone, and she now felt as if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares and selfish solicitudes unconnected with him. Fanny's disposition was such that she could never even think of her aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own small house, without reproaching herself for some little want of attention to her when they had been last together; much less could her feelings acquit her of having done and said and thought everything by William that was due to him for a whole fortnight. It was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the second breakfast, Edmund bade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough, and then all were gone. Nothing remained of last night but remembrances, which she had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Bertram she must talk to somebody of the ball; but her aunt had seen so little of what had passed, and had so little curiosity, that it was heavy work. Lady Bertram was not certain of anybody's dress or anybody's place at supper but her own. "She could not recollect what it was that she had heard about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was that Lady Prescott had noticed in Fanny: she was not sure whether Colonel Harrison had been talking of Mr. Crawford or of William when he said he was the finest young man in the room somebody had whispered something to her; she had forgot to ask Sir Thomas what it could be." And these were her longest speeches and clearest communications: the rest was only a languid "Yes, yes; very well; did you? did he? I did not see _that_; I should not know one from the other." This was very bad. It was only better than Mrs. Norris's sharp answers would have been; but she being gone home with all the supernumerary jellies to nurse a sick maid, there was | her, and working away his partner's fan as if for life, "how soon she is knocked up! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up these two hours. How can you be tired so soon?" "So soon! my good friend," said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with all necessary caution; "it is three o'clock, and your sister is not used to these sort of hours." "Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep as long as you can, and never mind me." "Oh! William." "What! Did she think of being up before you set off?" "Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer her uncle; "I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last time, you know; the last morning." "You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?" Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for denial; and it ended in a gracious "Well, well!" which was permission. "Yes, half-past nine," said Crawford to William as the latter was leaving them, "and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind sister to get up for _me_." And in a lower tone to Fanny,<|quote|>"I shall have only a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time and his own very different to-morrow."</|quote|>After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the early breakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he should himself be of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to himself, this very ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded. Mr. Crawford was in love with Fanny. He had a pleasing anticipation of what would be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had just done. She had hoped to have William all to herself the last morning. It would have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though her wishes were overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring within her. On the contrary, she was so totally unused to have her pleasure consulted, or to have anything take place at all in the way she could desire, that she was more disposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point so far, than to repine at the counteraction which followed. Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little with her inclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed. "Advise" was his word, but it was the advice of absolute | Mansfield Park |
"I am afraid," | Winterbourne | never saw anything so pretty."<|quote|>"I am afraid,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne, "that you will | gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty."<|quote|>"I am afraid,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very | clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then--" "All the evening," she answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty."<|quote|>"I am afraid,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion." "Ah," said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither am I--for | again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a delicate young girl lounging away the evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then--" "All the evening," she answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty."<|quote|>"I am afraid,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion." "Ah," said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither am I--for you! I am speaking for this young lady." Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth. But he took Winterbourne s rebuke with docility. "I told the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signorina ever prudent?" "I never was sick, and I don t | way of regarding Miss Daisy Miller. Then, as he was going to advance again, he checked himself, not from the fear that he was doing her injustice, but from a sense of the danger of appearing unbecomingly exhilarated by this sudden revulsion from cautious criticism. He turned away toward the entrance of the place, but, as he did so, he heard Daisy speak again. "Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!" What a clever little reprobate she was, and how smartly she played at injured innocence! But he wouldn t cut her. Winterbourne came forward again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a delicate young girl lounging away the evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then--" "All the evening," she answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty."<|quote|>"I am afraid,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion." "Ah," said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither am I--for you! I am speaking for this young lady." Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth. But he took Winterbourne s rebuke with docility. "I told the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signorina ever prudent?" "I never was sick, and I don t mean to be!" the signorina declared. "I don t look like much, but I m healthy! I was bound to see the Colosseum by moonlight; I shouldn t have wanted to go home without that; and we have had the most beautiful time, haven t we, Mr. Giovanelli? If there has been any danger, Eugenio can give me some pills. He has got some splendid pills." "I should advise you," said Winterbourne, "to drive home as fast as possible and take one!" "What you say is very wise," Giovanelli rejoined. "I will go and make sure the carriage is at | two persons were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base. One of these was a woman, seated; her companion was standing in front of her. Presently the sound of the woman s voice came to him distinctly in the warm night air. "Well, he looks at us as one of the old lions or tigers may have looked at the Christian martyrs!" These were the words he heard, in the familiar accent of Miss Daisy Miller. "Let us hope he is not very hungry," responded the ingenious Giovanelli. "He will have to take me first; you will serve for dessert!" Winterbourne stopped, with a sort of horror, and, it must be added, with a sort of relief. It was as if a sudden illumination had been flashed upon the ambiguity of Daisy s behavior, and the riddle had become easy to read. She was a young lady whom a gentleman need no longer be at pains to respect. He stood there, looking at her--looking at her companion and not reflecting that though he saw them vaguely, he himself must have been more brightly visible. He felt angry with himself that he had bothered so much about the right way of regarding Miss Daisy Miller. Then, as he was going to advance again, he checked himself, not from the fear that he was doing her injustice, but from a sense of the danger of appearing unbecomingly exhilarated by this sudden revulsion from cautious criticism. He turned away toward the entrance of the place, but, as he did so, he heard Daisy speak again. "Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!" What a clever little reprobate she was, and how smartly she played at injured innocence! But he wouldn t cut her. Winterbourne came forward again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a delicate young girl lounging away the evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then--" "All the evening," she answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty."<|quote|>"I am afraid,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion." "Ah," said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither am I--for you! I am speaking for this young lady." Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth. But he took Winterbourne s rebuke with docility. "I told the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signorina ever prudent?" "I never was sick, and I don t mean to be!" the signorina declared. "I don t look like much, but I m healthy! I was bound to see the Colosseum by moonlight; I shouldn t have wanted to go home without that; and we have had the most beautiful time, haven t we, Mr. Giovanelli? If there has been any danger, Eugenio can give me some pills. He has got some splendid pills." "I should advise you," said Winterbourne, "to drive home as fast as possible and take one!" "What you say is very wise," Giovanelli rejoined. "I will go and make sure the carriage is at hand." And he went forward rapidly. Daisy followed with Winterbourne. He kept looking at her; she seemed not in the least embarrassed. Winterbourne said nothing; Daisy chattered about the beauty of the place. "Well, I HAVE seen the Colosseum by moonlight!" she exclaimed. "That s one good thing." Then, noticing Winterbourne s silence, she asked him why he didn t speak. He made no answer; he only began to laugh. They passed under one of the dark archways; Giovanelli was in front with the carriage. Here Daisy stopped a moment, looking at the young American. "DID you believe I was engaged, the other day?" she asked. "It doesn t matter what I believed the other day," said Winterbourne, still laughing. "Well, what do you believe now?" "I believe that it makes very little difference whether you are engaged or not!" He felt the young girl s pretty eyes fixed upon him through the thick gloom of the archway; she was apparently going to answer. But Giovanelli hurried her forward. "Quick! quick!" he said; "if we get in by midnight we are quite safe." Daisy took her seat in the carriage, and the fortunate Italian placed himself beside her. "Don t | that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!" The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage--one of the little Roman streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron s famous lines, out of "Manfred," but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he drew near it that he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that two persons were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base. One of these was a woman, seated; her companion was standing in front of her. Presently the sound of the woman s voice came to him distinctly in the warm night air. "Well, he looks at us as one of the old lions or tigers may have looked at the Christian martyrs!" These were the words he heard, in the familiar accent of Miss Daisy Miller. "Let us hope he is not very hungry," responded the ingenious Giovanelli. "He will have to take me first; you will serve for dessert!" Winterbourne stopped, with a sort of horror, and, it must be added, with a sort of relief. It was as if a sudden illumination had been flashed upon the ambiguity of Daisy s behavior, and the riddle had become easy to read. She was a young lady whom a gentleman need no longer be at pains to respect. He stood there, looking at her--looking at her companion and not reflecting that though he saw them vaguely, he himself must have been more brightly visible. He felt angry with himself that he had bothered so much about the right way of regarding Miss Daisy Miller. Then, as he was going to advance again, he checked himself, not from the fear that he was doing her injustice, but from a sense of the danger of appearing unbecomingly exhilarated by this sudden revulsion from cautious criticism. He turned away toward the entrance of the place, but, as he did so, he heard Daisy speak again. "Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!" What a clever little reprobate she was, and how smartly she played at injured innocence! But he wouldn t cut her. Winterbourne came forward again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a delicate young girl lounging away the evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then--" "All the evening," she answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty."<|quote|>"I am afraid,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion." "Ah," said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither am I--for you! I am speaking for this young lady." Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth. But he took Winterbourne s rebuke with docility. "I told the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signorina ever prudent?" "I never was sick, and I don t mean to be!" the signorina declared. "I don t look like much, but I m healthy! I was bound to see the Colosseum by moonlight; I shouldn t have wanted to go home without that; and we have had the most beautiful time, haven t we, Mr. Giovanelli? If there has been any danger, Eugenio can give me some pills. He has got some splendid pills." "I should advise you," said Winterbourne, "to drive home as fast as possible and take one!" "What you say is very wise," Giovanelli rejoined. "I will go and make sure the carriage is at hand." And he went forward rapidly. Daisy followed with Winterbourne. He kept looking at her; she seemed not in the least embarrassed. Winterbourne said nothing; Daisy chattered about the beauty of the place. "Well, I HAVE seen the Colosseum by moonlight!" she exclaimed. "That s one good thing." Then, noticing Winterbourne s silence, she asked him why he didn t speak. He made no answer; he only began to laugh. They passed under one of the dark archways; Giovanelli was in front with the carriage. Here Daisy stopped a moment, looking at the young American. "DID you believe I was engaged, the other day?" she asked. "It doesn t matter what I believed the other day," said Winterbourne, still laughing. "Well, what do you believe now?" "I believe that it makes very little difference whether you are engaged or not!" He felt the young girl s pretty eyes fixed upon him through the thick gloom of the archway; she was apparently going to answer. But Giovanelli hurried her forward. "Quick! quick!" he said; "if we get in by midnight we are quite safe." Daisy took her seat in the carriage, and the fortunate Italian placed himself beside her. "Don t forget Eugenio s pills!" said Winterbourne as he lifted his hat. "I don t care," said Daisy in a little strange tone, "whether I have Roman fever or not!" Upon this the cab driver cracked his whip, and they rolled away over the desultory patches of the antique pavement. Winterbourne, to do him justice, as it were, mentioned to no one that he had encountered Miss Miller, at midnight, in the Colosseum with a gentleman; but nevertheless, a couple of days later, the fact of her having been there under these circumstances was known to every member of the little American circle, and commented accordingly. Winterbourne reflected that they had of course known it at the hotel, and that, after Daisy s return, there had been an exchange of remarks between the porter and the cab driver. But the young man was conscious, at the same moment, that it had ceased to be a matter of serious regret to him that the little American flirt should be "talked about" by low-minded menials. These people, a day or two later, had serious information to give: the little American flirt was alarmingly ill. Winterbourne, when the rumor came to him, immediately went to the hotel for more news. He found that two or three charitable friends had preceded him, and that they were being entertained in Mrs. Miller s salon by Randolph. "It s going round at night," said Randolph--" "that s what made her sick. She s always going round at night. I shouldn t think she d want to, it s so plaguy dark. You can t see anything here at night, except when there s a moon. In America there s always a moon!" Mrs. Miller was invisible; she was now, at least, giving her daughter the advantage of her society. It was evident that Daisy was dangerously ill. Winterbourne went often to ask for news of her, and once he saw Mrs. Miller, who, though deeply alarmed, was, rather to his surprise, perfectly composed, and, as it appeared, a most efficient and judicious nurse. She talked a good deal about Dr. Davis, but Winterbourne paid her the compliment of saying to himself that she was not, after all, such a monstrous goose. "Daisy spoke of you the other day," she said to him. "Half the time she doesn t know what she s saying, but that time I | "He will have to take me first; you will serve for dessert!" Winterbourne stopped, with a sort of horror, and, it must be added, with a sort of relief. It was as if a sudden illumination had been flashed upon the ambiguity of Daisy s behavior, and the riddle had become easy to read. She was a young lady whom a gentleman need no longer be at pains to respect. He stood there, looking at her--looking at her companion and not reflecting that though he saw them vaguely, he himself must have been more brightly visible. He felt angry with himself that he had bothered so much about the right way of regarding Miss Daisy Miller. Then, as he was going to advance again, he checked himself, not from the fear that he was doing her injustice, but from a sense of the danger of appearing unbecomingly exhilarated by this sudden revulsion from cautious criticism. He turned away toward the entrance of the place, but, as he did so, he heard Daisy speak again. "Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!" What a clever little reprobate she was, and how smartly she played at injured innocence! But he wouldn t cut her. Winterbourne came forward again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a delicate young girl lounging away the evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then--" "All the evening," she answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty."<|quote|>"I am afraid,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion." "Ah," said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither am I--for you! I am speaking for this young lady." Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth. But he took Winterbourne s rebuke with docility. "I told the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signorina ever prudent?" "I never was sick, and I don t mean to be!" the signorina declared. "I don t look like much, but I m healthy! I was bound to see the Colosseum by moonlight; I shouldn t have wanted to go home without that; and we have had the most beautiful time, haven t we, Mr. Giovanelli? If there has been any danger, Eugenio can give me some pills. He has got some splendid pills." "I should advise you," said Winterbourne, "to drive home as fast as possible and take one!" "What you say is very wise," Giovanelli rejoined. "I will go and make sure the carriage is at hand." And he went forward rapidly. Daisy followed with Winterbourne. He kept looking at her; she seemed not in the least embarrassed. Winterbourne said nothing; Daisy chattered about the beauty of the place. "Well, I HAVE seen the Colosseum by moonlight!" she exclaimed. "That s one good thing." Then, noticing Winterbourne s silence, she asked him why he didn t speak. He made no answer; he only began to laugh. They passed under one of the dark archways; Giovanelli was in front with the carriage. Here Daisy stopped a moment, looking at the young American. "DID you believe I was engaged, the other day?" she | Daisy Miller |
And he gave a deep sigh, and tried very hard to listen to what Owl was saying. But Owl went on and on, using longer and longer words, until at last he came back to where he started, and he explained that the person to write out this notice was Christopher Robin. | No speaker | as the case may be."<|quote|>And he gave a deep sigh, and tried very hard to listen to what Owl was saying. But Owl went on and on, using longer and longer words, until at last he came back to where he started, and he explained that the person to write out this notice was Christopher Robin.</|quote|>"It was he who wrote | Bear to himself, "or--or not, as the case may be."<|quote|>And he gave a deep sigh, and tried very hard to listen to what Owl was saying. But Owl went on and on, using longer and longer words, until at last he came back to where he started, and he explained that the person to write out this notice was Christopher Robin.</|quote|>"It was he who wrote the ones on my front | of Owl's parlour; "just a mouthful of condensed milk or whatnot, with perhaps a lick of honey----" "Well, then," said Owl, "we write out this notice, and we put it up all over the forest." "A lick of honey," murmured Bear to himself, "or--or not, as the case may be."<|quote|>And he gave a deep sigh, and tried very hard to listen to what Owl was saying. But Owl went on and on, using longer and longer words, until at last he came back to where he started, and he explained that the person to write out this notice was Christopher Robin.</|quote|>"It was he who wrote the ones on my front door for me. Did you see them, Pooh?" For some time now Pooh had been saying "Yes" and "No" in turn, with his eyes shut, to all that Owl was saying, and having said, "Yes, yes," last time, he said | give a large something to anybody who finds Eeyore's tail." "I see, I see," said Pooh, nodding his head. "Talking about large somethings," he went on dreamily, "I generally have a small something about now--about this time in the morning," and he looked wistfully at the cupboard in the corner of Owl's parlour; "just a mouthful of condensed milk or whatnot, with perhaps a lick of honey----" "Well, then," said Owl, "we write out this notice, and we put it up all over the forest." "A lick of honey," murmured Bear to himself, "or--or not, as the case may be."<|quote|>And he gave a deep sigh, and tried very hard to listen to what Owl was saying. But Owl went on and on, using longer and longer words, until at last he came back to where he started, and he explained that the person to write out this notice was Christopher Robin.</|quote|>"It was he who wrote the ones on my front door for me. Did you see them, Pooh?" For some time now Pooh had been saying "Yes" and "No" in turn, with his eyes shut, to all that Owl was saying, and having said, "Yes, yes," last time, he said "No, not at all," now, without really knowing what Owl was talking about. "Didn't you see them?" said Owl, a little surprised. "Come and look at them now." So they went outside. And Pooh looked at the knocker and the notice below it, and he looked at the bell-rope and | Pooh humbly. "The thing to do is as follows. First, Issue a Reward. Then----" "Just a moment," said Pooh, holding up his paw. "_What_ do we do to this--what you were saying? You sneezed just as you were going to tell me." "I _didn't_ sneeze." "Yes, you did, Owl." "Excuse me, Pooh, I didn't. You can't sneeze without knowing it." "Well, you can't know it without something having been sneezed." "What I _said_ was, 'First _Issue_ a Reward'." "You're doing it again," said Pooh sadly. "A Reward!" said Owl very loudly. "We write a notice to say that we will give a large something to anybody who finds Eeyore's tail." "I see, I see," said Pooh, nodding his head. "Talking about large somethings," he went on dreamily, "I generally have a small something about now--about this time in the morning," and he looked wistfully at the cupboard in the corner of Owl's parlour; "just a mouthful of condensed milk or whatnot, with perhaps a lick of honey----" "Well, then," said Owl, "we write out this notice, and we put it up all over the forest." "A lick of honey," murmured Bear to himself, "or--or not, as the case may be."<|quote|>And he gave a deep sigh, and tried very hard to listen to what Owl was saying. But Owl went on and on, using longer and longer words, until at last he came back to where he started, and he explained that the person to write out this notice was Christopher Robin.</|quote|>"It was he who wrote the ones on my front door for me. Did you see them, Pooh?" For some time now Pooh had been saying "Yes" and "No" in turn, with his eyes shut, to all that Owl was saying, and having said, "Yes, yes," last time, he said "No, not at all," now, without really knowing what Owl was talking about. "Didn't you see them?" said Owl, a little surprised. "Come and look at them now." So they went outside. And Pooh looked at the knocker and the notice below it, and he looked at the bell-rope and the notice below it, and the more he looked at the bell-rope, the more he felt that he had seen something like it, somewhere else, sometime before. "Handsome bell-rope, isn't it?" said Owl. Pooh nodded. "It reminds me of something," he said, "but I can't think what. Where did you get it?" "I just came across it in the Forest. It was hanging over a bush, and I thought at first somebody lived there, so I rang it, and nothing happened, and then I rang it again very loudly, and it came off in my hand, and as nobody seemed | only one in the forest who could spell; for Owl, wise though he was in many ways, able to read and write and spell his own name WOL, yet somehow went all to pieces over delicate words like MEASLES and BUTTEREDTOAST. Winnie-the-Pooh read the two notices very carefully, first from left to right, and afterwards, in case he had missed some of it, from right to left. Then, to make quite sure, he knocked and pulled the knocker, and he pulled and knocked the bell-rope, and he called out in a very loud voice, "Owl! I require an answer! It's Bear speaking." And the door opened, and Owl looked out. "Hallo, Pooh," he said. "How's things?" "Terrible and Sad," said Pooh, "because Eeyore, who is a friend of mine, has lost his tail. And he's Moping about it. So could you very kindly tell me how to find it for him?" "Well," said Owl, "the customary procedure in such cases is as follows." "What does Crustimoney Proseedcake mean?" said Pooh. "For I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words Bother me." "It means the Thing to Do." "As long as it means that, I don't mind," said Pooh humbly. "The thing to do is as follows. First, Issue a Reward. Then----" "Just a moment," said Pooh, holding up his paw. "_What_ do we do to this--what you were saying? You sneezed just as you were going to tell me." "I _didn't_ sneeze." "Yes, you did, Owl." "Excuse me, Pooh, I didn't. You can't sneeze without knowing it." "Well, you can't know it without something having been sneezed." "What I _said_ was, 'First _Issue_ a Reward'." "You're doing it again," said Pooh sadly. "A Reward!" said Owl very loudly. "We write a notice to say that we will give a large something to anybody who finds Eeyore's tail." "I see, I see," said Pooh, nodding his head. "Talking about large somethings," he went on dreamily, "I generally have a small something about now--about this time in the morning," and he looked wistfully at the cupboard in the corner of Owl's parlour; "just a mouthful of condensed milk or whatnot, with perhaps a lick of honey----" "Well, then," said Owl, "we write out this notice, and we put it up all over the forest." "A lick of honey," murmured Bear to himself, "or--or not, as the case may be."<|quote|>And he gave a deep sigh, and tried very hard to listen to what Owl was saying. But Owl went on and on, using longer and longer words, until at last he came back to where he started, and he explained that the person to write out this notice was Christopher Robin.</|quote|>"It was he who wrote the ones on my front door for me. Did you see them, Pooh?" For some time now Pooh had been saying "Yes" and "No" in turn, with his eyes shut, to all that Owl was saying, and having said, "Yes, yes," last time, he said "No, not at all," now, without really knowing what Owl was talking about. "Didn't you see them?" said Owl, a little surprised. "Come and look at them now." So they went outside. And Pooh looked at the knocker and the notice below it, and he looked at the bell-rope and the notice below it, and the more he looked at the bell-rope, the more he felt that he had seen something like it, somewhere else, sometime before. "Handsome bell-rope, isn't it?" said Owl. Pooh nodded. "It reminds me of something," he said, "but I can't think what. Where did you get it?" "I just came across it in the Forest. It was hanging over a bush, and I thought at first somebody lived there, so I rang it, and nothing happened, and then I rang it again very loudly, and it came off in my hand, and as nobody seemed to want it, I took it home, and----" "Owl," said Pooh solemnly, "you made a mistake. Somebody did want it." "Who?" "Eeyore. My dear friend Eeyore. He was--he was fond of it." "Fond of it?" "Attached to it," said Winnie-the-Pooh sadly. * * * * * So with these words he unhooked it, and carried it back to Eeyore; and when Christopher Robin had nailed it on in its right place again, Eeyore frisked about the forest, waving his tail so happily that Winnie-the-Pooh came over all funny, and had to hurry home for a little snack of something to sustain him. And, wiping his mouth half an hour afterwards, he sang to himself proudly: "_Who found the Tail?_ "I," said Pooh, "At a quarter to two (Only it was quarter to eleven really), _I_ found the Tail!"" CHAPTER V IN WHICH PIGLET MEETS A HEFFALUMP One day, when Christopher Robin and Winnie-the-Pooh and Piglet were all talking together, Christopher Robin finished the mouthful he was eating and said carelessly: "I saw a Heffalump to-day, Piglet." "What was it doing?" asked Piglet. "Just lumping along," said Christopher Robin. "I don't think it saw _me_." "I saw one once," said Piglet. | turned round the other way, until he came back to where he was at first, and then he put his head down and looked between his front legs, and at last he said, with a long, sad sigh, "I believe you're right." "Of course I'm right," said Pooh. "That Accounts for a Good Deal," said Eeyore gloomily. "It Explains Everything. No Wonder." "You must have left it somewhere," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "Somebody must have taken it," said Eeyore. "How Like Them," he added, after a long silence. Pooh felt that he ought to say something helpful about it, but didn't quite know what. So he decided to do something helpful instead. "Eeyore," he said solemnly, "I, Winnie-the-Pooh, will find your tail for you." "Thank you, Pooh," answered Eeyore. "You're a real friend," said he. "Not like Some," he said. So Winnie-the-Pooh went off to find Eeyore's tail. It was a fine spring morning in the forest as he started out. Little soft clouds played happily in a blue sky, skipping from time to time in front of the sun as if they had come to put it out, and then sliding away suddenly so that the next might have his turn. Through them and between them the sun shone bravely; and a copse which had worn its firs all the year round seemed old and dowdy now beside the new green lace which the beeches had put on so prettily. Through copse and spinney marched Bear; down open slopes of gorse and heather, over rocky beds of streams, up steep banks of sandstone into the heather again; and so at last, tired and hungry, to the Hundred Acre Wood. For it was in the Hundred Acre Wood that Owl lived. "And if anyone knows anything about anything," said Bear to himself, "it's Owl who knows something about something," he said, "or my name's not Winnie-the-Pooh," he said. "Which it is," he added. "So there you are." Owl lived at The Chestnuts, an old-world residence of great charm, which was grander than anybody else's, or seemed so to Bear, because it had both a knocker _and_ a bell-pull. Underneath the knocker there was a notice which said: PLES RING IF AN RNSER IS REQIRD. Underneath the bell-pull there was a notice which said: PLEZ CNOKE IF AN RNSR IS NOT REQID. These notices had been written by Christopher Robin, who was the only one in the forest who could spell; for Owl, wise though he was in many ways, able to read and write and spell his own name WOL, yet somehow went all to pieces over delicate words like MEASLES and BUTTEREDTOAST. Winnie-the-Pooh read the two notices very carefully, first from left to right, and afterwards, in case he had missed some of it, from right to left. Then, to make quite sure, he knocked and pulled the knocker, and he pulled and knocked the bell-rope, and he called out in a very loud voice, "Owl! I require an answer! It's Bear speaking." And the door opened, and Owl looked out. "Hallo, Pooh," he said. "How's things?" "Terrible and Sad," said Pooh, "because Eeyore, who is a friend of mine, has lost his tail. And he's Moping about it. So could you very kindly tell me how to find it for him?" "Well," said Owl, "the customary procedure in such cases is as follows." "What does Crustimoney Proseedcake mean?" said Pooh. "For I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words Bother me." "It means the Thing to Do." "As long as it means that, I don't mind," said Pooh humbly. "The thing to do is as follows. First, Issue a Reward. Then----" "Just a moment," said Pooh, holding up his paw. "_What_ do we do to this--what you were saying? You sneezed just as you were going to tell me." "I _didn't_ sneeze." "Yes, you did, Owl." "Excuse me, Pooh, I didn't. You can't sneeze without knowing it." "Well, you can't know it without something having been sneezed." "What I _said_ was, 'First _Issue_ a Reward'." "You're doing it again," said Pooh sadly. "A Reward!" said Owl very loudly. "We write a notice to say that we will give a large something to anybody who finds Eeyore's tail." "I see, I see," said Pooh, nodding his head. "Talking about large somethings," he went on dreamily, "I generally have a small something about now--about this time in the morning," and he looked wistfully at the cupboard in the corner of Owl's parlour; "just a mouthful of condensed milk or whatnot, with perhaps a lick of honey----" "Well, then," said Owl, "we write out this notice, and we put it up all over the forest." "A lick of honey," murmured Bear to himself, "or--or not, as the case may be."<|quote|>And he gave a deep sigh, and tried very hard to listen to what Owl was saying. But Owl went on and on, using longer and longer words, until at last he came back to where he started, and he explained that the person to write out this notice was Christopher Robin.</|quote|>"It was he who wrote the ones on my front door for me. Did you see them, Pooh?" For some time now Pooh had been saying "Yes" and "No" in turn, with his eyes shut, to all that Owl was saying, and having said, "Yes, yes," last time, he said "No, not at all," now, without really knowing what Owl was talking about. "Didn't you see them?" said Owl, a little surprised. "Come and look at them now." So they went outside. And Pooh looked at the knocker and the notice below it, and he looked at the bell-rope and the notice below it, and the more he looked at the bell-rope, the more he felt that he had seen something like it, somewhere else, sometime before. "Handsome bell-rope, isn't it?" said Owl. Pooh nodded. "It reminds me of something," he said, "but I can't think what. Where did you get it?" "I just came across it in the Forest. It was hanging over a bush, and I thought at first somebody lived there, so I rang it, and nothing happened, and then I rang it again very loudly, and it came off in my hand, and as nobody seemed to want it, I took it home, and----" "Owl," said Pooh solemnly, "you made a mistake. Somebody did want it." "Who?" "Eeyore. My dear friend Eeyore. He was--he was fond of it." "Fond of it?" "Attached to it," said Winnie-the-Pooh sadly. * * * * * So with these words he unhooked it, and carried it back to Eeyore; and when Christopher Robin had nailed it on in its right place again, Eeyore frisked about the forest, waving his tail so happily that Winnie-the-Pooh came over all funny, and had to hurry home for a little snack of something to sustain him. And, wiping his mouth half an hour afterwards, he sang to himself proudly: "_Who found the Tail?_ "I," said Pooh, "At a quarter to two (Only it was quarter to eleven really), _I_ found the Tail!"" CHAPTER V IN WHICH PIGLET MEETS A HEFFALUMP One day, when Christopher Robin and Winnie-the-Pooh and Piglet were all talking together, Christopher Robin finished the mouthful he was eating and said carelessly: "I saw a Heffalump to-day, Piglet." "What was it doing?" asked Piglet. "Just lumping along," said Christopher Robin. "I don't think it saw _me_." "I saw one once," said Piglet. "At least, I think I did," he said. "Only perhaps it wasn't." "So did I," said Pooh, wondering what a Heffalump was like. "You don't often see them," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Not now," said Piglet. "Not at this time of year," said Pooh. Then they all talked about something else, until it was time for Pooh and Piglet to go home together. At first as they stumped along the path which edged the Hundred Acre Wood, they didn't say much to each other; but when they came to the stream and had helped each other across the stepping stones, and were able to walk side by side again over the heather, they began to talk in a friendly way about this and that, and Piglet said, "If you see what I mean, Pooh," and Pooh said, "It's just what I think myself, Piglet," and Piglet said, "But, on the other hand, Pooh, we must remember," and Pooh said, "Quite true, Piglet, although I had forgotten it for the moment." And then, just as they came to the Six Pine Trees, Pooh looked round to see that nobody else was listening, and said in a very solemn voice: "Piglet, I have decided something." "What have you decided, Pooh?" "I have decided to catch a Heffalump." Pooh nodded his head several times as he said this, and waited for Piglet to say "How?" or "Pooh, you couldn't!" or something helpful of that sort, but Piglet said nothing. The fact was Piglet was wishing that _he_ had thought about it first. "I shall do it," said Pooh, after waiting a little longer, "by means of a trap. And it must be a Cunning Trap, so you will have to help me, Piglet." "Pooh," said Piglet, feeling quite happy again now, "I will." And then he said, "How shall we do it?" and Pooh said, "That's just it. How?" And then they sat down together to think it out. Pooh's first idea was that they should dig a Very Deep Pit, and then the Heffalump would come along and fall into the Pit, and---- "Why?" said Piglet. "Why what?" said Pooh. "Why would he fall in?" Pooh rubbed his nose with his paw, and said that the Heffalump might be walking along, humming a little song, and looking up at the sky, wondering if it would rain, and so he wouldn't see the | Through them and between them the sun shone bravely; and a copse which had worn its firs all the year round seemed old and dowdy now beside the new green lace which the beeches had put on so prettily. Through copse and spinney marched Bear; down open slopes of gorse and heather, over rocky beds of streams, up steep banks of sandstone into the heather again; and so at last, tired and hungry, to the Hundred Acre Wood. For it was in the Hundred Acre Wood that Owl lived. "And if anyone knows anything about anything," said Bear to himself, "it's Owl who knows something about something," he said, "or my name's not Winnie-the-Pooh," he said. "Which it is," he added. "So there you are." Owl lived at The Chestnuts, an old-world residence of great charm, which was grander than anybody else's, or seemed so to Bear, because it had both a knocker _and_ a bell-pull. Underneath the knocker there was a notice which said: PLES RING IF AN RNSER IS REQIRD. Underneath the bell-pull there was a notice which said: PLEZ CNOKE IF AN RNSR IS NOT REQID. These notices had been written by Christopher Robin, who was the only one in the forest who could spell; for Owl, wise though he was in many ways, able to read and write and spell his own name WOL, yet somehow went all to pieces over delicate words like MEASLES and BUTTEREDTOAST. Winnie-the-Pooh read the two notices very carefully, first from left to right, and afterwards, in case he had missed some of it, from right to left. Then, to make quite sure, he knocked and pulled the knocker, and he pulled and knocked the bell-rope, and he called out in a very loud voice, "Owl! I require an answer! It's Bear speaking." And the door opened, and Owl looked out. "Hallo, Pooh," he said. "How's things?" "Terrible and Sad," said Pooh, "because Eeyore, who is a friend of mine, has lost his tail. And he's Moping about it. So could you very kindly tell me how to find it for him?" "Well," said Owl, "the customary procedure in such cases is as follows." "What does Crustimoney Proseedcake mean?" said Pooh. "For I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words Bother me." "It means the Thing to Do." "As long as it means that, I don't mind," said Pooh humbly. "The thing to do is as follows. First, Issue a Reward. Then----" "Just a moment," said Pooh, holding up his paw. "_What_ do we do to this--what you were saying? You sneezed just as you were going to tell me." "I _didn't_ sneeze." "Yes, you did, Owl." "Excuse me, Pooh, I didn't. You can't sneeze without knowing it." "Well, you can't know it without something having been sneezed." "What I _said_ was, 'First _Issue_ a Reward'." "You're doing it again," said Pooh sadly. "A Reward!" said Owl very loudly. "We write a notice to say that we will give a large something to anybody who finds Eeyore's tail." "I see, I see," said Pooh, nodding his head. "Talking about large somethings," he went on dreamily, "I generally have a small something about now--about this time in the morning," and he looked wistfully at the cupboard in the corner of Owl's parlour; "just a mouthful of condensed milk or whatnot, with perhaps a lick of honey----" "Well, then," said Owl, "we write out this notice, and we put it up all over the forest." "A lick of honey," murmured Bear to himself, "or--or not, as the case may be."<|quote|>And he gave a deep sigh, and tried very hard to listen to what Owl was saying. But Owl went on and on, using longer and longer words, until at last he came back to where he started, and he explained that the person to write out this notice was Christopher Robin.</|quote|>"It was he who wrote the ones on my front door for me. Did you see them, Pooh?" For some time now Pooh had been saying "Yes" and "No" in turn, with his eyes shut, to all that Owl was saying, and having said, "Yes, yes," last time, he said "No, not at all," now, without really knowing what Owl was talking about. "Didn't you see them?" said Owl, a little surprised. "Come and look at them now." So they went outside. And Pooh looked at the knocker and the notice below it, and he looked at the bell-rope and the notice below it, and the more he looked at the bell-rope, the more he felt that he had seen something like it, somewhere else, sometime before. "Handsome bell-rope, isn't it?" said Owl. Pooh nodded. "It reminds me of something," he said, "but I can't think what. Where did you get it?" "I just came across it in the Forest. It was hanging over a bush, and I thought at first somebody lived there, so I rang it, and nothing happened, and then I rang it again very loudly, and it came off in my hand, and as nobody seemed to want it, I took it home, and----" "Owl," said Pooh solemnly, "you made a mistake. Somebody did want it." "Who?" "Eeyore. My dear friend Eeyore. He was--he was fond of it." "Fond of it?" "Attached to it," said Winnie-the-Pooh sadly. * * * * * So with these words he unhooked it, and carried it back to Eeyore; and when Christopher Robin had nailed it on in its right place again, Eeyore frisked about the forest, waving his tail so happily that Winnie-the-Pooh came over all funny, and had to hurry home for a little snack of something to sustain him. And, wiping his mouth half an hour afterwards, he sang to himself proudly: "_Who found the Tail?_ "I," said Pooh, "At a quarter to two (Only it was quarter to eleven really), _I_ found the Tail!"" CHAPTER V IN WHICH PIGLET MEETS A HEFFALUMP One day, when Christopher Robin and Winnie-the-Pooh and Piglet were all talking together, Christopher Robin finished the mouthful he was eating and said carelessly: "I saw a Heffalump to-day, Piglet." "What was it doing?" asked Piglet. "Just lumping along," said Christopher Robin. "I don't think it saw _me_." | Winnie The Pooh |
“Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.” | Tom | cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing.<|quote|>“Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.”</|quote|>That unfamiliar yet recognizable look | you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing.<|quote|>“Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.”</|quote|>That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s | him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject of you.” “He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old sport.” “Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing.<|quote|>“Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.”</|quote|>That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face. “That drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, “but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.” I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, | little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.” “What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.” “And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject of you.” “He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old sport.” “Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing.<|quote|>“Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.”</|quote|>That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face. “That drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, “but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.” I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden—as if he had “killed a man.” For a | her finger.” “I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let’s get out.” “Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “You’re one of that bunch that hangs around with Meyer Wolfshiem—that much I happen to know. I’ve made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it further tomorrow.” “You can suit yourself about that, old sport,” said Gatsby steadily. “I found out what your ‘drugstores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street drugstores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.” “What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.” “And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject of you.” “He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old sport.” “Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing.<|quote|>“Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.”</|quote|>That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face. “That drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, “but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.” I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden—as if he had “killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in just that fantastic way. It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room. The voice begged again to go. “Please, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.” Her frightened eyes | love him once—but I loved you too.” Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed. “You loved me too?” he repeated. “Even that’s a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn’t know you were alive. Why—there’s things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know, things that neither of us can ever forget.” The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby. “I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all excited now—” “Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful voice. “It wouldn’t be true.” “Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom. She turned to her husband. “As if it mattered to you,” she said. “Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now on.” “You don’t understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You’re not going to take care of her any more.” “I’m not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to control himself now. “Why’s that?” “Daisy’s leaving you.” “Nonsense.” “I am, though,” she said with a visible effort. “She’s not leaving me!” Tom’s words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby. “Certainly not for a common swindler who’d have to steal the ring he put on her finger.” “I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let’s get out.” “Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “You’re one of that bunch that hangs around with Meyer Wolfshiem—that much I happen to know. I’ve made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it further tomorrow.” “You can suit yourself about that, old sport,” said Gatsby steadily. “I found out what your ‘drugstores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street drugstores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.” “What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.” “And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject of you.” “He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old sport.” “Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing.<|quote|>“Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.”</|quote|>That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face. “That drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, “but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.” I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden—as if he had “killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in just that fantastic way. It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room. The voice begged again to go. “Please, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.” Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage she had had, were definitely gone. “You two start on home, Daisy,” said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.” She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous scorn. “Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over.” They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity. After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of whisky in the towel. “Want any of this stuff? Jordan? … Nick?” I didn’t answer. “Nick?” He asked again. “What?” “Want any?” “No … I just remembered that today’s my birthday.” I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a new decade. It was seven o’clock when we got into the coupé with him and started for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but his voice was as remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamour on the sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy has its limits, and we were content to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind. Thirty—the promise of a | back in his chair. “You’re crazy!” he exploded. “I can’t speak about what happened five years ago, because I didn’t know Daisy then—and I’ll be damned if I see how you got within a mile of her unless you brought the groceries to the back door. But all the rest of that’s a God damned lie. Daisy loved me when she married me and she loves me now.” “No,” said Gatsby, shaking his head. “She does, though. The trouble is that sometimes she gets foolish ideas in her head and doesn’t know what she’s doing.” He nodded sagely. “And what’s more, I love Daisy too. Once in a while I go off on a spree and make a fool of myself, but I always come back, and in my heart I love her all the time.” “You’re revolting,” said Daisy. She turned to me, and her voice, dropping an octave lower, filled the room with thrilling scorn: “Do you know why we left Chicago? I’m surprised that they didn’t treat you to the story of that little spree.” Gatsby walked over and stood beside her. “Daisy, that’s all over now,” he said earnestly. “It doesn’t matter any more. Just tell him the truth—that you never loved him—and it’s all wiped out forever.” She looked at him blindly. “Why—how could I love him—possibly?” “You never loved him.” She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal, as though she realized at last what she was doing—and as though she had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done now. It was too late. “I never loved him,” she said, with perceptible reluctance. “Not at Kapiolani?” demanded Tom suddenly. “No.” From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords were drifting up on hot waves of air. “Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone … “Daisy?” “Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancour was gone from it. She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said—but her hand as she tried to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet. “Oh, you want too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now—isn’t that enough? I can’t help what’s past.” She began to sob helplessly. “I did love him once—but I loved you too.” Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed. “You loved me too?” he repeated. “Even that’s a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn’t know you were alive. Why—there’s things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know, things that neither of us can ever forget.” The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby. “I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all excited now—” “Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful voice. “It wouldn’t be true.” “Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom. She turned to her husband. “As if it mattered to you,” she said. “Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now on.” “You don’t understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You’re not going to take care of her any more.” “I’m not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to control himself now. “Why’s that?” “Daisy’s leaving you.” “Nonsense.” “I am, though,” she said with a visible effort. “She’s not leaving me!” Tom’s words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby. “Certainly not for a common swindler who’d have to steal the ring he put on her finger.” “I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let’s get out.” “Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “You’re one of that bunch that hangs around with Meyer Wolfshiem—that much I happen to know. I’ve made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it further tomorrow.” “You can suit yourself about that, old sport,” said Gatsby steadily. “I found out what your ‘drugstores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street drugstores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.” “What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.” “And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject of you.” “He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old sport.” “Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing.<|quote|>“Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.”</|quote|>That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face. “That drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, “but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.” I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden—as if he had “killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in just that fantastic way. It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room. The voice begged again to go. “Please, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.” Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage she had had, were definitely gone. “You two start on home, Daisy,” said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.” She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous scorn. “Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over.” They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity. After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of whisky in the towel. “Want any of this stuff? Jordan? … Nick?” I didn’t answer. “Nick?” He asked again. “What?” “Want any?” “No … I just remembered that today’s my birthday.” I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a new decade. It was seven o’clock when we got into the coupé with him and started for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but his voice was as remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamour on the sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy has its limits, and we were content to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind. Thirty—the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning briefcase of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat’s shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand. So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The young Greek, Michaelis, who ran the coffee joint beside the ash-heaps was the principal witness at the inquest. He had slept through the heat until after five, when he strolled over to the garage, and found George Wilson sick in his office—really sick, pale as his own pale hair and shaking all over. Michaelis advised him to go to bed, but Wilson refused, saying that he’d miss a lot of business if he did. While his neighbour was trying to persuade him a violent racket broke out overhead. “I’ve got my wife locked in up there,” explained Wilson calmly. “She’s going to stay there till the day after tomorrow, and then we’re going to move away.” Michaelis was astonished; they had been neighbours for four years, and Wilson had never seemed faintly capable of such a statement. Generally he was one of these worn-out men: when he wasn’t working, he sat on a chair in the doorway and stared at the people and the cars that passed along the road. When anyone spoke to him he invariably laughed in an agreeable, colourless way. He was his wife’s man and not his own. So naturally Michaelis tried to find out what had happened, but Wilson wouldn’t say a word—instead he began to throw curious, suspicious glances at his visitor and ask him what he’d been doing at certain times on certain days. Just as the latter was getting uneasy, some workmen came past the door bound for his restaurant, and Michaelis took the opportunity to get away, intending to come back later. But he didn’t. He supposed he forgot to, that’s all. When he came outside again, a little after seven, he was reminded of the conversation because he heard Mrs. Wilson’s voice, loud and scolding, downstairs in the garage. “Beat me!” he heard her cry. “Throw me down and beat me, you dirty little coward!” A moment later | neither of us can ever forget.” The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby. “I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all excited now—” “Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful voice. “It wouldn’t be true.” “Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom. She turned to her husband. “As if it mattered to you,” she said. “Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now on.” “You don’t understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You’re not going to take care of her any more.” “I’m not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to control himself now. “Why’s that?” “Daisy’s leaving you.” “Nonsense.” “I am, though,” she said with a visible effort. “She’s not leaving me!” Tom’s words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby. “Certainly not for a common swindler who’d have to steal the ring he put on her finger.” “I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let’s get out.” “Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “You’re one of that bunch that hangs around with Meyer Wolfshiem—that much I happen to know. I’ve made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it further tomorrow.” “You can suit yourself about that, old sport,” said Gatsby steadily. “I found out what your ‘drugstores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street drugstores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.” “What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.” “And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject of you.” “He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old sport.” “Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing.<|quote|>“Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.”</|quote|>That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face. “That drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, “but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.” I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden—as if he had “killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in just that fantastic way. It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room. The voice begged again to go. “Please, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.” Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage she had had, were definitely gone. “You two start on home, Daisy,” said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.” She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous scorn. “Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over.” They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity. After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of | The Great Gatsby |
"I shall miss the Four Serious Songs if I do." | Tibby | sorry. Tibby, run after Helen."<|quote|>"I shall miss the Four Serious Songs if I do."</|quote|>"Tibby, love, you must go." | good gracious me!--I am so sorry. Tibby, run after Helen."<|quote|>"I shall miss the Four Serious Songs if I do."</|quote|>"Tibby, love, you must go." "It isn t of any | a programme," said Tibby. "The music has evidently moved her deeply," said Fraulein Mosebach. "Excuse me," said Margaret s young man, who had for some time been preparing a sentence, "but that lady has, quite inadvertently, taken my umbrella." "Oh, good gracious me!--I am so sorry. Tibby, run after Helen."<|quote|>"I shall miss the Four Serious Songs if I do."</|quote|>"Tibby, love, you must go." "It isn t of any consequence," said the young man, in truth a little uneasy about his umbrella. "But of course it is. Tibby! Tibby!" Tibby rose to his feet, and wilfully caught his person on the backs of the chairs. By the time he | meaning, and life could have no other meaning. She pushed right out of the building and walked slowly down the outside staircase, breathing the autumnal air, and then she strolled home. "Margaret," called Mrs. Munt, "is Helen all right?" "Oh yes." "She is always going away in the middle of a programme," said Tibby. "The music has evidently moved her deeply," said Fraulein Mosebach. "Excuse me," said Margaret s young man, who had for some time been preparing a sentence, "but that lady has, quite inadvertently, taken my umbrella." "Oh, good gracious me!--I am so sorry. Tibby, run after Helen."<|quote|>"I shall miss the Four Serious Songs if I do."</|quote|>"Tibby, love, you must go." "It isn t of any consequence," said the young man, in truth a little uneasy about his umbrella. "But of course it is. Tibby! Tibby!" Tibby rose to his feet, and wilfully caught his person on the backs of the chairs. By the time he had tipped up the seat and had found his hat, and had deposited his full score in safety, it was "too late" to go after Helen. The Four Serious Songs had begun, and one could not move during their performance. "My sister is so careless," whispered Margaret. "Not at all," | of death, and, amid vast roarings of a superhuman joy, he led his Fifth Symphony to its conclusion. But the goblins were there. They could return. He had said so bravely, and that is why one can trust Beethoven when he says other things. Helen pushed her way out during the applause. She desired to be alone. The music had summed up to her all that had happened or could happen in her career. She read it as a tangible statement, which could never be superseded. The notes meant this and that to her, and they could have no other meaning, and life could have no other meaning. She pushed right out of the building and walked slowly down the outside staircase, breathing the autumnal air, and then she strolled home. "Margaret," called Mrs. Munt, "is Helen all right?" "Oh yes." "She is always going away in the middle of a programme," said Tibby. "The music has evidently moved her deeply," said Fraulein Mosebach. "Excuse me," said Margaret s young man, who had for some time been preparing a sentence, "but that lady has, quite inadvertently, taken my umbrella." "Oh, good gracious me!--I am so sorry. Tibby, run after Helen."<|quote|>"I shall miss the Four Serious Songs if I do."</|quote|>"Tibby, love, you must go." "It isn t of any consequence," said the young man, in truth a little uneasy about his umbrella. "But of course it is. Tibby! Tibby!" Tibby rose to his feet, and wilfully caught his person on the backs of the chairs. By the time he had tipped up the seat and had found his hat, and had deposited his full score in safety, it was "too late" to go after Helen. The Four Serious Songs had begun, and one could not move during their performance. "My sister is so careless," whispered Margaret. "Not at all," replied the young man; but his voice was dead and cold. "If you would give me your address--" "Oh, not at all, not at all;" and he wrapped his greatcoat over his knees. Then the Four Serious Songs rang shallow in Margaret s ears. Brahms, for all his grumbling and grizzling, had never guessed what it felt like to be suspected of stealing an umbrella. For this fool of a young man thought that she and Helen and Tibby had been playing the confidence trick on him, and that if he gave his address they would break into his rooms | the field of battle, magnificent victory, magnificent death! Oh, it all burst before the girl, and she even stretched out her gloved hands as if it was tangible. Any fate was titanic; any contest desirable; conqueror and conquered would alike be applauded by the angels of the utmost stars. And the goblins--they had not really been there at all? They were only the phantoms of cowardice and unbelief? One healthy human impulse would dispel them? Men like the Wilcoxes, or ex-President Roosevelt, would say yes. Beethoven knew better. The goblins really had been there. They might return--and they did. It was as if the splendour of life might boil over and waste to steam and froth. In its dissolution one heard the terrible, ominous note, and a goblin, with increased malignity, walked quietly over the universe from end to end. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! Even the flaming ramparts of the world might fall. Beethoven chose to make all right in the end. He built the ramparts up. He blew with his mouth for the second time, and again the goblins were scattered. He brought back the gusts of splendour, the heroism, the youth, the magnificence of life and of death, and, amid vast roarings of a superhuman joy, he led his Fifth Symphony to its conclusion. But the goblins were there. They could return. He had said so bravely, and that is why one can trust Beethoven when he says other things. Helen pushed her way out during the applause. She desired to be alone. The music had summed up to her all that had happened or could happen in her career. She read it as a tangible statement, which could never be superseded. The notes meant this and that to her, and they could have no other meaning, and life could have no other meaning. She pushed right out of the building and walked slowly down the outside staircase, breathing the autumnal air, and then she strolled home. "Margaret," called Mrs. Munt, "is Helen all right?" "Oh yes." "She is always going away in the middle of a programme," said Tibby. "The music has evidently moved her deeply," said Fraulein Mosebach. "Excuse me," said Margaret s young man, who had for some time been preparing a sentence, "but that lady has, quite inadvertently, taken my umbrella." "Oh, good gracious me!--I am so sorry. Tibby, run after Helen."<|quote|>"I shall miss the Four Serious Songs if I do."</|quote|>"Tibby, love, you must go." "It isn t of any consequence," said the young man, in truth a little uneasy about his umbrella. "But of course it is. Tibby! Tibby!" Tibby rose to his feet, and wilfully caught his person on the backs of the chairs. By the time he had tipped up the seat and had found his hat, and had deposited his full score in safety, it was "too late" to go after Helen. The Four Serious Songs had begun, and one could not move during their performance. "My sister is so careless," whispered Margaret. "Not at all," replied the young man; but his voice was dead and cold. "If you would give me your address--" "Oh, not at all, not at all;" and he wrapped his greatcoat over his knees. Then the Four Serious Songs rang shallow in Margaret s ears. Brahms, for all his grumbling and grizzling, had never guessed what it felt like to be suspected of stealing an umbrella. For this fool of a young man thought that she and Helen and Tibby had been playing the confidence trick on him, and that if he gave his address they would break into his rooms some midnight or other and steal his walking-stick too. Most ladies would have laughed, but Margaret really minded, for it gave her a glimpse into squalor. To trust people is a luxury in which only the wealthy can indulge; the poor cannot afford it. As soon as Brahms had grunted himself out, she gave him her card and said, "That is where we live; if you preferred, you could call for the umbrella after the concert, but I didn t like to trouble you when it has all been our fault." His face brightened a little when he saw that Wickham Place was W. It was sad to see him corroded with suspicion, and yet not daring to be impolite, in case these well-dressed people were honest after all. She took it as a good sign that he said to her, "It s a fine programme this afternoon, is it not?" for this was the remark with which he had originally opened, before the umbrella intervened. "The Beethoven s fine," said Margaret, who was not a female of the encouraging type. "I don t like the Brahms, though, nor the Mendelssohn that came first and ugh! I don t like | a man like those Cupids!" thought Helen. Here Beethoven started decorating his tune, so she heard him through once more, and then she smiled at her Cousin Frieda. But Frieda, listening to Classical Music, could not respond. Herr Liesecke, too, looked as if wild horses could not make him inattentive; there were lines across his forehead, his lips were parted, his pince-nez at right angles to his nose, and he had laid a thick, white hand on either knee. And next to her was Aunt Juley, so British, and wanting to tap. How interesting that row of people was! What diverse influences had gone to the making! Here Beethoven, after humming and hawing with great sweetness, said "Heigho," and the Andante came to an end. Applause, and a round of "wunderschoning" and pracht volleying from the German contingent. Margaret started talking to her new young man; Helen said to her aunt: "Now comes the wonderful movement: first of all the goblins, and then a trio of elephants dancing" "; and Tibby implored the company generally to look out for the transitional passage on the drum. "On the what, dear?" "On the drum, Aunt Juley." "No; look out for the part where you think you have done with the goblins and they come back," breathed Helen, as the music started with a goblin walking quietly over the universe, from end to end. Others followed him. They were not aggressive creatures; it was that that made them so terrible to Helen. They merely observed in passing that there was no such thing as splendour or heroism in the world. After the interlude of elephants dancing, they returned and made the observation for the second time. Helen could not contradict them, for, once at all events, she had felt the same, and had seen the reliable walls of youth collapse. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! The goblins were right. Her brother raised his finger; it was the transitional passage on the drum. For, as if things were going too far, Beethoven took hold of the goblins and made them do what he wanted. He appeared in person. He gave them a little push, and they began to walk in a major key instead of in a minor, and then--he blew with his mouth and they were scattered! Gusts of splendour, gods and demigods contending with vast swords, colour and fragrance broadcast on the field of battle, magnificent victory, magnificent death! Oh, it all burst before the girl, and she even stretched out her gloved hands as if it was tangible. Any fate was titanic; any contest desirable; conqueror and conquered would alike be applauded by the angels of the utmost stars. And the goblins--they had not really been there at all? They were only the phantoms of cowardice and unbelief? One healthy human impulse would dispel them? Men like the Wilcoxes, or ex-President Roosevelt, would say yes. Beethoven knew better. The goblins really had been there. They might return--and they did. It was as if the splendour of life might boil over and waste to steam and froth. In its dissolution one heard the terrible, ominous note, and a goblin, with increased malignity, walked quietly over the universe from end to end. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! Even the flaming ramparts of the world might fall. Beethoven chose to make all right in the end. He built the ramparts up. He blew with his mouth for the second time, and again the goblins were scattered. He brought back the gusts of splendour, the heroism, the youth, the magnificence of life and of death, and, amid vast roarings of a superhuman joy, he led his Fifth Symphony to its conclusion. But the goblins were there. They could return. He had said so bravely, and that is why one can trust Beethoven when he says other things. Helen pushed her way out during the applause. She desired to be alone. The music had summed up to her all that had happened or could happen in her career. She read it as a tangible statement, which could never be superseded. The notes meant this and that to her, and they could have no other meaning, and life could have no other meaning. She pushed right out of the building and walked slowly down the outside staircase, breathing the autumnal air, and then she strolled home. "Margaret," called Mrs. Munt, "is Helen all right?" "Oh yes." "She is always going away in the middle of a programme," said Tibby. "The music has evidently moved her deeply," said Fraulein Mosebach. "Excuse me," said Margaret s young man, who had for some time been preparing a sentence, "but that lady has, quite inadvertently, taken my umbrella." "Oh, good gracious me!--I am so sorry. Tibby, run after Helen."<|quote|>"I shall miss the Four Serious Songs if I do."</|quote|>"Tibby, love, you must go." "It isn t of any consequence," said the young man, in truth a little uneasy about his umbrella. "But of course it is. Tibby! Tibby!" Tibby rose to his feet, and wilfully caught his person on the backs of the chairs. By the time he had tipped up the seat and had found his hat, and had deposited his full score in safety, it was "too late" to go after Helen. The Four Serious Songs had begun, and one could not move during their performance. "My sister is so careless," whispered Margaret. "Not at all," replied the young man; but his voice was dead and cold. "If you would give me your address--" "Oh, not at all, not at all;" and he wrapped his greatcoat over his knees. Then the Four Serious Songs rang shallow in Margaret s ears. Brahms, for all his grumbling and grizzling, had never guessed what it felt like to be suspected of stealing an umbrella. For this fool of a young man thought that she and Helen and Tibby had been playing the confidence trick on him, and that if he gave his address they would break into his rooms some midnight or other and steal his walking-stick too. Most ladies would have laughed, but Margaret really minded, for it gave her a glimpse into squalor. To trust people is a luxury in which only the wealthy can indulge; the poor cannot afford it. As soon as Brahms had grunted himself out, she gave him her card and said, "That is where we live; if you preferred, you could call for the umbrella after the concert, but I didn t like to trouble you when it has all been our fault." His face brightened a little when he saw that Wickham Place was W. It was sad to see him corroded with suspicion, and yet not daring to be impolite, in case these well-dressed people were honest after all. She took it as a good sign that he said to her, "It s a fine programme this afternoon, is it not?" for this was the remark with which he had originally opened, before the umbrella intervened. "The Beethoven s fine," said Margaret, who was not a female of the encouraging type. "I don t like the Brahms, though, nor the Mendelssohn that came first and ugh! I don t like this Elgar that s coming." "What, what?" called Herr Liesecke, overhearing. "The Pomp and Circumstance will not be fine?" "Oh, Margaret, you tiresome girl!" cried her aunt. "Here have I been persuading Herr Liesecke to stop for Pomp and Circumstance, and you are undoing all my work. I am so anxious for him to hear what WE are doing in music. Oh,--you musn t run down our English composers, Margaret." "For my part, I have heard the composition at Stettin," said Fraulein Mosebach, "on two occasions. It is dramatic, a little." "Frieda, you despise English music. You know you do. And English art. And English literature, except Shakespeare, and he s a German. Very well, Frieda, you may go." The lovers laughed and glanced at each other. Moved by a common impulse, they rose to their feet and fled from "Pomp and Circumstance." "We have this call to pay in Finsbury Circus, it is true," said Herr Liesecke, as he edged past her and reached the gangway just as the music started. "Margaret--" loudly whispered by Aunt Juley. "Margaret, Margaret! Fraulein Mosebach has left her beautiful little bag behind her on the seat." Sure enough, there was Frieda s reticule, containing her address book, her pocket dictionary, her map of London, and her money. "Oh, what a bother--what a family we are! Fr--frieda!" "Hush!" said all those who thought the music fine. "But it s the number they want in Finsbury Circus." "Might I--couldn t I--" said the suspicious young man, and got very red. "Oh, I would be so grateful." He took the bag--money clinking inside it--and slipped up the gangway with it. He was just in time to catch them at the swing-door, and he received a pretty smile from the German girl and a fine bow from her cavalier. He returned to his seat upsides with the world. The trust that they had reposed in him was trivial, but he felt that it cancelled his mistrust for them, and that probably he would not be "had" over his umbrella. This young man had been "had" in the past badly, perhaps overwhelmingly--and now most of his energies went in defending himself against the unknown. But this afternoon--perhaps on account of music--he perceived that one must slack off occasionally or what is the good of being alive? Wickham Place, W., though a risk, was as safe as most things, | increased malignity, walked quietly over the universe from end to end. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! Even the flaming ramparts of the world might fall. Beethoven chose to make all right in the end. He built the ramparts up. He blew with his mouth for the second time, and again the goblins were scattered. He brought back the gusts of splendour, the heroism, the youth, the magnificence of life and of death, and, amid vast roarings of a superhuman joy, he led his Fifth Symphony to its conclusion. But the goblins were there. They could return. He had said so bravely, and that is why one can trust Beethoven when he says other things. Helen pushed her way out during the applause. She desired to be alone. The music had summed up to her all that had happened or could happen in her career. She read it as a tangible statement, which could never be superseded. The notes meant this and that to her, and they could have no other meaning, and life could have no other meaning. She pushed right out of the building and walked slowly down the outside staircase, breathing the autumnal air, and then she strolled home. "Margaret," called Mrs. Munt, "is Helen all right?" "Oh yes." "She is always going away in the middle of a programme," said Tibby. "The music has evidently moved her deeply," said Fraulein Mosebach. "Excuse me," said Margaret s young man, who had for some time been preparing a sentence, "but that lady has, quite inadvertently, taken my umbrella." "Oh, good gracious me!--I am so sorry. Tibby, run after Helen."<|quote|>"I shall miss the Four Serious Songs if I do."</|quote|>"Tibby, love, you must go." "It isn t of any consequence," said the young man, in truth a little uneasy about his umbrella. "But of course it is. Tibby! Tibby!" Tibby rose to his feet, and wilfully caught his person on the backs of the chairs. By the time he had tipped up the seat and had found his hat, and had deposited his full score in safety, it was "too late" to go after Helen. The Four Serious Songs had begun, and one could not move during their performance. "My sister is so careless," whispered Margaret. "Not at all," replied the young man; but his voice was dead and cold. "If you would give me your address--" "Oh, not at all, not at all;" and he wrapped his greatcoat over his knees. Then the Four Serious Songs rang shallow in Margaret s ears. Brahms, for all his grumbling and grizzling, had never guessed what it felt like to be suspected of stealing an umbrella. For this fool of a young man thought that she and Helen and Tibby had been playing the confidence trick on him, and that if he gave his address they would break into his rooms some midnight or other and steal his walking-stick too. Most ladies would have laughed, but Margaret really minded, for it gave her a glimpse into squalor. To trust people is a luxury in which only the wealthy can indulge; the poor cannot afford it. As soon as Brahms had grunted himself out, she gave him her card and said, "That is where we live; | Howards End |
cried Piglet. | No speaker | joined the other two!_" "Pooh!"<|quote|>cried Piglet.</|quote|>"Do you think it is | Pooh. "_A third animal has joined the other two!_" "Pooh!"<|quote|>cried Piglet.</|quote|>"Do you think it is another Woozle?" "No," said Pooh, | pointed excitedly in front of him. "_Look!_" "_What?_" said Piglet, with a jump. And then, to show that he hadn't been frightened, he jumped up and down once or twice more in an exercising sort of way. "The tracks!" said Pooh. "_A third animal has joined the other two!_" "Pooh!"<|quote|>cried Piglet.</|quote|>"Do you think it is another Woozle?" "No," said Pooh, "because it makes different marks. It is either Two Woozles and one, as it might be, Wizzle, or Two, as it might be, Wizzles and one, if so it is, Woozle. Let us continue to follow them." So they went | a Grandfather was like, and if perhaps this was Two Grandfathers they were after now, and, if so, whether he would be allowed to take one home and keep it, and what Christopher Robin would say. And still the tracks went on in front of them.... Suddenly Winnie-the-Pooh stopped, and pointed excitedly in front of him. "_Look!_" "_What?_" said Piglet, with a jump. And then, to show that he hadn't been frightened, he jumped up and down once or twice more in an exercising sort of way. "The tracks!" said Pooh. "_A third animal has joined the other two!_" "Pooh!"<|quote|>cried Piglet.</|quote|>"Do you think it is another Woozle?" "No," said Pooh, "because it makes different marks. It is either Two Woozles and one, as it might be, Wizzle, or Two, as it might be, Wizzles and one, if so it is, Woozle. Let us continue to follow them." So they went on, feeling just a little anxious now, in case the three animals in front of them were of Hostile Intent. And Piglet wished very much that his Grandfather T. W. were there, instead of elsewhere, and Pooh thought how nice it would be if they met Christopher Robin suddenly but | Piglet said that anyhow he had nothing to do until Friday. So off they went together. There was a small spinney of larch trees just here, and it seemed as if the two Woozles, if that is what they were, had been going round this spinney; so round this spinney went Pooh and Piglet after them; Piglet passing the time by telling Pooh what his Grandfather Trespassers W had done to Remove Stiffness after Tracking, and how his Grandfather Trespassers W had suffered in his later years from Shortness of Breath, and other matters of interest, and Pooh wondering what a Grandfather was like, and if perhaps this was Two Grandfathers they were after now, and, if so, whether he would be allowed to take one home and keep it, and what Christopher Robin would say. And still the tracks went on in front of them.... Suddenly Winnie-the-Pooh stopped, and pointed excitedly in front of him. "_Look!_" "_What?_" said Piglet, with a jump. And then, to show that he hadn't been frightened, he jumped up and down once or twice more in an exercising sort of way. "The tracks!" said Pooh. "_A third animal has joined the other two!_" "Pooh!"<|quote|>cried Piglet.</|quote|>"Do you think it is another Woozle?" "No," said Pooh, "because it makes different marks. It is either Two Woozles and one, as it might be, Wizzle, or Two, as it might be, Wizzles and one, if so it is, Woozle. Let us continue to follow them." So they went on, feeling just a little anxious now, in case the three animals in front of them were of Hostile Intent. And Piglet wished very much that his Grandfather T. W. were there, instead of elsewhere, and Pooh thought how nice it would be if they met Christopher Robin suddenly but quite accidentally, and only because he liked Christopher Robin so much. And then, all of a sudden, Winnie-the-Pooh stopped again, and licked the tip of his nose in a cooling manner, for he was feeling more hot and anxious than ever in his life before. _There were four animals in front of them!_ "Do you see, Piglet? Look at their tracks! Three, as it were, Woozles, and one, as it was, Wizzle. _Another Woozle has joined them!_" And so it seemed to be. There were the tracks; crossing over each other here, getting muddled up with each other there; but, | have to wait until I catch up with it," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "Now, look there." He pointed to the ground in front of him. "What do you see there?" "Tracks," said Piglet. "Paw-marks." He gave a little squeak of excitement. "Oh, Pooh! Do you think it's a--a--a Woozle?" "It may be," said Pooh. "Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. You never can tell with paw-marks." With these few words he went on tracking, and Piglet, after watching him for a minute or two, ran after him. Winnie-the-Pooh had come to a sudden stop, and was bending over the tracks in a puzzled sort of way. "What's the matter?" asked Piglet. "It's a very funny thing," said Bear, "but there seem to be _two_ animals now. This--whatever-it-was--has been joined by another--whatever-it-is--and the two of them are now proceeding in company. Would you mind coming with me, Piglet, in case they turn out to be Hostile Animals?" Piglet scratched his ear in a nice sort of way, and said that he had nothing to do until Friday, and would be delighted to come, in case it really _was_ a Woozle. "You mean, in case it really is two Woozles," said Winnie-the-Pooh, and Piglet said that anyhow he had nothing to do until Friday. So off they went together. There was a small spinney of larch trees just here, and it seemed as if the two Woozles, if that is what they were, had been going round this spinney; so round this spinney went Pooh and Piglet after them; Piglet passing the time by telling Pooh what his Grandfather Trespassers W had done to Remove Stiffness after Tracking, and how his Grandfather Trespassers W had suffered in his later years from Shortness of Breath, and other matters of interest, and Pooh wondering what a Grandfather was like, and if perhaps this was Two Grandfathers they were after now, and, if so, whether he would be allowed to take one home and keep it, and what Christopher Robin would say. And still the tracks went on in front of them.... Suddenly Winnie-the-Pooh stopped, and pointed excitedly in front of him. "_Look!_" "_What?_" said Piglet, with a jump. And then, to show that he hadn't been frightened, he jumped up and down once or twice more in an exercising sort of way. "The tracks!" said Pooh. "_A third animal has joined the other two!_" "Pooh!"<|quote|>cried Piglet.</|quote|>"Do you think it is another Woozle?" "No," said Pooh, "because it makes different marks. It is either Two Woozles and one, as it might be, Wizzle, or Two, as it might be, Wizzles and one, if so it is, Woozle. Let us continue to follow them." So they went on, feeling just a little anxious now, in case the three animals in front of them were of Hostile Intent. And Piglet wished very much that his Grandfather T. W. were there, instead of elsewhere, and Pooh thought how nice it would be if they met Christopher Robin suddenly but quite accidentally, and only because he liked Christopher Robin so much. And then, all of a sudden, Winnie-the-Pooh stopped again, and licked the tip of his nose in a cooling manner, for he was feeling more hot and anxious than ever in his life before. _There were four animals in front of them!_ "Do you see, Piglet? Look at their tracks! Three, as it were, Woozles, and one, as it was, Wizzle. _Another Woozle has joined them!_" And so it seemed to be. There were the tracks; crossing over each other here, getting muddled up with each other there; but, quite plainly every now and then, the tracks of four sets of paws. "I _think_," said Piglet, when he had licked the tip of his nose too, and found that it brought very little comfort, "I _think_ that I have just remembered something. I have just remembered something that I forgot to do yesterday and shan't be able to do to-morrow. So I suppose I really ought to go back and do it now." "We'll do it this afternoon, and I'll come with you," said Pooh. "It isn't the sort of thing you can do in the afternoon," said Piglet quickly. "It's a very particular morning thing, that has to be done in the morning, and, if possible, between the hours of----What would you say the time was?" "About twelve," said Winnie-the-Pooh, looking at the sun. "Between, as I was saying, the hours of twelve and twelve five. So, really, dear old Pooh, if you'll excuse me----_What's that?_" Pooh looked up at the sky, and then, as he heard the whistle again, he looked up into the branches of a big oak-tree, and then he saw a friend of his. "It's Christopher Robin," he said. "Ah, then you'll be all | hung his washing on the South end ... and in between Bear felt himself getting slenderer and slenderer. And at the end of the week Christopher Robin said, "_Now!_" So he took hold of Pooh's front paws and Rabbit took hold of Christopher Robin, and all Rabbit's friends and relations took hold of Rabbit, and they all pulled together.... And for a long time Pooh only said "_Ow!_" ... And "_Oh!_" ... And then, all of a sudden, he said "_Pop!_" just as if a cork were coming out of a bottle. And Christopher Robin and Rabbit and all Rabbit's friends and relations went head-over-heels backwards ... and on the top of them came Winnie-the-Pooh--free! So, with a nod of thanks to his friends, he went on with his walk through the forest, humming proudly to himself. But, Christopher Robin looked after him lovingly, and said to himself, "Silly old Bear!" CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers. "I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet. One fine winter's day when Piglet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a circle, thinking of something else, and when Piglet called to him, he just went on walking. "Hallo!" said Piglet, "what are _you_ doing?" "Hunting," said Pooh. "Hunting what?" "Tracking something," said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously. "Tracking what?" said Piglet, coming closer. "That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?" "What do you think you'll answer?" "I shall have to wait until I catch up with it," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "Now, look there." He pointed to the ground in front of him. "What do you see there?" "Tracks," said Piglet. "Paw-marks." He gave a little squeak of excitement. "Oh, Pooh! Do you think it's a--a--a Woozle?" "It may be," said Pooh. "Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. You never can tell with paw-marks." With these few words he went on tracking, and Piglet, after watching him for a minute or two, ran after him. Winnie-the-Pooh had come to a sudden stop, and was bending over the tracks in a puzzled sort of way. "What's the matter?" asked Piglet. "It's a very funny thing," said Bear, "but there seem to be _two_ animals now. This--whatever-it-was--has been joined by another--whatever-it-is--and the two of them are now proceeding in company. Would you mind coming with me, Piglet, in case they turn out to be Hostile Animals?" Piglet scratched his ear in a nice sort of way, and said that he had nothing to do until Friday, and would be delighted to come, in case it really _was_ a Woozle. "You mean, in case it really is two Woozles," said Winnie-the-Pooh, and Piglet said that anyhow he had nothing to do until Friday. So off they went together. There was a small spinney of larch trees just here, and it seemed as if the two Woozles, if that is what they were, had been going round this spinney; so round this spinney went Pooh and Piglet after them; Piglet passing the time by telling Pooh what his Grandfather Trespassers W had done to Remove Stiffness after Tracking, and how his Grandfather Trespassers W had suffered in his later years from Shortness of Breath, and other matters of interest, and Pooh wondering what a Grandfather was like, and if perhaps this was Two Grandfathers they were after now, and, if so, whether he would be allowed to take one home and keep it, and what Christopher Robin would say. And still the tracks went on in front of them.... Suddenly Winnie-the-Pooh stopped, and pointed excitedly in front of him. "_Look!_" "_What?_" said Piglet, with a jump. And then, to show that he hadn't been frightened, he jumped up and down once or twice more in an exercising sort of way. "The tracks!" said Pooh. "_A third animal has joined the other two!_" "Pooh!"<|quote|>cried Piglet.</|quote|>"Do you think it is another Woozle?" "No," said Pooh, "because it makes different marks. It is either Two Woozles and one, as it might be, Wizzle, or Two, as it might be, Wizzles and one, if so it is, Woozle. Let us continue to follow them." So they went on, feeling just a little anxious now, in case the three animals in front of them were of Hostile Intent. And Piglet wished very much that his Grandfather T. W. were there, instead of elsewhere, and Pooh thought how nice it would be if they met Christopher Robin suddenly but quite accidentally, and only because he liked Christopher Robin so much. And then, all of a sudden, Winnie-the-Pooh stopped again, and licked the tip of his nose in a cooling manner, for he was feeling more hot and anxious than ever in his life before. _There were four animals in front of them!_ "Do you see, Piglet? Look at their tracks! Three, as it were, Woozles, and one, as it was, Wizzle. _Another Woozle has joined them!_" And so it seemed to be. There were the tracks; crossing over each other here, getting muddled up with each other there; but, quite plainly every now and then, the tracks of four sets of paws. "I _think_," said Piglet, when he had licked the tip of his nose too, and found that it brought very little comfort, "I _think_ that I have just remembered something. I have just remembered something that I forgot to do yesterday and shan't be able to do to-morrow. So I suppose I really ought to go back and do it now." "We'll do it this afternoon, and I'll come with you," said Pooh. "It isn't the sort of thing you can do in the afternoon," said Piglet quickly. "It's a very particular morning thing, that has to be done in the morning, and, if possible, between the hours of----What would you say the time was?" "About twelve," said Winnie-the-Pooh, looking at the sun. "Between, as I was saying, the hours of twelve and twelve five. So, really, dear old Pooh, if you'll excuse me----_What's that?_" Pooh looked up at the sky, and then, as he heard the whistle again, he looked up into the branches of a big oak-tree, and then he saw a friend of his. "It's Christopher Robin," he said. "Ah, then you'll be all right," said Piglet. "You'll be quite safe with _him_. Good-bye," and he trotted off home as quickly as he could, very glad to be Out of All Danger again. Christopher Robin came slowly down his tree. "Silly old Bear," he said, "what _were_ you doing? First you went round the spinney twice by yourself, and then Piglet ran after you and you went round again together, and then you were just going round a fourth time----" "Wait a moment," said Winnie-the-Pooh, holding up his paw. He sat down and thought, in the most thoughtful way he could think. Then he fitted his paw into one of the Tracks ... and then he scratched his nose twice, and stood up. "Yes," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "I see now," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "I have been Foolish and Deluded," said he, "and I am a Bear of No Brain at All." "You're the Best Bear in All the World," said Christopher Robin soothingly. "Am I?" said Pooh hopefully. And then he brightened up suddenly. "Anyhow," he said, "it is nearly Luncheon Time." So he went home for it. CHAPTER IV IN WHICH EEYORE LOSES A TAIL AND POOH FINDS ONE The Old Grey Donkey, Eeyore, stood by himself in a thistly corner of the forest, his front feet well apart, his head on one side, and thought about things. Sometimes he thought sadly to himself, "Why?" and sometimes he thought, "Wherefore?" and sometimes he thought, "Inasmuch as which?" "--and sometimes he didn't quite know what he _was_ thinking about. So when Winnie-the-Pooh came stumping along, Eeyore was very glad to be able to stop thinking for a little, in order to say "How do you do?" in a gloomy manner to him. "And how are you?" said Winnie-the-Pooh. Eeyore shook his head from side to side. "Not very how," he said. "I don't seem to have felt at all how for a long time." "Dear, dear," said Pooh, "I'm sorry about that. Let's have a look at you." So Eeyore stood there, gazing sadly at the ground, and Winnie-the-Pooh walked all round him once. "Why, what's happened to your tail?" he said in surprise. "What _has_ happened to it?" said Eeyore. "It isn't there!" "Are you sure?" "Well, either a tail _is_ there or it isn't there. You can't make a mistake about it. And yours _isn't_ there!" "Then what is?" "Nothing." "Let's have a look," | pointed to the ground in front of him. "What do you see there?" "Tracks," said Piglet. "Paw-marks." He gave a little squeak of excitement. "Oh, Pooh! Do you think it's a--a--a Woozle?" "It may be," said Pooh. "Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. You never can tell with paw-marks." With these few words he went on tracking, and Piglet, after watching him for a minute or two, ran after him. Winnie-the-Pooh had come to a sudden stop, and was bending over the tracks in a puzzled sort of way. "What's the matter?" asked Piglet. "It's a very funny thing," said Bear, "but there seem to be _two_ animals now. This--whatever-it-was--has been joined by another--whatever-it-is--and the two of them are now proceeding in company. Would you mind coming with me, Piglet, in case they turn out to be Hostile Animals?" Piglet scratched his ear in a nice sort of way, and said that he had nothing to do until Friday, and would be delighted to come, in case it really _was_ a Woozle. "You mean, in case it really is two Woozles," said Winnie-the-Pooh, and Piglet said that anyhow he had nothing to do until Friday. So off they went together. There was a small spinney of larch trees just here, and it seemed as if the two Woozles, if that is what they were, had been going round this spinney; so round this spinney went Pooh and Piglet after them; Piglet passing the time by telling Pooh what his Grandfather Trespassers W had done to Remove Stiffness after Tracking, and how his Grandfather Trespassers W had suffered in his later years from Shortness of Breath, and other matters of interest, and Pooh wondering what a Grandfather was like, and if perhaps this was Two Grandfathers they were after now, and, if so, whether he would be allowed to take one home and keep it, and what Christopher Robin would say. And still the tracks went on in front of them.... Suddenly Winnie-the-Pooh stopped, and pointed excitedly in front of him. "_Look!_" "_What?_" said Piglet, with a jump. And then, to show that he hadn't been frightened, he jumped up and down once or twice more in an exercising sort of way. "The tracks!" said Pooh. "_A third animal has joined the other two!_" "Pooh!"<|quote|>cried Piglet.</|quote|>"Do you think it is another Woozle?" "No," said Pooh, "because it makes different marks. It is either Two Woozles and one, as it might be, Wizzle, or Two, as it might be, Wizzles and one, if so it is, Woozle. Let us continue to follow them." So they went on, feeling just a little anxious now, in case the three animals in front of them were of Hostile Intent. And Piglet wished very much that his Grandfather T. W. were there, instead of elsewhere, and Pooh thought how nice it would be if they met Christopher Robin suddenly but quite accidentally, and only because he liked Christopher Robin so much. And then, all of a sudden, Winnie-the-Pooh stopped again, and licked the tip of his nose in a cooling manner, for he was feeling more hot and anxious than ever in his life before. _There were four animals in front of them!_ "Do you see, Piglet? Look at their tracks! Three, as it were, Woozles, and one, as it was, Wizzle. _Another Woozle has joined them!_" And so it seemed to be. There were the tracks; crossing over each other here, getting muddled up with each other there; but, quite plainly every now and then, the tracks of four sets of paws. "I _think_," said Piglet, when he had licked the tip of his nose too, and found that it brought very little comfort, "I _think_ that I have just remembered something. I have just remembered something that I forgot to do yesterday and shan't be able to do to-morrow. So I suppose I really ought to go back and do it now." "We'll do it this afternoon, and I'll come with you," said Pooh. "It isn't the sort of thing you can do in the afternoon," said Piglet quickly. "It's a very particular morning thing, that has to be done in the morning, and, if possible, between the hours of----What would you say the time was?" "About twelve," said Winnie-the-Pooh, looking at the sun. "Between, as I was saying, the hours of twelve and twelve five. So, really, dear old Pooh, if you'll excuse me----_What's that?_" Pooh looked up at the sky, and then, as he heard the whistle again, he looked up into the branches of a big oak-tree, and then he saw a friend of his. "It's Christopher Robin," he said. "Ah, then you'll be all right," said Piglet. "You'll be quite safe with _him_. Good-bye," and he trotted off home as quickly as he could, very glad to be Out of All Danger again. Christopher Robin came slowly down his tree. "Silly old Bear," he said, "what _were_ you doing? First you went round the spinney twice by | Winnie The Pooh |
"the turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear," | Mrs. Grant | be," said Mrs. Grant, smiling<|quote|>"the turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear,"</|quote|>turning to her husband, "cook | know what your dinner will be," said Mrs. Grant, smiling<|quote|>"the turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear,"</|quote|>turning to her husband, "cook insists upon the turkey's being | invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny would not venture, even on his encouragement, to such a flight of audacious independence, it was soon settled, that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant might expect her. "And you know what your dinner will be," said Mrs. Grant, smiling<|quote|>"the turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear,"</|quote|>turning to her husband, "cook insists upon the turkey's being dressed to-morrow." "Very well, very well," cried Dr. Grant, "all the better; I am glad to hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr. Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We | delighted with her having such an happiness offered, and ascertaining with half a look, and half a sentence, that she had no objection but on her aunt's account, could not imagine that his mother would make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided open advice that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny would not venture, even on his encouragement, to such a flight of audacious independence, it was soon settled, that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant might expect her. "And you know what your dinner will be," said Mrs. Grant, smiling<|quote|>"the turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear,"</|quote|>turning to her husband, "cook insists upon the turkey's being dressed to-morrow." "Very well, very well," cried Dr. Grant, "all the better; I am glad to hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr. Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want to hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or whatever you and your cook chuse to give us." The two cousins walked home together; | Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton with him the next day; and Fanny had barely time for an unpleasant feeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden recollection, turned to her and asked for the pleasure of her company too. This was so new an attention, so perfectly new a circumstance in the events of Fanny's life, that she was all surprise and embarrassment; and while stammering out her great obligation, and her "but she did not suppose it would be in her power," was looking at Edmund for his opinion and help. But Edmund, delighted with her having such an happiness offered, and ascertaining with half a look, and half a sentence, that she had no objection but on her aunt's account, could not imagine that his mother would make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided open advice that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny would not venture, even on his encouragement, to such a flight of audacious independence, it was soon settled, that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant might expect her. "And you know what your dinner will be," said Mrs. Grant, smiling<|quote|>"the turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear,"</|quote|>turning to her husband, "cook insists upon the turkey's being dressed to-morrow." "Very well, very well," cried Dr. Grant, "all the better; I am glad to hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr. Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want to hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or whatever you and your cook chuse to give us." The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate discussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy which he saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk; for having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for any other. CHAPTER XXIII "But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?" said Lady Bertram. "How came she to think of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there, you know, in this sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go. Fanny, you do | attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now following the others, she had nearly resolved on going home immediately, and only waited for courage to say so, when the sound of the great clock at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that she had really been much longer absent than usual, and brought the previous self-inquiry of whether she should take leave or not just then, and how, to a very speedy issue. With undoubting decision she directly began her adieus; and Edmund began at the same time to recollect that his mother had been inquiring for her, and that he had walked down to the Parsonage on purpose to bring her back. Fanny's hurry increased; and without in the least expecting Edmund's attendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the general pace was quickened, and they all accompanied her into the house, through which it was necessary to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as they stopt to speak to him she found, from Edmund's manner, that he _did_ mean to go with her. He too was taking leave. She could not but be thankful. In the moment of parting, Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton with him the next day; and Fanny had barely time for an unpleasant feeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden recollection, turned to her and asked for the pleasure of her company too. This was so new an attention, so perfectly new a circumstance in the events of Fanny's life, that she was all surprise and embarrassment; and while stammering out her great obligation, and her "but she did not suppose it would be in her power," was looking at Edmund for his opinion and help. But Edmund, delighted with her having such an happiness offered, and ascertaining with half a look, and half a sentence, that she had no objection but on her aunt's account, could not imagine that his mother would make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided open advice that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny would not venture, even on his encouragement, to such a flight of audacious independence, it was soon settled, that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant might expect her. "And you know what your dinner will be," said Mrs. Grant, smiling<|quote|>"the turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear,"</|quote|>turning to her husband, "cook insists upon the turkey's being dressed to-morrow." "Very well, very well," cried Dr. Grant, "all the better; I am glad to hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr. Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want to hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or whatever you and your cook chuse to give us." The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate discussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy which he saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk; for having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for any other. CHAPTER XXIII "But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?" said Lady Bertram. "How came she to think of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there, you know, in this sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go. Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?" "If you put such a question to her," cried Edmund, preventing his cousin's speaking, "Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she should not." "I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She never did before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never asked Fanny." "If you cannot do without me, ma'am" said Fanny, in a self-denying tone. "But my mother will have my father with her all the evening." "To be sure, so I shall." "Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am." "That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her." "As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion as to the _propriety_ of the invitation's being accepted or not; and I think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by Fanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted." "I do not know. We will ask him. But he | has only to fix on her number of thousands a year, and there can be no doubt of their coming. My intentions are only not to be poor." "By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants to your income, and all that. I understand you and a very proper plan it is for a person at your time of life, with such limited means and indifferent connexions. What can _you_ want but a decent maintenance? You have not much time before you; and your relations are in no situation to do anything for you, or to mortify you by the contrast of their own wealth and consequence. Be honest and poor, by all means but I shall not envy you; I do not much think I shall even respect you. I have a much greater respect for those that are honest and rich." "Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is precisely what I have no manner of concern with. I do not mean to be poor. Poverty is exactly what I have determined against. Honesty, in the something between, in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I am anxious for your not looking down on." "But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher. I must look down upon anything contented with obscurity when it might rise to distinction." "But how may it rise? How may my honesty at least rise to any distinction?" This was not so very easy a question to answer, and occasioned an "Oh!" of some length from the fair lady before she could add, "You ought to be in parliament, or you should have gone into the army ten years ago." "_That_ is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being in parliament, I believe I must wait till there is an especial assembly for the representation of younger sons who have little to live on. No, Miss Crawford," he added, in a more serious tone, "there _are_ distinctions which I should be miserable if I thought myself without any chance absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining but they are of a different character." A look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed a consciousness of manner on Miss Crawford's side as she made some laughing answer, was sorrowfull food for Fanny's observation; and finding herself quite unable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now following the others, she had nearly resolved on going home immediately, and only waited for courage to say so, when the sound of the great clock at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that she had really been much longer absent than usual, and brought the previous self-inquiry of whether she should take leave or not just then, and how, to a very speedy issue. With undoubting decision she directly began her adieus; and Edmund began at the same time to recollect that his mother had been inquiring for her, and that he had walked down to the Parsonage on purpose to bring her back. Fanny's hurry increased; and without in the least expecting Edmund's attendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the general pace was quickened, and they all accompanied her into the house, through which it was necessary to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as they stopt to speak to him she found, from Edmund's manner, that he _did_ mean to go with her. He too was taking leave. She could not but be thankful. In the moment of parting, Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton with him the next day; and Fanny had barely time for an unpleasant feeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden recollection, turned to her and asked for the pleasure of her company too. This was so new an attention, so perfectly new a circumstance in the events of Fanny's life, that she was all surprise and embarrassment; and while stammering out her great obligation, and her "but she did not suppose it would be in her power," was looking at Edmund for his opinion and help. But Edmund, delighted with her having such an happiness offered, and ascertaining with half a look, and half a sentence, that she had no objection but on her aunt's account, could not imagine that his mother would make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided open advice that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny would not venture, even on his encouragement, to such a flight of audacious independence, it was soon settled, that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant might expect her. "And you know what your dinner will be," said Mrs. Grant, smiling<|quote|>"the turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear,"</|quote|>turning to her husband, "cook insists upon the turkey's being dressed to-morrow." "Very well, very well," cried Dr. Grant, "all the better; I am glad to hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr. Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want to hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or whatever you and your cook chuse to give us." The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate discussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy which he saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk; for having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for any other. CHAPTER XXIII "But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?" said Lady Bertram. "How came she to think of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there, you know, in this sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go. Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?" "If you put such a question to her," cried Edmund, preventing his cousin's speaking, "Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she should not." "I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She never did before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never asked Fanny." "If you cannot do without me, ma'am" said Fanny, in a self-denying tone. "But my mother will have my father with her all the evening." "To be sure, so I shall." "Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am." "That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her." "As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion as to the _propriety_ of the invitation's being accepted or not; and I think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by Fanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted." "I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all." There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose, till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did, her own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for a minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she called him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with "Sir Thomas, stop a moment I have something to say to you." Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew more anxious perhaps than she ought to be for what was it after all whether she went or staid? but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It began, on Lady Bertram's part, with "I have something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner." "Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise. "Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?" "She will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is your difficulty?" Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her." "But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?" "Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can feel is, that | on Miss Crawford's side as she made some laughing answer, was sorrowfull food for Fanny's observation; and finding herself quite unable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now following the others, she had nearly resolved on going home immediately, and only waited for courage to say so, when the sound of the great clock at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that she had really been much longer absent than usual, and brought the previous self-inquiry of whether she should take leave or not just then, and how, to a very speedy issue. With undoubting decision she directly began her adieus; and Edmund began at the same time to recollect that his mother had been inquiring for her, and that he had walked down to the Parsonage on purpose to bring her back. Fanny's hurry increased; and without in the least expecting Edmund's attendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the general pace was quickened, and they all accompanied her into the house, through which it was necessary to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as they stopt to speak to him she found, from Edmund's manner, that he _did_ mean to go with her. He too was taking leave. She could not but be thankful. In the moment of parting, Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton with him the next day; and Fanny had barely time for an unpleasant feeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden recollection, turned to her and asked for the pleasure of her company too. This was so new an attention, so perfectly new a circumstance in the events of Fanny's life, that she was all surprise and embarrassment; and while stammering out her great obligation, and her "but she did not suppose it would be in her power," was looking at Edmund for his opinion and help. But Edmund, delighted with her having such an happiness offered, and ascertaining with half a look, and half a sentence, that she had no objection but on her aunt's account, could not imagine that his mother would make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided open advice that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny would not venture, even on his encouragement, to such a flight of audacious independence, it was soon settled, that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant might expect her. "And you know what your dinner will be," said Mrs. Grant, smiling<|quote|>"the turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear,"</|quote|>turning to her husband, "cook insists upon the turkey's being dressed to-morrow." "Very well, very well," cried Dr. Grant, "all the better; I am glad to hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr. Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want to hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or whatever you and your cook chuse to give us." The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate discussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy which he saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk; for having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for any other. CHAPTER XXIII "But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?" said Lady Bertram. "How came she to think of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there, you know, in this sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go. Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?" "If you put such a question to her," cried Edmund, preventing his cousin's speaking, "Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she should not." "I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She never did before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never asked Fanny." "If you cannot do without me, ma'am" said Fanny, in a self-denying tone. "But my mother will have my father with her all the evening." "To be sure, so I shall." "Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am." "That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her." "As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion as to the _propriety_ of the invitation's being accepted or not; and I think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by Fanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted." "I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all." There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose, till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did, her own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for a | Mansfield Park |
"Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" | Brenda | "We'll come and see you."<|quote|>"Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?"</|quote|>"Stinking. Jock and I'll come | and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you."<|quote|>"Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?"</|quote|>"Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're | you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you."<|quote|>"Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?"</|quote|>"Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good | taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you."<|quote|>"Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?"</|quote|>"Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's | she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you."<|quote|>"Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?"</|quote|>"Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are | "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you."<|quote|>"Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?"</|quote|>"Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit." "Oh dear, can I trust you?" "I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John, you've got to go. Those hooligans may turn up at any moment. Have you got your taxi fare? You'll find some change in my bag." * * * * * "Was that your girl?" "Yes." "Made it up?" "Not exactly." "Far better to make it up. Shall we have some more brandy or go round to Brenda straight away?" "Let's have some more brandy." "Jock, you aren't still feeling low, are you? Doesn't do to feel low. _I'm_ not feeling low. I _was_, but I'm not any more." "No, I'm not feeling low." "Then we'll have some brandy and then go to Brenda's." "All right." Half an hour later they got into Jock's car. "Tell you what, I shouldn't drive if I were you." "Not drive?" "No, I shouldn't drive. They'd say you were drunk." "Who would?" "Anyone you ran over. They'd say you were drunk." "Well, so I am." "Then I shouldn't drive." "Too far to walk." "We'll take a taxi." "Oh, hell, I can drive." "Or let's not go to Brenda's at all." "We'd better | silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you."<|quote|>"Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?"</|quote|>"Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit." "Oh dear, can I trust you?" "I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John, you've got to go. Those hooligans may turn up at any moment. Have you got your taxi fare? You'll find some change in my bag." * * * * * "Was that your girl?" "Yes." "Made it up?" "Not exactly." "Far better to make it up. Shall we have some more brandy or go round to Brenda straight away?" "Let's have some more brandy." "Jock, you aren't still feeling low, are you? Doesn't do to feel low. _I'm_ not feeling low. I _was_, but I'm not any more." "No, I'm not feeling low." "Then we'll have some brandy and then go to Brenda's." "All right." Half an hour later they got into Jock's car. "Tell you what, I shouldn't drive if I were you." "Not drive?" "No, I shouldn't drive. They'd say you were drunk." "Who would?" "Anyone you ran over. They'd say you were drunk." "Well, so I am." "Then I shouldn't drive." "Too far to walk." "We'll take a taxi." "Oh, hell, I can drive." "Or let's not go to Brenda's at all." "We'd better go to Brenda's," said Jock. "She's expecting us." "Well, I can't walk all that way. Besides, I don't think she really wanted us to come." "She'll be pleased when she sees us." "Yes, but it's a long way. Let's go some other place." "I'd like to see Brenda," said Jock. "I'm very fond of Brenda." "She's a grand girl." "She's a grand girl." "Well, let's take a taxi to Brenda's." But half-way Jock said, "Don't let's go there. Let's go some other place. Let's go to some low joint." "All the same to me. Tell him to go to some lousy joint." "Go to some lousy joint," said Jock, putting his head through the window. The cab wheeled round and made towards Regent Street. "We can always ring Brenda from the lousy joint." "Yes, I think we ought to do that. She's a grand girl." "Grand girl." The cab turned into Golden Square and then down Sink Street, a dingy little place inhabited for the most part by Asiatics. "D'you know, I believe he's taking us to the Old Hundredth." "Can't still be open? Thought they closed it down years ago." But the door was brightly illuminated and a seedy figure in peaked cap and braided overcoat stepped out to open the taxi for them. The Old Hundredth has never been shut. For a generation, while other night clubs have sprung into being, with various names and managers, and various pretensions to respectability, have enjoyed a precarious and brief existence, and come to grief at the hands either of police or creditors, the Old Hundredth has maintained a solid front against all adversity. It has not been immune from persecution; far from it. Times out of number, magistrates have struck it off, cancelled its licence, condemned its premises; the staff and proprietor have been constantly in and out of prison; there have been questions in the House and committees of enquiry, but whatever Home Secretaries and Commissioners of Police have risen into eminence and retired discredited, the doors of the Old Hundredth have always been open from nine in the evening until four at night, and inside there has been an unimpeded flow of dubious, alcoholic preparations. A kindly young lady admitted Tony and Jock to the ramshackle building. "D'you mind signing on?" Tony and Jock inscribed fictitious names at the foot of a form which stated, _I have been | there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you."<|quote|>"Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?"</|quote|>"Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit." "Oh dear, can I trust you?" "I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John, you've got to go. Those hooligans may turn up at any moment. Have you got your taxi fare? You'll find some change in my bag." * * * * * "Was that your girl?" "Yes." "Made it up?" "Not exactly." "Far better to make it up. Shall we have some more brandy or go round to Brenda straight away?" "Let's have some more brandy." "Jock, you aren't still feeling low, are you? Doesn't do to feel low. _I'm_ not feeling low. I _was_, but I'm not any more." "No, I'm not feeling low." "Then we'll have some brandy and then go to Brenda's." "All right." Half an hour later they got into Jock's car. "Tell you what, I shouldn't drive if I were you." "Not drive?" "No, I shouldn't drive. They'd say you were drunk." "Who would?" "Anyone you ran over. They'd say you were drunk." "Well, so I am." "Then I shouldn't drive." "Too far to walk." "We'll take a taxi." "Oh, hell, I can drive." "Or let's not go to Brenda's at all." "We'd better go to Brenda's," said Jock. "She's expecting us." "Well, I can't walk all that way. Besides, I don't think she really wanted us to come." "She'll be pleased when she sees us." "Yes, but it's a long way. Let's go some other place." "I'd like to see Brenda," said Jock. "I'm very fond | A Handful Of Dust |
Don nodded. | No speaker | Didn't you hear the gun?"<|quote|>Don nodded.</|quote|>"They've been searching all over | "Gone off with their mates. Didn't you hear the gun?"<|quote|>Don nodded.</|quote|>"They've been searching all over for you. Can't make out | o' bad steam lies along the bottom farther in, and if a man was to lie down on the floor and go to sleep, I don't s'pose he'd ever wake again. Come along!" "Where are the men from the ship?" "Gone off with their mates. Didn't you hear the gun?"<|quote|>Don nodded.</|quote|>"They've been searching all over for you. Can't make out whether you two got to shore, or were chopped up by the sharks out yonder. They won't come again till to-morrow, and you'll be safe till then. You must be hungry." "Hungry?" said Jem, with a mocking laugh. "Hungry? Lookye | have you got anything to eat?" "Not here, but plenty at Ngati's place. I'm glad to see you both safe, my lads. It gave me quite a turn when he told me he'd hidden you in here." "Why?" said Don sharply. "Well, I'll tell you, my lad. There's a kind o' bad steam lies along the bottom farther in, and if a man was to lie down on the floor and go to sleep, I don't s'pose he'd ever wake again. Come along!" "Where are the men from the ship?" "Gone off with their mates. Didn't you hear the gun?"<|quote|>Don nodded.</|quote|>"They've been searching all over for you. Can't make out whether you two got to shore, or were chopped up by the sharks out yonder. They won't come again till to-morrow, and you'll be safe till then. You must be hungry." "Hungry?" said Jem, with a mocking laugh. "Hungry? Lookye here: you'd better take me where there's something, or it won't be safe. I heard tell as people ate one another out here, and I didn't believe it, but I do now. I'm ready for anything or anybody; so come along." Ngati took possession of Don, and led the way, | and caught him by the shoulders, and before Jem could realise what he was going to do, placed his blue nose against that which was coppery white, and gave it a peculiar rub. "Here, I say, don't!" cried Jem, struggling to free himself, when the chief seized Don in turn, and bent down and served him the same. "Don't you stand it, Mas' Don. Hit out." "Don't you, youngster," said the Englishman. "It's only his friendly way." "Yes, that's what they say at home when a big dog goes at you, and nearly rolls you over," grumbled Jem. "I say, have you got anything to eat?" "Not here, but plenty at Ngati's place. I'm glad to see you both safe, my lads. It gave me quite a turn when he told me he'd hidden you in here." "Why?" said Don sharply. "Well, I'll tell you, my lad. There's a kind o' bad steam lies along the bottom farther in, and if a man was to lie down on the floor and go to sleep, I don't s'pose he'd ever wake again. Come along!" "Where are the men from the ship?" "Gone off with their mates. Didn't you hear the gun?"<|quote|>Don nodded.</|quote|>"They've been searching all over for you. Can't make out whether you two got to shore, or were chopped up by the sharks out yonder. They won't come again till to-morrow, and you'll be safe till then. You must be hungry." "Hungry?" said Jem, with a mocking laugh. "Hungry? Lookye here: you'd better take me where there's something, or it won't be safe. I heard tell as people ate one another out here, and I didn't believe it, but I do now. I'm ready for anything or anybody; so come along." Ngati took possession of Don, and led the way, evidently very proud of his young companion; whilst Jem followed with the Englishman down the gully slope, and then in and out among the trees, ferns, and bushes, till the dangerous hot and mud springs were passed, and the _whare_ was reached. Then the weary fugitives were seated before what seemed to them a banquet of well-cooked fish, fruits, and roots, with a kind of hasty pudding preparation, which was far from bad. "Feel better, now?" said the Englishman, after he had sat and smoked till they had done. "Better? Yes, I'm better," said Jem; "but I should like to | him wildly. "Well!" whispered Don. "It was only a gun from the ship to recall the boats." Jem stooped down and gave his leg a slap. "You are a clever one, Mas' Don, and no mistake. Why, o' course it is. I never thought it was that." "What did you think it was, then?" "Some o' them hot water-works gone off, _bang_! And blown up the mountain.--There!" He pointed to a hideous-looking head appearing above the edge of the shelf, and seen by the evening light as it fell athwart it, the countenance with its blue lines and scrolls ending in curls on either side of the nose was startling enough to make any one fear danger. The owner of the face climbed up to the shelf, followed by another bronzed figure, when Don recognised the second as the tattooed Englishman, while there was no mistake about the first, for he made Jem give an angry grunt as a human voice shouted,-- "My pakeha." "Somebody calling you, Mas' Don?" "My pakeha!" shouted the New Zealander again. "Jemmeree Wimbee." "Eh! Here, I say, call a fellow by his right name!" cried Jem, stepping forward. The chief met him with advancing step, and caught him by the shoulders, and before Jem could realise what he was going to do, placed his blue nose against that which was coppery white, and gave it a peculiar rub. "Here, I say, don't!" cried Jem, struggling to free himself, when the chief seized Don in turn, and bent down and served him the same. "Don't you stand it, Mas' Don. Hit out." "Don't you, youngster," said the Englishman. "It's only his friendly way." "Yes, that's what they say at home when a big dog goes at you, and nearly rolls you over," grumbled Jem. "I say, have you got anything to eat?" "Not here, but plenty at Ngati's place. I'm glad to see you both safe, my lads. It gave me quite a turn when he told me he'd hidden you in here." "Why?" said Don sharply. "Well, I'll tell you, my lad. There's a kind o' bad steam lies along the bottom farther in, and if a man was to lie down on the floor and go to sleep, I don't s'pose he'd ever wake again. Come along!" "Where are the men from the ship?" "Gone off with their mates. Didn't you hear the gun?"<|quote|>Don nodded.</|quote|>"They've been searching all over for you. Can't make out whether you two got to shore, or were chopped up by the sharks out yonder. They won't come again till to-morrow, and you'll be safe till then. You must be hungry." "Hungry?" said Jem, with a mocking laugh. "Hungry? Lookye here: you'd better take me where there's something, or it won't be safe. I heard tell as people ate one another out here, and I didn't believe it, but I do now. I'm ready for anything or anybody; so come along." Ngati took possession of Don, and led the way, evidently very proud of his young companion; whilst Jem followed with the Englishman down the gully slope, and then in and out among the trees, ferns, and bushes, till the dangerous hot and mud springs were passed, and the _whare_ was reached. Then the weary fugitives were seated before what seemed to them a banquet of well-cooked fish, fruits, and roots, with a kind of hasty pudding preparation, which was far from bad. "Feel better, now?" said the Englishman, after he had sat and smoked till they had done. "Better? Yes, I'm better," said Jem; "but I should like to know one thing." "Well, what is it?" "Will they go on feeding us like this?" "Yes; and if they don't, I will." "But--it don't--it don't mean any games, does it?" said Jem, in a doubting tone. "You mean making game of you?" said the Englishman with a broad grin. "Yes, hare or fezzun," said Jem. The Englishman laughed, and turned to Don. "I'll see if you can't have a better hiding-place to-night. That was very dangerous, and I may as well tell you to mind where you go about here, for more than one poor fellow has been smothered in the hot mud holes, and scalded to death." "Is the water so hot as that?" said Don. "Hot? Why, those vegetables and things you ate were cooked in one of the boiling springs." "Phew!" whistled Jem. They sat talking in the moonlight afterwards, listening to the tattooed Englishman, who spoke about what he had heard from the ship's crew. Among other things the news that they might sail at any time. Don started, and the tattooed Englishman noticed it. "Yes," he said; "that means going away and leaving you two behind. You don't seemed pleased." Don looked up at him | if some large body was forcing its way along the ravine; and as Jem backed slowly into the cavern, Don cautiously peered from behind a mass of stone into the hollow, to see that some one or something was approaching rapidly, as if with the intention of scaling the rock, and climbing to where they lay. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. AMONG FRIENDS AGAIN. "It's all over with us, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as soon as they were some little distance in the retreat. "That blackguard Ramsden's sure, after all, that we're in here, and that Tom Hoppers has come to his senses, and felt it was me as hissed at him, and they're coming to hunt us out." "Let's hope not, Jem." "Yah! What's the good o' hoping." _Churr-urrt_ shrieked the cockatoo from far below. "There now," said Jem. "Hark at that! He's telling 'em we're in here, and coming on before to show 'em the way." "What nonsense, Jem!" _Churr-ur_! Shrieked the cockatoo, ever so much nearer. "Well, do you call that nonsense?" whispered Jem. "The bird's being cheered on; some one coming." _Churr_--_churr_--_churr-ur-ur_! Shrieked the cockatoo nearer, nearer, and then right in front of the cave, as it flew by. "All right, Mas' Don; I arn't going to hargue. You think your way, and I'll think mine; but if that wasn't saying in New Zealandee as those two misfortunate chaps is hiding in this here hole, I never lived in Bristol city, and I don't know sugar from tobacker." "Hist!" whispered Don. _Hiss-s-s-s_ came from far in the depths of the cave. _Gurgle-urgle-gugg-pap_! Went something of a liquid kind. "Here, I can't stand this here, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "let's make a rush of it; and get right away in the woods." "Hush! There's some one coming," whispered Don, drawing his companion farther back into the darkness. "All right, Mas' Don! Take me in again where the bad air is; poison us both. Good-bye, Sally, my gal. It's all over now; but I forgives you. Shake hands, Mas' Don. I don't bear you no ill-will, nor nobody else. Here they come." There was a rustling and panting noise, and they were on the tip-toe of expectation, when there was a heavy concussion, a deep-toned roar, and then an echoing rumble as the sound reverberated among the mountains. Then utter silence. Jem gripped Don's arm with force, and stared at him wildly. "Well!" whispered Don. "It was only a gun from the ship to recall the boats." Jem stooped down and gave his leg a slap. "You are a clever one, Mas' Don, and no mistake. Why, o' course it is. I never thought it was that." "What did you think it was, then?" "Some o' them hot water-works gone off, _bang_! And blown up the mountain.--There!" He pointed to a hideous-looking head appearing above the edge of the shelf, and seen by the evening light as it fell athwart it, the countenance with its blue lines and scrolls ending in curls on either side of the nose was startling enough to make any one fear danger. The owner of the face climbed up to the shelf, followed by another bronzed figure, when Don recognised the second as the tattooed Englishman, while there was no mistake about the first, for he made Jem give an angry grunt as a human voice shouted,-- "My pakeha." "Somebody calling you, Mas' Don?" "My pakeha!" shouted the New Zealander again. "Jemmeree Wimbee." "Eh! Here, I say, call a fellow by his right name!" cried Jem, stepping forward. The chief met him with advancing step, and caught him by the shoulders, and before Jem could realise what he was going to do, placed his blue nose against that which was coppery white, and gave it a peculiar rub. "Here, I say, don't!" cried Jem, struggling to free himself, when the chief seized Don in turn, and bent down and served him the same. "Don't you stand it, Mas' Don. Hit out." "Don't you, youngster," said the Englishman. "It's only his friendly way." "Yes, that's what they say at home when a big dog goes at you, and nearly rolls you over," grumbled Jem. "I say, have you got anything to eat?" "Not here, but plenty at Ngati's place. I'm glad to see you both safe, my lads. It gave me quite a turn when he told me he'd hidden you in here." "Why?" said Don sharply. "Well, I'll tell you, my lad. There's a kind o' bad steam lies along the bottom farther in, and if a man was to lie down on the floor and go to sleep, I don't s'pose he'd ever wake again. Come along!" "Where are the men from the ship?" "Gone off with their mates. Didn't you hear the gun?"<|quote|>Don nodded.</|quote|>"They've been searching all over for you. Can't make out whether you two got to shore, or were chopped up by the sharks out yonder. They won't come again till to-morrow, and you'll be safe till then. You must be hungry." "Hungry?" said Jem, with a mocking laugh. "Hungry? Lookye here: you'd better take me where there's something, or it won't be safe. I heard tell as people ate one another out here, and I didn't believe it, but I do now. I'm ready for anything or anybody; so come along." Ngati took possession of Don, and led the way, evidently very proud of his young companion; whilst Jem followed with the Englishman down the gully slope, and then in and out among the trees, ferns, and bushes, till the dangerous hot and mud springs were passed, and the _whare_ was reached. Then the weary fugitives were seated before what seemed to them a banquet of well-cooked fish, fruits, and roots, with a kind of hasty pudding preparation, which was far from bad. "Feel better, now?" said the Englishman, after he had sat and smoked till they had done. "Better? Yes, I'm better," said Jem; "but I should like to know one thing." "Well, what is it?" "Will they go on feeding us like this?" "Yes; and if they don't, I will." "But--it don't--it don't mean any games, does it?" said Jem, in a doubting tone. "You mean making game of you?" said the Englishman with a broad grin. "Yes, hare or fezzun," said Jem. The Englishman laughed, and turned to Don. "I'll see if you can't have a better hiding-place to-night. That was very dangerous, and I may as well tell you to mind where you go about here, for more than one poor fellow has been smothered in the hot mud holes, and scalded to death." "Is the water so hot as that?" said Don. "Hot? Why, those vegetables and things you ate were cooked in one of the boiling springs." "Phew!" whistled Jem. They sat talking in the moonlight afterwards, listening to the tattooed Englishman, who spoke about what he had heard from the ship's crew. Among other things the news that they might sail at any time. Don started, and the tattooed Englishman noticed it. "Yes," he said; "that means going away and leaving you two behind. You don't seemed pleased." Don looked up at him earnestly. "No," he said; "I didn't at first. Don't think me ungrateful after what you've done." "I don't, my lad," said the man, kindly; "I know what you feel. It's like being shut away from every one you know; and you feel as if you were going to be a savage, and never see England again. I felt something like that once; but I didn't come out like you did. Ah, well, that's neither here nor there. You're only a boy yet, with plenty o' time before you. Make yourself as happy as you can; these chaps are not so very bad when they don't want to get fighting, and I daresay you and me will be good enough friends. Eh? Hullo! What's the matter?" He leaped to his feet, and Don, Jem, and the New Zealand savages about them did the same, for half-a-dozen of Ngati's followers came running up with news, which they communicated with plenty of gesticulations. "What are they a-saying on, Mas' Don? I wish I could speak New Zealandee." "Two boats' crews are coming ashore from the ship. I wish you two was brown and tattooed." Jem glanced wildly at Don. "Come on," said the Englishman. "I must see if I can't hide you before they come. What?" This last was to a fresh man, who ran up and said something. "Quick, my lads," said the Englishman. "Your people are close at hand." CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. LEFT BEHIND. Tomati hurried out, followed by Don, but the latter was thrust back into the hut directly, Tomati stretching out his arms so as to spread his blanket wide to act as a screen, under cover of which Don and Jem were half pushed, half backed into the large gathering hut of the tribe, Ngati giving some orders quickly, the result of which was that Don and Jem were hustled down into a sitting position and then thrown upon their faces. "Here, I'm not going to--" "Hush, Jem. You'll be heard," whispered Don. "Yes, but--lookye here." There was no time to say more. The first lieutenant of the ship, with a middy, Bosun Jones, and about twenty men came marching up, to find a group of Ngati's men seated in a close circle, their blankets spread about them and their heads bent forward, grunting together, and not so much as looking round. The men were halted, and the | by the evening light as it fell athwart it, the countenance with its blue lines and scrolls ending in curls on either side of the nose was startling enough to make any one fear danger. The owner of the face climbed up to the shelf, followed by another bronzed figure, when Don recognised the second as the tattooed Englishman, while there was no mistake about the first, for he made Jem give an angry grunt as a human voice shouted,-- "My pakeha." "Somebody calling you, Mas' Don?" "My pakeha!" shouted the New Zealander again. "Jemmeree Wimbee." "Eh! Here, I say, call a fellow by his right name!" cried Jem, stepping forward. The chief met him with advancing step, and caught him by the shoulders, and before Jem could realise what he was going to do, placed his blue nose against that which was coppery white, and gave it a peculiar rub. "Here, I say, don't!" cried Jem, struggling to free himself, when the chief seized Don in turn, and bent down and served him the same. "Don't you stand it, Mas' Don. Hit out." "Don't you, youngster," said the Englishman. "It's only his friendly way." "Yes, that's what they say at home when a big dog goes at you, and nearly rolls you over," grumbled Jem. "I say, have you got anything to eat?" "Not here, but plenty at Ngati's place. I'm glad to see you both safe, my lads. It gave me quite a turn when he told me he'd hidden you in here." "Why?" said Don sharply. "Well, I'll tell you, my lad. There's a kind o' bad steam lies along the bottom farther in, and if a man was to lie down on the floor and go to sleep, I don't s'pose he'd ever wake again. Come along!" "Where are the men from the ship?" "Gone off with their mates. Didn't you hear the gun?"<|quote|>Don nodded.</|quote|>"They've been searching all over for you. Can't make out whether you two got to shore, or were chopped up by the sharks out yonder. They won't come again till to-morrow, and you'll be safe till then. You must be hungry." "Hungry?" said Jem, with a mocking laugh. "Hungry? Lookye here: you'd better take me where there's something, or it won't be safe. I heard tell as people ate one another out here, and I didn't believe it, but I do now. I'm ready for anything or anybody; so come along." Ngati took possession of Don, and led the way, evidently very proud of his young companion; whilst Jem followed with the Englishman down the gully slope, and then in and out among the trees, ferns, and bushes, till the dangerous hot and mud springs were passed, and the _whare_ was reached. Then the weary fugitives were seated before what seemed to them a banquet of well-cooked fish, fruits, and roots, with a kind of hasty pudding preparation, which was far from bad. "Feel better, now?" said the Englishman, after he had sat and smoked till they had done. "Better? Yes, I'm better," said Jem; "but I should like to know one thing." "Well, what is it?" "Will they go on feeding us like this?" "Yes; and if they don't, I will." "But--it don't--it don't mean any games, does it?" said Jem, in a doubting tone. "You mean making game of you?" said the Englishman with a broad grin. "Yes, hare or fezzun," said Jem. The Englishman laughed, and turned to Don. "I'll see if you can't have a better hiding-place to-night. That was very dangerous, and I may as well tell you to mind where you go about here, for more than one poor fellow has been smothered in the hot mud holes, and scalded to death." "Is the water so hot as that?" said Don. "Hot? Why, those vegetables and things you ate were cooked in one of the boiling springs." "Phew!" whistled Jem. They sat talking in the moonlight afterwards, listening to the tattooed Englishman, who spoke about what he had heard from the ship's crew. Among other things the news that they might sail at any time. Don started, and the tattooed Englishman noticed it. "Yes," he said; "that means going away and leaving you two behind. You don't seemed pleased." Don looked up at him earnestly. "No," he said; "I didn't at first. Don't think me ungrateful after what you've done." "I don't, my lad," said the man, kindly; "I know what you feel. It's like being shut away from every one you know; and you feel as if you were going to be a savage, and never see England again. I felt something like that once; but I didn't come out like you did. Ah, well, that's neither here nor there. You're only a boy yet, with plenty o' time before you. Make yourself as happy as you can; these chaps are not so very bad when they don't want to get fighting, and I daresay you and | Don Lavington |
"Everything absolutely normal." | Mr. Turton | silent during the august colloquy.<|quote|>"Everything absolutely normal."</|quote|>"I had gathered as much. | public-safety voice. The rest were silent during the august colloquy.<|quote|>"Everything absolutely normal."</|quote|>"I had gathered as much. Those drums are merely Mohurram, | go out more than you can help, don't go into the city, don't talk before your servants. That's all." "Harry, is there any news from the city?" asked his wife, standing at some distance from him, and also assuming her public-safety voice. The rest were silent during the august colloquy.<|quote|>"Everything absolutely normal."</|quote|>"I had gathered as much. Those drums are merely Mohurram, of course." "Merely the preparations for it the Procession is not till next week." "Quite so, not till Monday." "Mr. McBryde's down there disguised as a Holy Man," said Mrs. Callendar. "That's exactly the sort of thing that must not | He was much calmer than when he had flown out at Fielding. He was indeed always calmer when he addressed several people than in a _t te- -t te._ "I want to talk specially to the ladies," he said. "Not the least cause for alarm. Keep cool, keep cool. Don't go out more than you can help, don't go into the city, don't talk before your servants. That's all." "Harry, is there any news from the city?" asked his wife, standing at some distance from him, and also assuming her public-safety voice. The rest were silent during the august colloquy.<|quote|>"Everything absolutely normal."</|quote|>"I had gathered as much. Those drums are merely Mohurram, of course." "Merely the preparations for it the Procession is not till next week." "Quite so, not till Monday." "Mr. McBryde's down there disguised as a Holy Man," said Mrs. Callendar. "That's exactly the sort of thing that must not be said," he remarked, pointing at her. "Mrs. Callendar, be more careful than that, please, in these times." "I . . . well, I . . ." She was not offended, his severity made her feel safe. "Any more questions? Necessary questions." "Is the where is he" Mrs. Lesley quavered. | "Don't worry, Mrs. Blakiston, those drums are only Mohurram," the men would tell her. "Then they've started," she moaned, clasping the infant and rather wishing he would not blow bubbles down his chin at such a moment as this. "No, of course not, and anyhow, they're not coming to the club." "And they're not coming to the Burra Sahib's bungalow either, my dear, and that's where you and your baby'll sleep tonight," answered Mrs. Turton, towering by her side like Pallas Athene, and determining in the future not to be such a snob. The Collector clapped his hands for silence. He was much calmer than when he had flown out at Fielding. He was indeed always calmer when he addressed several people than in a _t te- -t te._ "I want to talk specially to the ladies," he said. "Not the least cause for alarm. Keep cool, keep cool. Don't go out more than you can help, don't go into the city, don't talk before your servants. That's all." "Harry, is there any news from the city?" asked his wife, standing at some distance from him, and also assuming her public-safety voice. The rest were silent during the august colloquy.<|quote|>"Everything absolutely normal."</|quote|>"I had gathered as much. Those drums are merely Mohurram, of course." "Merely the preparations for it the Procession is not till next week." "Quite so, not till Monday." "Mr. McBryde's down there disguised as a Holy Man," said Mrs. Callendar. "That's exactly the sort of thing that must not be said," he remarked, pointing at her. "Mrs. Callendar, be more careful than that, please, in these times." "I . . . well, I . . ." She was not offended, his severity made her feel safe. "Any more questions? Necessary questions." "Is the where is he" Mrs. Lesley quavered. "Jail. Bail has been refused." Fielding spoke next. He wanted to know whether there was an official bulletin about Miss Quested's health, or whether the grave reports were due to gossip. His question produced a bad effect, partly because he had pronounced her name; she, like Aziz, was always referred to by a periphrasis. "I hope Callendar may be able to let us know how things are going before long." "I fail to see how that last question can be termed a necessary question," said Mrs. Turton. "Will all ladies leave the smoking-room now, please?" he cried, clapping his hands | adulterated them, and the sense of guilt (so strangely connected with our first sight of any suffering) had begun to wear away. People drove into the club with studious calm the jog-trot of country gentlefolk between green hedgerows, for the natives must not suspect that they were agitated. They exchanged the usual drinks, but everything tasted different, and then they looked out at the palisade of cactuses stabbing the purple throat of the sky; they realized that they were thousands of miles from any scenery that they understood. The club was fuller than usual, and several parents had brought their children into the rooms reserved for adults, which gave the air of the Residency at Lucknow. One young mother a brainless but most beautiful girl sat on a low ottoman in the smoking-room with her baby in her arms; her husband was away in the district, and she dared not return to her bungalow in case the "niggers attacked." The wife of a small railway official, she was generally snubbed; but this evening, with her abundant figure and masses of corn-gold hair, she symbolized all that is worth fighting and dying for; more permanent a symbol, perhaps, than poor Adela. "Don't worry, Mrs. Blakiston, those drums are only Mohurram," the men would tell her. "Then they've started," she moaned, clasping the infant and rather wishing he would not blow bubbles down his chin at such a moment as this. "No, of course not, and anyhow, they're not coming to the club." "And they're not coming to the Burra Sahib's bungalow either, my dear, and that's where you and your baby'll sleep tonight," answered Mrs. Turton, towering by her side like Pallas Athene, and determining in the future not to be such a snob. The Collector clapped his hands for silence. He was much calmer than when he had flown out at Fielding. He was indeed always calmer when he addressed several people than in a _t te- -t te._ "I want to talk specially to the ladies," he said. "Not the least cause for alarm. Keep cool, keep cool. Don't go out more than you can help, don't go into the city, don't talk before your servants. That's all." "Harry, is there any news from the city?" asked his wife, standing at some distance from him, and also assuming her public-safety voice. The rest were silent during the august colloquy.<|quote|>"Everything absolutely normal."</|quote|>"I had gathered as much. Those drums are merely Mohurram, of course." "Merely the preparations for it the Procession is not till next week." "Quite so, not till Monday." "Mr. McBryde's down there disguised as a Holy Man," said Mrs. Callendar. "That's exactly the sort of thing that must not be said," he remarked, pointing at her. "Mrs. Callendar, be more careful than that, please, in these times." "I . . . well, I . . ." She was not offended, his severity made her feel safe. "Any more questions? Necessary questions." "Is the where is he" Mrs. Lesley quavered. "Jail. Bail has been refused." Fielding spoke next. He wanted to know whether there was an official bulletin about Miss Quested's health, or whether the grave reports were due to gossip. His question produced a bad effect, partly because he had pronounced her name; she, like Aziz, was always referred to by a periphrasis. "I hope Callendar may be able to let us know how things are going before long." "I fail to see how that last question can be termed a necessary question," said Mrs. Turton. "Will all ladies leave the smoking-room now, please?" he cried, clapping his hands again. "And remember what I have said. We look to you to help us through a difficult time, and you can help us by behaving as if everything is normal. It is all I ask. Can I rely on you?" "Yes, indeed, Burra Sahib," they chorused out of peaked, anxious faces. They moved out, subdued yet elated, Mrs. Blakiston in their midst like a sacred flame. His simple words had reminded them that they were an outpost of Empire. By the side of their compassionate love for Adela another sentiment sprang up which was to strangle it in the long run. Its first signs were prosaic and small. Mrs. Turton made her loud, hard jokes at bridge, Mrs. Lesley began to knit a comforter. When the smoking-room was clear, the Collector sat on the edge of a table, so that he could dominate without formality. His mind whirled with contradictory impulses. He wanted to avenge Miss Quested and punish Fielding, while remaining scrupulously fair. He wanted to flog every native that he saw, but to do nothing that would lead to a riot or to the necessity for military intervention. The dread of having to call in the troops was | drink but saw a thirsty cow and ordered the water to be offered to her first, which, when done, "dagger fell from his hand, and to commemorate miracle he built Tank." Professor Godbole's conversations frequently culminated in a cow. Fielding received this one in gloomy silence. In the afternoon he obtained a permit and saw Aziz, but found him unapproachable through misery. "You deserted me," was the only coherent remark. He went away to write his letter to Miss Quested. Even if it reached her, it would do no good, and probably the McBrydes would withhold it. Miss Quested did pull him up short. She was such a dry, sensible girl, and quite without malice: the last person in Chandrapore wrongfully to accuse an Indian. CHAPTER XX Although Miss Quested had not made herself popular with the English, she brought out all that was fine in their character. For a few hours an exalted emotion gushed forth, which the women felt even more keenly than the men, if not for so long. "What can we do for our sister?" was the only thought of Mesdames Callendar and Lesley, as they drove through the pelting heat to enquire. Mrs. Turton was the only visitor admitted to the sick-room. She came out ennobled by an unselfish sorrow. "She is my own darling girl," were the words she spoke, and then, remembering that she had called her "not pukka" and resented her engagement to young Heaslop, she began to cry. No one had ever seen the Collector's wife cry. Capable of tears yes, but always reserving them for some adequate occasion, and now it had come. Ah, why had they not all been kinder to the stranger, more patient, given her not only hospitality but their hearts? The tender core of the heart that is so seldom used they employed it for a little, under the stimulus of remorse. If all is over (as Major Callendar implied), well, all is over, and nothing can be done, but they retained some responsibility in her grievous wrong that they couldn't define. If she wasn't one of them, they ought to have made her one, and they could never do that now, she had passed beyond their invitation. "Why don't one think more of other people?" sighed pleasure-loving Miss Derek. These regrets only lasted in their pure form for a few hours. Before sunset, other considerations adulterated them, and the sense of guilt (so strangely connected with our first sight of any suffering) had begun to wear away. People drove into the club with studious calm the jog-trot of country gentlefolk between green hedgerows, for the natives must not suspect that they were agitated. They exchanged the usual drinks, but everything tasted different, and then they looked out at the palisade of cactuses stabbing the purple throat of the sky; they realized that they were thousands of miles from any scenery that they understood. The club was fuller than usual, and several parents had brought their children into the rooms reserved for adults, which gave the air of the Residency at Lucknow. One young mother a brainless but most beautiful girl sat on a low ottoman in the smoking-room with her baby in her arms; her husband was away in the district, and she dared not return to her bungalow in case the "niggers attacked." The wife of a small railway official, she was generally snubbed; but this evening, with her abundant figure and masses of corn-gold hair, she symbolized all that is worth fighting and dying for; more permanent a symbol, perhaps, than poor Adela. "Don't worry, Mrs. Blakiston, those drums are only Mohurram," the men would tell her. "Then they've started," she moaned, clasping the infant and rather wishing he would not blow bubbles down his chin at such a moment as this. "No, of course not, and anyhow, they're not coming to the club." "And they're not coming to the Burra Sahib's bungalow either, my dear, and that's where you and your baby'll sleep tonight," answered Mrs. Turton, towering by her side like Pallas Athene, and determining in the future not to be such a snob. The Collector clapped his hands for silence. He was much calmer than when he had flown out at Fielding. He was indeed always calmer when he addressed several people than in a _t te- -t te._ "I want to talk specially to the ladies," he said. "Not the least cause for alarm. Keep cool, keep cool. Don't go out more than you can help, don't go into the city, don't talk before your servants. That's all." "Harry, is there any news from the city?" asked his wife, standing at some distance from him, and also assuming her public-safety voice. The rest were silent during the august colloquy.<|quote|>"Everything absolutely normal."</|quote|>"I had gathered as much. Those drums are merely Mohurram, of course." "Merely the preparations for it the Procession is not till next week." "Quite so, not till Monday." "Mr. McBryde's down there disguised as a Holy Man," said Mrs. Callendar. "That's exactly the sort of thing that must not be said," he remarked, pointing at her. "Mrs. Callendar, be more careful than that, please, in these times." "I . . . well, I . . ." She was not offended, his severity made her feel safe. "Any more questions? Necessary questions." "Is the where is he" Mrs. Lesley quavered. "Jail. Bail has been refused." Fielding spoke next. He wanted to know whether there was an official bulletin about Miss Quested's health, or whether the grave reports were due to gossip. His question produced a bad effect, partly because he had pronounced her name; she, like Aziz, was always referred to by a periphrasis. "I hope Callendar may be able to let us know how things are going before long." "I fail to see how that last question can be termed a necessary question," said Mrs. Turton. "Will all ladies leave the smoking-room now, please?" he cried, clapping his hands again. "And remember what I have said. We look to you to help us through a difficult time, and you can help us by behaving as if everything is normal. It is all I ask. Can I rely on you?" "Yes, indeed, Burra Sahib," they chorused out of peaked, anxious faces. They moved out, subdued yet elated, Mrs. Blakiston in their midst like a sacred flame. His simple words had reminded them that they were an outpost of Empire. By the side of their compassionate love for Adela another sentiment sprang up which was to strangle it in the long run. Its first signs were prosaic and small. Mrs. Turton made her loud, hard jokes at bridge, Mrs. Lesley began to knit a comforter. When the smoking-room was clear, the Collector sat on the edge of a table, so that he could dominate without formality. His mind whirled with contradictory impulses. He wanted to avenge Miss Quested and punish Fielding, while remaining scrupulously fair. He wanted to flog every native that he saw, but to do nothing that would lead to a riot or to the necessity for military intervention. The dread of having to call in the troops was vivid to him; soldiers put one thing straight, but leave a dozen others crooked, and they love to humiliate the civilian administration. One soldier was in the room this evening a stray subaltern from a Gurkha regiment; he was a little drunk, and regarded his presence as providential. The Collector sighed. There seemed nothing for it but the old weary business of compromise and moderation. He longed for the good old days when an Englishman could satisfy his own honour and no questions asked afterwards. Poor young Heaslop had taken a step in this direction, by refusing bail, but the Collector couldn't feel this was wise of poor young Heaslop. Not only would the Nawab Bahadur and others be angry, but the Government of India itself also watches and behind it is that caucus of cranks and cravens, the British Parliament. He had constantly to remind himself that, in the eyes of the law, Aziz was not yet guilty, and the effort fatigued him. The others, less responsible, could behave naturally. They had started speaking of "women and children" that phrase that exempts the male from sanity when it has been repeated a few times. Each felt that all he loved best in the world was at stake, demanded revenge, and was filled with a not unpleasing glow, in which the chilly and half-known features of Miss Quested vanished, and were replaced by all that is sweetest and warmest in the private life. "But it's the women and children," they repeated, and the Collector knew he ought to stop them intoxicating themselves, but he hadn't the heart. "They ought to be compelled to give hostages," etc. Many of the said women and children were leaving for the Hill Station in a few days, and the suggestion was made that they should be packed off at once in a special train. "_And_ a jolly suggestion," the subaltern cried. "The army's got to come in sooner or later. (A special train was in his mind inseparable from troops.) This would never have happened if Barabas Hill was under military control. Station a bunch of Gurkhas at the entrance of the cave was all that was wanted." "Mrs. Blakiston was saying if only there were a few Tommies," remarked someone. "English no good," he cried, getting his loyalties mixed. "Native troops for this country. Give me the sporting type of native, give me | her bungalow in case the "niggers attacked." The wife of a small railway official, she was generally snubbed; but this evening, with her abundant figure and masses of corn-gold hair, she symbolized all that is worth fighting and dying for; more permanent a symbol, perhaps, than poor Adela. "Don't worry, Mrs. Blakiston, those drums are only Mohurram," the men would tell her. "Then they've started," she moaned, clasping the infant and rather wishing he would not blow bubbles down his chin at such a moment as this. "No, of course not, and anyhow, they're not coming to the club." "And they're not coming to the Burra Sahib's bungalow either, my dear, and that's where you and your baby'll sleep tonight," answered Mrs. Turton, towering by her side like Pallas Athene, and determining in the future not to be such a snob. The Collector clapped his hands for silence. He was much calmer than when he had flown out at Fielding. He was indeed always calmer when he addressed several people than in a _t te- -t te._ "I want to talk specially to the ladies," he said. "Not the least cause for alarm. Keep cool, keep cool. Don't go out more than you can help, don't go into the city, don't talk before your servants. That's all." "Harry, is there any news from the city?" asked his wife, standing at some distance from him, and also assuming her public-safety voice. The rest were silent during the august colloquy.<|quote|>"Everything absolutely normal."</|quote|>"I had gathered as much. Those drums are merely Mohurram, of course." "Merely the preparations for it the Procession is not till next week." "Quite so, not till Monday." "Mr. McBryde's down there disguised as a Holy Man," said Mrs. Callendar. "That's exactly the sort of thing that must not be said," he remarked, pointing at her. "Mrs. Callendar, be more careful than that, please, in these times." "I . . . well, I . . ." She was not offended, his severity made her feel safe. "Any more questions? Necessary questions." "Is the where is he" Mrs. Lesley quavered. "Jail. Bail has been refused." Fielding spoke next. He wanted to know whether there was an official bulletin about Miss Quested's health, or whether the grave reports were due to gossip. His question produced a bad effect, partly because he had pronounced her name; she, like Aziz, was always referred to by a periphrasis. "I hope Callendar may be able to let us know how things are going before long." "I fail to see how that last question can be termed a necessary question," said Mrs. Turton. "Will all ladies leave the smoking-room now, please?" he cried, clapping his hands again. "And remember what I have said. We look to you to help us through a difficult time, and you can help us by behaving as if everything is normal. It is all I ask. Can I rely on you?" "Yes, indeed, Burra Sahib," they chorused out of peaked, anxious faces. They moved out, subdued yet elated, Mrs. Blakiston in their midst like a sacred flame. His simple words had reminded them that they were an outpost of Empire. By the side of their compassionate love for Adela another sentiment sprang up which was to strangle it in the long run. Its first signs were prosaic and small. Mrs. Turton made her loud, hard jokes at bridge, Mrs. | A Passage To India |
he said, | No speaker | and held them tightly. "Dorian,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"my letter don t be | his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"my letter don t be frightened was to tell you | might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry s grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a | to her. She is to be my wife." "Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man." "Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry s grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?" "It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you | I can t bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?" "By marrying Sibyl Vane." "Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian" "Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don t say it. Don t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife." "Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man." "Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry s grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?" "It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one s _d but_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one s old age. I suppose they don t know your name at the theatre? If they don t, it is all right. Did any one see you going round to her room? That is an important point." Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he stammered, in a | Lord Henry as he entered. "But you must not think too much about it." "Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?" asked the lad. "Yes, of course," answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair and slowly pulling off his yellow gloves. "It is dreadful, from one point of view, but it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see her, after the play was over?" "Yes." "I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?" "I was brutal, Harry perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know myself better." "Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours." "I have got through all that," said Dorian, shaking his head and smiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don t sneer at it, Harry, any more at least not before me. I want to be good. I can t bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?" "By marrying Sibyl Vane." "Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian" "Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don t say it. Don t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife." "Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man." "Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry s grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?" "It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one s _d but_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one s old age. I suppose they don t know your name at the theatre? If they don t, it is all right. Did any one see you going round to her room? That is an important point." Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl ? Oh, Harry, I can t bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once." "I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don t know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously." "Harry, Harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad. "Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and seemed to know | he felt that it had done for him. It had made him conscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane. It was not too late to make reparation for that. She could still be his wife. His unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the fear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls. Three o clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double chime, but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was wandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, he went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of madness. He covered page after page with wild words of sorrow and wilder words of pain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian had finished the letter, he felt that he had been forgiven. Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry s voice outside. "My dear boy, I must see you. Let me in at once. I can t bear your shutting yourself up like this." He made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking still continued and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, and unlocked the door. "I am so sorry for it all, Dorian," said Lord Henry as he entered. "But you must not think too much about it." "Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?" asked the lad. "Yes, of course," answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair and slowly pulling off his yellow gloves. "It is dreadful, from one point of view, but it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see her, after the play was over?" "Yes." "I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?" "I was brutal, Harry perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know myself better." "Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours." "I have got through all that," said Dorian, shaking his head and smiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don t sneer at it, Harry, any more at least not before me. I want to be good. I can t bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?" "By marrying Sibyl Vane." "Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian" "Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don t say it. Don t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife." "Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man." "Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry s grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?" "It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one s _d but_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one s old age. I suppose they don t know your name at the theatre? If they don t, it is all right. Did any one see you going round to her room? That is an important point." Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl ? Oh, Harry, I can t bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once." "I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don t know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously." "Harry, Harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad. "Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn t let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister s box. She has got some smart women with her." "So I have murdered Sibyl Vane," said Dorian Gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go on to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was everything to me. Then came that dreadful night was it really only last night? when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was not moved a bit. I thought her shallow. Suddenly something happened that made me afraid. I can t tell you what it was, but it was terrible. I said I would go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she is dead. My God! My God! Harry, what shall I do? You don t know the danger I am in, and there is nothing to keep me straight. She would have done that for me. She had no right to kill herself. It was selfish of her." "My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, taking a cigarette from his case and producing a gold-latten matchbox, "the only way a woman can ever reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible interest in life. If you had | you had. Did you make a scene with her?" "I was brutal, Harry perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know myself better." "Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours." "I have got through all that," said Dorian, shaking his head and smiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don t sneer at it, Harry, any more at least not before me. I want to be good. I can t bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?" "By marrying Sibyl Vane." "Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian" "Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don t say it. Don t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife." "Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man." "Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry s grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?" "It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one s _d but_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one s old age. I suppose they don t know your name at the theatre? If they don t, it is all right. Did any one see you going round to her room? That is an important point." Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl ? Oh, Harry, I can t bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once." "I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don t know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously." "Harry, Harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad. "Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by | The Picture Of Dorian Gray |
“Lord John desires you should tell me, father, how good you think him.” | Grace | whom they were now joined.<|quote|>“Lord John desires you should tell me, father, how good you think him.”</|quote|>“‘Good,’ my dear?--good for what?” | nearer, to the person by whom they were now joined.<|quote|>“Lord John desires you should tell me, father, how good you think him.”</|quote|>“‘Good,’ my dear?--good for what?” said Lord Theign a trifle | time for another question. “Will you let _him_ tell you, at all events, how good he thinks me?--and then let me come back and have it from you again?” Lady Grace’s answer to this was to turn, as he drew nearer, to the person by whom they were now joined.<|quote|>“Lord John desires you should tell me, father, how good you think him.”</|quote|>“‘Good,’ my dear?--good for what?” said Lord Theign a trifle absurdly, but looking from one of them to the other. “I feel I must ask _him_ to tell you.” “Then I shall give him a chance--as I should particularly like you to go back and deal with those overwhelming children.” | If this was ironic the touch fell short, thanks to his perception that they had practically just ceased to be alone. They were in presence of a third figure, who had arrived from the terrace, but whose approach to them was not so immediate as to deprive Lord John of time for another question. “Will you let _him_ tell you, at all events, how good he thinks me?--and then let me come back and have it from you again?” Lady Grace’s answer to this was to turn, as he drew nearer, to the person by whom they were now joined.<|quote|>“Lord John desires you should tell me, father, how good you think him.”</|quote|>“‘Good,’ my dear?--good for what?” said Lord Theign a trifle absurdly, but looking from one of them to the other. “I feel I must ask _him_ to tell you.” “Then I shall give him a chance--as I should particularly like you to go back and deal with those overwhelming children.” “Ah, they don’t overwhelm _you_, father!” --the girl put it with some point. “If you mean to say I overwhelmed _them_, I dare say I did,” he replied-- “from my view of that vast collective gape of six hundred painfully plain and perfectly expressionless faces. But that was only for | hear it--she has never told me how much!” the girl undisguisedly smiled. “Then perhaps I oughtn’t!” --he glowed with the light of contrition. “Well, you can’t help it now,” his companion remarked with amusement. “You mean that he ought to allow _you_ as much?” Lord John inquired. “I’m sure you’re right, and that he will,” he continued quite as in good faith; “but I want you to understand that I don’t care in the least what it may be!” The subject of his suit took the longest look at him she had taken yet. “You’re very good to say so!” If this was ironic the touch fell short, thanks to his perception that they had practically just ceased to be alone. They were in presence of a third figure, who had arrived from the terrace, but whose approach to them was not so immediate as to deprive Lord John of time for another question. “Will you let _him_ tell you, at all events, how good he thinks me?--and then let me come back and have it from you again?” Lady Grace’s answer to this was to turn, as he drew nearer, to the person by whom they were now joined.<|quote|>“Lord John desires you should tell me, father, how good you think him.”</|quote|>“‘Good,’ my dear?--good for what?” said Lord Theign a trifle absurdly, but looking from one of them to the other. “I feel I must ask _him_ to tell you.” “Then I shall give him a chance--as I should particularly like you to go back and deal with those overwhelming children.” “Ah, they don’t overwhelm _you_, father!” --the girl put it with some point. “If you mean to say I overwhelmed _them_, I dare say I did,” he replied-- “from my view of that vast collective gape of six hundred painfully plain and perfectly expressionless faces. But that was only for the time: I pumped advice--oh _such_ advice!--and they held the large bucket as still as my pet pointer, when I scratch him, holds his back. The bucket, under the stream--” “Was bound to overflow?” Lady Grace suggested. “Well, the strong recoil of the wave of intelligence has been not unnaturally followed by the formidable break. You must really,” Lord Theign insisted, “go and deal with it.” His daughter’s smile, for all this, was perceptibly cold. “You work people up, father, and then leave others to let them down.” “The two things,” he promptly replied, “require different natures.” To which he | for where she makes out her interest, she has learnt to ‘get round’ him till he only sees through her eyes--if you mean _that_ I understand you perfectly. But even if you think me horrid for reflecting so on my nearest and dearest, it’s not on the side on which he has most confidence in his elder daughter that his youngest is moved to have most confidence in _him_.” Lord John stared as if she had shaken some odd bright fluttering object in his face; but then recovering himself: “He hasn’t perhaps an absolutely boundless confidence--” “In any one in the world but himself?” --she had taken him straight up. “He hasn’t indeed, and that’s what we must come to; so that even if he likes you as much as you doubtless very justly feel, it won’t be because you are right about your being nice, but because _he_ is!” “You mean that if I were wrong about it he would still insist that he isn’t?” Lady Grace was indeed sure. “Absolutely--if he had begun so! He began so with Kitty--that is with allowing her everything.” Lord John appeared struck. “Yes--and he still allows her two thousand.” “I’m glad to hear it--she has never told me how much!” the girl undisguisedly smiled. “Then perhaps I oughtn’t!” --he glowed with the light of contrition. “Well, you can’t help it now,” his companion remarked with amusement. “You mean that he ought to allow _you_ as much?” Lord John inquired. “I’m sure you’re right, and that he will,” he continued quite as in good faith; “but I want you to understand that I don’t care in the least what it may be!” The subject of his suit took the longest look at him she had taken yet. “You’re very good to say so!” If this was ironic the touch fell short, thanks to his perception that they had practically just ceased to be alone. They were in presence of a third figure, who had arrived from the terrace, but whose approach to them was not so immediate as to deprive Lord John of time for another question. “Will you let _him_ tell you, at all events, how good he thinks me?--and then let me come back and have it from you again?” Lady Grace’s answer to this was to turn, as he drew nearer, to the person by whom they were now joined.<|quote|>“Lord John desires you should tell me, father, how good you think him.”</|quote|>“‘Good,’ my dear?--good for what?” said Lord Theign a trifle absurdly, but looking from one of them to the other. “I feel I must ask _him_ to tell you.” “Then I shall give him a chance--as I should particularly like you to go back and deal with those overwhelming children.” “Ah, they don’t overwhelm _you_, father!” --the girl put it with some point. “If you mean to say I overwhelmed _them_, I dare say I did,” he replied-- “from my view of that vast collective gape of six hundred painfully plain and perfectly expressionless faces. But that was only for the time: I pumped advice--oh _such_ advice!--and they held the large bucket as still as my pet pointer, when I scratch him, holds his back. The bucket, under the stream--” “Was bound to overflow?” Lady Grace suggested. “Well, the strong recoil of the wave of intelligence has been not unnaturally followed by the formidable break. You must really,” Lord Theign insisted, “go and deal with it.” His daughter’s smile, for all this, was perceptibly cold. “You work people up, father, and then leave others to let them down.” “The two things,” he promptly replied, “require different natures.” To which he simply added, as with the habit of authority, though not of harshness, “Go!” It was absolute and she yielded; only pausing an instant to look as with a certain gathered meaning from one of the men to the other. Faintly and resignedly sighing she passed away to the terrace and disappeared. “The nature that _can_ let you down--I rather like it, you know!” Lord John threw off. Which, for an airy elegance in them, were perhaps just slightly rash words--his companion gave him so sharp a look as the two were left together. VI Face to face with his visitor the master of Dedborough betrayed the impression his daughter appeared to have given him. “She didn’t want to go?” And then before Lord John could reply: “What the deuce is the matter with her?” Lord John took his time. “I think perhaps a little Mr. Crimble.” “And who the deuce is a little Mr. Crimble?” “A young man who was just with her--and whom she appears to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded. “Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.” “Oh!” --it made his lordship easier. “Then he’s all right--on such a | suitor eagerly asked. “He hasn’t needed--he has ways of letting one know.” “Yes, yes, he has ways; all his own--like everything else he has. He’s wonderful.” She fully agreed. “He’s wonderful.” The tone of it appeared somehow to shorten at once for Lord John the rest of his approach to a conclusion. “So you do see your way?” “Ah--!” she said with a quick sad shrinkage. “I mean,” her visitor hastened to explain, “if he does put it to you as the very best idea he has for you. When he does that--as I believe him ready to do--will you really and fairly listen to him? I’m certain, honestly, that when you know me better--!” His confidence in short donned a bravery. “I’ve been feeling this quarter of an hour,” the girl returned, “that I do know you better.” “Then isn’t that all I want?--unless indeed I ought perhaps to ask rather if it isn’t all _you_ do! At any rate,” said Lord John, “I may see you again here?” She waited a moment. “You must have patience with me.” “I _am_ having it But _after_ your father’s appeal.” “Well,” she said, “that must come first.” “Then you won’t dodge it?” She looked at him straight “I don’t dodge, Lord John.” He admired the manner of it “You look awfully handsome as you say so--and you see what _that_ does to me.” As to attentuate a little the freedom of which he went on: “May I fondly hope that if Lady Imber too should wish to put in another word for me----?” “Will I listen to her?” --it brought Lady Grace straight down. “No, Lord John, let me tell you at once that I’ll do nothing of the sort Kitty’s quite another affair, and I never listen to her a bit more than I can help.” Lord John appeared to feel, on this, that he mustn’t too easily, in honour, abandon a person who had presented herself to him as an ally. “Ah, you strike me as a little hard on her. Your father himself--in his looser moments!--takes pleasure in what she says.” Our young woman’s eyes, as they rested on him after this remark, had no mercy for its extreme feebleness. “If you mean that she’s the most reckless rattle one knows, and that she never looks so beautiful as when she’s at her worst, and that, always clever for where she makes out her interest, she has learnt to ‘get round’ him till he only sees through her eyes--if you mean _that_ I understand you perfectly. But even if you think me horrid for reflecting so on my nearest and dearest, it’s not on the side on which he has most confidence in his elder daughter that his youngest is moved to have most confidence in _him_.” Lord John stared as if she had shaken some odd bright fluttering object in his face; but then recovering himself: “He hasn’t perhaps an absolutely boundless confidence--” “In any one in the world but himself?” --she had taken him straight up. “He hasn’t indeed, and that’s what we must come to; so that even if he likes you as much as you doubtless very justly feel, it won’t be because you are right about your being nice, but because _he_ is!” “You mean that if I were wrong about it he would still insist that he isn’t?” Lady Grace was indeed sure. “Absolutely--if he had begun so! He began so with Kitty--that is with allowing her everything.” Lord John appeared struck. “Yes--and he still allows her two thousand.” “I’m glad to hear it--she has never told me how much!” the girl undisguisedly smiled. “Then perhaps I oughtn’t!” --he glowed with the light of contrition. “Well, you can’t help it now,” his companion remarked with amusement. “You mean that he ought to allow _you_ as much?” Lord John inquired. “I’m sure you’re right, and that he will,” he continued quite as in good faith; “but I want you to understand that I don’t care in the least what it may be!” The subject of his suit took the longest look at him she had taken yet. “You’re very good to say so!” If this was ironic the touch fell short, thanks to his perception that they had practically just ceased to be alone. They were in presence of a third figure, who had arrived from the terrace, but whose approach to them was not so immediate as to deprive Lord John of time for another question. “Will you let _him_ tell you, at all events, how good he thinks me?--and then let me come back and have it from you again?” Lady Grace’s answer to this was to turn, as he drew nearer, to the person by whom they were now joined.<|quote|>“Lord John desires you should tell me, father, how good you think him.”</|quote|>“‘Good,’ my dear?--good for what?” said Lord Theign a trifle absurdly, but looking from one of them to the other. “I feel I must ask _him_ to tell you.” “Then I shall give him a chance--as I should particularly like you to go back and deal with those overwhelming children.” “Ah, they don’t overwhelm _you_, father!” --the girl put it with some point. “If you mean to say I overwhelmed _them_, I dare say I did,” he replied-- “from my view of that vast collective gape of six hundred painfully plain and perfectly expressionless faces. But that was only for the time: I pumped advice--oh _such_ advice!--and they held the large bucket as still as my pet pointer, when I scratch him, holds his back. The bucket, under the stream--” “Was bound to overflow?” Lady Grace suggested. “Well, the strong recoil of the wave of intelligence has been not unnaturally followed by the formidable break. You must really,” Lord Theign insisted, “go and deal with it.” His daughter’s smile, for all this, was perceptibly cold. “You work people up, father, and then leave others to let them down.” “The two things,” he promptly replied, “require different natures.” To which he simply added, as with the habit of authority, though not of harshness, “Go!” It was absolute and she yielded; only pausing an instant to look as with a certain gathered meaning from one of the men to the other. Faintly and resignedly sighing she passed away to the terrace and disappeared. “The nature that _can_ let you down--I rather like it, you know!” Lord John threw off. Which, for an airy elegance in them, were perhaps just slightly rash words--his companion gave him so sharp a look as the two were left together. VI Face to face with his visitor the master of Dedborough betrayed the impression his daughter appeared to have given him. “She didn’t want to go?” And then before Lord John could reply: “What the deuce is the matter with her?” Lord John took his time. “I think perhaps a little Mr. Crimble.” “And who the deuce is a little Mr. Crimble?” “A young man who was just with her--and whom she appears to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded. “Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.” “Oh!” --it made his lordship easier. “Then he’s all right--on such a day.” His companion could none the less just wonder. “Hadn’t Lady Grace told you?” “That he was coming? Not that I remember.” But Lord Theign, perceptibly preoccupied, made nothing of this. “We’ve had other fish to fry, and you know the freedom I allow her.” His friend had a vivid gesture. “My dear man, I only ask to profit by it!” With which there might well have been in Lord John’s face a light of comment on the pretension in such a quarter to allow freedom. Yet it was a pretension that Lord Theign sustained--as to show himself far from all bourgeois narrowness. “She has her friends by the score--at this time of day.” There was clearly a claim here also--to _know_ the time of day. “But in the matter of friends where, by the way, is your own--of whom I’ve but just heard?” “Oh, off there among the pictures too; so they’ll have met and taken care of each other.” Accounting for this inquirer would be clearly the least of Lord John’s difficulties. “I mustn’t appear to Bender to have failed him; but I must at once let you know, before I join him, that, seizing my opportunity, I have just very definitely, in fact very pressingly, spoken to Lady Grace. It hasn’t been perhaps,” he continued, “quite the pick of a chance; but that seemed never to come, and if I’m not too fondly mistaken, at any rate, she listened to me without abhorrence. Only I’ve led her to expect--for our case--that you’ll be so good, without loss of time, as to say the clinching word to her yourself.” “Without loss, you mean, of--a--my daughter’s time?” Lord Theign, confessedly and amiably interested, had accepted these intimations--yet with the very blandness that was not accessible to hustling and was never forgetful of its standing privilege of criticism. He had come in from his public duty, a few minutes before, somewhat flushed and blown; but that had presently dropped--to the effect, we should have guessed, of his appearing to Lord John at least as cool as the occasion required. His appearance, we ourselves certainly should have felt, was in all respects charming--with the great note of it the beautiful restless, almost suspicious, challenge to you, on the part of deep and mixed things in him, his pride and his shyness, his conscience, his taste and his temper, to deny that | as an ally. “Ah, you strike me as a little hard on her. Your father himself--in his looser moments!--takes pleasure in what she says.” Our young woman’s eyes, as they rested on him after this remark, had no mercy for its extreme feebleness. “If you mean that she’s the most reckless rattle one knows, and that she never looks so beautiful as when she’s at her worst, and that, always clever for where she makes out her interest, she has learnt to ‘get round’ him till he only sees through her eyes--if you mean _that_ I understand you perfectly. But even if you think me horrid for reflecting so on my nearest and dearest, it’s not on the side on which he has most confidence in his elder daughter that his youngest is moved to have most confidence in _him_.” Lord John stared as if she had shaken some odd bright fluttering object in his face; but then recovering himself: “He hasn’t perhaps an absolutely boundless confidence--” “In any one in the world but himself?” --she had taken him straight up. “He hasn’t indeed, and that’s what we must come to; so that even if he likes you as much as you doubtless very justly feel, it won’t be because you are right about your being nice, but because _he_ is!” “You mean that if I were wrong about it he would still insist that he isn’t?” Lady Grace was indeed sure. “Absolutely--if he had begun so! He began so with Kitty--that is with allowing her everything.” Lord John appeared struck. “Yes--and he still allows her two thousand.” “I’m glad to hear it--she has never told me how much!” the girl undisguisedly smiled. “Then perhaps I oughtn’t!” --he glowed with the light of contrition. “Well, you can’t help it now,” his companion remarked with amusement. “You mean that he ought to allow _you_ as much?” Lord John inquired. “I’m sure you’re right, and that he will,” he continued quite as in good faith; “but I want you to understand that I don’t care in the least what it may be!” The subject of his suit took the longest look at him she had taken yet. “You’re very good to say so!” If this was ironic the touch fell short, thanks to his perception that they had practically just ceased to be alone. They were in presence of a third figure, who had arrived from the terrace, but whose approach to them was not so immediate as to deprive Lord John of time for another question. “Will you let _him_ tell you, at all events, how good he thinks me?--and then let me come back and have it from you again?” Lady Grace’s answer to this was to turn, as he drew nearer, to the person by whom they were now joined.<|quote|>“Lord John desires you should tell me, father, how good you think him.”</|quote|>“‘Good,’ my dear?--good for what?” said Lord Theign a trifle absurdly, but looking from one of them to the other. “I feel I must ask _him_ to tell you.” “Then I shall give him a chance--as I should particularly like you to go back and deal with those overwhelming children.” “Ah, they don’t overwhelm _you_, father!” --the girl put it with some point. “If you mean to say I overwhelmed _them_, I dare say I did,” he replied-- “from my view of that vast collective gape of six hundred painfully plain and perfectly expressionless faces. But that was only for the time: I pumped advice--oh _such_ advice!--and they held the large bucket as still as my pet pointer, when I scratch him, holds his back. The bucket, under the stream--” “Was bound to overflow?” Lady Grace suggested. “Well, the strong recoil of the wave of intelligence has been not unnaturally followed by the formidable break. You must really,” Lord Theign insisted, “go and deal with it.” His daughter’s smile, for all this, was perceptibly cold. “You work people up, father, and then leave others to let them down.” “The two things,” he promptly replied, “require different natures.” To which he simply added, as with the habit of authority, though not of harshness, “Go!” It was absolute and she yielded; only pausing an instant to look as with a certain gathered meaning from one of the men to the other. Faintly and resignedly sighing she passed away to the terrace and disappeared. “The nature that _can_ let you down--I rather like it, you know!” Lord John threw off. Which, for an airy elegance in them, were perhaps just slightly rash words--his companion gave him so sharp a look as the two were left together. VI Face to face with his visitor the master of Dedborough betrayed the impression his daughter appeared to have given him. “She didn’t want to go?” And then before Lord John could reply: “What the deuce is the matter with her?” Lord John took his time. “I think perhaps a little Mr. Crimble.” “And who the deuce is a little Mr. Crimble?” “A young man who was just with her--and whom she appears to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded. “Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.” “Oh!” | The Outcry |
"She's gadding off somewhere with Diana, writing stories or practicing dialogues or some such tomfoolery, and never thinking once about the time or her duties. She's just got to be pulled up short and sudden on this sort of thing. I don't care if Mrs. Allan does say she's the brightest and sweetest child she ever knew. She may be bright and sweet enough, but her head is full of nonsense and there's never any knowing what shape it'll break out in next. Just as soon as she grows out of one freak she takes up with another. But there! Here I am saying the very thing I was so riled with Rachel Lynde for saying at the Aid today. I was real glad when Mrs. Allan spoke up for Anne, for if she hadn't I know I'd have said something too sharp to Rachel before everybody. Anne's got plenty of faults, goodness knows, and far be it from me to deny it. But I'm bringing her up and not Rachel Lynde, who'd pick faults in the Angel Gabriel himself if he lived in Avonlea. Just the same, Anne has no business to leave the house like this when I told her she was to stay home this afternoon and look after things. I must say, with all her faults, I never found her disobedient or untrustworthy before and I'm real sorry to find her so now." | Marilla Cuthbert | his tea in his corner.<|quote|>"She's gadding off somewhere with Diana, writing stories or practicing dialogues or some such tomfoolery, and never thinking once about the time or her duties. She's just got to be pulled up short and sudden on this sort of thing. I don't care if Mrs. Allan does say she's the brightest and sweetest child she ever knew. She may be bright and sweet enough, but her head is full of nonsense and there's never any knowing what shape it'll break out in next. Just as soon as she grows out of one freak she takes up with another. But there! Here I am saying the very thing I was so riled with Rachel Lynde for saying at the Aid today. I was real glad when Mrs. Allan spoke up for Anne, for if she hadn't I know I'd have said something too sharp to Rachel before everybody. Anne's got plenty of faults, goodness knows, and far be it from me to deny it. But I'm bringing her up and not Rachel Lynde, who'd pick faults in the Angel Gabriel himself if he lived in Avonlea. Just the same, Anne has no business to leave the house like this when I told her she was to stay home this afternoon and look after things. I must say, with all her faults, I never found her disobedient or untrustworthy before and I'm real sorry to find her so now."</|quote|>"Well now, I dunno," said | and was waiting patiently for his tea in his corner.<|quote|>"She's gadding off somewhere with Diana, writing stories or practicing dialogues or some such tomfoolery, and never thinking once about the time or her duties. She's just got to be pulled up short and sudden on this sort of thing. I don't care if Mrs. Allan does say she's the brightest and sweetest child she ever knew. She may be bright and sweet enough, but her head is full of nonsense and there's never any knowing what shape it'll break out in next. Just as soon as she grows out of one freak she takes up with another. But there! Here I am saying the very thing I was so riled with Rachel Lynde for saying at the Aid today. I was real glad when Mrs. Allan spoke up for Anne, for if she hadn't I know I'd have said something too sharp to Rachel before everybody. Anne's got plenty of faults, goodness knows, and far be it from me to deny it. But I'm bringing her up and not Rachel Lynde, who'd pick faults in the Angel Gabriel himself if he lived in Avonlea. Just the same, Anne has no business to leave the house like this when I told her she was to stay home this afternoon and look after things. I must say, with all her faults, I never found her disobedient or untrustworthy before and I'm real sorry to find her so now."</|quote|>"Well now, I dunno," said Matthew, who, being patient and | the meal herself against Matthew's return from plowing. "I'll settle Miss Anne when she comes home," said Marilla grimly, as she shaved up kindlings with a carving knife and with more vim than was strictly necessary. Matthew had come in and was waiting patiently for his tea in his corner.<|quote|>"She's gadding off somewhere with Diana, writing stories or practicing dialogues or some such tomfoolery, and never thinking once about the time or her duties. She's just got to be pulled up short and sudden on this sort of thing. I don't care if Mrs. Allan does say she's the brightest and sweetest child she ever knew. She may be bright and sweet enough, but her head is full of nonsense and there's never any knowing what shape it'll break out in next. Just as soon as she grows out of one freak she takes up with another. But there! Here I am saying the very thing I was so riled with Rachel Lynde for saying at the Aid today. I was real glad when Mrs. Allan spoke up for Anne, for if she hadn't I know I'd have said something too sharp to Rachel before everybody. Anne's got plenty of faults, goodness knows, and far be it from me to deny it. But I'm bringing her up and not Rachel Lynde, who'd pick faults in the Angel Gabriel himself if he lived in Avonlea. Just the same, Anne has no business to leave the house like this when I told her she was to stay home this afternoon and look after things. I must say, with all her faults, I never found her disobedient or untrustworthy before and I'm real sorry to find her so now."</|quote|>"Well now, I dunno," said Matthew, who, being patient and wise and, above all, hungry, had deemed it best to let Marilla talk her wrath out unhindered, having learned by experience that she got through with whatever work was on hand much quicker if not delayed by untimely argument. "Perhaps | when Marilla entered her kitchen and found the fire black out, with no sign of Anne anywhere, she felt justly disappointed and irritated. She had told Anne to be sure and have tea ready at five o'clock, but now she must hurry to take off her second-best dress and prepare the meal herself against Matthew's return from plowing. "I'll settle Miss Anne when she comes home," said Marilla grimly, as she shaved up kindlings with a carving knife and with more vim than was strictly necessary. Matthew had come in and was waiting patiently for his tea in his corner.<|quote|>"She's gadding off somewhere with Diana, writing stories or practicing dialogues or some such tomfoolery, and never thinking once about the time or her duties. She's just got to be pulled up short and sudden on this sort of thing. I don't care if Mrs. Allan does say she's the brightest and sweetest child she ever knew. She may be bright and sweet enough, but her head is full of nonsense and there's never any knowing what shape it'll break out in next. Just as soon as she grows out of one freak she takes up with another. But there! Here I am saying the very thing I was so riled with Rachel Lynde for saying at the Aid today. I was real glad when Mrs. Allan spoke up for Anne, for if she hadn't I know I'd have said something too sharp to Rachel before everybody. Anne's got plenty of faults, goodness knows, and far be it from me to deny it. But I'm bringing her up and not Rachel Lynde, who'd pick faults in the Angel Gabriel himself if he lived in Avonlea. Just the same, Anne has no business to leave the house like this when I told her she was to stay home this afternoon and look after things. I must say, with all her faults, I never found her disobedient or untrustworthy before and I'm real sorry to find her so now."</|quote|>"Well now, I dunno," said Matthew, who, being patient and wise and, above all, hungry, had deemed it best to let Marilla talk her wrath out unhindered, having learned by experience that she got through with whatever work was on hand much quicker if not delayed by untimely argument. "Perhaps you're judging her too hasty, Marilla. Don't call her untrustworthy until you're sure she has disobeyed you. Mebbe it can all be explained--Anne's a great hand at explaining." "She's not here when I told her to stay," retorted Marilla. "I reckon she'll find it hard to explain _that_ to my | the land and Marilla's sober, middle-aged step was lighter and swifter because of its deep, primal gladness. Her eyes dwelt affectionately on Green Gables, peering through its network of trees and reflecting the sunlight back from its windows in several little coruscations of glory. Marilla, as she picked her steps along the damp lane, thought that it was really a satisfaction to know that she was going home to a briskly snapping wood fire and a table nicely spread for tea, instead of to the cold comfort of old Aid meeting evenings before Anne had come to Green Gables. Consequently, when Marilla entered her kitchen and found the fire black out, with no sign of Anne anywhere, she felt justly disappointed and irritated. She had told Anne to be sure and have tea ready at five o'clock, but now she must hurry to take off her second-best dress and prepare the meal herself against Matthew's return from plowing. "I'll settle Miss Anne when she comes home," said Marilla grimly, as she shaved up kindlings with a carving knife and with more vim than was strictly necessary. Matthew had come in and was waiting patiently for his tea in his corner.<|quote|>"She's gadding off somewhere with Diana, writing stories or practicing dialogues or some such tomfoolery, and never thinking once about the time or her duties. She's just got to be pulled up short and sudden on this sort of thing. I don't care if Mrs. Allan does say she's the brightest and sweetest child she ever knew. She may be bright and sweet enough, but her head is full of nonsense and there's never any knowing what shape it'll break out in next. Just as soon as she grows out of one freak she takes up with another. But there! Here I am saying the very thing I was so riled with Rachel Lynde for saying at the Aid today. I was real glad when Mrs. Allan spoke up for Anne, for if she hadn't I know I'd have said something too sharp to Rachel before everybody. Anne's got plenty of faults, goodness knows, and far be it from me to deny it. But I'm bringing her up and not Rachel Lynde, who'd pick faults in the Angel Gabriel himself if he lived in Avonlea. Just the same, Anne has no business to leave the house like this when I told her she was to stay home this afternoon and look after things. I must say, with all her faults, I never found her disobedient or untrustworthy before and I'm real sorry to find her so now."</|quote|>"Well now, I dunno," said Matthew, who, being patient and wise and, above all, hungry, had deemed it best to let Marilla talk her wrath out unhindered, having learned by experience that she got through with whatever work was on hand much quicker if not delayed by untimely argument. "Perhaps you're judging her too hasty, Marilla. Don't call her untrustworthy until you're sure she has disobeyed you. Mebbe it can all be explained--Anne's a great hand at explaining." "She's not here when I told her to stay," retorted Marilla. "I reckon she'll find it hard to explain _that_ to my satisfaction. Of course I knew you'd take her part, Matthew. But I'm bringing her up, not you." It was dark when supper was ready, and still no sign of Anne, coming hurriedly over the log bridge or up Lover's Lane, breathless and repentant with a sense of neglected duties. Marilla washed and put away the dishes grimly. Then, wanting a candle to light her way down the cellar, she went up to the east gable for the one that generally stood on Anne's table. Lighting it, she turned around to see Anne herself lying on the bed, face downward among | they may grow up to be ministers in spite of it. That's how I'd feel, Marilla." "The way I feel at present, Anne," said Marilla, "is that it's high time you had those dishes washed. You've taken half an hour longer than you should with all your chattering. Learn to work first and talk afterwards." CHAPTER XXVII. Vanity and Vexation of Spirit Marilla, walking home one late April evening from an Aid meeting, realized that the winter was over and gone with the thrill of delight that spring never fails to bring to the oldest and saddest as well as to the youngest and merriest. Marilla was not given to subjective analysis of her thoughts and feelings. She probably imagined that she was thinking about the Aids and their missionary box and the new carpet for the vestry room, but under these reflections was a harmonious consciousness of red fields smoking into pale-purply mists in the declining sun, of long, sharp-pointed fir shadows falling over the meadow beyond the brook, of still, crimson-budded maples around a mirrorlike wood pool, of a wakening in the world and a stir of hidden pulses under the gray sod. The spring was abroad in the land and Marilla's sober, middle-aged step was lighter and swifter because of its deep, primal gladness. Her eyes dwelt affectionately on Green Gables, peering through its network of trees and reflecting the sunlight back from its windows in several little coruscations of glory. Marilla, as she picked her steps along the damp lane, thought that it was really a satisfaction to know that she was going home to a briskly snapping wood fire and a table nicely spread for tea, instead of to the cold comfort of old Aid meeting evenings before Anne had come to Green Gables. Consequently, when Marilla entered her kitchen and found the fire black out, with no sign of Anne anywhere, she felt justly disappointed and irritated. She had told Anne to be sure and have tea ready at five o'clock, but now she must hurry to take off her second-best dress and prepare the meal herself against Matthew's return from plowing. "I'll settle Miss Anne when she comes home," said Marilla grimly, as she shaved up kindlings with a carving knife and with more vim than was strictly necessary. Matthew had come in and was waiting patiently for his tea in his corner.<|quote|>"She's gadding off somewhere with Diana, writing stories or practicing dialogues or some such tomfoolery, and never thinking once about the time or her duties. She's just got to be pulled up short and sudden on this sort of thing. I don't care if Mrs. Allan does say she's the brightest and sweetest child she ever knew. She may be bright and sweet enough, but her head is full of nonsense and there's never any knowing what shape it'll break out in next. Just as soon as she grows out of one freak she takes up with another. But there! Here I am saying the very thing I was so riled with Rachel Lynde for saying at the Aid today. I was real glad when Mrs. Allan spoke up for Anne, for if she hadn't I know I'd have said something too sharp to Rachel before everybody. Anne's got plenty of faults, goodness knows, and far be it from me to deny it. But I'm bringing her up and not Rachel Lynde, who'd pick faults in the Angel Gabriel himself if he lived in Avonlea. Just the same, Anne has no business to leave the house like this when I told her she was to stay home this afternoon and look after things. I must say, with all her faults, I never found her disobedient or untrustworthy before and I'm real sorry to find her so now."</|quote|>"Well now, I dunno," said Matthew, who, being patient and wise and, above all, hungry, had deemed it best to let Marilla talk her wrath out unhindered, having learned by experience that she got through with whatever work was on hand much quicker if not delayed by untimely argument. "Perhaps you're judging her too hasty, Marilla. Don't call her untrustworthy until you're sure she has disobeyed you. Mebbe it can all be explained--Anne's a great hand at explaining." "She's not here when I told her to stay," retorted Marilla. "I reckon she'll find it hard to explain _that_ to my satisfaction. Of course I knew you'd take her part, Matthew. But I'm bringing her up, not you." It was dark when supper was ready, and still no sign of Anne, coming hurriedly over the log bridge or up Lover's Lane, breathless and repentant with a sense of neglected duties. Marilla washed and put away the dishes grimly. Then, wanting a candle to light her way down the cellar, she went up to the east gable for the one that generally stood on Anne's table. Lighting it, she turned around to see Anne herself lying on the bed, face downward among the pillows. "Mercy on us," said astonished Marilla, "have you been asleep, Anne?" "No," was the muffled reply. "Are you sick then?" demanded Marilla anxiously, going over to the bed. Anne cowered deeper into her pillows as if desirous of hiding herself forever from mortal eyes. "No. But please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me. I'm in the depths of despair and I don't care who gets head in class or writes the best composition or sings in the Sunday-school choir any more. Little things like that are of no importance now because I don't suppose I'll ever be able to go anywhere again. My career is closed. Please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me." "Did anyone ever hear the like?" the mystified Marilla wanted to know. "Anne Shirley, whatever is the matter with you? What have you done? Get right up this minute and tell me. This minute, I say. There now, what is it?" Anne had slid to the floor in despairing obedience. "Look at my hair, Marilla," she whispered. Accordingly, Marilla lifted her candle and looked scrutinizingly at Anne's hair, flowing in heavy masses down her back. It certainly had a very strange | moral is the great thing. Mr. Allan says so. I read one of my stories to him and Mrs. Allan and they both agreed that the moral was excellent. Only they laughed in the wrong places. I like it better when people cry. Jane and Ruby almost always cry when I come to the pathetic parts. Diana wrote her Aunt Josephine about our club and her Aunt Josephine wrote back that we were to send her some of our stories. So we copied out four of our very best and sent them. Miss Josephine Barry wrote back that she had never read anything so amusing in her life. That kind of puzzled us because the stories were all very pathetic and almost everybody died. But I'm glad Miss Barry liked them. It shows our club is doing some good in the world. Mrs. Allan says that ought to be our object in everything. I do really try to make it my object but I forget so often when I'm having fun. I hope I shall be a little like Mrs. Allan when I grow up. Do you think there is any prospect of it, Marilla?" "I shouldn't say there was a great deal" was Marilla's encouraging answer. "I'm sure Mrs. Allan was never such a silly, forgetful little girl as you are." "No; but she wasn't always so good as she is now either," said Anne seriously. "She told me so herself--that is, she said she was a dreadful mischief when she was a girl and was always getting into scrapes. I felt so encouraged when I heard that. Is it very wicked of me, Marilla, to feel encouraged when I hear that other people have been bad and mischievous? Mrs. Lynde says it is. Mrs. Lynde says she always feels shocked when she hears of anyone ever having been naughty, no matter how small they were. Mrs. Lynde says she once heard a minister confess that when he was a boy he stole a strawberry tart out of his aunt's pantry and she never had any respect for that minister again. Now, I wouldn't have felt that way. I'd have thought that it was real noble of him to confess it, and I'd have thought what an encouraging thing it would be for small boys nowadays who do naughty things and are sorry for them to know that perhaps they may grow up to be ministers in spite of it. That's how I'd feel, Marilla." "The way I feel at present, Anne," said Marilla, "is that it's high time you had those dishes washed. You've taken half an hour longer than you should with all your chattering. Learn to work first and talk afterwards." CHAPTER XXVII. Vanity and Vexation of Spirit Marilla, walking home one late April evening from an Aid meeting, realized that the winter was over and gone with the thrill of delight that spring never fails to bring to the oldest and saddest as well as to the youngest and merriest. Marilla was not given to subjective analysis of her thoughts and feelings. She probably imagined that she was thinking about the Aids and their missionary box and the new carpet for the vestry room, but under these reflections was a harmonious consciousness of red fields smoking into pale-purply mists in the declining sun, of long, sharp-pointed fir shadows falling over the meadow beyond the brook, of still, crimson-budded maples around a mirrorlike wood pool, of a wakening in the world and a stir of hidden pulses under the gray sod. The spring was abroad in the land and Marilla's sober, middle-aged step was lighter and swifter because of its deep, primal gladness. Her eyes dwelt affectionately on Green Gables, peering through its network of trees and reflecting the sunlight back from its windows in several little coruscations of glory. Marilla, as she picked her steps along the damp lane, thought that it was really a satisfaction to know that she was going home to a briskly snapping wood fire and a table nicely spread for tea, instead of to the cold comfort of old Aid meeting evenings before Anne had come to Green Gables. Consequently, when Marilla entered her kitchen and found the fire black out, with no sign of Anne anywhere, she felt justly disappointed and irritated. She had told Anne to be sure and have tea ready at five o'clock, but now she must hurry to take off her second-best dress and prepare the meal herself against Matthew's return from plowing. "I'll settle Miss Anne when she comes home," said Marilla grimly, as she shaved up kindlings with a carving knife and with more vim than was strictly necessary. Matthew had come in and was waiting patiently for his tea in his corner.<|quote|>"She's gadding off somewhere with Diana, writing stories or practicing dialogues or some such tomfoolery, and never thinking once about the time or her duties. She's just got to be pulled up short and sudden on this sort of thing. I don't care if Mrs. Allan does say she's the brightest and sweetest child she ever knew. She may be bright and sweet enough, but her head is full of nonsense and there's never any knowing what shape it'll break out in next. Just as soon as she grows out of one freak she takes up with another. But there! Here I am saying the very thing I was so riled with Rachel Lynde for saying at the Aid today. I was real glad when Mrs. Allan spoke up for Anne, for if she hadn't I know I'd have said something too sharp to Rachel before everybody. Anne's got plenty of faults, goodness knows, and far be it from me to deny it. But I'm bringing her up and not Rachel Lynde, who'd pick faults in the Angel Gabriel himself if he lived in Avonlea. Just the same, Anne has no business to leave the house like this when I told her she was to stay home this afternoon and look after things. I must say, with all her faults, I never found her disobedient or untrustworthy before and I'm real sorry to find her so now."</|quote|>"Well now, I dunno," said Matthew, who, being patient and wise and, above all, hungry, had deemed it best to let Marilla talk her wrath out unhindered, having learned by experience that she got through with whatever work was on hand much quicker if not delayed by untimely argument. "Perhaps you're judging her too hasty, Marilla. Don't call her untrustworthy until you're sure she has disobeyed you. Mebbe it can all be explained--Anne's a great hand at explaining." "She's not here when I told her to stay," retorted Marilla. "I reckon she'll find it hard to explain _that_ to my satisfaction. Of course I knew you'd take her part, Matthew. But I'm bringing her up, not you." It was dark when supper was ready, and still no sign of Anne, coming hurriedly over the log bridge or up Lover's Lane, breathless and repentant with a sense of neglected duties. Marilla washed and put away the dishes grimly. Then, wanting a candle to light her way down the cellar, she went up to the east gable for the one that generally stood on Anne's table. Lighting it, she turned around to see Anne herself lying on the bed, face downward among the pillows. "Mercy on us," said astonished Marilla, "have you been asleep, Anne?" "No," was the muffled reply. "Are you sick then?" demanded Marilla anxiously, going over to the bed. Anne cowered deeper into her pillows as if desirous of hiding herself forever from mortal eyes. "No. But please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me. I'm in the depths of despair and I don't care who gets head in class or writes the best composition or sings in the Sunday-school choir any more. Little things like that are of no importance now because I don't suppose I'll ever be able to go anywhere again. My career is closed. Please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me." "Did anyone ever hear the like?" the mystified Marilla wanted to know. "Anne Shirley, whatever is the matter with you? What have you done? Get right up this minute and tell me. This minute, I say. There now, what is it?" Anne had slid to the floor in despairing obedience. "Look at my hair, Marilla," she whispered. Accordingly, Marilla lifted her candle and looked scrutinizingly at Anne's hair, flowing in heavy masses down her back. It certainly had a very strange appearance. "Anne Shirley, what have you done to your hair? Why, it's _green!_" Green it might be called, if it were any earthly color--a queer, dull, bronzy green, with streaks here and there of the original red to heighten the ghastly effect. Never in all her life had Marilla seen anything so grotesque as Anne's hair at that moment. "Yes, it's green," moaned Anne. "I thought nothing could be as bad as red hair. But now I know it's ten times worse to have green hair. Oh, Marilla, you little know how utterly wretched I am." "I little know how you got into this fix, but I mean to find out," said Marilla. "Come right down to the kitchen--it's too cold up here--and tell me just what you've done. I've been expecting something queer for some time. You haven't got into any scrape for over two months, and I was sure another one was due. Now, then, what did you do to your hair?" "I dyed it." "Dyed it! Dyed your hair! Anne Shirley, didn't you know it was a wicked thing to do?" "Yes, I knew it was a little wicked," admitted Anne. "But I thought it was worth while to be a little wicked to get rid of red hair. I counted the cost, Marilla. Besides, I meant to be extra good in other ways to make up for it." "Well," said Marilla sarcastically, "if I'd decided it was worth while to dye my hair I'd have dyed it a decent color at least. I wouldn't have dyed it green." "But I didn't mean to dye it green, Marilla," protested Anne dejectedly. "If I was wicked I meant to be wicked to some purpose. He said it would turn my hair a beautiful raven black--he positively assured me that it would. How could I doubt his word, Marilla? I know what it feels like to have your word doubted. And Mrs. Allan says we should never suspect anyone of not telling us the truth unless we have proof that they're not. I have proof now--green hair is proof enough for anybody. But I hadn't then and I believed every word he said _implicitly_." "Who said? Who are you talking about?" "The peddler that was here this afternoon. I bought the dye from him." "Anne Shirley, how often have I told you never to let one of those Italians | should with all your chattering. Learn to work first and talk afterwards." CHAPTER XXVII. Vanity and Vexation of Spirit Marilla, walking home one late April evening from an Aid meeting, realized that the winter was over and gone with the thrill of delight that spring never fails to bring to the oldest and saddest as well as to the youngest and merriest. Marilla was not given to subjective analysis of her thoughts and feelings. She probably imagined that she was thinking about the Aids and their missionary box and the new carpet for the vestry room, but under these reflections was a harmonious consciousness of red fields smoking into pale-purply mists in the declining sun, of long, sharp-pointed fir shadows falling over the meadow beyond the brook, of still, crimson-budded maples around a mirrorlike wood pool, of a wakening in the world and a stir of hidden pulses under the gray sod. The spring was abroad in the land and Marilla's sober, middle-aged step was lighter and swifter because of its deep, primal gladness. Her eyes dwelt affectionately on Green Gables, peering through its network of trees and reflecting the sunlight back from its windows in several little coruscations of glory. Marilla, as she picked her steps along the damp lane, thought that it was really a satisfaction to know that she was going home to a briskly snapping wood fire and a table nicely spread for tea, instead of to the cold comfort of old Aid meeting evenings before Anne had come to Green Gables. Consequently, when Marilla entered her kitchen and found the fire black out, with no sign of Anne anywhere, she felt justly disappointed and irritated. She had told Anne to be sure and have tea ready at five o'clock, but now she must hurry to take off her second-best dress and prepare the meal herself against Matthew's return from plowing. "I'll settle Miss Anne when she comes home," said Marilla grimly, as she shaved up kindlings with a carving knife and with more vim than was strictly necessary. Matthew had come in and was waiting patiently for his tea in his corner.<|quote|>"She's gadding off somewhere with Diana, writing stories or practicing dialogues or some such tomfoolery, and never thinking once about the time or her duties. She's just got to be pulled up short and sudden on this sort of thing. I don't care if Mrs. Allan does say she's the brightest and sweetest child she ever knew. She may be bright and sweet enough, but her head is full of nonsense and there's never any knowing what shape it'll break out in next. Just as soon as she grows out of one freak she takes up with another. But there! Here I am saying the very thing I was so riled with Rachel Lynde for saying at the Aid today. I was real glad when Mrs. Allan spoke up for Anne, for if she hadn't I know I'd have said something too sharp to Rachel before everybody. Anne's got plenty of faults, goodness knows, and far be it from me to deny it. But I'm bringing her up and not Rachel Lynde, who'd pick faults in the Angel Gabriel himself if he lived in Avonlea. Just the same, Anne has no business to leave the house like this when I told her she was to stay home this afternoon and look after things. I must say, with all her faults, I never found her disobedient or untrustworthy before and I'm real sorry to find her so now."</|quote|>"Well now, I dunno," said Matthew, who, being patient and wise and, above all, hungry, had deemed it best to let Marilla talk her wrath out unhindered, having learned by experience that she got through with whatever work was on hand much quicker if not delayed by untimely argument. "Perhaps you're judging her too hasty, Marilla. Don't call her untrustworthy until you're sure she has disobeyed you. Mebbe it can all be explained--Anne's a great hand at explaining." "She's not here when I told her to stay," retorted Marilla. "I reckon she'll find it hard to explain _that_ to my satisfaction. Of course I knew you'd take her part, Matthew. But I'm bringing her up, not you." It was dark when supper was ready, and still no sign of Anne, coming hurriedly over the log bridge or up Lover's Lane, breathless and repentant with a sense of neglected duties. Marilla washed and put away the dishes grimly. Then, wanting a candle to light her way down the cellar, she went up to the east gable for the one that generally stood on Anne's table. Lighting it, she turned around to see Anne herself lying on the bed, face downward among the pillows. "Mercy on us," said astonished Marilla, "have you been asleep, Anne?" "No," was the muffled reply. "Are you sick then?" demanded Marilla anxiously, going over to | Anne Of Green Gables |
I walked between the two older boys—straight, well-made fellows, with good heads and clear eyes. They talked about their school and the new teacher, told me about the crops and the harvest, and how many steers they would feed that winter. They were easy and confidential with me, as if I were an old friend of the family—and not too old. I felt like a boy in their company, and all manner of forgotten interests revived in me. It seemed, after all, so natural to be walking along a barbed-wire fence beside the sunset, toward a red pond, and to see my shadow moving along at my right, over the close-cropped grass. | No speaker | or, “I’m a big bull-snake.”<|quote|>I walked between the two older boys—straight, well-made fellows, with good heads and clear eyes. They talked about their school and the new teacher, told me about the crops and the harvest, and how many steers they would feed that winter. They were easy and confidential with me, as if I were an old friend of the family—and not too old. I felt like a boy in their company, and all manner of forgotten interests revived in me. It seemed, after all, so natural to be walking along a barbed-wire fence beside the sunset, toward a red pond, and to see my shadow moving along at my right, over the close-cropped grass.</|quote|>“Has mother shown you the | calling, “I’m a jack rabbit,” or, “I’m a big bull-snake.”<|quote|>I walked between the two older boys—straight, well-made fellows, with good heads and clear eyes. They talked about their school and the new teacher, told me about the crops and the harvest, and how many steers they would feed that winter. They were easy and confidential with me, as if I were an old friend of the family—and not too old. I felt like a boy in their company, and all manner of forgotten interests revived in me. It seemed, after all, so natural to be walking along a barbed-wire fence beside the sunset, toward a red pond, and to see my shadow moving along at my right, over the close-cropped grass.</|quote|>“Has mother shown you the pictures you sent her from | went toward the house, we met Ambrosch and Anton, starting off with their milking-pails to hunt the cows. I joined them, and Leo accompanied us at some distance, running ahead and starting up at us out of clumps of ironweed, calling, “I’m a jack rabbit,” or, “I’m a big bull-snake.”<|quote|>I walked between the two older boys—straight, well-made fellows, with good heads and clear eyes. They talked about their school and the new teacher, told me about the crops and the harvest, and how many steers they would feed that winter. They were easy and confidential with me, as if I were an old friend of the family—and not too old. I felt like a boy in their company, and all manner of forgotten interests revived in me. It seemed, after all, so natural to be walking along a barbed-wire fence beside the sunset, toward a red pond, and to see my shadow moving along at my right, over the close-cropped grass.</|quote|>“Has mother shown you the pictures you sent her from the old country?” Ambrosch asked. “We’ve had them framed and they’re hung up in the parlor. She was so glad to get them. I don’t believe I ever saw her so pleased about anything.” There was a note of simple | to sleep in the haymow, with the boys. “You can do just as you want to. The chest is full of clean blankets, put away for winter. Now I must go, or my girls will be doing all the work, and I want to cook your supper myself.” As we went toward the house, we met Ambrosch and Anton, starting off with their milking-pails to hunt the cows. I joined them, and Leo accompanied us at some distance, running ahead and starting up at us out of clumps of ironweed, calling, “I’m a jack rabbit,” or, “I’m a big bull-snake.”<|quote|>I walked between the two older boys—straight, well-made fellows, with good heads and clear eyes. They talked about their school and the new teacher, told me about the crops and the harvest, and how many steers they would feed that winter. They were easy and confidential with me, as if I were an old friend of the family—and not too old. I felt like a boy in their company, and all manner of forgotten interests revived in me. It seemed, after all, so natural to be walking along a barbed-wire fence beside the sunset, toward a red pond, and to see my shadow moving along at my right, over the close-cropped grass.</|quote|>“Has mother shown you the pictures you sent her from the old country?” Ambrosch asked. “We’ve had them framed and they’re hung up in the parlor. She was so glad to get them. I don’t believe I ever saw her so pleased about anything.” There was a note of simple gratitude in his voice that made me wish I had given more occasion for it. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Your mother, you know, was very much loved by all of us. She was a beautiful girl.” “Oh, we know!” They both spoke together; seemed a little surprised | brought them up like wild rabbits. No, I’m glad I had a chance to learn; but I’m thankful none of my daughters will ever have to work out. The trouble with me was, Jim, I never could believe harm of anybody I loved.” While we were talking, Ántonia assured me that she could keep me for the night. “We’ve plenty of room. Two of the boys sleep in the haymow till cold weather comes, but there’s no need for it. Leo always begs to sleep there, and Ambrosch goes along to look after him.” I told her I would like to sleep in the haymow, with the boys. “You can do just as you want to. The chest is full of clean blankets, put away for winter. Now I must go, or my girls will be doing all the work, and I want to cook your supper myself.” As we went toward the house, we met Ambrosch and Anton, starting off with their milking-pails to hunt the cows. I joined them, and Leo accompanied us at some distance, running ahead and starting up at us out of clumps of ironweed, calling, “I’m a jack rabbit,” or, “I’m a big bull-snake.”<|quote|>I walked between the two older boys—straight, well-made fellows, with good heads and clear eyes. They talked about their school and the new teacher, told me about the crops and the harvest, and how many steers they would feed that winter. They were easy and confidential with me, as if I were an old friend of the family—and not too old. I felt like a boy in their company, and all manner of forgotten interests revived in me. It seemed, after all, so natural to be walking along a barbed-wire fence beside the sunset, toward a red pond, and to see my shadow moving along at my right, over the close-cropped grass.</|quote|>“Has mother shown you the pictures you sent her from the old country?” Ambrosch asked. “We’ve had them framed and they’re hung up in the parlor. She was so glad to get them. I don’t believe I ever saw her so pleased about anything.” There was a note of simple gratitude in his voice that made me wish I had given more occasion for it. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Your mother, you know, was very much loved by all of us. She was a beautiful girl.” “Oh, we know!” They both spoke together; seemed a little surprised that I should think it necessary to mention this. “Everybody liked her, did n’t they? The Harlings and your grandmother, and all the town people.” “Sometimes,” I ventured, “it does n’t occur to boys that their mother was ever young and pretty.” “Oh, we know!” they said again, warmly. “She’s not very old now,” Ambrosch added. “Not much older than you.” “Well,” I said, “if you were n’t nice to her, I think I’d take a club and go for the whole lot of you. I could n’t stand it if you boys were inconsiderate, or thought of her as | like her. My Martha’s married now, and has a baby of her own. Think of that, Jim! “No, I never got down-hearted. Anton’s a good man, and I loved my children and always believed they would turn out well. I belong on a farm. I’m never lonesome here like I used to be in town. You remember what sad spells I used to have, when I did n’t know what was the matter with me? I’ve never had them out here. And I don’t mind work a bit, if I don’t have to put up with sadness.” She leaned her chin on her hand and looked down through the orchard, where the sunlight was growing more and more golden. “You ought never to have gone to town, Tony,” I said, wondering at her. She turned to me eagerly. “Oh, I’m glad I went! I’d never have known anything about cooking or housekeeping if I had n’t. I learned nice ways at the Harlings’, and I’ve been able to bring my children up so much better. Don’t you think they are pretty well-behaved for country children? If it had n’t been for what Mrs. Harling taught me, I expect I’d have brought them up like wild rabbits. No, I’m glad I had a chance to learn; but I’m thankful none of my daughters will ever have to work out. The trouble with me was, Jim, I never could believe harm of anybody I loved.” While we were talking, Ántonia assured me that she could keep me for the night. “We’ve plenty of room. Two of the boys sleep in the haymow till cold weather comes, but there’s no need for it. Leo always begs to sleep there, and Ambrosch goes along to look after him.” I told her I would like to sleep in the haymow, with the boys. “You can do just as you want to. The chest is full of clean blankets, put away for winter. Now I must go, or my girls will be doing all the work, and I want to cook your supper myself.” As we went toward the house, we met Ambrosch and Anton, starting off with their milking-pails to hunt the cows. I joined them, and Leo accompanied us at some distance, running ahead and starting up at us out of clumps of ironweed, calling, “I’m a jack rabbit,” or, “I’m a big bull-snake.”<|quote|>I walked between the two older boys—straight, well-made fellows, with good heads and clear eyes. They talked about their school and the new teacher, told me about the crops and the harvest, and how many steers they would feed that winter. They were easy and confidential with me, as if I were an old friend of the family—and not too old. I felt like a boy in their company, and all manner of forgotten interests revived in me. It seemed, after all, so natural to be walking along a barbed-wire fence beside the sunset, toward a red pond, and to see my shadow moving along at my right, over the close-cropped grass.</|quote|>“Has mother shown you the pictures you sent her from the old country?” Ambrosch asked. “We’ve had them framed and they’re hung up in the parlor. She was so glad to get them. I don’t believe I ever saw her so pleased about anything.” There was a note of simple gratitude in his voice that made me wish I had given more occasion for it. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Your mother, you know, was very much loved by all of us. She was a beautiful girl.” “Oh, we know!” They both spoke together; seemed a little surprised that I should think it necessary to mention this. “Everybody liked her, did n’t they? The Harlings and your grandmother, and all the town people.” “Sometimes,” I ventured, “it does n’t occur to boys that their mother was ever young and pretty.” “Oh, we know!” they said again, warmly. “She’s not very old now,” Ambrosch added. “Not much older than you.” “Well,” I said, “if you were n’t nice to her, I think I’d take a club and go for the whole lot of you. I could n’t stand it if you boys were inconsiderate, or thought of her as if she were just somebody who looked after you. You see I was very much in love with your mother once, and I know there’s nobody like her.” The boys laughed and seemed pleased and embarrassed. “She never told us that,” said Anton. “But she’s always talked lots about you, and about what good times you used to have. She has a picture of you that she cut out of the Chicago paper once, and Leo says he recognized you when you drove up to the windmill. You can’t tell about Leo, though; sometimes he likes to be smart.” We brought the cows home to the corner nearest the barn, and the boys milked them while night came on. Everything was as it should be: the strong smell of sunflowers and ironweed in the dew, the clear blue and gold of the sky, the evening star, the purr of the milk into the pails, the grunts and squeals of the pigs fighting over their supper. I began to feel the loneliness of the farm-boy at evening, when the chores seem everlastingly the same, and the world so far away. What a tableful we were at supper; two long rows of | them, neither the barn roof nor the windmill. The afternoon sun poured down on us through the drying grape leaves. The orchard seemed full of sun, like a cup, and we could smell the ripe apples on the trees. The crabs hung on the branches as thick as beads on a string, purple-red, with a thin silvery glaze over them. Some hens and ducks had crept through the hedge and were pecking at the fallen apples. The drakes were handsome fellows, with pinkish gray bodies, their heads and necks covered with iridescent green feathers which grew close and full, changing to blue like a peacock’s neck. Ántonia said they always reminded her of soldiers—some uniform she had seen in the old country, when she was a child. “Are there any quail left now?” I asked. I reminded her how she used to go hunting with me the last summer before we moved to town. “You were n’t a bad shot, Tony. Do you remember how you used to want to run away and go for ducks with Charley Harling and me?” “I know, but I’m afraid to look at a gun now.” She picked up one of the drakes and ruffled his green capote with her fingers. “Ever since I’ve had children, I don’t like to kill anything. It makes me kind of faint to wring an old goose’s neck. Ain’t that strange, Jim?” “I don’t know. The young Queen of Italy said the same thing once, to a friend of mine. She used to be a great huntswoman, but now she feels as you do, and only shoots clay pigeons.” “Then I’m sure she’s a good mother,” Ántonia said warmly. She told me how she and her husband had come out to this new country when the farm land was cheap and could be had on easy payments. The first ten years were a hard struggle. Her husband knew very little about farming and often grew discouraged. “We’d never have got through if I had n’t been so strong. I’ve always had good health, thank God, and I was able to help him in the fields until right up to the time before my babies came. Our children were good about taking care of each other. Martha, the one you saw when she was a baby, was such a help to me, and she trained Anna to be just like her. My Martha’s married now, and has a baby of her own. Think of that, Jim! “No, I never got down-hearted. Anton’s a good man, and I loved my children and always believed they would turn out well. I belong on a farm. I’m never lonesome here like I used to be in town. You remember what sad spells I used to have, when I did n’t know what was the matter with me? I’ve never had them out here. And I don’t mind work a bit, if I don’t have to put up with sadness.” She leaned her chin on her hand and looked down through the orchard, where the sunlight was growing more and more golden. “You ought never to have gone to town, Tony,” I said, wondering at her. She turned to me eagerly. “Oh, I’m glad I went! I’d never have known anything about cooking or housekeeping if I had n’t. I learned nice ways at the Harlings’, and I’ve been able to bring my children up so much better. Don’t you think they are pretty well-behaved for country children? If it had n’t been for what Mrs. Harling taught me, I expect I’d have brought them up like wild rabbits. No, I’m glad I had a chance to learn; but I’m thankful none of my daughters will ever have to work out. The trouble with me was, Jim, I never could believe harm of anybody I loved.” While we were talking, Ántonia assured me that she could keep me for the night. “We’ve plenty of room. Two of the boys sleep in the haymow till cold weather comes, but there’s no need for it. Leo always begs to sleep there, and Ambrosch goes along to look after him.” I told her I would like to sleep in the haymow, with the boys. “You can do just as you want to. The chest is full of clean blankets, put away for winter. Now I must go, or my girls will be doing all the work, and I want to cook your supper myself.” As we went toward the house, we met Ambrosch and Anton, starting off with their milking-pails to hunt the cows. I joined them, and Leo accompanied us at some distance, running ahead and starting up at us out of clumps of ironweed, calling, “I’m a jack rabbit,” or, “I’m a big bull-snake.”<|quote|>I walked between the two older boys—straight, well-made fellows, with good heads and clear eyes. They talked about their school and the new teacher, told me about the crops and the harvest, and how many steers they would feed that winter. They were easy and confidential with me, as if I were an old friend of the family—and not too old. I felt like a boy in their company, and all manner of forgotten interests revived in me. It seemed, after all, so natural to be walking along a barbed-wire fence beside the sunset, toward a red pond, and to see my shadow moving along at my right, over the close-cropped grass.</|quote|>“Has mother shown you the pictures you sent her from the old country?” Ambrosch asked. “We’ve had them framed and they’re hung up in the parlor. She was so glad to get them. I don’t believe I ever saw her so pleased about anything.” There was a note of simple gratitude in his voice that made me wish I had given more occasion for it. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Your mother, you know, was very much loved by all of us. She was a beautiful girl.” “Oh, we know!” They both spoke together; seemed a little surprised that I should think it necessary to mention this. “Everybody liked her, did n’t they? The Harlings and your grandmother, and all the town people.” “Sometimes,” I ventured, “it does n’t occur to boys that their mother was ever young and pretty.” “Oh, we know!” they said again, warmly. “She’s not very old now,” Ambrosch added. “Not much older than you.” “Well,” I said, “if you were n’t nice to her, I think I’d take a club and go for the whole lot of you. I could n’t stand it if you boys were inconsiderate, or thought of her as if she were just somebody who looked after you. You see I was very much in love with your mother once, and I know there’s nobody like her.” The boys laughed and seemed pleased and embarrassed. “She never told us that,” said Anton. “But she’s always talked lots about you, and about what good times you used to have. She has a picture of you that she cut out of the Chicago paper once, and Leo says he recognized you when you drove up to the windmill. You can’t tell about Leo, though; sometimes he likes to be smart.” We brought the cows home to the corner nearest the barn, and the boys milked them while night came on. Everything was as it should be: the strong smell of sunflowers and ironweed in the dew, the clear blue and gold of the sky, the evening star, the purr of the milk into the pails, the grunts and squeals of the pigs fighting over their supper. I began to feel the loneliness of the farm-boy at evening, when the chores seem everlastingly the same, and the world so far away. What a tableful we were at supper; two long rows of restless heads in the lamplight, and so many eyes fastened excitedly upon Ántonia as she sat at the head of the table, filling the plates and starting the dishes on their way. The children were seated according to a system; a little one next an older one, who was to watch over his behavior and to see that he got his food. Anna and Yulka left their chairs from time to time to bring fresh plates of kolaches and pitchers of milk. After supper we went into the parlor, so that Yulka and Leo could play for me. Ántonia went first, carrying the lamp. There were not nearly chairs enough to go round, so the younger children sat down on the bare floor. Little Lucie whispered to me that they were going to have a parlor carpet if they got ninety cents for their wheat. Leo, with a good deal of fussing, got out his violin. It was old Mr. Shimerda’s instrument, which Ántonia had always kept, and it was too big for him. But he played very well for a self-taught boy. Poor Yulka’s efforts were not so successful. While they were playing, little Nina got up from her corner, came out into the middle of the floor, and began to do a pretty little dance on the boards with her bare feet. No one paid the least attention to her, and when she was through she stole back and sat down by her brother. Ántonia spoke to Leo in Bohemian. He frowned and wrinkled up his face. He seemed to be trying to pout, but his attempt only brought out dimples in unusual places. After twisting and screwing the keys, he played some Bohemian airs, without the organ to hold him back, and that went better. The boy was so restless that I had not had a chance to look at his face before. My first impression was right; he really was faun-like. He had n’t much head behind his ears, and his tawny fleece grew down thick to the back of his neck. His eyes were not frank and wide apart like those of the other boys, but were deep-set, gold-green in color, and seemed sensitive to the light. His mother said he got hurt oftener than all the others put together. He was always trying to ride the colts before they were broken, teasing the turkey | of mine. She used to be a great huntswoman, but now she feels as you do, and only shoots clay pigeons.” “Then I’m sure she’s a good mother,” Ántonia said warmly. She told me how she and her husband had come out to this new country when the farm land was cheap and could be had on easy payments. The first ten years were a hard struggle. Her husband knew very little about farming and often grew discouraged. “We’d never have got through if I had n’t been so strong. I’ve always had good health, thank God, and I was able to help him in the fields until right up to the time before my babies came. Our children were good about taking care of each other. Martha, the one you saw when she was a baby, was such a help to me, and she trained Anna to be just like her. My Martha’s married now, and has a baby of her own. Think of that, Jim! “No, I never got down-hearted. Anton’s a good man, and I loved my children and always believed they would turn out well. I belong on a farm. I’m never lonesome here like I used to be in town. You remember what sad spells I used to have, when I did n’t know what was the matter with me? I’ve never had them out here. And I don’t mind work a bit, if I don’t have to put up with sadness.” She leaned her chin on her hand and looked down through the orchard, where the sunlight was growing more and more golden. “You ought never to have gone to town, Tony,” I said, wondering at her. She turned to me eagerly. “Oh, I’m glad I went! I’d never have known anything about cooking or housekeeping if I had n’t. I learned nice ways at the Harlings’, and I’ve been able to bring my children up so much better. Don’t you think they are pretty well-behaved for country children? If it had n’t been for what Mrs. Harling taught me, I expect I’d have brought them up like wild rabbits. No, I’m glad I had a chance to learn; but I’m thankful none of my daughters will ever have to work out. The trouble with me was, Jim, I never could believe harm of anybody I loved.” While we were talking, Ántonia assured me that she could keep me for the night. “We’ve plenty of room. Two of the boys sleep in the haymow till cold weather comes, but there’s no need for it. Leo always begs to sleep there, and Ambrosch goes along to look after him.” I told her I would like to sleep in the haymow, with the boys. “You can do just as you want to. The chest is full of clean blankets, put away for winter. Now I must go, or my girls will be doing all the work, and I want to cook your supper myself.” As we went toward the house, we met Ambrosch and Anton, starting off with their milking-pails to hunt the cows. I joined them, and Leo accompanied us at some distance, running ahead and starting up at us out of clumps of ironweed, calling, “I’m a jack rabbit,” or, “I’m a big bull-snake.”<|quote|>I walked between the two older boys—straight, well-made fellows, with good heads and clear eyes. They talked about their school and the new teacher, told me about the crops and the harvest, and how many steers they would feed that winter. They were easy and confidential with me, as if I were an old friend of the family—and not too old. I felt like a boy in their company, and all manner of forgotten interests revived in me. It seemed, after all, so natural to be walking along a barbed-wire fence beside the sunset, toward a red pond, and to see my shadow moving along at my right, over the close-cropped grass.</|quote|>“Has mother shown you the pictures you sent her from the old country?” Ambrosch asked. “We’ve had them framed and they’re hung up in the parlor. She was so glad to get them. I don’t believe I ever saw her so pleased about anything.” There was a note of simple gratitude in his voice that made me wish I had given more occasion for it. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Your mother, you know, was very much loved by all of us. She was a beautiful girl.” “Oh, we know!” They both spoke together; seemed a little surprised that I should think it necessary to mention this. “Everybody liked her, did n’t they? The Harlings and your grandmother, and all the town people.” “Sometimes,” I ventured, “it does n’t occur to boys that their mother was ever young and pretty.” “Oh, we know!” they said again, warmly. “She’s not very old now,” Ambrosch added. “Not much older than you.” “Well,” I said, “if you were n’t nice to her, I think I’d take a club and go for the whole lot of you. I could n’t stand it if you boys were inconsiderate, or thought of her as if she were just somebody who looked after you. You see I was very much in love with your mother once, and I know there’s nobody like her.” The boys laughed and seemed pleased and embarrassed. “She never told us that,” said Anton. “But she’s always talked lots about you, and about what good times you used to have. She has a picture of you that she cut out of the Chicago paper once, and Leo says he recognized you when you drove up to the windmill. You can’t tell about Leo, though; sometimes he likes to be smart.” We brought the cows home to the corner nearest the barn, and the boys milked them while night came on. Everything was as it should be: the strong smell of sunflowers and ironweed in the dew, the clear blue and gold of the | My Antonia |
"You've no idea, Jake." | Brett Ashley | feel altogether changed," Brett said.<|quote|>"You've no idea, Jake."</|quote|>"Anything you want me to | the day was bright. "I feel altogether changed," Brett said.<|quote|>"You've no idea, Jake."</|quote|>"Anything you want me to do?" "No, just go to | 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.<|quote|>"You've no idea, Jake."</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"You've no idea, Jake."</|quote|>"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 | 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." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," 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.<|quote|>"You've no idea, Jake."</|quote|>"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 | 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." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," 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.<|quote|>"You've no idea, Jake."</|quote|>"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 | 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." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," 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.<|quote|>"You've no idea, Jake."</|quote|>"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 answer. I tried the knob and it opened. Inside the room was in great disorder. All the bags were opened and clothing was strewn around. There were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay on the bed looking like a death mask of himself. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tle sleep. I've want ed a lit tle sleep for a long time." "Let me cover you over." "No. I'm quite warm." "Don't go. I have n't got ten to sleep yet." "You'll sleep, Mike. Don't worry, boy." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "But her Jew has gone away." He turned his head and looked at me. "Damned good thing, | 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." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," 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.<|quote|>"You've no idea, Jake."</|quote|>"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 | The Sun Also Rises |
"You cannot change to me, Dorian," | Lord Henry | am a little changed already."<|quote|>"You cannot change to me, Dorian,"</|quote|>said Lord Henry. "You and | good," he answered, smiling. "I am a little changed already."<|quote|>"You cannot change to me, Dorian,"</|quote|>said Lord Henry. "You and I will always be friends." | early." "Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There was something in your touch that was wonderful. It had more expression than I had ever heard from it before." "It is because I am going to be good," he answered, smiling. "I am a little changed already."<|quote|>"You cannot change to me, Dorian,"</|quote|>said Lord Henry. "You and I will always be friends." "Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that. Harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. It does harm." "My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. You will | introduce him to you. He is quite delightful and rather reminds me of you." "I hope not," said Dorian with a sad look in his eyes. "But I am tired to-night, Harry. I shan t go to the club. It is nearly eleven, and I want to go to bed early." "Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There was something in your touch that was wonderful. It had more expression than I had ever heard from it before." "It is because I am going to be good," he answered, smiling. "I am a little changed already."<|quote|>"You cannot change to me, Dorian,"</|quote|>said Lord Henry. "You and I will always be friends." "Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that. Harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. It does harm." "My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. You will soon be going about like the converted, and the revivalist, warning people against all the sins of which you have grown tired. You are much too delightful to do that. Besides, it is no use. You and I are what we are, and will be what we will be. As | laugh." "Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Go back and give me the nocturne over again. Look at that great, honey-coloured moon that hangs in the dusky air. She is waiting for you to charm her, and if you play she will come closer to the earth. You won t? Let us go to the club, then. It has been a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly. There is some one at White s who wants immensely to know you young Lord Poole, Bournemouth s eldest son. He has already copied your neckties, and has begged me to introduce him to you. He is quite delightful and rather reminds me of you." "I hope not," said Dorian with a sad look in his eyes. "But I am tired to-night, Harry. I shan t go to the club. It is nearly eleven, and I want to go to bed early." "Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There was something in your touch that was wonderful. It had more expression than I had ever heard from it before." "It is because I am going to be good," he answered, smiling. "I am a little changed already."<|quote|>"You cannot change to me, Dorian,"</|quote|>said Lord Henry. "You and I will always be friends." "Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that. Harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. It does harm." "My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. You will soon be going about like the converted, and the revivalist, warning people against all the sins of which you have grown tired. You are much too delightful to do that. Besides, it is no use. You and I are what we are, and will be what we will be. As for being poisoned by a book, there is no such thing as that. Art has no influence upon action. It annihilates the desire to act. It is superbly sterile. The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame. That is all. But we won t discuss literature. Come round to-morrow. I am going to ride at eleven. We might go together, and I will take you to lunch afterwards with Lady Branksome. She is a charming woman, and wants to consult you about some tapestries she is thinking of buying. Mind you come. | is on things like these that our lives depend. Browning writes about that somewhere; but our own senses will imagine them for us. There are moments when the odour of _lilas blanc_ passes suddenly across me, and I have to live the strangest month of my life over again. I wish I could change places with you, Dorian. The world has cried out against us both, but it has always worshipped you. It always will worship you. You are the type of what the age is searching for, and what it is afraid it has found. I am so glad that you have never done anything, never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or produced anything outside of yourself! Life has been your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are your sonnets." Dorian rose up from the piano and passed his hand through his hair. "Yes, life has been exquisite," he murmured, "but I am not going to have the same life, Harry. And you must not say these extravagant things to me. You don t know everything about me. I think that if you did, even you would turn from me. You laugh. Don t laugh." "Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Go back and give me the nocturne over again. Look at that great, honey-coloured moon that hangs in the dusky air. She is waiting for you to charm her, and if you play she will come closer to the earth. You won t? Let us go to the club, then. It has been a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly. There is some one at White s who wants immensely to know you young Lord Poole, Bournemouth s eldest son. He has already copied your neckties, and has begged me to introduce him to you. He is quite delightful and rather reminds me of you." "I hope not," said Dorian with a sad look in his eyes. "But I am tired to-night, Harry. I shan t go to the club. It is nearly eleven, and I want to go to bed early." "Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There was something in your touch that was wonderful. It had more expression than I had ever heard from it before." "It is because I am going to be good," he answered, smiling. "I am a little changed already."<|quote|>"You cannot change to me, Dorian,"</|quote|>said Lord Henry. "You and I will always be friends." "Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that. Harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. It does harm." "My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. You will soon be going about like the converted, and the revivalist, warning people against all the sins of which you have grown tired. You are much too delightful to do that. Besides, it is no use. You and I are what we are, and will be what we will be. As for being poisoned by a book, there is no such thing as that. Art has no influence upon action. It annihilates the desire to act. It is superbly sterile. The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame. That is all. But we won t discuss literature. Come round to-morrow. I am going to ride at eleven. We might go together, and I will take you to lunch afterwards with Lady Branksome. She is a charming woman, and wants to consult you about some tapestries she is thinking of buying. Mind you come. Or shall we lunch with our little duchess? She says she never sees you now. Perhaps you are tired of Gladys? I thought you would be. Her clever tongue gets on one s nerves. Well, in any case, be here at eleven." "Must I really come, Harry?" "Certainly. The park is quite lovely now. I don t think there have been such lilacs since the year I met you." "Very well. I shall be here at eleven," said Dorian. "Good night, Harry." As he reached the door, he hesitated for a moment, as if he had something more to say. Then he sighed and went out. CHAPTER XX. It was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm and did not even put his silk scarf round his throat. As he strolled home, smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. He heard one of them whisper to the other, "That is Dorian Gray." He remembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared at, or talked about. He was tired of hearing his own name now. Half the charm of the little village where he had | listen now with any respect are people much younger than myself. They seem in front of me. Life has revealed to them her latest wonder. As for the aged, I always contradict the aged. I do it on principle. If you ask them their opinion on something that happened yesterday, they solemnly give you the opinions current in 1820, when people wore high stocks, believed in everything, and knew absolutely nothing. How lovely that thing you are playing is! I wonder, did Chopin write it at Majorca, with the sea weeping round the villa and the salt spray dashing against the panes? It is marvellously romantic. What a blessing it is that there is one art left to us that is not imitative! Don t stop. I want music to-night. It seems to me that you are the young Apollo and that I am Marsyas listening to you. I have sorrows, Dorian, of my own, that even you know nothing of. The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young. I am amazed sometimes at my own sincerity. Ah, Dorian, how happy you are! What an exquisite life you have had! You have drunk deeply of everything. You have crushed the grapes against your palate. Nothing has been hidden from you. And it has all been to you no more than the sound of music. It has not marred you. You are still the same." "I am not the same, Harry." "Yes, you are the same. I wonder what the rest of your life will be. Don t spoil it by renunciations. At present you are a perfect type. Don t make yourself incomplete. You are quite flawless now. You need not shake your head: you know you are. Besides, Dorian, don t deceive yourself. Life is not governed by will or intention. Life is a question of nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which thought hides itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy yourself safe and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend. Browning writes about that somewhere; but our own senses will imagine them for us. There are moments when the odour of _lilas blanc_ passes suddenly across me, and I have to live the strangest month of my life over again. I wish I could change places with you, Dorian. The world has cried out against us both, but it has always worshipped you. It always will worship you. You are the type of what the age is searching for, and what it is afraid it has found. I am so glad that you have never done anything, never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or produced anything outside of yourself! Life has been your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are your sonnets." Dorian rose up from the piano and passed his hand through his hair. "Yes, life has been exquisite," he murmured, "but I am not going to have the same life, Harry. And you must not say these extravagant things to me. You don t know everything about me. I think that if you did, even you would turn from me. You laugh. Don t laugh." "Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Go back and give me the nocturne over again. Look at that great, honey-coloured moon that hangs in the dusky air. She is waiting for you to charm her, and if you play she will come closer to the earth. You won t? Let us go to the club, then. It has been a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly. There is some one at White s who wants immensely to know you young Lord Poole, Bournemouth s eldest son. He has already copied your neckties, and has begged me to introduce him to you. He is quite delightful and rather reminds me of you." "I hope not," said Dorian with a sad look in his eyes. "But I am tired to-night, Harry. I shan t go to the club. It is nearly eleven, and I want to go to bed early." "Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There was something in your touch that was wonderful. It had more expression than I had ever heard from it before." "It is because I am going to be good," he answered, smiling. "I am a little changed already."<|quote|>"You cannot change to me, Dorian,"</|quote|>said Lord Henry. "You and I will always be friends." "Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that. Harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. It does harm." "My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. You will soon be going about like the converted, and the revivalist, warning people against all the sins of which you have grown tired. You are much too delightful to do that. Besides, it is no use. You and I are what we are, and will be what we will be. As for being poisoned by a book, there is no such thing as that. Art has no influence upon action. It annihilates the desire to act. It is superbly sterile. The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame. That is all. But we won t discuss literature. Come round to-morrow. I am going to ride at eleven. We might go together, and I will take you to lunch afterwards with Lady Branksome. She is a charming woman, and wants to consult you about some tapestries she is thinking of buying. Mind you come. Or shall we lunch with our little duchess? She says she never sees you now. Perhaps you are tired of Gladys? I thought you would be. Her clever tongue gets on one s nerves. Well, in any case, be here at eleven." "Must I really come, Harry?" "Certainly. The park is quite lovely now. I don t think there have been such lilacs since the year I met you." "Very well. I shall be here at eleven," said Dorian. "Good night, Harry." As he reached the door, he hesitated for a moment, as if he had something more to say. Then he sighed and went out. CHAPTER XX. It was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm and did not even put his silk scarf round his throat. As he strolled home, smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. He heard one of them whisper to the other, "That is Dorian Gray." He remembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared at, or talked about. He was tired of hearing his own name now. Half the charm of the little village where he had been so often lately was that no one knew who he was. He had often told the girl whom he had lured to love him that he was poor, and she had believed him. He had told her once that he was wicked, and she had laughed at him and answered that wicked people were always very old and very ugly. What a laugh she had! just like a thrush singing. And how pretty she had been in her cotton dresses and her large hats! She knew nothing, but she had everything that he had lost. When he reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. He sent him to bed, and threw himself down on the sofa in the library, and began to think over some of the things that Lord Henry had said to him. Was it really true that one could never change? He felt a wild longing for the unstained purity of his boyhood his rose-white boyhood, as Lord Henry had once called it. He knew that he had tarnished himself, filled his mind with corruption and given horror to his fancy; that he had been an evil influence to others, and had experienced a terrible joy in being so; and that of the lives that had crossed his own, it had been the fairest and the most full of promise that he had brought to shame. But was it all irretrievable? Was there no hope for him? Ah! in what a monstrous moment of pride and passion he had prayed that the portrait should bear the burden of his days, and he keep the unsullied splendour of eternal youth! All his failure had been due to that. Better for him that each sin of his life had brought its sure swift penalty along with it. There was purification in punishment. Not "Forgive us our sins" but "Smite us for our iniquities" should be the prayer of man to a most just God. The curiously carved mirror that Lord Henry had given to him, so many years ago now, was standing on the table, and the white-limbed Cupids laughed round it as of old. He took it up, as he had done on that night of horror when he had first noted the change in the fatal picture, and with wild, tear-dimmed eyes looked into its polished shield. Once, some one who had terribly | subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend. Browning writes about that somewhere; but our own senses will imagine them for us. There are moments when the odour of _lilas blanc_ passes suddenly across me, and I have to live the strangest month of my life over again. I wish I could change places with you, Dorian. The world has cried out against us both, but it has always worshipped you. It always will worship you. You are the type of what the age is searching for, and what it is afraid it has found. I am so glad that you have never done anything, never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or produced anything outside of yourself! Life has been your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are your sonnets." Dorian rose up from the piano and passed his hand through his hair. "Yes, life has been exquisite," he murmured, "but I am not going to have the same life, Harry. And you must not say these extravagant things to me. You don t know everything about me. I think that if you did, even you would turn from me. You laugh. Don t laugh." "Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Go back and give me the nocturne over again. Look at that great, honey-coloured moon that hangs in the dusky air. She is waiting for you to charm her, and if you play she will come closer to the earth. You won t? Let us go to the club, then. It has been a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly. There is some one at White s who wants immensely to know you young Lord Poole, Bournemouth s eldest son. He has already copied your neckties, and has begged me to introduce him to you. He is quite delightful and rather reminds me of you." "I hope not," said Dorian with a sad look in his eyes. "But I am tired to-night, Harry. I shan t go to the club. It is nearly eleven, and I want to go to bed early." "Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There was something in your touch that was wonderful. It had more expression than I had ever heard from it before." "It is because I am going to be good," he answered, smiling. "I am a little changed already."<|quote|>"You cannot change to me, Dorian,"</|quote|>said Lord Henry. "You and I will always be friends." "Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that. Harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. It does harm." "My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. You will soon be going about like the converted, and the revivalist, warning people against all the sins of which you have grown tired. You are much too delightful to do that. Besides, it is no use. You and I are what we are, and will be what we will be. As for being poisoned by a book, there is no such thing as that. Art has no influence upon action. It annihilates the desire to act. It is superbly sterile. The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame. That is all. But we won t discuss literature. Come round to-morrow. I am going to ride at eleven. We might go together, and I will take you to lunch afterwards with Lady Branksome. She is a charming woman, and wants to consult you about some tapestries she is thinking of buying. Mind you come. Or shall we lunch with our little duchess? She says she never sees you now. Perhaps you are tired of Gladys? I thought you would be. Her clever tongue gets on one s nerves. Well, in any case, be here at eleven." "Must I really come, Harry?" "Certainly. The park is quite lovely now. I don t think there have been such lilacs since the year I met you." "Very well. I shall be here at eleven," said Dorian. "Good night, Harry." As he reached the door, he hesitated for a moment, as if he had something more to say. Then he sighed and went out. CHAPTER XX. It was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm and did not even put his silk scarf round his throat. As he strolled home, smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. He heard one of them whisper to the other, "That is Dorian Gray." He remembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared at, or talked about. He was tired of hearing his own name now. Half the charm of the little village where he had been so often lately was that no one knew who he was. He had often told the girl whom he had lured to love him that he was poor, and she had believed him. He had told her once that he was wicked, and she had laughed at him and answered that wicked people were always very old and very ugly. What a laugh she had! just like a thrush singing. And how pretty she had been in her cotton dresses and her large hats! She knew nothing, but she had everything that he had lost. When he reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. He sent him to bed, and threw himself down on the sofa in the library, and began to think over some of the things that Lord Henry had said to him. Was it really true that one could never change? He | The Picture Of Dorian Gray |
They lifted him up, and he was overjoyed to find that they were about to take him in the direction whither the star seemed to him to lead. | No speaker | it be the very star!"<|quote|>They lifted him up, and he was overjoyed to find that they were about to take him in the direction whither the star seemed to him to lead.</|quote|>"Rachael, beloved lass! Don't let | Saviour's home. I awmust think it be the very star!"<|quote|>They lifted him up, and he was overjoyed to find that they were about to take him in the direction whither the star seemed to him to lead.</|quote|>"Rachael, beloved lass! Don't let go my hand. We may | arranging how to go, he said to Rachael, looking upward at the star: "Often as I coom to myseln, and found it shinin' on me down there in my trouble, I thowt it were the star as guided to Our Saviour's home. I awmust think it be the very star!"<|quote|>They lifted him up, and he was overjoyed to find that they were about to take him in the direction whither the star seemed to him to lead.</|quote|>"Rachael, beloved lass! Don't let go my hand. We may walk toogether t'night, my dear!" "I will hold thy hand, and keep beside thee, Stephen, all the way." "Bless thee! Will soombody be pleased to coover my face!" They carried him very gently along the fields, and down the lanes, | yo clear me an' I trust to yo to do 't." The bearers being now ready to carry him away, and the surgeon being anxious for his removal, those who had torches or lanterns, prepared to go in front of the litter. Before it was raised, and while they were arranging how to go, he said to Rachael, looking upward at the star: "Often as I coom to myseln, and found it shinin' on me down there in my trouble, I thowt it were the star as guided to Our Saviour's home. I awmust think it be the very star!"<|quote|>They lifted him up, and he was overjoyed to find that they were about to take him in the direction whither the star seemed to him to lead.</|quote|>"Rachael, beloved lass! Don't let go my hand. We may walk toogether t'night, my dear!" "I will hold thy hand, and keep beside thee, Stephen, all the way." "Bless thee! Will soombody be pleased to coover my face!" They carried him very gently along the fields, and down the lanes, and over the wide landscape; Rachael always holding the hand in hers. Very few whispers broke the mournful silence. It was soon a funeral procession. The star had shown him where to find the God of the poor; and through humility, and sorrow, and forgiveness, he had gone to his | him?" "He is here," said Louisa, with dread. "Shall I bring him to you?" "If yo please." Louisa returned with her father. Standing hand-in-hand, they both looked down upon the solemn countenance. "Sir, yo will clear me an' mak my name good wi' aw men. This I leave to yo." Mr. Gradgrind was troubled and asked how? "Sir," was the reply: "yor son will tell yo how. Ask him. I mak no charges: I leave none ahint me: not a single word. I ha' seen an' spok'n wi' yor son, one night. I ask no more o' yo than that yo clear me an' I trust to yo to do 't." The bearers being now ready to carry him away, and the surgeon being anxious for his removal, those who had torches or lanterns, prepared to go in front of the litter. Before it was raised, and while they were arranging how to go, he said to Rachael, looking upward at the star: "Often as I coom to myseln, and found it shinin' on me down there in my trouble, I thowt it were the star as guided to Our Saviour's home. I awmust think it be the very star!"<|quote|>They lifted him up, and he was overjoyed to find that they were about to take him in the direction whither the star seemed to him to lead.</|quote|>"Rachael, beloved lass! Don't let go my hand. We may walk toogether t'night, my dear!" "I will hold thy hand, and keep beside thee, Stephen, all the way." "Bless thee! Will soombody be pleased to coover my face!" They carried him very gently along the fields, and down the lanes, and over the wide landscape; Rachael always holding the hand in hers. Very few whispers broke the mournful silence. It was soon a funeral procession. The star had shown him where to find the God of the poor; and through humility, and sorrow, and forgiveness, he had gone to his Redeemer's rest. CHAPTER VII WHELP-HUNTING BEFORE the ring formed round the Old Hell Shaft was broken, one figure had disappeared from within it. Mr. Bounderby and his shadow had not stood near Louisa, who held her father's arm, but in a retired place by themselves. When Mr. Gradgrind was summoned to the couch, Sissy, attentive to all that happened, slipped behind that wicked shadow a sight in the horror of his face, if there had been eyes there for any sight but one and whispered in his ear. Without turning his head, he conferred with her a few moments, and | ha' been wantin' in unnerstan'in me better, I, too, ha' been wantin' in unnerstan'in them better. When I got thy letter, I easily believen that what the yoong ledy sen and done to me, and what her brother sen and done to me, was one, and that there were a wicked plot betwixt 'em. When I fell, I were in anger wi' her, an' hurryin on t' be as onjust t' her as oothers was t' me. But in our judgments, like as in our doins, we mun bear and forbear. In my pain an' trouble, lookin up yonder, wi' it shinin on me I ha' seen more clear, and ha' made it my dyin prayer that aw th' world may on'y coom toogether more, an' get a better unnerstan'in o' one another, than when I were in 't my own weak seln." Louisa hearing what he said, bent over him on the opposite side to Rachael, so that he could see her. "You ha' heard?" he said, after a few moments' silence. "I ha' not forgot you, ledy." "Yes, Stephen, I have heard you. And your prayer is mine." "You ha' a father. Will yo tak' a message to him?" "He is here," said Louisa, with dread. "Shall I bring him to you?" "If yo please." Louisa returned with her father. Standing hand-in-hand, they both looked down upon the solemn countenance. "Sir, yo will clear me an' mak my name good wi' aw men. This I leave to yo." Mr. Gradgrind was troubled and asked how? "Sir," was the reply: "yor son will tell yo how. Ask him. I mak no charges: I leave none ahint me: not a single word. I ha' seen an' spok'n wi' yor son, one night. I ask no more o' yo than that yo clear me an' I trust to yo to do 't." The bearers being now ready to carry him away, and the surgeon being anxious for his removal, those who had torches or lanterns, prepared to go in front of the litter. Before it was raised, and while they were arranging how to go, he said to Rachael, looking upward at the star: "Often as I coom to myseln, and found it shinin' on me down there in my trouble, I thowt it were the star as guided to Our Saviour's home. I awmust think it be the very star!"<|quote|>They lifted him up, and he was overjoyed to find that they were about to take him in the direction whither the star seemed to him to lead.</|quote|>"Rachael, beloved lass! Don't let go my hand. We may walk toogether t'night, my dear!" "I will hold thy hand, and keep beside thee, Stephen, all the way." "Bless thee! Will soombody be pleased to coover my face!" They carried him very gently along the fields, and down the lanes, and over the wide landscape; Rachael always holding the hand in hers. Very few whispers broke the mournful silence. It was soon a funeral procession. The star had shown him where to find the God of the poor; and through humility, and sorrow, and forgiveness, he had gone to his Redeemer's rest. CHAPTER VII WHELP-HUNTING BEFORE the ring formed round the Old Hell Shaft was broken, one figure had disappeared from within it. Mr. Bounderby and his shadow had not stood near Louisa, who held her father's arm, but in a retired place by themselves. When Mr. Gradgrind was summoned to the couch, Sissy, attentive to all that happened, slipped behind that wicked shadow a sight in the horror of his face, if there had been eyes there for any sight but one and whispered in his ear. Without turning his head, he conferred with her a few moments, and vanished. Thus the whelp had gone out of the circle before the people moved. When the father reached home, he sent a message to Mr. Bounderby's, desiring his son to come to him directly. The reply was, that Mr. Bounderby having missed him in the crowd, and seeing nothing of him since, had supposed him to be at Stone Lodge. "I believe, father," said Louisa, "he will not come back to town to-night." Mr. Gradgrind turned away, and said no more. In the morning, he went down to the Bank himself as soon as it was opened, and seeing his son's place empty (he had not the courage to look in at first) went back along the street to meet Mr. Bounderby on his way there. To whom he said that, for reasons he would soon explain, but entreated not then to be asked for, he had found it necessary to employ his son at a distance for a little while. Also, that he was charged with the duty of vindicating Stephen Blackpool's memory, and declaring the thief. Mr. Bounderby quite confounded, stood stock-still in the street after his father-in-law had left him, swelling like an immense soap-bubble, without its | "I ha' fell into th' pit, my dear, as have cost wi'in the knowledge o' old fok now livin, hundreds and hundreds o' men's lives fathers, sons, brothers, dear to thousands an' thousands, an' keeping 'em fro' want and hunger. I ha' fell into a pit that ha' been wi' th' Firedamp crueller than battle. I ha' read on 't in the public petition, as onny one may read, fro' the men that works in pits, in which they ha' pray'n and pray'n the lawmakers for Christ's sake not to let their work be murder to 'em, but to spare 'em for th' wives and children that they loves as well as gentlefok loves theirs. When it were in work, it killed wi'out need; when 'tis let alone, it kills wi'out need. See how we die an' no need, one way an' another in a muddle every day!" He faintly said it, without any anger against any one. Merely as the truth. "Thy little sister, Rachael, thou hast not forgot her. Thou'rt not like to forget her now, and me so nigh her. Thou know'st poor, patient, suff'rin, dear how thou didst work for her, seet'n all day long in her little chair at thy winder, and how she died, young and misshapen, awlung o' sickly air as had'n no need to be, an' awlung o' working people's miserable homes. A muddle! Aw a muddle!" Louisa approached him; but he could not see her, lying with his face turned up to the night sky. "If aw th' things that tooches us, my dear, was not so muddled, I should'n ha' had'n need to coom heer. If we was not in a muddle among ourseln, I should'n ha' been, by my own fellow weavers and workin' brothers, so mistook. If Mr. Bounderby had ever know'd me right if he'd ever know'd me at aw he would'n ha' took'n offence wi' me. He would'n ha' suspect'n me. But look up yonder, Rachael! Look aboove!" Following his eyes, she saw that he was gazing at a star. [Picture: Stephen Blackpool recovered from the Old Hell Shaft] "It ha' shined upon me," he said reverently, "in my pain and trouble down below. It ha' shined into my mind. I ha' look'n at 't and thowt o' thee, Rachael, till the muddle in my mind have cleared awa, above a bit, I hope. If soom ha' been wantin' in unnerstan'in me better, I, too, ha' been wantin' in unnerstan'in them better. When I got thy letter, I easily believen that what the yoong ledy sen and done to me, and what her brother sen and done to me, was one, and that there were a wicked plot betwixt 'em. When I fell, I were in anger wi' her, an' hurryin on t' be as onjust t' her as oothers was t' me. But in our judgments, like as in our doins, we mun bear and forbear. In my pain an' trouble, lookin up yonder, wi' it shinin on me I ha' seen more clear, and ha' made it my dyin prayer that aw th' world may on'y coom toogether more, an' get a better unnerstan'in o' one another, than when I were in 't my own weak seln." Louisa hearing what he said, bent over him on the opposite side to Rachael, so that he could see her. "You ha' heard?" he said, after a few moments' silence. "I ha' not forgot you, ledy." "Yes, Stephen, I have heard you. And your prayer is mine." "You ha' a father. Will yo tak' a message to him?" "He is here," said Louisa, with dread. "Shall I bring him to you?" "If yo please." Louisa returned with her father. Standing hand-in-hand, they both looked down upon the solemn countenance. "Sir, yo will clear me an' mak my name good wi' aw men. This I leave to yo." Mr. Gradgrind was troubled and asked how? "Sir," was the reply: "yor son will tell yo how. Ask him. I mak no charges: I leave none ahint me: not a single word. I ha' seen an' spok'n wi' yor son, one night. I ask no more o' yo than that yo clear me an' I trust to yo to do 't." The bearers being now ready to carry him away, and the surgeon being anxious for his removal, those who had torches or lanterns, prepared to go in front of the litter. Before it was raised, and while they were arranging how to go, he said to Rachael, looking upward at the star: "Often as I coom to myseln, and found it shinin' on me down there in my trouble, I thowt it were the star as guided to Our Saviour's home. I awmust think it be the very star!"<|quote|>They lifted him up, and he was overjoyed to find that they were about to take him in the direction whither the star seemed to him to lead.</|quote|>"Rachael, beloved lass! Don't let go my hand. We may walk toogether t'night, my dear!" "I will hold thy hand, and keep beside thee, Stephen, all the way." "Bless thee! Will soombody be pleased to coover my face!" They carried him very gently along the fields, and down the lanes, and over the wide landscape; Rachael always holding the hand in hers. Very few whispers broke the mournful silence. It was soon a funeral procession. The star had shown him where to find the God of the poor; and through humility, and sorrow, and forgiveness, he had gone to his Redeemer's rest. CHAPTER VII WHELP-HUNTING BEFORE the ring formed round the Old Hell Shaft was broken, one figure had disappeared from within it. Mr. Bounderby and his shadow had not stood near Louisa, who held her father's arm, but in a retired place by themselves. When Mr. Gradgrind was summoned to the couch, Sissy, attentive to all that happened, slipped behind that wicked shadow a sight in the horror of his face, if there had been eyes there for any sight but one and whispered in his ear. Without turning his head, he conferred with her a few moments, and vanished. Thus the whelp had gone out of the circle before the people moved. When the father reached home, he sent a message to Mr. Bounderby's, desiring his son to come to him directly. The reply was, that Mr. Bounderby having missed him in the crowd, and seeing nothing of him since, had supposed him to be at Stone Lodge. "I believe, father," said Louisa, "he will not come back to town to-night." Mr. Gradgrind turned away, and said no more. In the morning, he went down to the Bank himself as soon as it was opened, and seeing his son's place empty (he had not the courage to look in at first) went back along the street to meet Mr. Bounderby on his way there. To whom he said that, for reasons he would soon explain, but entreated not then to be asked for, he had found it necessary to employ his son at a distance for a little while. Also, that he was charged with the duty of vindicating Stephen Blackpool's memory, and declaring the thief. Mr. Bounderby quite confounded, stood stock-still in the street after his father-in-law had left him, swelling like an immense soap-bubble, without its beauty. Mr. Gradgrind went home, locked himself in his room, and kept it all that day. When Sissy and Louisa tapped at his door, he said, without opening it, "Not now, my dears; in the evening." On their return in the evening, he said, "I am not able yet to-morrow." He ate nothing all day, and had no candle after dark; and they heard him walking to and fro late at night. But, in the morning he appeared at breakfast at the usual hour, and took his usual place at the table. Aged and bent he looked, and quite bowed down; and yet he looked a wiser man, and a better man, than in the days when in this life he wanted nothing but Facts. Before he left the room, he appointed a time for them to come to him; and so, with his gray head drooping, went away. "Dear father," said Louisa, when they kept their appointment, "you have three young children left. They will be different, I will be different yet, with Heaven's help." She gave her hand to Sissy, as if she meant with her help too. "Your wretched brother," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Do you think he had planned this robbery, when he went with you to the lodging?" "I fear so, father. I know he had wanted money very much, and had spent a great deal." "The poor man being about to leave the town, it came into his evil brain to cast suspicion on him?" "I think it must have flashed upon him while he sat there, father. For I asked him to go there with me. The visit did not originate with him." "He had some conversation with the poor man. Did he take him aside?" "He took him out of the room. I asked him afterwards, why he had done so, and he made a plausible excuse; but since last night, father, and when I remember the circumstances by its light, I am afraid I can imagine too truly what passed between them." "Let me know," said her father, "if your thoughts present your guilty brother in the same dark view as mine." "I fear, father," hesitated Louisa, "that he must have made some representation to Stephen Blackpool perhaps in my name, perhaps in his own which induced him to do in good faith and honesty, what he had never done before, and | weavers and workin' brothers, so mistook. If Mr. Bounderby had ever know'd me right if he'd ever know'd me at aw he would'n ha' took'n offence wi' me. He would'n ha' suspect'n me. But look up yonder, Rachael! Look aboove!" Following his eyes, she saw that he was gazing at a star. [Picture: Stephen Blackpool recovered from the Old Hell Shaft] "It ha' shined upon me," he said reverently, "in my pain and trouble down below. It ha' shined into my mind. I ha' look'n at 't and thowt o' thee, Rachael, till the muddle in my mind have cleared awa, above a bit, I hope. If soom ha' been wantin' in unnerstan'in me better, I, too, ha' been wantin' in unnerstan'in them better. When I got thy letter, I easily believen that what the yoong ledy sen and done to me, and what her brother sen and done to me, was one, and that there were a wicked plot betwixt 'em. When I fell, I were in anger wi' her, an' hurryin on t' be as onjust t' her as oothers was t' me. But in our judgments, like as in our doins, we mun bear and forbear. In my pain an' trouble, lookin up yonder, wi' it shinin on me I ha' seen more clear, and ha' made it my dyin prayer that aw th' world may on'y coom toogether more, an' get a better unnerstan'in o' one another, than when I were in 't my own weak seln." Louisa hearing what he said, bent over him on the opposite side to Rachael, so that he could see her. "You ha' heard?" he said, after a few moments' silence. "I ha' not forgot you, ledy." "Yes, Stephen, I have heard you. And your prayer is mine." "You ha' a father. Will yo tak' a message to him?" "He is here," said Louisa, with dread. "Shall I bring him to you?" "If yo please." Louisa returned with her father. Standing hand-in-hand, they both looked down upon the solemn countenance. "Sir, yo will clear me an' mak my name good wi' aw men. This I leave to yo." Mr. Gradgrind was troubled and asked how? "Sir," was the reply: "yor son will tell yo how. Ask him. I mak no charges: I leave none ahint me: not a single word. I ha' seen an' spok'n wi' yor son, one night. I ask no more o' yo than that yo clear me an' I trust to yo to do 't." The bearers being now ready to carry him away, and the surgeon being anxious for his removal, those who had torches or lanterns, prepared to go in front of the litter. Before it was raised, and while they were arranging how to go, he said to Rachael, looking upward at the star: "Often as I coom to myseln, and found it shinin' on me down there in my trouble, I thowt it were the star as guided to Our Saviour's home. I awmust think it be the very star!"<|quote|>They lifted him up, and he was overjoyed to find that they were about to take him in the direction whither the star seemed to him to lead.</|quote|>"Rachael, beloved lass! Don't let go my hand. We may walk toogether t'night, my dear!" "I will hold thy hand, and keep beside thee, Stephen, all the way." "Bless thee! Will soombody be pleased to coover my face!" They carried him very gently along the fields, and down the lanes, and over the wide landscape; Rachael always holding the hand in hers. Very few whispers broke the mournful silence. It was soon a funeral procession. The star had shown him where to find the God of the poor; and through humility, and sorrow, and forgiveness, he had gone to his Redeemer's rest. CHAPTER VII WHELP-HUNTING BEFORE the ring formed round the Old Hell Shaft was broken, one figure had disappeared from within it. Mr. Bounderby and his shadow had not stood near Louisa, who held her father's arm, but in a retired place by themselves. When Mr. Gradgrind was summoned to the couch, Sissy, attentive to all that happened, slipped behind that wicked shadow a sight in the horror of his face, if there had been eyes there for any sight but one and whispered in his ear. Without turning his head, he conferred with her a few moments, and vanished. Thus the whelp had gone out of the circle before the people moved. When the father reached home, he sent a message to Mr. Bounderby's, desiring his son to come to him directly. The reply was, that Mr. Bounderby having missed him in the crowd, and seeing nothing of him since, had supposed him to be at Stone Lodge. "I believe, father," said Louisa, "he will not come back to town to-night." Mr. Gradgrind turned away, and said no more. In the morning, he went down to the Bank himself as soon as it was opened, and seeing his son's place empty (he had not the courage to look in at first) went back along the street to meet Mr. Bounderby on his way there. To whom he said that, for reasons he would soon explain, but entreated not then to be asked for, he had found it necessary to employ his son at a distance for a little while. Also, that he was charged with the duty of vindicating Stephen Blackpool's memory, and declaring the thief. Mr. Bounderby quite confounded, stood stock-still in the street after his father-in-law had left him, swelling like an immense soap-bubble, without its beauty. Mr. Gradgrind went home, locked himself in his room, and kept it all that day. When Sissy and Louisa tapped at his door, he said, without opening it, "Not now, my dears; in the evening." On their return in the evening, he said, "I am not able yet to-morrow." He ate nothing all day, and had no candle after dark; and they heard him walking to and fro late at night. But, in the morning he appeared at breakfast at the usual hour, and took his usual place at the table. Aged and bent he looked, and quite bowed down; and yet he looked a wiser man, and a better man, than in the days when in this life he wanted nothing but Facts. Before he left the room, he appointed a time for them to come to him; and so, with his gray head drooping, went away. "Dear father," said Louisa, when they kept their appointment, "you have three young children left. They will be different, I will be different yet, with Heaven's help." | Hard Times |
"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." | Don Lavington | one to-day, Jem," said Don.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"I'll be all ready in | you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"I'll be all ready in no time," said Jem, cheerily; | having holidays." "Your Uncle Josiah soon got tired o' giving holidays, Mas' Don. I never, as you know, wanted many, but he always looked rat-traps at me if I asked for a day. Here you can have as many as you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 | Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in." "Uncle Josiah used to say that people soon got tired of having holidays." "Your Uncle Josiah soon got tired o' giving holidays, Mas' Don. I never, as you know, wanted many, but he always looked rat-traps at me if I asked for a day. Here you can have as many as you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 | except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages." "Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in." "Uncle Josiah used to say that people soon got tired of having holidays." "Your Uncle Josiah soon got tired o' giving holidays, Mas' Don. I never, as you know, wanted many, but he always looked rat-traps at me if I asked for a day. Here you can have as many as you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 | say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I don't now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning and wicked enough, but them little birds is imps, that's what they are." Jem shook his head and frowned, and no more was said then, for they were packing up a basket, and going up into the mountains to get fruit, taking provisions enough to last them for the day. Their hut was right in the middle of the little village, and the Maoris treated them in the most friendly manner, smiling at them in an indolent fashion as they lolled about the place, doing very little except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages." "Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in." "Uncle Josiah used to say that people soon got tired of having holidays." "Your Uncle Josiah soon got tired o' giving holidays, Mas' Don. I never, as you know, wanted many, but he always looked rat-traps at me if I asked for a day. Here you can have as many as you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 | I shall get in a row if you don't." "You must not get into any quarrel, Jem," said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping." "And what about the pot, Jem?" "Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake." They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler. "And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I don't now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning and wicked enough, but them little birds is imps, that's what they are." Jem shook his head and frowned, and no more was said then, for they were packing up a basket, and going up into the mountains to get fruit, taking provisions enough to last them for the day. Their hut was right in the middle of the little village, and the Maoris treated them in the most friendly manner, smiling at them in an indolent fashion as they lolled about the place, doing very little except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages." "Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in." "Uncle Josiah used to say that people soon got tired of having holidays." "Your Uncle Josiah soon got tired o' giving holidays, Mas' Don. I never, as you know, wanted many, but he always looked rat-traps at me if I asked for a day. Here you can have as many as you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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. "Yes, it would be fine," 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 | a basket, and going up into the mountains to get fruit, taking provisions enough to last them for the day. Their hut was right in the middle of the little village, and the Maoris treated them in the most friendly manner, smiling at them in an indolent fashion as they lolled about the place, doing very little except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages." "Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in." "Uncle Josiah used to say that people soon got tired of having holidays." "Your Uncle Josiah soon got tired o' giving holidays, Mas' Don. I never, as you know, wanted many, but he always looked rat-traps at me if I asked for a day. Here you can have as many as you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 | Don Lavington |
“Then it must be the very first time such an offer has failed.” | Bender | mightn’t have been markedly impressed.<|quote|>“Then it must be the very first time such an offer has failed.”</|quote|>“Oh, it isn’t that we | he hadn’t dropped Mr. Bender mightn’t have been markedly impressed.<|quote|>“Then it must be the very first time such an offer has failed.”</|quote|>“Oh, it isn’t that we in the least press it!” | 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.<|quote|>“Then it must be the very first time such an offer has failed.”</|quote|>“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 | 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.<|quote|>“Then it must be the very first time such an offer has failed.”</|quote|>“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 | 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.<|quote|>“Then it must be the very first time such an offer has failed.”</|quote|>“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, | 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.<|quote|>“Then it must be the very first time such an offer has failed.”</|quote|>“Oh, it isn’t that we in the least press it!” Lord Theign quite naturally laughed. “Ah, I beg your pardon--I press it very hard!” And Lord John, as taking from his face and manner a cue for further humorous license, went so far as to emulate, though sympathetically enough, their companion’s native form. “You don’t mean to say you don’t feel the interest of that Moretto?” Mr. Bender, quietly confident, took his time to reply. “Well, if you had seen me up on that chair you’d have thought I did.” “Then you must have stepped down from the chair properly impressed.” “I stepped down quite impressed with that young man.” “Mr. Crimble?” --it came after an instant to Lord John. “With _his_ opinion, really? Then I hope he’s aware of the picture’s value.” “You had better ask him,” Mr. Bender observed. “Oh, we don’t depend here on the Mr. Crimbles!” Lord John returned. Mr. Bender took a longer look at him. “Are you aware of the value yourself?” His friend resorted again, as for the amusement of the thing, to their entertainer. “Am I aware of the value of the Moretto?” Lord Theign, who had meanwhile lighted another cigarette, appeared, a bit extravagantly smoking, to wish to put an end to his effect of hovering aloof. “That question needn’t trouble us--when I see how much Mr. Bender himself knows about it.” “Well, Lord Theign, I only know what that young man puts it at.” And then as the others waited, “Ten thousand,” said Mr. Bender. “Ten thousand?” The owner of the work showed no emotion. “Well,” said Lord John again in Mr. Bender’s style, “what’s the matter with ten thousand?” The subject of his gay tribute considered. “There’s nothing the matter with ten thousand.” “Then,” Lord Theign asked, “is there anything the matter with the picture?” “Yes, sir--I guess there is.” It gave an upward push to his lordship’s eyebrows. “But what in the world----?” “Well, that’s just the question!” The eyebrows continued to rise. “Does he pretend there’s a question of whether it _is_ a Moretto?” “That’s what he was up there trying to find out.” “But if the value’s, according to himself, ten thousand----?” “Why, of course,” said Mr. Bender, “it’s a fine work anyway.” “Then,” Lord Theign brought good-naturedly out, “what’s the matter with _you_, Mr. Bender?” That gentleman was perfectly clear. “The matter with me, Lord | be glad to meet you as man to man.” Mr. Bender was, quite clearly, all genial and all sincere; he intended no irony and used, consciously, no great freedom. Lord Theign, not less evidently, saw this, and it permitted him amusement. “As rich man to poor man is how I’m to understand it? For me to meet _you_,” he added, “I should have to be tempted--and I’m not even temptable. So there we are,” he blandly smiled. His blandness appeared even for a moment to set an example to Lord John. “‘The Beautiful Duchess of Waterbridge,’ Mr. Bender, is a golden apple of one of those great family trees of which respectable people don’t lop off the branches whose venerable shade, in this garish and denuded age, they so much enjoy.” Mr. Bender looked at him as if he had cut some irrelevant caper. “Then if they don’t sell their ancestors where in the world are all the ancestors bought?” “Doesn’t it for the moment sufficiently answer your question,” Lord Theign asked, “that they’re definitely not bought at Dedborough?” “Why,” said Mr. Bender with a wealthy patience, “you talk as if it were my interest to be _reasonable_--which shows how little you understand. I’d be ashamed--with the lovely ideas I have--if I didn’t make you kick.” And his sturdy smile for it all fairly proclaimed his faith. “Well, I guess I can wait!” This again in turn visibly affected Lord John: marking the moment from which he, in spite of his cultivated levity, allowed an intenser and more sustained look to keep straying toward their host. “Mr. Bender’s bound to _have_ something!” It was even as if after a minute Lord Theign had been reached by his friend’s mute pressure. “‘Something’?” “Something, Mr. Bender?” Lord John insisted. It made their visitor rather sharply fix him. “Why, have _you_ an interest, Lord John?” This personage, though undisturbed by the challenge, if such it was, referred it to Lord Theign. “Do you authorise me to speak--a little--as if I have an interest?” Lord Theign gave the appeal--and the speaker--a certain attention, and then appeared rather sharply to turn away from them. “My dear fellow, you may amuse yourself at my expense as you like!” “Oh, I don’t mean at your expense,” Lord John laughed-- “I mean at Mr. Bender’s!” “Well, go ahead, Lord John,” said that gentleman, always easy, but always too, as you would have felt, aware of everything-- “go ahead, but don’t sweetly hope to create me in any desire that doesn’t already exist in the germ. The attempt has often been made, over here--has in fact been organised on a considerable scale; but I guess I’ve got some peculiarity, for it doesn’t seem as if the thing could be done. If the germ is there, on the other hand,” Mr. Bender conceded, “it develops independently of all encouragement.” Lord John communicated again as in a particular sense with Lord Theign. “He thinks I really mean to _offer_ him something!” Lord Theign, who seemed to wish to advertise a degree of detachment from the issue, or from any other such, strolled off, in his restlessness, toward the door that opened to the terrace, only stopping on his way to light a cigarette from a matchbox on a small table. It was but after doing so that he made the remark: “Ah, Mr. Bender may easily be too much for you!” “That makes me the more sorry, sir,” said his visitor, “not to have been enough for _you!_” “I risk it, at any rate,” Lord John went on-- “I put you, Bender, the question of whether you wouldn’t Move,’ as you say, to acquire that Moretto.” Mr. Bender’s large face had a commensurate gaze. “As I say? I haven’t said anything of the sort!” “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.<|quote|>“Then it must be the very first time such an offer has failed.”</|quote|>“Oh, it isn’t that we in the least press it!” Lord Theign quite naturally laughed. “Ah, I beg your pardon--I press it very hard!” And Lord John, as taking from his face and manner a cue for further humorous license, went so far as to emulate, though sympathetically enough, their companion’s native form. “You don’t mean to say you don’t feel the interest of that Moretto?” Mr. Bender, quietly confident, took his time to reply. “Well, if you had seen me up on that chair you’d have thought I did.” “Then you must have stepped down from the chair properly impressed.” “I stepped down quite impressed with that young man.” “Mr. Crimble?” --it came after an instant to Lord John. “With _his_ opinion, really? Then I hope he’s aware of the picture’s value.” “You had better ask him,” Mr. Bender observed. “Oh, we don’t depend here on the Mr. Crimbles!” Lord John returned. Mr. Bender took a longer look at him. “Are you aware of the value yourself?” His friend resorted again, as for the amusement of the thing, to their entertainer. “Am I aware of the value of the Moretto?” Lord Theign, who had meanwhile lighted another cigarette, appeared, a bit extravagantly smoking, to wish to put an end to his effect of hovering aloof. “That question needn’t trouble us--when I see how much Mr. Bender himself knows about it.” “Well, Lord Theign, I only know what that young man puts it at.” And then as the others waited, “Ten thousand,” said Mr. Bender. “Ten thousand?” The owner of the work showed no emotion. “Well,” said Lord John again in Mr. Bender’s style, “what’s the matter with ten thousand?” The subject of his gay tribute considered. “There’s nothing the matter with ten thousand.” “Then,” Lord Theign asked, “is there anything the matter with the picture?” “Yes, sir--I guess there is.” It gave an upward push to his lordship’s eyebrows. “But what in the world----?” “Well, that’s just the question!” The eyebrows continued to rise. “Does he pretend there’s a question of whether it _is_ a Moretto?” “That’s what he was up there trying to find out.” “But if the value’s, according to himself, ten thousand----?” “Why, of course,” said Mr. Bender, “it’s a fine work anyway.” “Then,” Lord Theign brought good-naturedly out, “what’s the matter with _you_, Mr. Bender?” That gentleman was perfectly clear. “The matter with me, Lord Theign, is that I’ve no use for a ten thousand picture.” “‘No use?’” --the expression had an oddity. “But what’s it your idea to do with such things?” “I mean,” Mr. Bender explained, “that a picture of that rank is not what I’m after.” “The figure,” said his noble host--speaking thus, under pressure, commercially-- “is beyond what you see your way to?” But Lord John had jumped at the truth. “The matter with Mr. Bender is that he sees his way much further.” “Further?” their companion echoed. “The matter with Mr. Bender is that he wants to give millions.” Lord Theign sounded this abyss with a smile. “Well, there would be no difficulty about _that_, I think!” “Ah,” said his guest, “you know the basis, sir, on which I’m ready to pay.” “On the basis then of the Sir Joshua,” Lord John inquired, “how far would you go?” Mr. Bender indicated by a gesture that on a question reduced to a moiety by its conditional form he could give but semi-satisfaction. “Well, I’d go all the way.” “He wants, you see,” Lord John elucidated, “an _ideally_ expensive thing.” Lord Theign appeared to decide after a moment to enter into the pleasant spirit of this; which he did by addressing his younger friend. “Then why shouldn’t I make even the Moretto as expensive as he desires?” “Because 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 | 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.<|quote|>“Then it must be the very first time such an offer has failed.”</|quote|>“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 | The Outcry |
“_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” | Bender | Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said,<|quote|>“_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.”</|quote|>“Ah, don’t you understand,” she | You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said,<|quote|>“_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.”</|quote|>“Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give | 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,<|quote|>“_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.”</|quote|>“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 | 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,<|quote|>“_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.”</|quote|>“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 | 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,<|quote|>“_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.”</|quote|>“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 | 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,<|quote|>“_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.”</|quote|>“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?” She scarce required his assent to touch a bell. “I can easily send for it.” And she threw off while they waited: “It’s so sweet your ‘flying round’ with your cheque-book!” He put it with promptitude another way. “It flies round pretty well with _Mr_----!” “Mr. Bender’s cheque-book--in his car,” she went on | --he put it with the firmness required to settle the futility of an appeal. Mr. Bender’s large surprise lost itself, however, promptly enough, in Mr. Bender’s larger ease. “Why, do you really mean it, Lord Theign?--removing already from view a work that gives innocent gratification to thousands?” “Well,” said his lordship curtly, “if thousands have seen it I’ve done what I wanted, and if they’ve been gratified I’m content--and invite _you_ to be.” Mr. Bender showed more keenness for this richer implication. “In other words it’s I who may remove the picture?” “Well--if you’ll take it on my estimate.” “But what, Lord Theign, all this time,” Mr. Bender almost pathetically pleaded, “_is_ your estimate?” The parting guest had another pause, which prolonged itself, after he had reached the door, in a deep solicitation of their hostess’s conscious eyes. This brief passage apparently inspired his answer. “Lady Sandgate will tell you.” The door closed behind him. The charming woman smiled then at her other friend, whose comprehensive presence appeared now to demand of her some account of these strange proceedings. “He means that your own valuation is much too shockingly high.” “But how can I know _how_ much unless I find out what he’ll take?” The great collector’s spirit had, in spite of its volume, clearly not reached its limit of expansion. “Is he crazily waiting for the thing to be proved _not_ what Mr. Crimble claims?” “No, he’s waiting for nothing--since he holds that claim demolished by Pappendick’s tremendous negative, which you wrote to tell him of.” Vast, undeveloped and suddenly grave, Mr. Bender’s countenance showed like a barren tract under a black cloud. “I wrote to _report_, fair and square, on Pap-pendick, but to tell him I’d take the picture just the same, negative and all.” “Ah, but take it in that way not for what it is but for what it isn’t.” “We know nothing about what it ‘isn’t,’” said Mr. Bender, “after all that has happened--we’ve only learned a little better every day what it is.” “You mean,” his companion asked, “the biggest bone of artistic contention----?” “Yes,” --he took it from her-- “the biggest that has been thrown into the arena for quite a while. I guess I can do with it for _that_.” Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge. “Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!” --and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch. “You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,” opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play. “Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said,<|quote|>“_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.”</|quote|>“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?” She scarce required his assent to touch a bell. “I can easily send for it.” And she threw off while they waited: “It’s so sweet your ‘flying round’ with your cheque-book!” He put it with promptitude another way. “It flies round pretty well with _Mr_----!” “Mr. Bender’s cheque-book--in his car,” she went on to Gotch, who had answered her summons. The owner of the interesting object further instructed him: “You’ll find in the pocket a large red morocco case.” “Very good, sir,” said Gotch--but with another word for his mistress. “Lord John would like to know--” “Lord John’s there?” she interrupted. Gotch turned to the open door. “Here he is, my lady.” She accommodated herself at once, under Mr. Bender’s eye, to the complication involved in his lordship’s presence. “It’s he who went round to Bond Street.” Mr. Bender stared, but saw the connection. “To stop the show?” And then as the young man was already there: “You’ve stopped the show?” “It’s ‘on’ more than ever!” Lord John responded while Gotch retired: a hurried, flurried, breathless Lord John, strikingly different from the backward messenger she had lately seen despatched. “But Theign should be here!” --he addressed her excitedly. “I announce you a call from the Prince.” “The Prince?” --she gasped as for the burden of the honour. “He follows you?” Mr. Bender, with an eagerness and a candour there was no mistaking, recognised on behalf of his ampler action a world of associational advantage and auspicious possibility. “Is the Prince _after_ the thing?” Lord John remained, in spite of this challenge, conscious of nothing but his message. “He was there with Mackintosh--to see and admire the picture; which he thinks, by the way, a Mantovano pure and simple!--and did me the honour to remember me. When he heard me report to Mackintosh in his presence the sentiments expressed to me here by our noble friend and of which, embarrassed though I doubtless was,” the young man pursued to Lady Sandgate, “I gave as clear an account as I could, he was so delighted with it that he declared they mustn’t think then of taking the thing off, but must on the contrary keep putting it forward for all it’s worth, and he would come round and congratulate and thank Theign and explain him his reasons.” Their hostess cast about for a sign. “Why Theign is at Kitty’s, worse luck! The Prince calls on him _here?_” “He calls, you see, on _you_, my lady--at five-forty-five; and graciously desired me so to put it you.” “He’s very kind, but” --she took in her condition-- “I’m not even _dressed!_” “You’ll have time” --the young man was a comfort-- “while I rush to Berkeley Square. And pardon | 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,<|quote|>“_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.”</|quote|>“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?” She scarce required his assent to touch a bell. “I can easily send for it.” And she threw off while they waited: “It’s so sweet your ‘flying round’ with your cheque-book!” He put it with promptitude another way. “It flies round pretty well with _Mr_----!” “Mr. Bender’s cheque-book--in his car,” she went on to Gotch, who had answered her summons. The owner of the interesting object further instructed him: “You’ll find in the pocket a large red morocco case.” “Very good, sir,” said | The Outcry |
To which he added with more of a challenge in it: | No speaker | himself. “Well, and by _me_.”<|quote|>To which he added with more of a challenge in it:</|quote|>“But you really know what | becoming, an improving touch from himself. “Well, and by _me_.”<|quote|>To which he added with more of a challenge in it:</|quote|>“But you really know what my mother will do?” “By | her, that if she’ll make up her mind to accept you the Duchess will do the handsome thing. Handsome, I mean, by Kitty.” Lord John, appropriating for his convenience the truth in this, yet regarded it as open to a becoming, an improving touch from himself. “Well, and by _me_.”<|quote|>To which he added with more of a challenge in it:</|quote|>“But you really know what my mother will do?” “By my system,” Lady Sandgate smiled, “you see I’ve guessed. What your mother will do is what brought you over!” “Well, it’s that,” he allowed-- “and something else.” “Something else?” she derisively echoed. “I should think ‘that,’ for an ardent lover, | him time to read into these words their full sense, she produced others, and so far did help him--though the effort was in a degree that of her exhibiting with some complacency her own unassisted control of stray signs and shy lights. “By telling her, by bringing it home to her, that if she’ll make up her mind to accept you the Duchess will do the handsome thing. Handsome, I mean, by Kitty.” Lord John, appropriating for his convenience the truth in this, yet regarded it as open to a becoming, an improving touch from himself. “Well, and by _me_.”<|quote|>To which he added with more of a challenge in it:</|quote|>“But you really know what my mother will do?” “By my system,” Lady Sandgate smiled, “you see I’ve guessed. What your mother will do is what brought you over!” “Well, it’s that,” he allowed-- “and something else.” “Something else?” she derisively echoed. “I should think ‘that,’ for an ardent lover, would have been enough.” “Ah, but it’s all one Job! I mean it’s one idea,” he hastened to explain-- “if you think Lady Imber’s really acting on her.” “Mightn’t you go and see?” “I would in a moment if I hadn’t to look out for another matter too.” And he | as knowing best what may--or what mayn’t--have happened between you.” “Well, I try to judge” --and such candour as was possible to Lord John seemed to sit for a moment on his brow. “But I’m in fear of seeing her too much as I want to see her.” There was an appeal in it that Lady Sandgate might have been moved to meet “Are you absolutely in earnest about her?” “Of course I am--why shouldn’t I be? But,” he said with impatience, “I want help.” “Very well then, that’s what Lady Imber’s giving you.” And as it appeared to take him time to read into these words their full sense, she produced others, and so far did help him--though the effort was in a degree that of her exhibiting with some complacency her own unassisted control of stray signs and shy lights. “By telling her, by bringing it home to her, that if she’ll make up her mind to accept you the Duchess will do the handsome thing. Handsome, I mean, by Kitty.” Lord John, appropriating for his convenience the truth in this, yet regarded it as open to a becoming, an improving touch from himself. “Well, and by _me_.”<|quote|>To which he added with more of a challenge in it:</|quote|>“But you really know what my mother will do?” “By my system,” Lady Sandgate smiled, “you see I’ve guessed. What your mother will do is what brought you over!” “Well, it’s that,” he allowed-- “and something else.” “Something else?” she derisively echoed. “I should think ‘that,’ for an ardent lover, would have been enough.” “Ah, but it’s all one Job! I mean it’s one idea,” he hastened to explain-- “if you think Lady Imber’s really acting on her.” “Mightn’t you go and see?” “I would in a moment if I hadn’t to look out for another matter too.” And he renewed his attention to his watch. “I mean getting straight at my American, the party I just mentioned------” But she had already taken him up. “You too have an American and a ‘party,’ and yours also motors down----?” “Mr. Breckenridge Bender.” Lord John named him with a shade of elation. She gaped at the fuller light “You _know_ my Breckenridge?--who I hoped was coming for me!” Lord John as freely, but more gaily, wondered. “Had he told you so?” She held out, opened, the telegram she had kept folded in her hand since her entrance. “He has sent me that--which, | you’ve ground for believing that if I go the right way about it he’s likely to listen to me.” Lady Sandgate measured her ground--which scarce seemed extensive. “The person he most listens to just now--and in fact at any time, as you must have seen for yourself--is that arch-tormentor, or at least beautiful wheedler, his elder daughter.” “Lady Imber’s _here?_” Lord John alertly asked. “She arrived last night and--as we’ve other visitors--seems to have set up a side-show in the garden.” “Then she’ll ‘draw’ of course immensely, as she always does. But her sister won’t be in that case with her,” the young man supposed. “Because Grace feels herself naturally an independent show? So she well may,” said Lady Sandgate, “but I must tell you that when I last noticed them there Kitty was in the very act of leading her away.” Lord John figured it a moment. “Lady Imber” --he ironically enlarged the figure-- “_can_ lead people away.” “Oh, dear Grace,” his companion returned, “happens fortunately to be firm!” This seemed to strike him for a moment as equivocal. “Not against _me_, however--you don’t mean? You don’t think she has a beastly prejudice----?” “Surely you can judge about it; as knowing best what may--or what mayn’t--have happened between you.” “Well, I try to judge” --and such candour as was possible to Lord John seemed to sit for a moment on his brow. “But I’m in fear of seeing her too much as I want to see her.” There was an appeal in it that Lady Sandgate might have been moved to meet “Are you absolutely in earnest about her?” “Of course I am--why shouldn’t I be? But,” he said with impatience, “I want help.” “Very well then, that’s what Lady Imber’s giving you.” And as it appeared to take him time to read into these words their full sense, she produced others, and so far did help him--though the effort was in a degree that of her exhibiting with some complacency her own unassisted control of stray signs and shy lights. “By telling her, by bringing it home to her, that if she’ll make up her mind to accept you the Duchess will do the handsome thing. Handsome, I mean, by Kitty.” Lord John, appropriating for his convenience the truth in this, yet regarded it as open to a becoming, an improving touch from himself. “Well, and by _me_.”<|quote|>To which he added with more of a challenge in it:</|quote|>“But you really know what my mother will do?” “By my system,” Lady Sandgate smiled, “you see I’ve guessed. What your mother will do is what brought you over!” “Well, it’s that,” he allowed-- “and something else.” “Something else?” she derisively echoed. “I should think ‘that,’ for an ardent lover, would have been enough.” “Ah, but it’s all one Job! I mean it’s one idea,” he hastened to explain-- “if you think Lady Imber’s really acting on her.” “Mightn’t you go and see?” “I would in a moment if I hadn’t to look out for another matter too.” And he renewed his attention to his watch. “I mean getting straight at my American, the party I just mentioned------” But she had already taken him up. “You too have an American and a ‘party,’ and yours also motors down----?” “Mr. Breckenridge Bender.” Lord John named him with a shade of elation. She gaped at the fuller light “You _know_ my Breckenridge?--who I hoped was coming for me!” Lord John as freely, but more gaily, wondered. “Had he told you so?” She held out, opened, the telegram she had kept folded in her hand since her entrance. “He has sent me that--which, delivered to me ten minutes ago out there, has brought me in to receive him.” The young man read out this missive. “‘Failing to find you in Bruton Street, start in pursuit and hope to overtake you about four.’” It did involve an ambiguity. “Why, he has been engaged these three days to coincide with myself, and not to fail of him has been part of my business.” Lady Sandgate, in her demonstrative way, appealed to the general rich scene. “Then why does he say it’s me he’s pursuing?” He seemed to recognise promptly enough in her the sense of a menaced monopoly. “My dear lady, 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 | the very clever son of a very clever mother.” “Oh, I’m less clever than you think,” he replied-- “if you really think it of me at all; and mamma’s a good sight cleverer!” “Than I think?” Lady Sandgate echoed. “Why, she’s the person in all our world I would gladly most resemble--for her general ability to put what she wants through.” But she at once added: “That is _if_--!” pausing on it with a smile. “If what then?” “Well, if I could be absolutely certain to have all in her kinds of cleverness without exception--and to have them,” said Lady Sandgate, “to the very end.” He definitely, he almost contemptuously declined to follow her. “The very end of what?” She took her choice as amid all the wonderful directions there might be, and then seemed both to risk and to reserve something. “Say of her so wonderfully successful _general_ career.” It doubtless, however, warranted him in appearing to cut insinuations short. “When you’re as clever as she you’ll be as good.” To which he subjoined: “You don’t begin to have the opportunity of knowing how good she is.” This pronouncement, to whatever comparative obscurity it might appear to relegate her, his interlocutress had to take--he was so prompt with a more explicit challenge. “What is it exactly that you suppose yourself to know?” Lady Sandgate had after a moment, in her supreme good humour, decided to take everything. “I always proceed on the assumption that I know everything, because that makes people tell me.” “It wouldn’t make we,” he quite rang out, “if I didn’t want to! But as it happens,” he allowed, “there’s a question it would be convenient to me to put to you. You must be, with your charming unconventional relation with him, extremely in Theign’s confidence.” She waited a little as for more. “Is that your question--_whether_ I am?” “No, but if you are you’ll the better answer it” She had no objection then to answering it beautifully. “We’re the best friends in the world; he has been really my providence, as a lone woman with almost nobody and nothing of her own, and I feel my footing here, as so frequent and yet so discreet a visitor, simply perfect But I’m happy to say that--for my pleasure when I’m really curious--this doesn’t close to me the sweet resource of occasionally guessing things.” “Then I hope you’ve ground for believing that if I go the right way about it he’s likely to listen to me.” Lady Sandgate measured her ground--which scarce seemed extensive. “The person he most listens to just now--and in fact at any time, as you must have seen for yourself--is that arch-tormentor, or at least beautiful wheedler, his elder daughter.” “Lady Imber’s _here?_” Lord John alertly asked. “She arrived last night and--as we’ve other visitors--seems to have set up a side-show in the garden.” “Then she’ll ‘draw’ of course immensely, as she always does. But her sister won’t be in that case with her,” the young man supposed. “Because Grace feels herself naturally an independent show? So she well may,” said Lady Sandgate, “but I must tell you that when I last noticed them there Kitty was in the very act of leading her away.” Lord John figured it a moment. “Lady Imber” --he ironically enlarged the figure-- “_can_ lead people away.” “Oh, dear Grace,” his companion returned, “happens fortunately to be firm!” This seemed to strike him for a moment as equivocal. “Not against _me_, however--you don’t mean? You don’t think she has a beastly prejudice----?” “Surely you can judge about it; as knowing best what may--or what mayn’t--have happened between you.” “Well, I try to judge” --and such candour as was possible to Lord John seemed to sit for a moment on his brow. “But I’m in fear of seeing her too much as I want to see her.” There was an appeal in it that Lady Sandgate might have been moved to meet “Are you absolutely in earnest about her?” “Of course I am--why shouldn’t I be? But,” he said with impatience, “I want help.” “Very well then, that’s what Lady Imber’s giving you.” And as it appeared to take him time to read into these words their full sense, she produced others, and so far did help him--though the effort was in a degree that of her exhibiting with some complacency her own unassisted control of stray signs and shy lights. “By telling her, by bringing it home to her, that if she’ll make up her mind to accept you the Duchess will do the handsome thing. Handsome, I mean, by Kitty.” Lord John, appropriating for his convenience the truth in this, yet regarded it as open to a becoming, an improving touch from himself. “Well, and by _me_.”<|quote|>To which he added with more of a challenge in it:</|quote|>“But you really know what my mother will do?” “By my system,” Lady Sandgate smiled, “you see I’ve guessed. What your mother will do is what brought you over!” “Well, it’s that,” he allowed-- “and something else.” “Something else?” she derisively echoed. “I should think ‘that,’ for an ardent lover, would have been enough.” “Ah, but it’s all one Job! I mean it’s one idea,” he hastened to explain-- “if you think Lady Imber’s really acting on her.” “Mightn’t you go and see?” “I would in a moment if I hadn’t to look out for another matter too.” And he renewed his attention to his watch. “I mean getting straight at my American, the party I just mentioned------” But she had already taken him up. “You too have an American and a ‘party,’ and yours also motors down----?” “Mr. Breckenridge Bender.” Lord John named him with a shade of elation. She gaped at the fuller light “You _know_ my Breckenridge?--who I hoped was coming for me!” Lord John as freely, but more gaily, wondered. “Had he told you so?” She held out, opened, the telegram she had kept folded in her hand since her entrance. “He has sent me that--which, delivered to me ten minutes ago out there, has brought me in to receive him.” The young man read out this missive. “‘Failing to find you in Bruton Street, start in pursuit and hope to overtake you about four.’” It did involve an ambiguity. “Why, he has been engaged these three days to coincide with myself, and not to fail of him has been part of my business.” Lady Sandgate, in her demonstrative way, appealed to the general rich scene. “Then why does he say it’s me he’s pursuing?” He seemed to recognise promptly enough in her the sense of a menaced monopoly. “My dear lady, 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 | ground--which scarce seemed extensive. “The person he most listens to just now--and in fact at any time, as you must have seen for yourself--is that arch-tormentor, or at least beautiful wheedler, his elder daughter.” “Lady Imber’s _here?_” Lord John alertly asked. “She arrived last night and--as we’ve other visitors--seems to have set up a side-show in the garden.” “Then she’ll ‘draw’ of course immensely, as she always does. But her sister won’t be in that case with her,” the young man supposed. “Because Grace feels herself naturally an independent show? So she well may,” said Lady Sandgate, “but I must tell you that when I last noticed them there Kitty was in the very act of leading her away.” Lord John figured it a moment. “Lady Imber” --he ironically enlarged the figure-- “_can_ lead people away.” “Oh, dear Grace,” his companion returned, “happens fortunately to be firm!” This seemed to strike him for a moment as equivocal. “Not against _me_, however--you don’t mean? You don’t think she has a beastly prejudice----?” “Surely you can judge about it; as knowing best what may--or what mayn’t--have happened between you.” “Well, I try to judge” --and such candour as was possible to Lord John seemed to sit for a moment on his brow. “But I’m in fear of seeing her too much as I want to see her.” There was an appeal in it that Lady Sandgate might have been moved to meet “Are you absolutely in earnest about her?” “Of course I am--why shouldn’t I be? But,” he said with impatience, “I want help.” “Very well then, that’s what Lady Imber’s giving you.” And as it appeared to take him time to read into these words their full sense, she produced others, and so far did help him--though the effort was in a degree that of her exhibiting with some complacency her own unassisted control of stray signs and shy lights. “By telling her, by bringing it home to her, that if she’ll make up her mind to accept you the Duchess will do the handsome thing. Handsome, I mean, by Kitty.” Lord John, appropriating for his convenience the truth in this, yet regarded it as open to a becoming, an improving touch from himself. “Well, and by _me_.”<|quote|>To which he added with more of a challenge in it:</|quote|>“But you really know what my mother will do?” “By my system,” Lady Sandgate smiled, “you see I’ve guessed. What your mother will do is what brought you over!” “Well, it’s that,” he allowed-- “and something else.” “Something else?” she derisively echoed. “I should think ‘that,’ for an ardent lover, would have been enough.” “Ah, but it’s all one Job! I mean it’s one idea,” he hastened to explain-- “if you think Lady Imber’s really acting on her.” “Mightn’t you go and see?” “I would in a moment if I hadn’t to look out for another matter too.” And he renewed his attention to his watch. “I mean getting straight at my American, the party I just mentioned------” But she had already taken him up. “You too have an American and a ‘party,’ and yours also motors down----?” “Mr. Breckenridge Bender.” Lord John named him with a shade of elation. She gaped at the fuller light “You _know_ my Breckenridge?--who I hoped was coming for me!” Lord John as freely, but more gaily, wondered. “Had he told you so?” She held out, opened, the telegram she had kept folded in her hand since her entrance. “He has sent me that--which, delivered to me ten minutes ago out there, has brought me in to receive him.” The young man read out this missive. “‘Failing to find you in Bruton Street, start in pursuit and hope to overtake you about four.’” It did involve an ambiguity. “Why, he has been engaged these three days to coincide with myself, and not to fail of him has been part of my business.” Lady Sandgate, in her demonstrative way, appealed to the general rich scene. “Then why does he say it’s me he’s pursuing?” He seemed to recognise promptly enough in her the sense of a menaced monopoly. “My dear lady, 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 | The Outcry |
She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation. | No speaker | I bear so much happiness!"<|quote|>She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation.</|quote|>"And this," said she, "is | my dear family! how shall I bear so much happiness!"<|quote|>She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation.</|quote|>"And this," said she, "is the end of all his | account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much happiness!"<|quote|>She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation.</|quote|>"And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!" In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her father had been short and to the purpose. "Where is your | poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said, for the present. "I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much happiness!"<|quote|>She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation.</|quote|>"And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!" In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her father had been short and to the purpose. "Where is your sister?" said he hastily, as he opened the door. "With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment I dare say." He then shut the door, and coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her delight | on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world. "'Tis too much!" she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not every body as happy?" Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said, for the present. "I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much happiness!"<|quote|>She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation.</|quote|>"And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!" In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her father had been short and to the purpose. "Where is your sister?" said he hastily, as he opened the door. "With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment I dare say." He then shut the door, and coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality; and then till her sister came down, she had to listen to all he had to say, of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections; and in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his expectations of felicity, to be rationally founded, because they had for basis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and himself. It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of Miss Bennet's mind gave | presumption or folly in Bingley, that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric than the other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be wanted to counteract her mother's schemes. But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of both as they hastily turned round, and moved away from each other, would have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _her's_ she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world. "'Tis too much!" she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not every body as happy?" Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said, for the present. "I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much happiness!"<|quote|>She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation.</|quote|>"And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!" In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her father had been short and to the purpose. "Where is your sister?" said he hastily, as he opened the door. "With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment I dare say." He then shut the door, and coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality; and then till her sister came down, she had to listen to all he had to say, of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections; and in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his expectations of felicity, to be rationally founded, because they had for basis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and himself. It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent, or speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, though she talked to Bingley of nothing else, for half an hour; and when Mr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly shewed how really happy he was. Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he turned to his daughter and said, "Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman." Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his goodness. "You are a good girl;" he replied, "and I have great pleasure in thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so easy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you | and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said, "What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?" "Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, "Come here, my love, I want to speak to you," took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her intreaty that _she_ would not give into it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out, "Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you." Elizabeth was forced to go. "We may as well leave them by themselves you know;" said her mother as soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in my dressing-room." Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command of countenance, particularly grateful to the daughter. He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband. After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's concurrence. Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley, that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric than the other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be wanted to counteract her mother's schemes. But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of both as they hastily turned round, and moved away from each other, would have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _her's_ she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world. "'Tis too much!" she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not every body as happy?" Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said, for the present. "I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much happiness!"<|quote|>She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation.</|quote|>"And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!" In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her father had been short and to the purpose. "Where is your sister?" said he hastily, as he opened the door. "With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment I dare say." He then shut the door, and coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality; and then till her sister came down, she had to listen to all he had to say, of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections; and in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his expectations of felicity, to be rationally founded, because they had for basis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and himself. It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent, or speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, though she talked to Bingley of nothing else, for half an hour; and when Mr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly shewed how really happy he was. Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he turned to his daughter and said, "Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman." Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his goodness. "You are a good girl;" he replied, "and I have great pleasure in thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so easy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will always exceed your income." "I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters, would be unpardonable in _me_." "Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet," cried his wife, "what are you talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a-year, and very likely more." Then addressing her daughter, "Oh! my dear, dear Jane, I am so happy! I am sure I sha'nt get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it would be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could not be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was that you should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man that ever was seen!" Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her younger sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness which she might in future be able to dispense. Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty begged very hard for a few balls there every winter. Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn; coming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after supper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough detested, had given him an invitation to dinner, which he thought himself obliged to accept. Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister; for while he was present, Jane had no attention to bestow on any one else; but she found herself considerably useful to both of them, in those hours of separation that must sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane, he always attached himself to Elizabeth, for the pleasure of talking of her; and when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same means of relief. "He has made me so happy," said she, one evening, "by telling me, that he was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had not believed it possible." "I suspected as much," replied Elizabeth. "But how did he account for it?" "It must have been his sister's doing. They were certainly no friends to his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have chosen so much more advantageously | ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be wanted to counteract her mother's schemes. But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of both as they hastily turned round, and moved away from each other, would have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _her's_ she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world. "'Tis too much!" she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not every body as happy?" Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said, for the present. "I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much happiness!"<|quote|>She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation.</|quote|>"And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!" In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her father had been short and to the purpose. "Where is your sister?" said he hastily, as he opened the door. "With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment I dare say." He then shut the door, and coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality; and then till her sister came down, she had to listen to all he had to say, of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections; and in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his expectations of felicity, to be rationally founded, because they had for basis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and himself. It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent, or speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, though she talked to Bingley of nothing else, for half an hour; and when Mr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly shewed how really happy he was. Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he turned to his daughter and said, "Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman." Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him | Pride And Prejudice |
She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill. | No speaker | Burguete." "Yes. It's for us."<|quote|>She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill.</|quote|>"What does the word Cohn | it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us."<|quote|>She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill.</|quote|>"What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a | over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt. "Por ustedes?" I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us."<|quote|>She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill.</|quote|>"What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," | like to try them once more." "Do. Stop over another day. Be a good chap." "We really have to get into town," I said. "What a pity." After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt. "Por ustedes?" I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us."<|quote|>She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill.</|quote|>"What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty." We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank. "What will | a rotten business. I had hoped we'd all have another go at the Irati together." "We have to go _into_ Pamplona. We're meeting people there." "What rotten luck for me. We've had a jolly time here at Burguete." "Come on in to Pamplona. We can play some bridge there, and there's going to be a damned fine fiesta." "I'd like to. Awfully nice of you to ask me. I'd best stop on here, though. I've not much more time to fish." "You want those big ones in the Irati." "I say, I do, you know. They're enormous trout there." "I'd like to try them once more." "Do. Stop over another day. Be a good chap." "We really have to get into town," I said. "What a pity." After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt. "Por ustedes?" I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us."<|quote|>She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill.</|quote|>"What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty." We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank. "What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were | me with mine." The letter was at my place at the table, leaning against a coffee-cup. Harris was reading the paper again. I opened the letter. It had been forwarded from Pamplona. It was dated San Sebastian, Sunday: DEAR JAKE, We got here Friday, Brett passed out on the train, so brought her here for 3 days rest with old friends of ours. We go to Montoya Hotel Pamplona Tuesday, arriving at I don't know what hour. Will you send a note by the bus to tell us what to do to rejoin you all on Wednesday. All our love and sorry to be late, but Brett was really done in and will be quite all right by Tues. and is practically so now. I know her so well and try to look after her but it's not so easy. Love to all the chaps, MICHAEL. "What day of the week is it?" I asked Harris. "Wednesday, I think. Yes, quite. Wednesday. Wonderful how one loses track of the days up here in the mountains." "Yes. We've been here nearly a week." "I hope you're not thinking of leaving?" "Yes. We'll go in on the afternoon bus, I'm afraid." "What a rotten business. I had hoped we'd all have another go at the Irati together." "We have to go _into_ Pamplona. We're meeting people there." "What rotten luck for me. We've had a jolly time here at Burguete." "Come on in to Pamplona. We can play some bridge there, and there's going to be a damned fine fiesta." "I'd like to. Awfully nice of you to ask me. I'd best stop on here, though. I've not much more time to fish." "You want those big ones in the Irati." "I say, I do, you know. They're enormous trout there." "I'd like to try them once more." "Do. Stop over another day. Be a good chap." "We really have to get into town," I said. "What a pity." After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt. "Por ustedes?" I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us."<|quote|>She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill.</|quote|>"What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty." We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank. "What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?" "It has the look of a pub," Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here." "We've had a grand time, Harris." Harris was a little tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris." "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time." "How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris. "This is mine," said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know." "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. | from the trees was long and went out over the dam. I was stiff from sleeping on the ground. "What did you do? Wake up?" Bill asked. "Why didn't you spend the night?" I stretched and rubbed my eyes. "I had a lovely dream," Bill said. "I don't remember what it was about, but it was a lovely dream." "I don't think I dreamt." "You ought to dream," Bill said. "All our biggest business men have been dreamers. Look at Ford. Look at President Coolidge. Look at Rockefeller. Look at Jo Davidson." I disjointed my rod and Bill's and packed them in the rod-case. I put the reels in the tackle-bag. Bill had packed the rucksack and we put one of the trout-bags in. I carried the other. "Well," said Bill, "have we got everything?" "The worms." "Your worms. Put them in there." He had the pack on his back and I put the worm-cans in one of the outside flap pockets. "You got everything now?" I looked around on the grass at the foot of the elm-trees. "Yes." We started up the road into the woods. It was a long walk home to Burguete, and it was dark when we came down across the fields to the road, and along the road between the houses of the town, their windows lighted, to the inn. We stayed five days at Burguete and had good fishing. The nights were cold and the days were hot, and there was always a breeze even in the heat of the day. It was hot enough so that it felt good to wade in a cold stream, and the sun dried you when you came out and sat on the bank. We found a stream with a pool deep enough to swim in. In the evenings we played three-handed bridge with an Englishman named Harris, who had walked over from Saint Jean Pied de Port and was stopping at the inn for the fishing. He was very pleasant and went with us twice to the Irati River. There was no word from Robert Cohn nor from Brett and Mike. CHAPTER 13 One morning I went down to breakfast and the Englishman, Harris, was already at the table. He was reading the paper through spectacles. He looked up and smiled. "Good morning," he said. "Letter for you. I stopped at the post and they gave it me with mine." The letter was at my place at the table, leaning against a coffee-cup. Harris was reading the paper again. I opened the letter. It had been forwarded from Pamplona. It was dated San Sebastian, Sunday: DEAR JAKE, We got here Friday, Brett passed out on the train, so brought her here for 3 days rest with old friends of ours. We go to Montoya Hotel Pamplona Tuesday, arriving at I don't know what hour. Will you send a note by the bus to tell us what to do to rejoin you all on Wednesday. All our love and sorry to be late, but Brett was really done in and will be quite all right by Tues. and is practically so now. I know her so well and try to look after her but it's not so easy. Love to all the chaps, MICHAEL. "What day of the week is it?" I asked Harris. "Wednesday, I think. Yes, quite. Wednesday. Wonderful how one loses track of the days up here in the mountains." "Yes. We've been here nearly a week." "I hope you're not thinking of leaving?" "Yes. We'll go in on the afternoon bus, I'm afraid." "What a rotten business. I had hoped we'd all have another go at the Irati together." "We have to go _into_ Pamplona. We're meeting people there." "What rotten luck for me. We've had a jolly time here at Burguete." "Come on in to Pamplona. We can play some bridge there, and there's going to be a damned fine fiesta." "I'd like to. Awfully nice of you to ask me. I'd best stop on here, though. I've not much more time to fish." "You want those big ones in the Irati." "I say, I do, you know. They're enormous trout there." "I'd like to try them once more." "Do. Stop over another day. Be a good chap." "We really have to get into town," I said. "What a pity." After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt. "Por ustedes?" I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us."<|quote|>She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill.</|quote|>"What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty." We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank. "What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?" "It has the look of a pub," Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here." "We've had a grand time, Harris." Harris was a little tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris." "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time." "How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris. "This is mine," said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know." "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass. "I say. You know this does utilize well." Bill slapped him on the back. "Good old Harris." "I say. You know my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson-Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you know." "Good old Wilson-Harris," Bill said. "We call you Harris because we're so fond of you." "I say, Barnes. You don't know what this all means to me." "Come on and utilize another glass," I said. "Barnes. Really, Barnes, you can't know. That's all." "Drink up, Harris." We walked back down the road from Roncesvalles with Harris between us. We had lunch at the inn and Harris went with us to the bus. He gave us his card, with his address in London and his club and his business address, and as we got on the bus he handed us each an envelope. I opened mine and there were a dozen flies in it. Harris had tied them himself. He tied all his own flies. "I say, Harris--" I began. "No, no!" he said. He was climbing down from the bus. "They're not first-rate flies at all. I only thought if you fished them some time it might remind you of what a good time we had." The bus started. Harris stood in front of the post-office. He waved. As we started along the road he turned and walked back toward the inn. "Say, wasn't that Harris nice?" Bill said. "I think he really did have a good time." "Harris? You bet he did." "I wish he'd come into Pamplona." "He wanted to fish." "Yes. You couldn't tell how English would mix with each other, anyway." "I suppose not." We got into Pamplona late in the afternoon and the bus stopped in front of the Hotel Montoya. Out in the plaza they were stringing electric-light wires to light the plaza for the fiesta. A few kids came up when the bus stopped, and a customs officer for the town made all the people getting down from the bus open their bundles on the sidewalk. We went into the hotel and on the stairs I met Montoya. He shook hands with us, smiling in his embarrassed way. "Your friends are here," he said. "Mr. Campbell?" "Yes. Mr. Cohn and Mr. Campbell and Lady Ashley." He smiled as though there were something I would hear about. "When | spectacles. He looked up and smiled. "Good morning," he said. "Letter for you. I stopped at the post and they gave it me with mine." The letter was at my place at the table, leaning against a coffee-cup. Harris was reading the paper again. I opened the letter. It had been forwarded from Pamplona. It was dated San Sebastian, Sunday: DEAR JAKE, We got here Friday, Brett passed out on the train, so brought her here for 3 days rest with old friends of ours. We go to Montoya Hotel Pamplona Tuesday, arriving at I don't know what hour. Will you send a note by the bus to tell us what to do to rejoin you all on Wednesday. All our love and sorry to be late, but Brett was really done in and will be quite all right by Tues. and is practically so now. I know her so well and try to look after her but it's not so easy. Love to all the chaps, MICHAEL. "What day of the week is it?" I asked Harris. "Wednesday, I think. Yes, quite. Wednesday. Wonderful how one loses track of the days up here in the mountains." "Yes. We've been here nearly a week." "I hope you're not thinking of leaving?" "Yes. We'll go in on the afternoon bus, I'm afraid." "What a rotten business. I had hoped we'd all have another go at the Irati together." "We have to go _into_ Pamplona. We're meeting people there." "What rotten luck for me. We've had a jolly time here at Burguete." "Come on in to Pamplona. We can play some bridge there, and there's going to be a damned fine fiesta." "I'd like to. Awfully nice of you to ask me. I'd best stop on here, though. I've not much more time to fish." "You want those big ones in the Irati." "I say, I do, you know. They're enormous trout there." "I'd like to try them once more." "Do. Stop over another day. Be a good chap." "We really have to get into town," I said. "What a pity." After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt. "Por ustedes?" I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us."<|quote|>She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill.</|quote|>"What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty." We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank. "What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?" "It has the look of a pub," Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here." "We've had a grand time, Harris." Harris was a little tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris." "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time." "How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris. "This is mine," said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know." "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass. "I say. You know this does utilize well." Bill slapped him on the back. "Good old Harris." "I say. You know my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson-Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you know." "Good old Wilson-Harris," Bill said. "We call you Harris because we're so fond of you." "I say, Barnes. You don't know what this all means to me." "Come on and utilize another glass," I said. "Barnes. Really, Barnes, you can't know. That's all." "Drink up, Harris." We walked back down the road from Roncesvalles with Harris between us. We had lunch at the inn and Harris went with us to the bus. He gave us his card, | The Sun Also Rises |
said Louisa, her colour deepening, | No speaker | "I felt compassion for him,"<|quote|>said Louisa, her colour deepening,</|quote|>"and I wished to know | came to Stephen's that night." "I felt compassion for him,"<|quote|>said Louisa, her colour deepening,</|quote|>"and I wished to know what he was going to | whelp bitterly, "she tells her own story so precious well and so full that what business had I to take it out of her mouth!" "Say, young lady, if you please," pursued Rachael, "why, in an evil hour, you ever came to Stephen's that night." "I felt compassion for him,"<|quote|>said Louisa, her colour deepening,</|quote|>"and I wished to know what he was going to do, and wished to offer him assistance." "Thank you, ma'am," said Bounderby. "Much flattered and obliged." "Did you offer him," asked Rachael, "a bank-note?" "Yes; but he refused it, and would only take two pounds in gold." Rachael cast her | was there too; and an old woman who did not speak, and whom I could scarcely see, stood in a dark corner. My brother was with me." "Why couldn't you say so, young Tom?" demanded Bounderby. "I promised my sister I wouldn't." Which Louisa hastily confirmed. "And besides," said the whelp bitterly, "she tells her own story so precious well and so full that what business had I to take it out of her mouth!" "Say, young lady, if you please," pursued Rachael, "why, in an evil hour, you ever came to Stephen's that night." "I felt compassion for him,"<|quote|>said Louisa, her colour deepening,</|quote|>"and I wished to know what he was going to do, and wished to offer him assistance." "Thank you, ma'am," said Bounderby. "Much flattered and obliged." "Did you offer him," asked Rachael, "a bank-note?" "Yes; but he refused it, and would only take two pounds in gold." Rachael cast her eyes towards Mr. Bounderby again. "Oh, certainly!" said Bounderby. "If you put the question whether your ridiculous and improbable account was true or not, I am bound to say it's confirmed." "Young lady," said Rachael, "Stephen Blackpool is now named as a thief in public print all over this town, | at all about those statements, good or bad, I am obliged to confront her with your daughter." "You have seen me once before, young lady," said Rachael, standing in front of Louisa. Tom coughed. "You have seen me, young lady," repeated Rachael, as she did not answer, "once before." Tom coughed again. "I have." Rachael cast her eyes proudly towards Mr. Bounderby, and said, "Will you make it known, young lady, where, and who was there?" "I went to the house where Stephen Blackpool lodged, on the night of his discharge from his work, and I saw you there. He was there too; and an old woman who did not speak, and whom I could scarcely see, stood in a dark corner. My brother was with me." "Why couldn't you say so, young Tom?" demanded Bounderby. "I promised my sister I wouldn't." Which Louisa hastily confirmed. "And besides," said the whelp bitterly, "she tells her own story so precious well and so full that what business had I to take it out of her mouth!" "Say, young lady, if you please," pursued Rachael, "why, in an evil hour, you ever came to Stephen's that night." "I felt compassion for him,"<|quote|>said Louisa, her colour deepening,</|quote|>"and I wished to know what he was going to do, and wished to offer him assistance." "Thank you, ma'am," said Bounderby. "Much flattered and obliged." "Did you offer him," asked Rachael, "a bank-note?" "Yes; but he refused it, and would only take two pounds in gold." Rachael cast her eyes towards Mr. Bounderby again. "Oh, certainly!" said Bounderby. "If you put the question whether your ridiculous and improbable account was true or not, I am bound to say it's confirmed." "Young lady," said Rachael, "Stephen Blackpool is now named as a thief in public print all over this town, and where else! There have been a meeting to-night where he have been spoken of in the same shameful way. Stephen! The honestest lad, the truest lad, the best!" Her indignation failed her, and she broke off sobbing. "I am very, very sorry," said Louisa. "Oh, young lady, young lady," returned Rachael, "I hope you may be, but I don't know! I can't say what you may ha' done! The like of you don't know us, don't care for us, don't belong to us. I am not sure why you may ha' come that night. I can't tell but what | him, as he sat demonstratively panting at them. These men and women were yet in the streets, passing quietly to their homes, when Sissy, who had been called away from Louisa some minutes before, returned. "Who is it?" asked Louisa. "It is Mr. Bounderby," said Sissy, timid of the name, "and your brother Mr. Tom, and a young woman who says her name is Rachael, and that you know her." "What do they want, Sissy dear?" "They want to see you. Rachael has been crying, and seems angry." "Father," said Louisa, for he was present, "I cannot refuse to see them, for a reason that will explain itself. Shall they come in here?" As he answered in the affirmative, Sissy went away to bring them. She reappeared with them directly. Tom was last; and remained standing in the obscurest part of the room, near the door. "Mrs. Bounderby," said her husband, entering with a cool nod, "I don't disturb you, I hope. This is an unseasonable hour, but here is a young woman who has been making statements which render my visit necessary. Tom Gradgrind, as your son, young Tom, refuses for some obstinate reason or other to say anything at all about those statements, good or bad, I am obliged to confront her with your daughter." "You have seen me once before, young lady," said Rachael, standing in front of Louisa. Tom coughed. "You have seen me, young lady," repeated Rachael, as she did not answer, "once before." Tom coughed again. "I have." Rachael cast her eyes proudly towards Mr. Bounderby, and said, "Will you make it known, young lady, where, and who was there?" "I went to the house where Stephen Blackpool lodged, on the night of his discharge from his work, and I saw you there. He was there too; and an old woman who did not speak, and whom I could scarcely see, stood in a dark corner. My brother was with me." "Why couldn't you say so, young Tom?" demanded Bounderby. "I promised my sister I wouldn't." Which Louisa hastily confirmed. "And besides," said the whelp bitterly, "she tells her own story so precious well and so full that what business had I to take it out of her mouth!" "Say, young lady, if you please," pursued Rachael, "why, in an evil hour, you ever came to Stephen's that night." "I felt compassion for him,"<|quote|>said Louisa, her colour deepening,</|quote|>"and I wished to know what he was going to do, and wished to offer him assistance." "Thank you, ma'am," said Bounderby. "Much flattered and obliged." "Did you offer him," asked Rachael, "a bank-note?" "Yes; but he refused it, and would only take two pounds in gold." Rachael cast her eyes towards Mr. Bounderby again. "Oh, certainly!" said Bounderby. "If you put the question whether your ridiculous and improbable account was true or not, I am bound to say it's confirmed." "Young lady," said Rachael, "Stephen Blackpool is now named as a thief in public print all over this town, and where else! There have been a meeting to-night where he have been spoken of in the same shameful way. Stephen! The honestest lad, the truest lad, the best!" Her indignation failed her, and she broke off sobbing. "I am very, very sorry," said Louisa. "Oh, young lady, young lady," returned Rachael, "I hope you may be, but I don't know! I can't say what you may ha' done! The like of you don't know us, don't care for us, don't belong to us. I am not sure why you may ha' come that night. I can't tell but what you may ha' come wi' some aim of your own, not mindin to what trouble you brought such as the poor lad. I said then, Bless you for coming; and I said it of my heart, you seemed to take so pitifully to him; but I don't know now, I don't know!" Louisa could not reproach her for her unjust suspicions; she was so faithful to her idea of the man, and so afflicted. "And when I think," said Rachael through her sobs, "that the poor lad was so grateful, thinkin you so good to him when I mind that he put his hand over his hard-worken face to hide the tears that you brought up there Oh, I hope you may be sorry, and ha' no bad cause to be it; but I don't know, I don't know!" "You're a pretty article," growled the whelp, moving uneasily in his dark corner, "to come here with these precious imputations! You ought to be bundled out for not knowing how to behave yourself, and you would be by rights." She said nothing in reply; and her low weeping was the only sound that was heard, until Mr. Bounderby spoke. "Come!" said | set forth in this degrading and disgusting document, this blighting bill, this pernicious placard, this abominable advertisement; and with what majesty of denouncement will you crush the viper, who would bring this stain and shame upon the God-like race that happily has cast him out for ever! Yes, my compatriots, happily cast him out and sent him forth! For you remember how he stood here before you on this platform; you remember how, face to face and foot to foot, I pursued him through all his intricate windings; you remember how he sneaked and slunk, and sidled, and splitted of straws, until, with not an inch of ground to which to cling, I hurled him out from amongst us: an object for the undying finger of scorn to point at, and for the avenging fire of every free and thinking mind to scorch and scar! And now, my friends my labouring friends, for I rejoice and triumph in that stigma my friends whose hard but honest beds are made in toil, and whose scanty but independent pots are boiled in hardship; and now, I say, my friends, what appellation has that dastard craven taken to himself, when, with the mask torn from his features, he stands before us in all his native deformity, a What? A thief! A plunderer! A proscribed fugitive, with a price upon his head; a fester and a wound upon the noble character of the Coketown operative! Therefore, my band of brothers in a sacred bond, to which your children and your children's children yet unborn have set their infant hands and seals, I propose to you on the part of the United Aggregate Tribunal, ever watchful for your welfare, ever zealous for your benefit, that this meeting does Resolve: That Stephen Blackpool, weaver, referred to in this placard, having been already solemnly disowned by the community of Coketown Hands, the same are free from the shame of his misdeeds, and cannot as a class be reproached with his dishonest actions!" Thus Slackbridge; gnashing and perspiring after a prodigious sort. A few stern voices called out "No!" and a score or two hailed, with assenting cries of "Hear, hear!" the caution from one man, "Slackbridge, y'or over hetter in't; y'or a goen too fast!" But these were pigmies against an army; the general assemblage subscribed to the gospel according to Slackbridge, and gave three cheers for him, as he sat demonstratively panting at them. These men and women were yet in the streets, passing quietly to their homes, when Sissy, who had been called away from Louisa some minutes before, returned. "Who is it?" asked Louisa. "It is Mr. Bounderby," said Sissy, timid of the name, "and your brother Mr. Tom, and a young woman who says her name is Rachael, and that you know her." "What do they want, Sissy dear?" "They want to see you. Rachael has been crying, and seems angry." "Father," said Louisa, for he was present, "I cannot refuse to see them, for a reason that will explain itself. Shall they come in here?" As he answered in the affirmative, Sissy went away to bring them. She reappeared with them directly. Tom was last; and remained standing in the obscurest part of the room, near the door. "Mrs. Bounderby," said her husband, entering with a cool nod, "I don't disturb you, I hope. This is an unseasonable hour, but here is a young woman who has been making statements which render my visit necessary. Tom Gradgrind, as your son, young Tom, refuses for some obstinate reason or other to say anything at all about those statements, good or bad, I am obliged to confront her with your daughter." "You have seen me once before, young lady," said Rachael, standing in front of Louisa. Tom coughed. "You have seen me, young lady," repeated Rachael, as she did not answer, "once before." Tom coughed again. "I have." Rachael cast her eyes proudly towards Mr. Bounderby, and said, "Will you make it known, young lady, where, and who was there?" "I went to the house where Stephen Blackpool lodged, on the night of his discharge from his work, and I saw you there. He was there too; and an old woman who did not speak, and whom I could scarcely see, stood in a dark corner. My brother was with me." "Why couldn't you say so, young Tom?" demanded Bounderby. "I promised my sister I wouldn't." Which Louisa hastily confirmed. "And besides," said the whelp bitterly, "she tells her own story so precious well and so full that what business had I to take it out of her mouth!" "Say, young lady, if you please," pursued Rachael, "why, in an evil hour, you ever came to Stephen's that night." "I felt compassion for him,"<|quote|>said Louisa, her colour deepening,</|quote|>"and I wished to know what he was going to do, and wished to offer him assistance." "Thank you, ma'am," said Bounderby. "Much flattered and obliged." "Did you offer him," asked Rachael, "a bank-note?" "Yes; but he refused it, and would only take two pounds in gold." Rachael cast her eyes towards Mr. Bounderby again. "Oh, certainly!" said Bounderby. "If you put the question whether your ridiculous and improbable account was true or not, I am bound to say it's confirmed." "Young lady," said Rachael, "Stephen Blackpool is now named as a thief in public print all over this town, and where else! There have been a meeting to-night where he have been spoken of in the same shameful way. Stephen! The honestest lad, the truest lad, the best!" Her indignation failed her, and she broke off sobbing. "I am very, very sorry," said Louisa. "Oh, young lady, young lady," returned Rachael, "I hope you may be, but I don't know! I can't say what you may ha' done! The like of you don't know us, don't care for us, don't belong to us. I am not sure why you may ha' come that night. I can't tell but what you may ha' come wi' some aim of your own, not mindin to what trouble you brought such as the poor lad. I said then, Bless you for coming; and I said it of my heart, you seemed to take so pitifully to him; but I don't know now, I don't know!" Louisa could not reproach her for her unjust suspicions; she was so faithful to her idea of the man, and so afflicted. "And when I think," said Rachael through her sobs, "that the poor lad was so grateful, thinkin you so good to him when I mind that he put his hand over his hard-worken face to hide the tears that you brought up there Oh, I hope you may be sorry, and ha' no bad cause to be it; but I don't know, I don't know!" "You're a pretty article," growled the whelp, moving uneasily in his dark corner, "to come here with these precious imputations! You ought to be bundled out for not knowing how to behave yourself, and you would be by rights." She said nothing in reply; and her low weeping was the only sound that was heard, until Mr. Bounderby spoke. "Come!" said he, "you know what you have engaged to do. You had better give your mind to that; not this." "'Deed, I am loath," returned Rachael, drying her eyes, "that any here should see me like this; but I won't be seen so again. Young lady, when I had read what's put in print of Stephen and what has just as much truth in it as if it had been put in print of you I went straight to the Bank to say I knew where Stephen was, and to give a sure and certain promise that he should be here in two days. I couldn't meet wi' Mr. Bounderby then, and your brother sent me away, and I tried to find you, but you was not to be found, and I went back to work. Soon as I come out of the Mill to-night, I hastened to hear what was said of Stephen for I know wi' pride he will come back to shame it! and then I went again to seek Mr. Bounderby, and I found him, and I told him every word I knew; and he believed no word I said, and brought me here." "So far, that's true enough," assented Mr. Bounderby, with his hands in his pockets and his hat on. "But I have known you people before to-day, you'll observe, and I know you never die for want of talking. Now, I recommend you not so much to mind talking just now, as doing. You have undertaken to do something; all I remark upon that at present is, do it!" "I have written to Stephen by the post that went out this afternoon, as I have written to him once before sin' he went away," said Rachael; "and he will be here, at furthest, in two days." "Then, I'll tell you something. You are not aware perhaps," retorted Mr. Bounderby, "that you yourself have been looked after now and then, not being considered quite free from suspicion in this business, on account of most people being judged according to the company they keep. The post-office hasn't been forgotten either. What I'll tell you is, that no letter to Stephen Blackpool has ever got into it. Therefore, what has become of yours, I leave you to guess. Perhaps you're mistaken, and never wrote any." "He hadn't been gone from here, young lady," said Rachael, turning appealingly | door. "Mrs. Bounderby," said her husband, entering with a cool nod, "I don't disturb you, I hope. This is an unseasonable hour, but here is a young woman who has been making statements which render my visit necessary. Tom Gradgrind, as your son, young Tom, refuses for some obstinate reason or other to say anything at all about those statements, good or bad, I am obliged to confront her with your daughter." "You have seen me once before, young lady," said Rachael, standing in front of Louisa. Tom coughed. "You have seen me, young lady," repeated Rachael, as she did not answer, "once before." Tom coughed again. "I have." Rachael cast her eyes proudly towards Mr. Bounderby, and said, "Will you make it known, young lady, where, and who was there?" "I went to the house where Stephen Blackpool lodged, on the night of his discharge from his work, and I saw you there. He was there too; and an old woman who did not speak, and whom I could scarcely see, stood in a dark corner. My brother was with me." "Why couldn't you say so, young Tom?" demanded Bounderby. "I promised my sister I wouldn't." Which Louisa hastily confirmed. "And besides," said the whelp bitterly, "she tells her own story so precious well and so full that what business had I to take it out of her mouth!" "Say, young lady, if you please," pursued Rachael, "why, in an evil hour, you ever came to Stephen's that night." "I felt compassion for him,"<|quote|>said Louisa, her colour deepening,</|quote|>"and I wished to know what he was going to do, and wished to offer him assistance." "Thank you, ma'am," said Bounderby. "Much flattered and obliged." "Did you offer him," asked Rachael, "a bank-note?" "Yes; but he refused it, and would only take two pounds in gold." Rachael cast her eyes towards Mr. Bounderby again. "Oh, certainly!" said Bounderby. "If you put the question whether your ridiculous and improbable account was true or not, I am bound to say it's confirmed." "Young lady," said Rachael, "Stephen Blackpool is now named as a thief in public print all over this town, and where else! There have been a meeting to-night where he have been spoken of in the same shameful way. Stephen! The honestest lad, the truest lad, the best!" Her indignation failed her, and she broke off sobbing. "I am very, very sorry," said Louisa. "Oh, young lady, young lady," returned Rachael, "I hope you may be, but I don't know! I can't say what you may ha' done! The like of you don't know us, don't care for us, don't belong to us. I am not sure why you may ha' come that night. I can't tell but what you may ha' come wi' some aim of your own, not mindin to what trouble you brought such as the poor lad. I said then, Bless you for coming; and I said it of my heart, you seemed to take so pitifully to him; but I don't know now, I don't know!" Louisa could not reproach her for her unjust suspicions; she was so faithful to her idea of the man, and so afflicted. "And when I think," said Rachael through her sobs, "that the poor lad was so grateful, thinkin you so good to him when I mind that he put his hand over his hard-worken face to hide the tears that you brought up there Oh, I hope you may be sorry, and ha' no bad cause to be it; but I don't know, I don't know!" "You're a pretty article," growled the whelp, moving uneasily in his dark corner, "to come here with these precious imputations! You ought to be bundled out for not knowing how to behave yourself, and you would be by rights." She said nothing in reply; and her low weeping was the only sound that was heard, until Mr. Bounderby spoke. "Come!" said he, "you know what you have engaged to do. You had better give your mind to that; not this." "'Deed, I am loath," returned Rachael, drying her eyes, "that any here should see me like this; but I won't be seen so again. Young lady, when I had read what's put in print of Stephen and what has just as much truth in it as if it had been put in print of you I went straight to the Bank to say I knew where Stephen was, and to give a sure and certain promise that he should be here in two days. I couldn't meet wi' Mr. Bounderby | Hard Times |
"I ask you: did he do it or not? Is that plain? I know he didn't, and from that I start. I mean to get at the true explanation in a couple of days. My last notion is that it's the guide who went round with them. Malice on Miss Quested's part it couldn't be that, though Hamidullah thinks so. She has certainly had some appalling experience. But you tell me, oh no because good and evil are the same." | Cyril Fielding | and in short tripping syllables.<|quote|>"I ask you: did he do it or not? Is that plain? I know he didn't, and from that I start. I mean to get at the true explanation in a couple of days. My last notion is that it's the guide who went round with them. Malice on Miss Quested's part it couldn't be that, though Hamidullah thinks so. She has certainly had some appalling experience. But you tell me, oh no because good and evil are the same."</|quote|>"No, not exactly, please, according | us." He spoke without emotion and in short tripping syllables.<|quote|>"I ask you: did he do it or not? Is that plain? I know he didn't, and from that I start. I mean to get at the true explanation in a couple of days. My last notion is that it's the guide who went round with them. Malice on Miss Quested's part it couldn't be that, though Hamidullah thinks so. She has certainly had some appalling experience. But you tell me, oh no because good and evil are the same."</|quote|>"No, not exactly, please, according to our philosophy. Because nothing | our philosophy. Dr. Aziz is a most worthy young man, I have a great regard for him; but I think you are asking me whether the individual can commit good actions or evil actions, and that is rather difficult for us." He spoke without emotion and in short tripping syllables.<|quote|>"I ask you: did he do it or not? Is that plain? I know he didn't, and from that I start. I mean to get at the true explanation in a couple of days. My last notion is that it's the guide who went round with them. Malice on Miss Quested's part it couldn't be that, though Hamidullah thinks so. She has certainly had some appalling experience. But you tell me, oh no because good and evil are the same."</|quote|>"No, not exactly, please, according to our philosophy. Because nothing can be performed in isolation. All perform a good action, when one is performed, and when an evil action is performed, all perform it. To illustrate my meaning, let me take the case in point as an example." "I am | a man we both like, generally esteemed; he lives here quietly doing his work. Well, what's one to make of it? Would he or would he not do such a thing?" "Ah, that is rather a different question from your previous one, and also more difficult: I mean difficult in our philosophy. Dr. Aziz is a most worthy young man, I have a great regard for him; but I think you are asking me whether the individual can commit good actions or evil actions, and that is rather difficult for us." He spoke without emotion and in short tripping syllables.<|quote|>"I ask you: did he do it or not? Is that plain? I know he didn't, and from that I start. I mean to get at the true explanation in a couple of days. My last notion is that it's the guide who went round with them. Malice on Miss Quested's part it couldn't be that, though Hamidullah thinks so. She has certainly had some appalling experience. But you tell me, oh no because good and evil are the same."</|quote|>"No, not exactly, please, according to our philosophy. Because nothing can be performed in isolation. All perform a good action, when one is performed, and when an evil action is performed, all perform it. To illustrate my meaning, let me take the case in point as an example." "I am informed that an evil action was performed in the Marabar Hills, and that a highly esteemed English lady is now seriously ill in consequence. My answer to that is this: that action was performed by Dr. Aziz." He stopped and sucked in his thin cheeks. "It was performed by the | yes. Oh no, I do not expect an answer to my question now. I only meant that when you are at leisure, you might think the matter over, and suggest two or three alternative titles for schools. I had thought of the Mr. Fielding High School,' but failing that, the King-Emperor George the Fifth.'" "Godbole!" The old fellow put his hands together, and looked sly and charming. "Is Aziz innocent or guilty?" "That is for the Court to decide. The verdict will be in strict accordance with the evidence, I make no doubt." "Yes, yes, but your personal opinion. Here's a man we both like, generally esteemed; he lives here quietly doing his work. Well, what's one to make of it? Would he or would he not do such a thing?" "Ah, that is rather a different question from your previous one, and also more difficult: I mean difficult in our philosophy. Dr. Aziz is a most worthy young man, I have a great regard for him; but I think you are asking me whether the individual can commit good actions or evil actions, and that is rather difficult for us." He spoke without emotion and in short tripping syllables.<|quote|>"I ask you: did he do it or not? Is that plain? I know he didn't, and from that I start. I mean to get at the true explanation in a couple of days. My last notion is that it's the guide who went round with them. Malice on Miss Quested's part it couldn't be that, though Hamidullah thinks so. She has certainly had some appalling experience. But you tell me, oh no because good and evil are the same."</|quote|>"No, not exactly, please, according to our philosophy. Because nothing can be performed in isolation. All perform a good action, when one is performed, and when an evil action is performed, all perform it. To illustrate my meaning, let me take the case in point as an example." "I am informed that an evil action was performed in the Marabar Hills, and that a highly esteemed English lady is now seriously ill in consequence. My answer to that is this: that action was performed by Dr. Aziz." He stopped and sucked in his thin cheeks. "It was performed by the guide." He stopped again. "It was performed by you." Now he had an air of daring and of coyness. "It was performed by me." He looked shyly down the sleeve of his own coat. "And by my students. It was even performed by the lady herself. When evil occurs, it expresses the whole of the universe. Similarly when good occurs." "And similarly when suffering occurs, and so on and so forth, and everything is anything and nothing something," he muttered in his irritation, for he needed the solid ground. "Excuse me, you are now again changing the basis of our | your help; I am leaving your service shortly, as you know." "Yes, alas!" "And am returning to my birthplace in Central India to take charge of education there. I want to start a High School there on sound English lines, that shall be as like Government College as possible." "Well?" he sighed, trying to take an interest. "At present there is only vernacular education at Mau. I shall feel it my duty to change all that. I shall advise His Highness to sanction at least a High School in the Capital, and if possible another in each pargana." Fielding sunk his head on his arms; really, Indians were sometimes unbearable. "The point the point on which I desire your help is this: what name should be given to the school?" "A name? A name for a school?" he said, feeling sickish suddenly, as he had done in the waiting-room. "Yes, a name, a suitable title, by which it can be called, by which it may be generally known." "Really I have no names for schools in my head. I can think of nothing but our poor Aziz. Have you grasped that at the present moment he is in prison?" "Oh yes. Oh no, I do not expect an answer to my question now. I only meant that when you are at leisure, you might think the matter over, and suggest two or three alternative titles for schools. I had thought of the Mr. Fielding High School,' but failing that, the King-Emperor George the Fifth.'" "Godbole!" The old fellow put his hands together, and looked sly and charming. "Is Aziz innocent or guilty?" "That is for the Court to decide. The verdict will be in strict accordance with the evidence, I make no doubt." "Yes, yes, but your personal opinion. Here's a man we both like, generally esteemed; he lives here quietly doing his work. Well, what's one to make of it? Would he or would he not do such a thing?" "Ah, that is rather a different question from your previous one, and also more difficult: I mean difficult in our philosophy. Dr. Aziz is a most worthy young man, I have a great regard for him; but I think you are asking me whether the individual can commit good actions or evil actions, and that is rather difficult for us." He spoke without emotion and in short tripping syllables.<|quote|>"I ask you: did he do it or not? Is that plain? I know he didn't, and from that I start. I mean to get at the true explanation in a couple of days. My last notion is that it's the guide who went round with them. Malice on Miss Quested's part it couldn't be that, though Hamidullah thinks so. She has certainly had some appalling experience. But you tell me, oh no because good and evil are the same."</|quote|>"No, not exactly, please, according to our philosophy. Because nothing can be performed in isolation. All perform a good action, when one is performed, and when an evil action is performed, all perform it. To illustrate my meaning, let me take the case in point as an example." "I am informed that an evil action was performed in the Marabar Hills, and that a highly esteemed English lady is now seriously ill in consequence. My answer to that is this: that action was performed by Dr. Aziz." He stopped and sucked in his thin cheeks. "It was performed by the guide." He stopped again. "It was performed by you." Now he had an air of daring and of coyness. "It was performed by me." He looked shyly down the sleeve of his own coat. "And by my students. It was even performed by the lady herself. When evil occurs, it expresses the whole of the universe. Similarly when good occurs." "And similarly when suffering occurs, and so on and so forth, and everything is anything and nothing something," he muttered in his irritation, for he needed the solid ground. "Excuse me, you are now again changing the basis of our discussion. We were discussing good and evil. Suffering is merely a matter for the individual. If a young lady has sunstroke, that is a matter of no significance to the universe. Oh no, not at all. Oh no, not the least. It is an isolated matter, it only concerns herself. If she thought her head did not ache, she would not be ill, and that would end it. But it is far otherwise in the case of good and evil. They are not what we think them, they are what they are, and each of us has contributed to both." "You're preaching that evil and good are the same." "Oh no, excuse me once again. Good and evil are different, as their names imply. But, in my own humble opinion, they are both of them aspects of my Lord. He is present in the one, absent in the other, and the difference between presence and absence is great, as great as my feeble mind can grasp. Yet absence implies presence, absence is not non-existence, and we are therefore entitled to repeat, Come, come, come, come.'" And in the same breath, as if to cancel any beauty his words might have | he would be called "anti-British," "seditious" terms that bored him, and diminished his utility. He foresaw that besides being a tragedy, there would be a muddle; already he saw several tiresome little knots, and each time his eye returned to them, they were larger. Born in freedom, he was not afraid of muddle, but he recognized its existence. This section of the day concluded in a queer vague talk with Professor Godbole. The interminable affair of the Russell's Viper was again in question. Some weeks before, one of the masters at the College, an unpopular Parsi, had found a Russell's Viper nosing round his class-room. Perhaps it had crawled in of itself, but perhaps it had not, and the staff still continued to interview their Principal about it, and to take up his time with their theories. The reptile is so poisonous that he did not like to cut them short, and this they knew. Thus when his mind was bursting with other troubles and he was debating whether he should compose a letter of appeal to Miss Quested, he was obliged to listen to a speech which lacked both basis and conclusion, and floated through air. At the end of it Godbole said, "May I now take my leave?" always an indication that he had not come to his point yet. "Now I take my leave, I must tell you how glad I am to hear that after all you succeeded in reaching the Marabar. I feared my unpunctuality had prevented you, but you went (a far pleasanter method) in Miss Derek's car. I hope the expedition was a successful one." "The news has not reached you yet, I can see." "Oh yes." "No; there has been a terrible catastrophe about Aziz." "Oh yes. That is all round the College." "Well, the expedition where that occurs can scarcely be called a successful one," said Fielding, with an amazed stare. "I cannot say. I was not present." He stared again a most useless operation, for no eye could see what lay at the bottom of the Brahman's mind, and yet he had a mind and a heart too, and all his friends trusted him, without knowing why. "I am most frightfully cut up," he said. "So I saw at once on entering your office. I must not detain you, but I have a small private difficulty on which I want your help; I am leaving your service shortly, as you know." "Yes, alas!" "And am returning to my birthplace in Central India to take charge of education there. I want to start a High School there on sound English lines, that shall be as like Government College as possible." "Well?" he sighed, trying to take an interest. "At present there is only vernacular education at Mau. I shall feel it my duty to change all that. I shall advise His Highness to sanction at least a High School in the Capital, and if possible another in each pargana." Fielding sunk his head on his arms; really, Indians were sometimes unbearable. "The point the point on which I desire your help is this: what name should be given to the school?" "A name? A name for a school?" he said, feeling sickish suddenly, as he had done in the waiting-room. "Yes, a name, a suitable title, by which it can be called, by which it may be generally known." "Really I have no names for schools in my head. I can think of nothing but our poor Aziz. Have you grasped that at the present moment he is in prison?" "Oh yes. Oh no, I do not expect an answer to my question now. I only meant that when you are at leisure, you might think the matter over, and suggest two or three alternative titles for schools. I had thought of the Mr. Fielding High School,' but failing that, the King-Emperor George the Fifth.'" "Godbole!" The old fellow put his hands together, and looked sly and charming. "Is Aziz innocent or guilty?" "That is for the Court to decide. The verdict will be in strict accordance with the evidence, I make no doubt." "Yes, yes, but your personal opinion. Here's a man we both like, generally esteemed; he lives here quietly doing his work. Well, what's one to make of it? Would he or would he not do such a thing?" "Ah, that is rather a different question from your previous one, and also more difficult: I mean difficult in our philosophy. Dr. Aziz is a most worthy young man, I have a great regard for him; but I think you are asking me whether the individual can commit good actions or evil actions, and that is rather difficult for us." He spoke without emotion and in short tripping syllables.<|quote|>"I ask you: did he do it or not? Is that plain? I know he didn't, and from that I start. I mean to get at the true explanation in a couple of days. My last notion is that it's the guide who went round with them. Malice on Miss Quested's part it couldn't be that, though Hamidullah thinks so. She has certainly had some appalling experience. But you tell me, oh no because good and evil are the same."</|quote|>"No, not exactly, please, according to our philosophy. Because nothing can be performed in isolation. All perform a good action, when one is performed, and when an evil action is performed, all perform it. To illustrate my meaning, let me take the case in point as an example." "I am informed that an evil action was performed in the Marabar Hills, and that a highly esteemed English lady is now seriously ill in consequence. My answer to that is this: that action was performed by Dr. Aziz." He stopped and sucked in his thin cheeks. "It was performed by the guide." He stopped again. "It was performed by you." Now he had an air of daring and of coyness. "It was performed by me." He looked shyly down the sleeve of his own coat. "And by my students. It was even performed by the lady herself. When evil occurs, it expresses the whole of the universe. Similarly when good occurs." "And similarly when suffering occurs, and so on and so forth, and everything is anything and nothing something," he muttered in his irritation, for he needed the solid ground. "Excuse me, you are now again changing the basis of our discussion. We were discussing good and evil. Suffering is merely a matter for the individual. If a young lady has sunstroke, that is a matter of no significance to the universe. Oh no, not at all. Oh no, not the least. It is an isolated matter, it only concerns herself. If she thought her head did not ache, she would not be ill, and that would end it. But it is far otherwise in the case of good and evil. They are not what we think them, they are what they are, and each of us has contributed to both." "You're preaching that evil and good are the same." "Oh no, excuse me once again. Good and evil are different, as their names imply. But, in my own humble opinion, they are both of them aspects of my Lord. He is present in the one, absent in the other, and the difference between presence and absence is great, as great as my feeble mind can grasp. Yet absence implies presence, absence is not non-existence, and we are therefore entitled to repeat, Come, come, come, come.'" And in the same breath, as if to cancel any beauty his words might have contained, he added, "But did you have time to visit any of the interesting Marabar antiquities?" Fielding was silent, trying to meditate and rest his brain. "Did you not even see the tank by the usual camping ground?" he nagged. "Yes, yes," he answered distractedly, wandering over half a dozen things at once. "That is good, then you saw the Tank of the Dagger." And he related a legend which might have been acceptable if he had told it at the tea-party a fortnight ago. It concerned a Hindu Rajah who had slain his own sister's son, and the dagger with which he performed the deed remained clamped to his hand until in the course of years he came to the Marabar Hills, where he was thirsty and wanted to drink but saw a thirsty cow and ordered the water to be offered to her first, which, when done, "dagger fell from his hand, and to commemorate miracle he built Tank." Professor Godbole's conversations frequently culminated in a cow. Fielding received this one in gloomy silence. In the afternoon he obtained a permit and saw Aziz, but found him unapproachable through misery. "You deserted me," was the only coherent remark. He went away to write his letter to Miss Quested. Even if it reached her, it would do no good, and probably the McBrydes would withhold it. Miss Quested did pull him up short. She was such a dry, sensible girl, and quite without malice: the last person in Chandrapore wrongfully to accuse an Indian. CHAPTER XX Although Miss Quested had not made herself popular with the English, she brought out all that was fine in their character. For a few hours an exalted emotion gushed forth, which the women felt even more keenly than the men, if not for so long. "What can we do for our sister?" was the only thought of Mesdames Callendar and Lesley, as they drove through the pelting heat to enquire. Mrs. Turton was the only visitor admitted to the sick-room. She came out ennobled by an unselfish sorrow. "She is my own darling girl," were the words she spoke, and then, remembering that she had called her "not pukka" and resented her engagement to young Heaslop, she began to cry. No one had ever seen the Collector's wife cry. Capable of tears yes, but always reserving them for some adequate occasion, and now | education there. I want to start a High School there on sound English lines, that shall be as like Government College as possible." "Well?" he sighed, trying to take an interest. "At present there is only vernacular education at Mau. I shall feel it my duty to change all that. I shall advise His Highness to sanction at least a High School in the Capital, and if possible another in each pargana." Fielding sunk his head on his arms; really, Indians were sometimes unbearable. "The point the point on which I desire your help is this: what name should be given to the school?" "A name? A name for a school?" he said, feeling sickish suddenly, as he had done in the waiting-room. "Yes, a name, a suitable title, by which it can be called, by which it may be generally known." "Really I have no names for schools in my head. I can think of nothing but our poor Aziz. Have you grasped that at the present moment he is in prison?" "Oh yes. Oh no, I do not expect an answer to my question now. I only meant that when you are at leisure, you might think the matter over, and suggest two or three alternative titles for schools. I had thought of the Mr. Fielding High School,' but failing that, the King-Emperor George the Fifth.'" "Godbole!" The old fellow put his hands together, and looked sly and charming. "Is Aziz innocent or guilty?" "That is for the Court to decide. The verdict will be in strict accordance with the evidence, I make no doubt." "Yes, yes, but your personal opinion. Here's a man we both like, generally esteemed; he lives here quietly doing his work. Well, what's one to make of it? Would he or would he not do such a thing?" "Ah, that is rather a different question from your previous one, and also more difficult: I mean difficult in our philosophy. Dr. Aziz is a most worthy young man, I have a great regard for him; but I think you are asking me whether the individual can commit good actions or evil actions, and that is rather difficult for us." He spoke without emotion and in short tripping syllables.<|quote|>"I ask you: did he do it or not? Is that plain? I know he didn't, and from that I start. I mean to get at the true explanation in a couple of days. My last notion is that it's the guide who went round with them. Malice on Miss Quested's part it couldn't be that, though Hamidullah thinks so. She has certainly had some appalling experience. But you tell me, oh no because good and evil are the same."</|quote|>"No, not exactly, please, according to our philosophy. Because nothing can be performed in isolation. All perform a good action, when one is performed, and when an evil action is performed, all perform it. To illustrate my meaning, let me take the case in point as an example." "I am informed that an evil action was performed in the Marabar Hills, and that a highly esteemed English lady is now seriously ill in consequence. My answer to that is this: that action was performed by Dr. Aziz." He stopped and sucked in his thin cheeks. "It was performed by the guide." He stopped again. "It was performed by you." Now he had an air of daring and of coyness. "It was performed by me." He looked shyly down the sleeve of his own coat. "And by my students. It was even performed by the lady herself. When evil occurs, it expresses the whole of the universe. Similarly when good occurs." "And similarly when suffering occurs, and so on and so forth, and everything is anything and nothing something," he muttered in his irritation, for he needed the solid ground. "Excuse me, you are now again changing the basis of our discussion. We were discussing good and evil. Suffering is merely a matter for the individual. If a young lady has sunstroke, that is a matter of no significance to the universe. Oh no, not at all. Oh no, not the least. It is an isolated matter, it only concerns herself. If she thought her head did not ache, she would not be ill, and that would end it. But it is far otherwise in the case of good and evil. They are not what we think them, they are what they are, and each of us has contributed to both." "You're preaching that evil and good are the same." "Oh no, excuse me once again. Good and evil are different, as their names imply. But, in my own humble opinion, they are both of them aspects of my Lord. He is present in the one, absent in the other, and the difference between presence and absence is | A Passage To India |
said de Worms, | No speaker | live over there, then?" "Yes,"<|quote|>said de Worms,</|quote|>"behind that particular window which | mean?" asked Syme. "Does he live over there, then?" "Yes,"<|quote|>said de Worms,</|quote|>"behind that particular window which you can't see. Come along | winked at him with one of his innumerable eyes. Professor de Worms swung round on his heel, and struck his stick against his boot. "We are too late," he said, "the hygienic Doctor has gone to bed." "What do you mean?" asked Syme. "Does he live over there, then?" "Yes,"<|quote|>said de Worms,</|quote|>"behind that particular window which you can't see. Come along and get some dinner. We must call on him tomorrow morning." Without further parley, he led the way through several by-ways until they came out into the flare and clamour of the East India Dock Road. The Professor, who seemed | Tower of Babel with a hundred eyes. Syme had never seen any of the sky-scraping buildings in America, so he could only think of the buildings in a dream. Even as he stared, the highest light in this innumerably lighted turret abruptly went out, as if this black Argus had winked at him with one of his innumerable eyes. Professor de Worms swung round on his heel, and struck his stick against his boot. "We are too late," he said, "the hygienic Doctor has gone to bed." "What do you mean?" asked Syme. "Does he live over there, then?" "Yes,"<|quote|>said de Worms,</|quote|>"behind that particular window which you can't see. Come along and get some dinner. We must call on him tomorrow morning." Without further parley, he led the way through several by-ways until they came out into the flare and clamour of the East India Dock Road. The Professor, who seemed to know his way about the neighbourhood, proceeded to a place where the line of lighted shops fell back into a sort of abrupt twilight and quiet, in which an old white inn, all out of repair, stood back some twenty feet from the road. "You can find good English | lives some way off, on the other side of the river, but we can tell from here whether he has gone to bed." Turning the corner as he spoke, and facing the dim river, flecked with flame, he pointed with his stick to the other bank. On the Surrey side at this point there ran out into the Thames, seeming almost to overhang it, a bulk and cluster of those tall tenements, dotted with lighted windows, and rising like factory chimneys to an almost insane height. Their special poise and position made one block of buildings especially look like a Tower of Babel with a hundred eyes. Syme had never seen any of the sky-scraping buildings in America, so he could only think of the buildings in a dream. Even as he stared, the highest light in this innumerably lighted turret abruptly went out, as if this black Argus had winked at him with one of his innumerable eyes. Professor de Worms swung round on his heel, and struck his stick against his boot. "We are too late," he said, "the hygienic Doctor has gone to bed." "What do you mean?" asked Syme. "Does he live over there, then?" "Yes,"<|quote|>said de Worms,</|quote|>"behind that particular window which you can't see. Come along and get some dinner. We must call on him tomorrow morning." Without further parley, he led the way through several by-ways until they came out into the flare and clamour of the East India Dock Road. The Professor, who seemed to know his way about the neighbourhood, proceeded to a place where the line of lighted shops fell back into a sort of abrupt twilight and quiet, in which an old white inn, all out of repair, stood back some twenty feet from the road. "You can find good English inns left by accident everywhere, like fossils," explained the Professor. "I once found a decent place in the West End." "I suppose," said Syme, smiling, "that this is the corresponding decent place in the East End?" "It is," said the Professor reverently, and went in. In that place they dined and slept, both very thoroughly. The beans and bacon, which these unaccountable people cooked well, the astonishing emergence of Burgundy from their cellars, crowned Syme's sense of a new comradeship and comfort. Through all this ordeal his root horror had been isolation, and there are no words to express the | You think that it is possible to pull down the President. I know that it is impossible, and I am going to try it," and opening the tavern door, which let in a blast of bitter air, they went out together into the dark streets by the docks. Most of the snow was melted or trampled to mud, but here and there a clot of it still showed grey rather than white in the gloom. The small streets were sloppy and full of pools, which reflected the flaming lamps irregularly, and by accident, like fragments of some other and fallen world. Syme felt almost dazed as he stepped through this growing confusion of lights and shadows; but his companion walked on with a certain briskness, towards where, at the end of the street, an inch or two of the lamplit river looked like a bar of flame. "Where are you going?" Syme inquired. "Just now," answered the Professor, "I am going just round the corner to see whether Dr. Bull has gone to bed. He is hygienic, and retires early." "Dr. Bull!" exclaimed Syme. "Does he live round the corner?" "No," answered his friend. "As a matter of fact he lives some way off, on the other side of the river, but we can tell from here whether he has gone to bed." Turning the corner as he spoke, and facing the dim river, flecked with flame, he pointed with his stick to the other bank. On the Surrey side at this point there ran out into the Thames, seeming almost to overhang it, a bulk and cluster of those tall tenements, dotted with lighted windows, and rising like factory chimneys to an almost insane height. Their special poise and position made one block of buildings especially look like a Tower of Babel with a hundred eyes. Syme had never seen any of the sky-scraping buildings in America, so he could only think of the buildings in a dream. Even as he stared, the highest light in this innumerably lighted turret abruptly went out, as if this black Argus had winked at him with one of his innumerable eyes. Professor de Worms swung round on his heel, and struck his stick against his boot. "We are too late," he said, "the hygienic Doctor has gone to bed." "What do you mean?" asked Syme. "Does he live over there, then?" "Yes,"<|quote|>said de Worms,</|quote|>"behind that particular window which you can't see. Come along and get some dinner. We must call on him tomorrow morning." Without further parley, he led the way through several by-ways until they came out into the flare and clamour of the East India Dock Road. The Professor, who seemed to know his way about the neighbourhood, proceeded to a place where the line of lighted shops fell back into a sort of abrupt twilight and quiet, in which an old white inn, all out of repair, stood back some twenty feet from the road. "You can find good English inns left by accident everywhere, like fossils," explained the Professor. "I once found a decent place in the West End." "I suppose," said Syme, smiling, "that this is the corresponding decent place in the East End?" "It is," said the Professor reverently, and went in. In that place they dined and slept, both very thoroughly. The beans and bacon, which these unaccountable people cooked well, the astonishing emergence of Burgundy from their cellars, crowned Syme's sense of a new comradeship and comfort. Through all this ordeal his root horror had been isolation, and there are no words to express the abyss between isolation and having one ally. It may be conceded to the mathematicians that four is twice two. But two is not twice one; two is two thousand times one. That is why, in spite of a hundred disadvantages, the world will always return to monogamy. Syme was able to pour out for the first time the whole of his outrageous tale, from the time when Gregory had taken him to the little tavern by the river. He did it idly and amply, in a luxuriant monologue, as a man speaks with very old friends. On his side, also, the man who had impersonated Professor de Worms was not less communicative. His own story was almost as silly as Syme's. "That's a good get-up of yours," said Syme, draining a glass of Macon; "a lot better than old Gogol's. Even at the start I thought he was a bit too hairy." "A difference of artistic theory," replied the Professor pensively. "Gogol was an idealist. He made up as the abstract or platonic ideal of an anarchist. But I am a realist. I am a portrait painter. But, indeed, to say that I am a portrait painter is an inadequate | "Who would condescend to strike down the mere things that he does not fear? Who would debase himself to be merely brave, like any common prizefighter? Who would stoop to be fearless like a tree? Fight the thing that you fear. You remember the old tale of the English clergyman who gave the last rites to the brigand of Sicily, and how on his death-bed the great robber said," I can give you no money, but I can give you advice for a lifetime: your thumb on the blade, and strike upwards.' "So I say to you, strike upwards, if you strike at the stars." The other looked at the ceiling, one of the tricks of his pose. "Sunday is a fixed star," he said. "You shall see him a falling star," said Syme, and put on his hat. The decision of his gesture drew the Professor vaguely to his feet. "Have you any idea," he asked, with a sort of benevolent bewilderment, "exactly where you are going?" "Yes," replied Syme shortly, "I am going to prevent this bomb being thrown in Paris." "Have you any conception how?" inquired the other. "No," said Syme with equal decision. "You remember, of course," resumed the soi-disant de Worms, pulling his beard and looking out of the window, "that when we broke up rather hurriedly the whole arrangements for the atrocity were left in the private hands of the Marquis and Dr. Bull. The Marquis is by this time probably crossing the Channel. But where he will go and what he will do it is doubtful whether even the President knows; certainly we don't know. The only man who does know is Dr. Bull." "Confound it!" cried Syme. "And we don't know where he is." "Yes," said the other in his curious, absent-minded way, "I know where he is myself." "Will you tell me?" asked Syme with eager eyes. "I will take you there," said the Professor, and took down his own hat from a peg. Syme stood looking at him with a sort of rigid excitement. "What do you mean?" he asked sharply. "Will you join me? Will you take the risk?" "Young man," said the Professor pleasantly, "I am amused to observe that you think I am a coward. As to that I will say only one word, and that shall be entirely in the manner of your own philosophical rhetoric. You think that it is possible to pull down the President. I know that it is impossible, and I am going to try it," and opening the tavern door, which let in a blast of bitter air, they went out together into the dark streets by the docks. Most of the snow was melted or trampled to mud, but here and there a clot of it still showed grey rather than white in the gloom. The small streets were sloppy and full of pools, which reflected the flaming lamps irregularly, and by accident, like fragments of some other and fallen world. Syme felt almost dazed as he stepped through this growing confusion of lights and shadows; but his companion walked on with a certain briskness, towards where, at the end of the street, an inch or two of the lamplit river looked like a bar of flame. "Where are you going?" Syme inquired. "Just now," answered the Professor, "I am going just round the corner to see whether Dr. Bull has gone to bed. He is hygienic, and retires early." "Dr. Bull!" exclaimed Syme. "Does he live round the corner?" "No," answered his friend. "As a matter of fact he lives some way off, on the other side of the river, but we can tell from here whether he has gone to bed." Turning the corner as he spoke, and facing the dim river, flecked with flame, he pointed with his stick to the other bank. On the Surrey side at this point there ran out into the Thames, seeming almost to overhang it, a bulk and cluster of those tall tenements, dotted with lighted windows, and rising like factory chimneys to an almost insane height. Their special poise and position made one block of buildings especially look like a Tower of Babel with a hundred eyes. Syme had never seen any of the sky-scraping buildings in America, so he could only think of the buildings in a dream. Even as he stared, the highest light in this innumerably lighted turret abruptly went out, as if this black Argus had winked at him with one of his innumerable eyes. Professor de Worms swung round on his heel, and struck his stick against his boot. "We are too late," he said, "the hygienic Doctor has gone to bed." "What do you mean?" asked Syme. "Does he live over there, then?" "Yes,"<|quote|>said de Worms,</|quote|>"behind that particular window which you can't see. Come along and get some dinner. We must call on him tomorrow morning." Without further parley, he led the way through several by-ways until they came out into the flare and clamour of the East India Dock Road. The Professor, who seemed to know his way about the neighbourhood, proceeded to a place where the line of lighted shops fell back into a sort of abrupt twilight and quiet, in which an old white inn, all out of repair, stood back some twenty feet from the road. "You can find good English inns left by accident everywhere, like fossils," explained the Professor. "I once found a decent place in the West End." "I suppose," said Syme, smiling, "that this is the corresponding decent place in the East End?" "It is," said the Professor reverently, and went in. In that place they dined and slept, both very thoroughly. The beans and bacon, which these unaccountable people cooked well, the astonishing emergence of Burgundy from their cellars, crowned Syme's sense of a new comradeship and comfort. Through all this ordeal his root horror had been isolation, and there are no words to express the abyss between isolation and having one ally. It may be conceded to the mathematicians that four is twice two. But two is not twice one; two is two thousand times one. That is why, in spite of a hundred disadvantages, the world will always return to monogamy. Syme was able to pour out for the first time the whole of his outrageous tale, from the time when Gregory had taken him to the little tavern by the river. He did it idly and amply, in a luxuriant monologue, as a man speaks with very old friends. On his side, also, the man who had impersonated Professor de Worms was not less communicative. His own story was almost as silly as Syme's. "That's a good get-up of yours," said Syme, draining a glass of Macon; "a lot better than old Gogol's. Even at the start I thought he was a bit too hairy." "A difference of artistic theory," replied the Professor pensively. "Gogol was an idealist. He made up as the abstract or platonic ideal of an anarchist. But I am a realist. I am a portrait painter. But, indeed, to say that I am a portrait painter is an inadequate expression. I am a portrait." "I don't understand you," said Syme. "I am a portrait," repeated the Professor. "I am a portrait of the celebrated Professor de Worms, who is, I believe, in Naples." "You mean you are made up like him," said Syme. "But doesn't he know that you are taking his nose in vain?" "He knows it right enough," replied his friend cheerfully. "Then why doesn't he denounce you?" "I have denounced him," answered the Professor. "Do explain yourself," said Syme. "With pleasure, if you don't mind hearing my story," replied the eminent foreign philosopher. "I am by profession an actor, and my name is Wilks. When I was on the stage I mixed with all sorts of Bohemian and blackguard company. Sometimes I touched the edge of the turf, sometimes the riff-raff of the arts, and occasionally the political refugee. In some den of exiled dreamers I was introduced to the great German Nihilist philosopher, Professor de Worms. I did not gather much about him beyond his appearance, which was very disgusting, and which I studied carefully. I understood that he had proved that the destructive principle in the universe was God; hence he insisted on the need for a furious and incessant energy, rending all things in pieces. Energy, he said, was the All. He was lame, shortsighted, and partially paralytic. When I met him I was in a frivolous mood, and I disliked him so much that I resolved to imitate him. If I had been a draughtsman I would have drawn a caricature. I was only an actor, I could only act a caricature. I made myself up into what was meant for a wild exaggeration of the old Professor's dirty old self. When I went into the room full of his supporters I expected to be received with a roar of laughter, or (if they were too far gone) with a roar of indignation at the insult. I cannot describe the surprise I felt when my entrance was received with a respectful silence, followed (when I had first opened my lips) with a murmur of admiration. The curse of the perfect artist had fallen upon me. I had been too subtle, I had been too true. They thought I really was the great Nihilist Professor. I was a healthy-minded young man at the time, and I confess that it was a blow. Before | amused to observe that you think I am a coward. As to that I will say only one word, and that shall be entirely in the manner of your own philosophical rhetoric. You think that it is possible to pull down the President. I know that it is impossible, and I am going to try it," and opening the tavern door, which let in a blast of bitter air, they went out together into the dark streets by the docks. Most of the snow was melted or trampled to mud, but here and there a clot of it still showed grey rather than white in the gloom. The small streets were sloppy and full of pools, which reflected the flaming lamps irregularly, and by accident, like fragments of some other and fallen world. Syme felt almost dazed as he stepped through this growing confusion of lights and shadows; but his companion walked on with a certain briskness, towards where, at the end of the street, an inch or two of the lamplit river looked like a bar of flame. "Where are you going?" Syme inquired. "Just now," answered the Professor, "I am going just round the corner to see whether Dr. Bull has gone to bed. He is hygienic, and retires early." "Dr. Bull!" exclaimed Syme. "Does he live round the corner?" "No," answered his friend. "As a matter of fact he lives some way off, on the other side of the river, but we can tell from here whether he has gone to bed." Turning the corner as he spoke, and facing the dim river, flecked with flame, he pointed with his stick to the other bank. On the Surrey side at this point there ran out into the Thames, seeming almost to overhang it, a bulk and cluster of those tall tenements, dotted with lighted windows, and rising like factory chimneys to an almost insane height. Their special poise and position made one block of buildings especially look like a Tower of Babel with a hundred eyes. Syme had never seen any of the sky-scraping buildings in America, so he could only think of the buildings in a dream. Even as he stared, the highest light in this innumerably lighted turret abruptly went out, as if this black Argus had winked at him with one of his innumerable eyes. Professor de Worms swung round on his heel, and struck his stick against his boot. "We are too late," he said, "the hygienic Doctor has gone to bed." "What do you mean?" asked Syme. "Does he live over there, then?" "Yes,"<|quote|>said de Worms,</|quote|>"behind that particular window which you can't see. Come along and get some dinner. We must call on him tomorrow morning." Without further parley, he led the way through several by-ways until they came out into the flare and clamour of the East India Dock Road. The Professor, who seemed to know his way about the neighbourhood, proceeded to a place where the line of lighted shops fell back into a sort of abrupt twilight and quiet, in which an old white inn, all out of repair, stood back some twenty feet from the road. "You can find good English inns left by accident everywhere, like fossils," explained the Professor. "I once found a decent place in the West End." "I suppose," said Syme, smiling, "that this is the corresponding decent place in the East End?" "It is," said the Professor reverently, and went in. In that place they dined and slept, both very thoroughly. The beans and bacon, which these unaccountable people cooked well, the astonishing emergence of Burgundy from their cellars, crowned Syme's sense of a new comradeship and comfort. Through all this ordeal his root horror had been isolation, and there are no words to express the abyss between isolation and having one ally. It may be conceded to the mathematicians that four is twice two. But two is not twice one; two is two thousand times one. That is why, in spite of a hundred disadvantages, the world will always return to monogamy. Syme was able to pour out for the first time the whole of his outrageous tale, from the time when Gregory had taken him to the little tavern by the river. He did it idly and amply, in a luxuriant monologue, as a man speaks with very old friends. On his side, also, the man who had impersonated Professor de Worms was not less communicative. His own story was almost as silly as Syme's. "That's a good get-up of yours," said Syme, draining a glass of Macon; "a lot better than old Gogol's. Even at the start I thought he was a bit too hairy." "A difference of artistic theory," replied the Professor pensively. "Gogol was an idealist. He made up as the abstract or platonic ideal of an anarchist. But I am a realist. I am a portrait painter. But, indeed, to say that I am a portrait painter is an inadequate expression. I am a portrait." "I don't understand you," said Syme. "I am a portrait," repeated the Professor. "I am a portrait of the celebrated Professor de Worms, who is, I believe, in Naples." "You mean you are made up like him," said Syme. "But doesn't he know that you are taking his nose | The Man Who Was Thursday |
"And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?" | Lady Catherine De Bourgh | not." Lady Catherine seemed pleased.<|quote|>"And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?"</|quote|>"I will make no promise | a moment's deliberation, "I am not." Lady Catherine seemed pleased.<|quote|>"And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?"</|quote|>"I will make no promise of the kind." "Miss Bennet | to them, they can be nothing to _you_." "Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?" Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady Catherine, have answered this question; she could not but say, after a moment's deliberation, "I am not." Lady Catherine seemed pleased.<|quote|>"And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?"</|quote|>"I will make no promise of the kind." "Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that I will ever recede. I shall not go away, till you have given me the assurance I | a gentleman; I am a gentleman's daughter; so far we are equal." "True. You _are_ a gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother? Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their condition." "Whatever my connections may be," said Elizabeth, "if your nephew does not object to them, they can be nothing to _you_." "Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?" Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady Catherine, have answered this question; she could not but say, after a moment's deliberation, "I am not." Lady Catherine seemed pleased.<|quote|>"And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?"</|quote|>"I will make no promise of the kind." "Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that I will ever recede. I shall not go away, till you have given me the assurance I require." "And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry your daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise, make _their_ marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, | father's, from respectable, honourable, and ancient, though untitled families. Their fortune on both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of every member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them? The upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connections, or fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere, in which you have been brought up." "In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's daughter; so far we are equal." "True. You _are_ a gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother? Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their condition." "Whatever my connections may be," said Elizabeth, "if your nephew does not object to them, they can be nothing to _you_." "Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?" Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady Catherine, have answered this question; she could not but say, after a moment's deliberation, "I am not." Lady Catherine seemed pleased.<|quote|>"And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?"</|quote|>"I will make no promise of the kind." "Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that I will ever recede. I shall not go away, till you have given me the assurance I require." "And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry your daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise, make _their_ marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would _my_ refusing to accept his hand, make him wish to bestow it on his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which you have supported this extraordinary application, have been as frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my character, if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far your nephew might approve of your interference in _his_ affairs, I cannot tell; but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg, therefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject." "Not | act against the inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and despised, by every one connected with him. Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by any of us." "These are heavy misfortunes," replied Elizabeth. "But the wife of Mr. Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine." "Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that score?" "Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came here with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will I be dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person's whims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment." "_That_ will make your ladyship's situation at present more pitiable; but it will have no effect on _me_." "I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and my nephew are formed for each other. They are descended on the maternal side, from the same noble line; and, on the father's, from respectable, honourable, and ancient, though untitled families. Their fortune on both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of every member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them? The upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connections, or fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere, in which you have been brought up." "In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's daughter; so far we are equal." "True. You _are_ a gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother? Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their condition." "Whatever my connections may be," said Elizabeth, "if your nephew does not object to them, they can be nothing to _you_." "Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?" Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady Catherine, have answered this question; she could not but say, after a moment's deliberation, "I am not." Lady Catherine seemed pleased.<|quote|>"And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?"</|quote|>"I will make no promise of the kind." "Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that I will ever recede. I shall not go away, till you have given me the assurance I require." "And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry your daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise, make _their_ marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would _my_ refusing to accept his hand, make him wish to bestow it on his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which you have supported this extraordinary application, have been as frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my character, if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far your nephew might approve of your interference in _his_ affairs, I cannot tell; but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg, therefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject." "Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am no stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous elopement. I know it all; that the young man's marrying her, was a patched-up business, at the expence of your father and uncles. And is _such_ a girl to be my nephew's sister? Is _her_ husband, is the son of his late father's steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!--of what are you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?" "You can _now_ have nothing farther to say," she resentfully answered. "You have insulted me, in every possible method. I must beg to return to the house." And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned back. Her ladyship was highly incensed. "You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew! Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you, must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?" "Lady Catherine, I have nothing farther to say. You know my sentiments." "You are then resolved to have him?" "I | him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You may have drawn him in." "If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it." "Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world, and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns." "But you are not entitled to know _mine_; nor will such behaviour as this, ever induce me to be explicit." "Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is engaged to _my daughter_. Now what have you to say?" "Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will make an offer to me." Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied, "The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy, they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of _his_ mother, as well as of her's. While in their cradles, we planned the union: and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would be accomplished, in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to the family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his tacit engagement with Miss De Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say, that from his earliest hours he was destined for his cousin?" "Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not be kept from it, by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry Miss De Bourgh. You both did as much as you could, in planning the marriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither by honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?" "Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. Yes, Miss Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or friends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and despised, by every one connected with him. Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by any of us." "These are heavy misfortunes," replied Elizabeth. "But the wife of Mr. Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine." "Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that score?" "Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came here with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will I be dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person's whims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment." "_That_ will make your ladyship's situation at present more pitiable; but it will have no effect on _me_." "I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and my nephew are formed for each other. They are descended on the maternal side, from the same noble line; and, on the father's, from respectable, honourable, and ancient, though untitled families. Their fortune on both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of every member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them? The upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connections, or fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere, in which you have been brought up." "In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's daughter; so far we are equal." "True. You _are_ a gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother? Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their condition." "Whatever my connections may be," said Elizabeth, "if your nephew does not object to them, they can be nothing to _you_." "Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?" Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady Catherine, have answered this question; she could not but say, after a moment's deliberation, "I am not." Lady Catherine seemed pleased.<|quote|>"And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?"</|quote|>"I will make no promise of the kind." "Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that I will ever recede. I shall not go away, till you have given me the assurance I require." "And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry your daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise, make _their_ marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would _my_ refusing to accept his hand, make him wish to bestow it on his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which you have supported this extraordinary application, have been as frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my character, if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far your nephew might approve of your interference in _his_ affairs, I cannot tell; but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg, therefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject." "Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am no stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous elopement. I know it all; that the young man's marrying her, was a patched-up business, at the expence of your father and uncles. And is _such_ a girl to be my nephew's sister? Is _her_ husband, is the son of his late father's steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!--of what are you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?" "You can _now_ have nothing farther to say," she resentfully answered. "You have insulted me, in every possible method. I must beg to return to the house." And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned back. Her ladyship was highly incensed. "You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew! Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you, must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?" "Lady Catherine, I have nothing farther to say. You know my sentiments." "You are then resolved to have him?" "I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without reference to _you_, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me." "It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in the opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world." "Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude," replied Elizabeth, "have any possible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle of either, would be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the resentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former _were_ excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment's concern--and the world in general would have too much sense to join in the scorn." "And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very well. I shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet, that your ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you reasonable; but depend upon it I will carry my point." In this manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the door of the carriage, when turning hastily round, she added, "I take no leave of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your mother. You deserve no such attention. I am most seriously displeased." Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself. She heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up stairs. Her mother impatiently met her at the door of the dressing-room, to ask why Lady Catherine would not come in again and rest herself. "She did not choose it," said her daughter, "she would go." "She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was prodigiously civil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the Collinses were well. She is on her road somewhere, I dare say, and so passing through Meryton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had nothing particular to say to you, Lizzy?" Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible. CHAPTER | upon the whole, have no cause to repine." "Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that score?" "Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came here with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will I be dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person's whims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment." "_That_ will make your ladyship's situation at present more pitiable; but it will have no effect on _me_." "I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and my nephew are formed for each other. They are descended on the maternal side, from the same noble line; and, on the father's, from respectable, honourable, and ancient, though untitled families. Their fortune on both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of every member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them? The upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connections, or fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere, in which you have been brought up." "In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's daughter; so far we are equal." "True. You _are_ a gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother? Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their condition." "Whatever my connections may be," said Elizabeth, "if your nephew does not object to them, they can be nothing to _you_." "Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?" Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady Catherine, have answered this question; she could not but say, after a moment's deliberation, "I am not." Lady Catherine seemed pleased.<|quote|>"And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?"</|quote|>"I will make no promise of the kind." "Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that I will ever recede. I shall not go away, till you have given me the assurance I require." "And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry your daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise, make _their_ marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would _my_ refusing to accept his hand, make him wish to bestow it on his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which you have supported this extraordinary application, have been as frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my character, if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far your nephew might approve of your interference in _his_ affairs, I cannot tell; but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg, therefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject." "Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am no stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous elopement. I know it all; that the young man's marrying her, was a patched-up business, at the expence of your father and uncles. And is _such_ a girl to be my nephew's sister? Is _her_ husband, is the son of his late father's steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!--of what are you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?" "You can _now_ have nothing farther to say," she resentfully answered. "You have insulted me, in every possible method. I must beg to return to the house." And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned back. Her ladyship was highly incensed. "You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew! Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you, must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?" "Lady Catherine, I have nothing farther to say. You know my sentiments." "You are then resolved to have him?" "I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without reference to _you_, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me." "It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in the opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world." "Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude," replied Elizabeth, "have any possible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle of either, would be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the resentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former _were_ excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment's concern--and the world in general would have too much sense to join in the scorn." "And this is your real opinion! This is your | Pride And Prejudice |
"Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again," | Helen | I wondered--why, I wondered whether--"<|quote|>"Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again,"</|quote|>supplied Helen. "Meg, this has | me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I wondered whether--"<|quote|>"Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again,"</|quote|>supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A | she was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers. "I m sure I don t want to intrude," began Leonard, in answer to Margaret s question. "But you have been so kind to me in the past in warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I wondered whether--"<|quote|>"Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again,"</|quote|>supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening s work that was on Chelsea Embankment." Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. "I don t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was a bad concern, didn t you?" "That s right." | changed into Paddington, and Paddington into a railway carriage, that shook, and grew hot, and grew cold, and vanished entirely, and reappeared amid torrents of expensive scent. "You have fainted," said the lady in an awe-struck voice. "Perhaps the air will do you good." And perhaps it had, for here she was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers. "I m sure I don t want to intrude," began Leonard, in answer to Margaret s question. "But you have been so kind to me in the past in warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I wondered whether--"<|quote|>"Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again,"</|quote|>supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening s work that was on Chelsea Embankment." Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. "I don t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was a bad concern, didn t you?" "That s right." "And went into a bank instead?" "I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after he had been in a month, and now he s penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are directly to blame." "I hate all this," Leonard muttered. "I hope | also shook hands. She, like her husband, was shy, and, furthermore, ill, and furthermore, so bestially stupid that she could not grasp what was happening. She only knew that the lady had swept down like a whirlwind last night, had paid the rent, redeemed the furniture, provided them with a dinner and a breakfast, and ordered them to meet her at Paddington next morning. Leonard had feebly protested, and when the morning came, had suggested that they shouldn t go. But she, half mesmerised, had obeyed. The lady had told them to, and they must, and their bed-sitting-room had accordingly changed into Paddington, and Paddington into a railway carriage, that shook, and grew hot, and grew cold, and vanished entirely, and reappeared amid torrents of expensive scent. "You have fainted," said the lady in an awe-struck voice. "Perhaps the air will do you good." And perhaps it had, for here she was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers. "I m sure I don t want to intrude," began Leonard, in answer to Margaret s question. "But you have been so kind to me in the past in warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I wondered whether--"<|quote|>"Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again,"</|quote|>supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening s work that was on Chelsea Embankment." Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. "I don t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was a bad concern, didn t you?" "That s right." "And went into a bank instead?" "I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after he had been in a month, and now he s penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are directly to blame." "I hate all this," Leonard muttered. "I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it s no good mincing matters. You have done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake." "I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen. "I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It s too late to get to town, but you ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can | dare you!" she repeated, as anger filled her, "bursting in to Evie s wedding in this heartless way. My goodness! but you ve a perverted notion of philanthropy. Look" "--she indicated the house--" "servants, people out of the windows. They think it s some vulgar scandal, and I must explain, Oh no, it s only my sister screaming, and only two hangers-on of ours, whom she has brought here for no conceivable reason." "Kindly take back that word hangers-on," said Helen, ominously calm. "Very well," conceded Margaret, who for all her wrath was determined to avoid a real quarrel. "I, too, am sorry about them, but it beats me why you ve brought them here, or why you re here yourself." "It s our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox." Margaret moved towards the house at this. She was determined not to worry Henry. "He s going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on seeing him." "Yes, to-morrow." "I knew it was our last chance." "How do you do, Mr. Bast?" said Margaret, trying to control her voice. "This is an odd business. What view do you take of it?" "There is Mrs. Bast, too," prompted Helen. Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was shy, and, furthermore, ill, and furthermore, so bestially stupid that she could not grasp what was happening. She only knew that the lady had swept down like a whirlwind last night, had paid the rent, redeemed the furniture, provided them with a dinner and a breakfast, and ordered them to meet her at Paddington next morning. Leonard had feebly protested, and when the morning came, had suggested that they shouldn t go. But she, half mesmerised, had obeyed. The lady had told them to, and they must, and their bed-sitting-room had accordingly changed into Paddington, and Paddington into a railway carriage, that shook, and grew hot, and grew cold, and vanished entirely, and reappeared amid torrents of expensive scent. "You have fainted," said the lady in an awe-struck voice. "Perhaps the air will do you good." And perhaps it had, for here she was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers. "I m sure I don t want to intrude," began Leonard, in answer to Margaret s question. "But you have been so kind to me in the past in warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I wondered whether--"<|quote|>"Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again,"</|quote|>supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening s work that was on Chelsea Embankment." Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. "I don t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was a bad concern, didn t you?" "That s right." "And went into a bank instead?" "I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after he had been in a month, and now he s penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are directly to blame." "I hate all this," Leonard muttered. "I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it s no good mincing matters. You have done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake." "I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen. "I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It s too late to get to town, but you ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope you ll be my guests there." "That isn t what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You re very kind, and no doubt it s a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at all." "It s work he wants," interpreted Helen. "Can t you see?" Then he said: "Jacky, let s go. We re more bother than we re worth. We re costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and they never will. There s nothing we re good enough to do." "We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather conventionally. "We want to--I, like my sister. You re only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a good night s rest, and some day you shall pay me back the bill, if you prefer it." But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly. "You don t know what you re talking about," he said. "I shall never get work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another. Not I. I had my groove, and I ve got out of it. I could | 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 the air will do you good." And perhaps it had, for here she was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers. "I m sure I don t want to intrude," began Leonard, in answer to Margaret s question. "But you have been so kind to me in the past in warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I wondered whether--"<|quote|>"Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again,"</|quote|>supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening s work that was on Chelsea Embankment." Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. "I don t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was a bad concern, didn t you?" "That s right." "And went into a bank instead?" "I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after he had been in a month, and now he s penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are directly to blame." "I hate all this," Leonard muttered. "I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it s no good mincing matters. You have done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake." "I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen. "I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It s too late to get to town, but you ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope you ll be my guests there." "That isn t what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You re very kind, and no doubt it s a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at all." "It s work he wants," interpreted Helen. "Can t you see?" Then he said: "Jacky, let s go. We re more bother than we re worth. We re costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and they never will. There s nothing we re good enough to do." "We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather conventionally. "We want to--I, like my sister. You re only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a good night s rest, and some day you shall pay me back the bill, if you prefer it." But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly. "You don t know what you re talking about," he said. "I shall never get work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another. Not I. I had my groove, and I ve got out of it. I could do one particular branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to command a salary, but that s all. Poetry s nothing, Miss Schlegel. One s thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing, if you ll understand me. I mean if a man over twenty once loses his own particular job, it s all over with him. I have seen it happen to others. Their friends gave them money for a little, but in the end they fall over the edge. It s no good. It s the whole world pulling. There always will be rich and poor." He ceased. "Won t you have something to eat?" said Margaret. "I don t know what to do. It isn t my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any other time--as I say, I don t know what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast." They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact; their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering together, and had a few more words with Helen. She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he s worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible." "No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox." "Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I ll do nothing. No doubt you re right logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won t have it. So choose." Helen looked at the sunset. "If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can t give him, but possibly Henry can." "It s his duty to," grumbled Helen. "Nor am I concerned with duty. I m concerned with the characters of various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may be made | me why you ve brought them here, or why you re here yourself." "It s our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox." Margaret moved towards the house at this. She was determined not to worry Henry. "He s going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on seeing him." "Yes, to-morrow." "I knew it was our last chance." "How do you do, Mr. Bast?" said Margaret, trying to control her voice. "This is an odd business. What view do you take of it?" "There is Mrs. Bast, too," prompted Helen. Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was shy, and, furthermore, ill, and furthermore, so bestially stupid that she could not grasp what was happening. She only knew that the lady had swept down like a whirlwind last night, had paid the rent, redeemed the furniture, provided them with a dinner and a breakfast, and ordered them to meet her at Paddington next morning. Leonard had feebly protested, and when the morning came, had suggested that they shouldn t go. But she, half mesmerised, had obeyed. The lady had told them to, and they must, and their bed-sitting-room had accordingly changed into Paddington, and Paddington into a railway carriage, that shook, and grew hot, and grew cold, and vanished entirely, and reappeared amid torrents of expensive scent. "You have fainted," said the lady in an awe-struck voice. "Perhaps the air will do you good." And perhaps it had, for here she was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers. "I m sure I don t want to intrude," began Leonard, in answer to Margaret s question. "But you have been so kind to me in the past in warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I wondered whether--"<|quote|>"Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again,"</|quote|>supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening s work that was on Chelsea Embankment." Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. "I don t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was a bad concern, didn t you?" "That s right." "And went into a bank instead?" "I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after he had been in a month, and now he s penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are directly to blame." "I hate all this," Leonard muttered. "I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it s no good mincing matters. You have done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake." "I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen. "I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It s too late to get to town, but you ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope you ll be my guests there." "That isn t what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You re very kind, and no doubt it s a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at all." "It s work he wants," interpreted Helen. "Can t you see?" Then he said: "Jacky, let s go. We re more bother than we re worth. We re costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and they never will. There s nothing we re good enough to do." "We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather conventionally. "We want to--I, like my sister. You re only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a good night s rest, and some day you shall pay me back the bill, if | Howards End |
I tell her he was shot through the heart and died instantaneously. She looks at me, she doubts me: | No speaker | then? How did he die?"<|quote|>I tell her he was shot through the heart and died instantaneously. She looks at me, she doubts me:</|quote|>"You lie. I know better. | him? Did you see him then? How did he die?"<|quote|>I tell her he was shot through the heart and died instantaneously. She looks at me, she doubts me:</|quote|>"You lie. I know better. I have felt how terribly | out on me: "Why are you living then, when he is dead?" --who drowns me in tears and calls out: "What are you there for at all, child, when you----" --who drops into a chair and wails: "Did you see him? Did you see him then? How did he die?"<|quote|>I tell her he was shot through the heart and died instantaneously. She looks at me, she doubts me:</|quote|>"You lie. I know better. I have felt how terribly he died. I have heard his voice at night, I have felt his anguish--tell the truth, I want to know it, I must know it." "No," I say, "I was beside him. He died at once." She pleads with me | and in that way we all get something decent to eat. The days grow ever more strained and my mother's eyes more sorrowful. Four days left now. I must go and see Kemmerich's mother. * * I cannot write that down. This quaking, sobbing woman who shakes me and cries out on me: "Why are you living then, when he is dead?" --who drowns me in tears and calls out: "What are you there for at all, child, when you----" --who drops into a chair and wails: "Did you see him? Did you see him then? How did he die?"<|quote|>I tell her he was shot through the heart and died instantaneously. She looks at me, she doubts me:</|quote|>"You lie. I know better. I have felt how terribly he died. I have heard his voice at night, I have felt his anguish--tell the truth, I want to know it, I must know it." "No," I say, "I was beside him. He died at once." She pleads with me gently: "Tell me. You must tell me. I know you want to comfort me, but don't you see, you torment me far more than if you told me the truth? I cannot bear the uncertainty. Tell me how it was and even though it will be terrible, it will be | is one day less. She has put away my pack, she does not want to be reminded by it. The hours pass quickly if a man broods. I pull myself together, and go with my sister to the butcher's to get a pound of bones. That is a great luxury and people line up early in the morning and stand waiting. Many of them faint. We have no luck. After waiting by turns for three hours the queue disperses. The bones have not lasted out. It is a good thing I get my rations. I bring them to my mother and in that way we all get something decent to eat. The days grow ever more strained and my mother's eyes more sorrowful. Four days left now. I must go and see Kemmerich's mother. * * I cannot write that down. This quaking, sobbing woman who shakes me and cries out on me: "Why are you living then, when he is dead?" --who drowns me in tears and calls out: "What are you there for at all, child, when you----" --who drops into a chair and wails: "Did you see him? Did you see him then? How did he die?"<|quote|>I tell her he was shot through the heart and died instantaneously. She looks at me, she doubts me:</|quote|>"You lie. I know better. I have felt how terribly he died. I have heard his voice at night, I have felt his anguish--tell the truth, I want to know it, I must know it." "No," I say, "I was beside him. He died at once." She pleads with me gently: "Tell me. You must tell me. I know you want to comfort me, but don't you see, you torment me far more than if you told me the truth? I cannot bear the uncertainty. Tell me how it was and even though it will be terrible, it will be far better than what I have to think if you don't." I will never tell her, she can make mincemeat out of me first. I console her, but she strikes me as rather stupid all the same. Why doesn't she stop worrying? Kemmerich will stay dead whether she knows about it or not. When a man has seen so many dead he cannot understand any longer why there should be so much anguish over a single individual. So I say rather impatiently: "He died immediately. He felt absolutely nothing at all. His face was quite calm." She is silent. Then | couple of minutes the two set off together pushing the barrow. Kantorek in a fury walks with his head down. But the porter is delighted to have scored light duty. The bakehouse is away at the other end of the town, and the two must go there and back through the whole length of it. "They've done that a couple of times already," grins Mittelstaedt. "There are still a few people waiting to see them." "Excellent," I say, "but hasn't he reported you yet?" "He did try. Our C.O. laughed like the deuce when he heard the story. He hasn't any time for schoolmasters. Besides, I'm sweet with his daughter." "He'll mess up the examination for you." "I don't care," says Mittelstaedt calmly. "Besides, his complaint came to nothing because I could show that he had had hardly anything but light duty." "Couldn't you polish him up a bit?" I ask. "He's too stupid, I couldn't be bothered," answers Mittelstaedt contemptuously. * * What is leave?--A pause that only makes everything after it so much worse. Already the sense of parting begins to intrude itself. My mother watches me silently,--I know she counts the days;--every morning she is sad. It is one day less. She has put away my pack, she does not want to be reminded by it. The hours pass quickly if a man broods. I pull myself together, and go with my sister to the butcher's to get a pound of bones. That is a great luxury and people line up early in the morning and stand waiting. Many of them faint. We have no luck. After waiting by turns for three hours the queue disperses. The bones have not lasted out. It is a good thing I get my rations. I bring them to my mother and in that way we all get something decent to eat. The days grow ever more strained and my mother's eyes more sorrowful. Four days left now. I must go and see Kemmerich's mother. * * I cannot write that down. This quaking, sobbing woman who shakes me and cries out on me: "Why are you living then, when he is dead?" --who drowns me in tears and calls out: "What are you there for at all, child, when you----" --who drops into a chair and wails: "Did you see him? Did you see him then? How did he die?"<|quote|>I tell her he was shot through the heart and died instantaneously. She looks at me, she doubts me:</|quote|>"You lie. I know better. I have felt how terribly he died. I have heard his voice at night, I have felt his anguish--tell the truth, I want to know it, I must know it." "No," I say, "I was beside him. He died at once." She pleads with me gently: "Tell me. You must tell me. I know you want to comfort me, but don't you see, you torment me far more than if you told me the truth? I cannot bear the uncertainty. Tell me how it was and even though it will be terrible, it will be far better than what I have to think if you don't." I will never tell her, she can make mincemeat out of me first. I console her, but she strikes me as rather stupid all the same. Why doesn't she stop worrying? Kemmerich will stay dead whether she knows about it or not. When a man has seen so many dead he cannot understand any longer why there should be so much anguish over a single individual. So I say rather impatiently: "He died immediately. He felt absolutely nothing at all. His face was quite calm." She is silent. Then she says slowly: "Will you swear it?" "Yes." "By everything that is sacred to you?" Good God, what is there that is sacred to me?--such things change pretty quickly with us. "Yes, he died at once." "Are you willing never to come back yourself, if it isn't true?" "May I never come back if he wasn't killed instantaneously." I would swear to anything. But she seems to believe me. She moans and weeps steadily. I have to tell how it happened so I invent a story and I almost believe it myself. As I leave she kisses me and gives me a picture of him. In his recruit's uniform he leans on a round rustic table with legs made of birch branches. Behind him a wood is painted on a curtain, and on the table stands a mug of beer. * * It is the last evening at home. Everyone is silent. I go to bed early, I seize the pillow, press it against myself and bury my head in it. Who knows if I will ever lie in a feather bed again? Late in the night my mother comes into my room. She thinks I am asleep, and I | the march, about turn," the line of skirmishers simply turns about, but the squad leader, who now finds himself suddenly twenty paces in rear of the line, has to rush up at the double and take his position again twenty paces in front of the squad. That makes altogether forty paces double-march. But no sooner has he arrived than the order "On the march, about turn," comes again and he once more has to race at top speed another forty paces to the other side. In this way the squad has made merely the turn-about and a couple of paces while the squad-leader dashes backwards and forwards like a fart on a curtain pole. That is one of Himmelstoss' well-worn recipes. Kantorek can hardly expect anything else from Mittelstaedt, for he once messed up the latter's chance of promotion, and Mittelstaedt would be a big fool not to make the best of such a good opportunity as this, before he goes back to the front again. A man might well die easier after the army has given him just one such stroke of luck. In the meantime Kantorek is dashing up and down like a wild-boar. After a while Mittelstaedt stops the skirmish and begins the very important exercise of creeping. On hands and knees, carrying his gun in regulation fashion, Kantorek shoves his absurd figure over the sand immediately in front of us. He is breathing hard, and his panting is music. Mittelstaedt encourages Kantorek the Territorial with quotations from Kantorek the school-master. "Territorial Kantorek, we have the good fortune to live in a great age, we must all humble ourselves and for once put aside bitterness." Kantorek sweats and spits out a dirty piece of wood that has lodged in his teeth. Mittelstaedt stoops down and says reproachfully: "And in the trifles never lose sight of the great adventure, Territorial Kantorek!" It amazes me that Kantorek does not explode with a bang, especially when, during physical exercises, Mittelstaedt copies him to perfection, seizing him by the seat of his trousers as he is climbing along the horizontal bar, so that he can just raise his chin above the beam, and then starts to give him good advice. That is exactly what Kantorek used to do to him at school. The extra fatigues are next detailed off. "Kantorek and Boettcher, bread fatigue! Take the handcart with you." In a couple of minutes the two set off together pushing the barrow. Kantorek in a fury walks with his head down. But the porter is delighted to have scored light duty. The bakehouse is away at the other end of the town, and the two must go there and back through the whole length of it. "They've done that a couple of times already," grins Mittelstaedt. "There are still a few people waiting to see them." "Excellent," I say, "but hasn't he reported you yet?" "He did try. Our C.O. laughed like the deuce when he heard the story. He hasn't any time for schoolmasters. Besides, I'm sweet with his daughter." "He'll mess up the examination for you." "I don't care," says Mittelstaedt calmly. "Besides, his complaint came to nothing because I could show that he had had hardly anything but light duty." "Couldn't you polish him up a bit?" I ask. "He's too stupid, I couldn't be bothered," answers Mittelstaedt contemptuously. * * What is leave?--A pause that only makes everything after it so much worse. Already the sense of parting begins to intrude itself. My mother watches me silently,--I know she counts the days;--every morning she is sad. It is one day less. She has put away my pack, she does not want to be reminded by it. The hours pass quickly if a man broods. I pull myself together, and go with my sister to the butcher's to get a pound of bones. That is a great luxury and people line up early in the morning and stand waiting. Many of them faint. We have no luck. After waiting by turns for three hours the queue disperses. The bones have not lasted out. It is a good thing I get my rations. I bring them to my mother and in that way we all get something decent to eat. The days grow ever more strained and my mother's eyes more sorrowful. Four days left now. I must go and see Kemmerich's mother. * * I cannot write that down. This quaking, sobbing woman who shakes me and cries out on me: "Why are you living then, when he is dead?" --who drowns me in tears and calls out: "What are you there for at all, child, when you----" --who drops into a chair and wails: "Did you see him? Did you see him then? How did he die?"<|quote|>I tell her he was shot through the heart and died instantaneously. She looks at me, she doubts me:</|quote|>"You lie. I know better. I have felt how terribly he died. I have heard his voice at night, I have felt his anguish--tell the truth, I want to know it, I must know it." "No," I say, "I was beside him. He died at once." She pleads with me gently: "Tell me. You must tell me. I know you want to comfort me, but don't you see, you torment me far more than if you told me the truth? I cannot bear the uncertainty. Tell me how it was and even though it will be terrible, it will be far better than what I have to think if you don't." I will never tell her, she can make mincemeat out of me first. I console her, but she strikes me as rather stupid all the same. Why doesn't she stop worrying? Kemmerich will stay dead whether she knows about it or not. When a man has seen so many dead he cannot understand any longer why there should be so much anguish over a single individual. So I say rather impatiently: "He died immediately. He felt absolutely nothing at all. His face was quite calm." She is silent. Then she says slowly: "Will you swear it?" "Yes." "By everything that is sacred to you?" Good God, what is there that is sacred to me?--such things change pretty quickly with us. "Yes, he died at once." "Are you willing never to come back yourself, if it isn't true?" "May I never come back if he wasn't killed instantaneously." I would swear to anything. But she seems to believe me. She moans and weeps steadily. I have to tell how it happened so I invent a story and I almost believe it myself. As I leave she kisses me and gives me a picture of him. In his recruit's uniform he leans on a round rustic table with legs made of birch branches. Behind him a wood is painted on a curtain, and on the table stands a mug of beer. * * It is the last evening at home. Everyone is silent. I go to bed early, I seize the pillow, press it against myself and bury my head in it. Who knows if I will ever lie in a feather bed again? Late in the night my mother comes into my room. She thinks I am asleep, and I pretend to be so. To talk, to stay awake with one another, it is too hard. She sits long into the night although she is in pain and often writhes. At last I can bear it no longer, and pretend I have just wakened up. "Go and sleep, mother, you will catch cold here." "I can sleep enough later," she says. I sit up. "I don't go straight back to the front, mother. I have to do four weeks at the training camp. I may come over from there one Sunday, perhaps." She is silent. Then she asks gently: "Are you very much afraid?" "No, mother." "I would like to tell you to be on your guard against the women out in France. They are no good." Ah! Mother, Mother! You still think I am a child--why can I not put my head in your lap and weep? Why have I always to be strong and self-controlled? I would like to weep and be comforted, too, indeed I am little more than a child; in the wardrobe still hang my short, boy's trousers--it is such a little time ago, why is it over? "Where we are there aren't any women, mother," I say as calmly as I can. "And be very careful at the front, Paul." Ah, Mother, Mother! Why do I not take you in my arms and die with you. What poor wretches we are! "Yes, mother, I will." "I will pray for you every day, Paul." Ah! Mother, Mother! Let us rise up and go out, back through the years, where the burden of all this misery lies on us no more, back to you and me alone, Mother! "Perhaps you can get a job that is not so dangerous." "Yes, mother, perhaps I can get into the cook-house, that can easily be done." "You do it then, and if the others say anything----" "That won't worry me, mother----" She sighs. Her face is a white gleam in the darkness. "Now you must go to sleep, mother." She does not reply. I get up and wrap my cover round her shoulders. She supports herself on my arm, she is in pain. And so I take her to her room. I stay with her a little while. "And you must get well again, mother, before I come back." "Yes, yes, my child." "You ought not to send your | does not explode with a bang, especially when, during physical exercises, Mittelstaedt copies him to perfection, seizing him by the seat of his trousers as he is climbing along the horizontal bar, so that he can just raise his chin above the beam, and then starts to give him good advice. That is exactly what Kantorek used to do to him at school. The extra fatigues are next detailed off. "Kantorek and Boettcher, bread fatigue! Take the handcart with you." In a couple of minutes the two set off together pushing the barrow. Kantorek in a fury walks with his head down. But the porter is delighted to have scored light duty. The bakehouse is away at the other end of the town, and the two must go there and back through the whole length of it. "They've done that a couple of times already," grins Mittelstaedt. "There are still a few people waiting to see them." "Excellent," I say, "but hasn't he reported you yet?" "He did try. Our C.O. laughed like the deuce when he heard the story. He hasn't any time for schoolmasters. Besides, I'm sweet with his daughter." "He'll mess up the examination for you." "I don't care," says Mittelstaedt calmly. "Besides, his complaint came to nothing because I could show that he had had hardly anything but light duty." "Couldn't you polish him up a bit?" I ask. "He's too stupid, I couldn't be bothered," answers Mittelstaedt contemptuously. * * What is leave?--A pause that only makes everything after it so much worse. Already the sense of parting begins to intrude itself. My mother watches me silently,--I know she counts the days;--every morning she is sad. It is one day less. She has put away my pack, she does not want to be reminded by it. The hours pass quickly if a man broods. I pull myself together, and go with my sister to the butcher's to get a pound of bones. That is a great luxury and people line up early in the morning and stand waiting. Many of them faint. We have no luck. After waiting by turns for three hours the queue disperses. The bones have not lasted out. It is a good thing I get my rations. I bring them to my mother and in that way we all get something decent to eat. The days grow ever more strained and my mother's eyes more sorrowful. Four days left now. I must go and see Kemmerich's mother. * * I cannot write that down. This quaking, sobbing woman who shakes me and cries out on me: "Why are you living then, when he is dead?" --who drowns me in tears and calls out: "What are you there for at all, child, when you----" --who drops into a chair and wails: "Did you see him? Did you see him then? How did he die?"<|quote|>I tell her he was shot through the heart and died instantaneously. She looks at me, she doubts me:</|quote|>"You lie. I know better. I have felt how terribly he died. I have heard his voice at night, I have felt his anguish--tell the truth, I want to know it, I must know it." "No," I say, "I was beside him. He died at once." She pleads with me gently: "Tell me. You must tell me. I know you want to comfort me, but don't you see, you torment me far more than if you told me the truth? I cannot bear the uncertainty. Tell me how it was and even though it will be terrible, it will be far better than what I have to think if you don't." I will never tell her, she can make mincemeat out of me first. I console her, but she strikes me as rather stupid all the same. Why doesn't she stop worrying? Kemmerich will stay dead whether she knows about it or not. When a man has seen so many dead he cannot understand any longer why there should be so much anguish over a single individual. So I say rather impatiently: "He died immediately. He felt absolutely nothing at all. His face was quite calm." She is silent. Then she says slowly: "Will you swear it?" "Yes." "By | All Quiet on the Western Front |
said Jem. | No speaker | they'd served me so." "Cutoff?"<|quote|>said Jem.</|quote|>"That's it, mate. I wouldn't | what I should do if they'd served me so." "Cutoff?"<|quote|>said Jem.</|quote|>"That's it, mate. I wouldn't ha' minded being a sailor, | you stood it?" "Stood it?" said Don, laughing. "How could we help it?" "Made you be sailors, eh, whether you would or no?" "That's it," said Jem. "Well, you can do as you like," said the man; "but I know what I should do if they'd served me so." "Cutoff?"<|quote|>said Jem.</|quote|>"That's it, mate. I wouldn't ha' minded being a sailor, but not be made one whether I liked or no." "You weren't a sailor, were you?" said Don. "I? No; never mind what I was." "Then we had better cut off, Mas' Don," said Jem, grinning till his eyes were | bent forward, took the man's hand, and placed it upon the back of his head. "That's a pretty good scar, isn't it? Reg'lar ridge." "Yes; that was an ugly crack, mate." "Well, that's what I got, and a lot beside. Young Mas' Don here, too, was awfully knocked about." "And you stood it?" "Stood it?" said Don, laughing. "How could we help it?" "Made you be sailors, eh, whether you would or no?" "That's it," said Jem. "Well, you can do as you like," said the man; "but I know what I should do if they'd served me so." "Cutoff?"<|quote|>said Jem.</|quote|>"That's it, mate. I wouldn't ha' minded being a sailor, but not be made one whether I liked or no." "You weren't a sailor, were you?" said Don. "I? No; never mind what I was." "Then we had better cut off, Mas' Don," said Jem, grinning till his eyes were shut; "and you and me 'll be painted like he is in fast colours, and you shall be a chief, and I'll be your head man." "To be sure," said the Englishman; "and you shall have a wife." "Eh?" cried Jem fiercely; "that I just won't. And, Mas' Don, if | "Could you, though?" said the man, filling his pipe. "Yes; my uncle is a large sugar and tobacco merchant," said Don. "Then how came you to be a sailor boy? I know, you young dog; you ran away. Well, I did once." "No, no," said Don, hastily; "we did not ran away; we were pressed." "Pressed?" said the Englishman, pausing in the act of striking a light on one of the thwarts of the boat. "You needn't believe unless you like," said Jem, sourly, "but we were; dragged off just as if we were--well, never mind what. Feel here." He bent forward, took the man's hand, and placed it upon the back of his head. "That's a pretty good scar, isn't it? Reg'lar ridge." "Yes; that was an ugly crack, mate." "Well, that's what I got, and a lot beside. Young Mas' Don here, too, was awfully knocked about." "And you stood it?" "Stood it?" said Don, laughing. "How could we help it?" "Made you be sailors, eh, whether you would or no?" "That's it," said Jem. "Well, you can do as you like," said the man; "but I know what I should do if they'd served me so." "Cutoff?"<|quote|>said Jem.</|quote|>"That's it, mate. I wouldn't ha' minded being a sailor, but not be made one whether I liked or no." "You weren't a sailor, were you?" said Don. "I? No; never mind what I was." "Then we had better cut off, Mas' Don," said Jem, grinning till his eyes were shut; "and you and me 'll be painted like he is in fast colours, and you shall be a chief, and I'll be your head man." "To be sure," said the Englishman; "and you shall have a wife." "Eh?" cried Jem fiercely; "that I just won't. And, Mas' Don, if we ever do get back, don't you never say a word to my Sally about this here." "No, Jem, not I." "But you'll leave the ship, mate?" "Well, I dunno," said Jem, thoughtfully. "Will that there pattern all over your face and chest wash off?" "Wash off? No." "Not with pearl-ash or soda?" "No, not unless you skinned me," said the man, laughing. "Well, that part arn't tempting, is it, Mas' Don?" Don shook his head. "And then about that other part, old chap--cannibalism? I say, that's gammon, isn't it?" "What do you mean?" "Why, you know--the cooking a fellow | 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 bag. "'Tarn't very good. Say, Mas' Don, if he came to see us in Bristol, we could give him a bit o' real old Charlestown, spun or leaf." "Could you, though?" said the man, filling his pipe. "Yes; my uncle is a large sugar and tobacco merchant," said Don. "Then how came you to be a sailor boy? I know, you young dog; you ran away. Well, I did once." "No, no," said Don, hastily; "we did not ran away; we were pressed." "Pressed?" said the Englishman, pausing in the act of striking a light on one of the thwarts of the boat. "You needn't believe unless you like," said Jem, sourly, "but we were; dragged off just as if we were--well, never mind what. Feel here." He bent forward, took the man's hand, and placed it upon the back of his head. "That's a pretty good scar, isn't it? Reg'lar ridge." "Yes; that was an ugly crack, mate." "Well, that's what I got, and a lot beside. Young Mas' Don here, too, was awfully knocked about." "And you stood it?" "Stood it?" said Don, laughing. "How could we help it?" "Made you be sailors, eh, whether you would or no?" "That's it," said Jem. "Well, you can do as you like," said the man; "but I know what I should do if they'd served me so." "Cutoff?"<|quote|>said Jem.</|quote|>"That's it, mate. I wouldn't ha' minded being a sailor, but not be made one whether I liked or no." "You weren't a sailor, were you?" said Don. "I? No; never mind what I was." "Then we had better cut off, Mas' Don," said Jem, grinning till his eyes were shut; "and you and me 'll be painted like he is in fast colours, and you shall be a chief, and I'll be your head man." "To be sure," said the Englishman; "and you shall have a wife." "Eh?" cried Jem fiercely; "that I just won't. And, Mas' Don, if we ever do get back, don't you never say a word to my Sally about this here." "No, Jem, not I." "But you'll leave the ship, mate?" "Well, I dunno," said Jem, thoughtfully. "Will that there pattern all over your face and chest wash off?" "Wash off? No." "Not with pearl-ash or soda?" "No, not unless you skinned me," said the man, laughing. "Well, that part arn't tempting, is it, Mas' Don?" Don shook his head. "And then about that other part, old chap--cannibalism? I say, that's gammon, isn't it?" "What do you mean?" "Why, you know--the cooking a fellow and eating him. How dull you are!" "Dull? You be here a few years among these people, talking their lingo, and not seeing an Englishman above once in two years, and see if you wouldn't be dull." "But is that true?" "About being cannibals? Yes it's true enough," said the man seriously; "and very horrid it is; but it's only when there's war." He had succeeded in striking a light now, and was smoking placidly enough on the boat's edge, but dreamily thoughtful, as if he were recalling matters that were past. "Has he ever--been at war?" said Don, altering the fashion of his inquiry when it was half uttered. "Often." "And--? You know," said Jem, who felt no delicacy about the matter. The Englishman nodded his head slowly, and sent forth a tremendous puff of smoke, while his companion moved toward Don, and smiled at him, tapping him on the shoulder with his hand, and seeming to nod approval. "Pakeha!" he said, excitedly; "my pakeha; Maori pakeha." "What does he mean by that?" said Don, after he had suffered these attentions patiently for a few minutes. "Means he wants you to be his pakeha." "Yes: my pakeha; Maori pakeha!" | 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 bag. "'Tarn't very good. Say, Mas' Don, if he came to see us in Bristol, we could give him a bit o' real old Charlestown, spun or leaf." "Could you, though?" said the man, filling his pipe. "Yes; my uncle is a large sugar and tobacco merchant," said Don. "Then how came you to be a sailor boy? I know, you young dog; you ran away. Well, I did once." "No, no," said Don, hastily; "we did not ran away; we were pressed." "Pressed?" said the Englishman, pausing in the act of striking a light on one of the thwarts of the boat. "You needn't believe unless you like," said Jem, sourly, "but we were; dragged off just as if we were--well, never mind what. Feel here." He bent forward, took the man's hand, and placed it upon the back of his head. "That's a pretty good scar, isn't it? Reg'lar ridge." "Yes; that was an ugly crack, mate." "Well, that's what I got, and a lot beside. Young Mas' Don here, too, was awfully knocked about." "And you stood it?" "Stood it?" said Don, laughing. "How could we help it?" "Made you be sailors, eh, whether you would or no?" "That's it," said Jem. "Well, you can do as you like," said the man; "but I know what I should do if they'd served me so." "Cutoff?"<|quote|>said Jem.</|quote|>"That's it, mate. I wouldn't ha' minded being a sailor, but not be made one whether I liked or no." "You weren't a sailor, were you?" said Don. "I? No; never mind what I was." "Then we had better cut off, Mas' Don," said Jem, grinning till his eyes were shut; "and you and me 'll be painted like he is in fast colours, and you shall be a chief, and I'll be your head man." "To be sure," said the Englishman; "and you shall have a wife." "Eh?" cried Jem fiercely; "that I just won't. And, Mas' Don, if we ever do get back, don't you never say a word to my Sally about this here." "No, Jem, not I." "But you'll leave the ship, mate?" "Well, I dunno," said Jem, thoughtfully. "Will that there pattern all over your face and chest wash off?" "Wash off? No." "Not with pearl-ash or soda?" "No, not unless you skinned me," said the man, laughing. "Well, that part arn't tempting, is it, Mas' Don?" Don shook his head. "And then about that other part, old chap--cannibalism? I say, that's gammon, isn't it?" "What do you mean?" "Why, you know--the cooking a fellow and eating him. How dull you are!" "Dull? You be here a few years among these people, talking their lingo, and not seeing an Englishman above once in two years, and see if you wouldn't be dull." "But is that true?" "About being cannibals? Yes it's true enough," said the man seriously; "and very horrid it is; but it's only when there's war." He had succeeded in striking a light now, and was smoking placidly enough on the boat's edge, but dreamily thoughtful, as if he were recalling matters that were past. "Has he ever--been at war?" said Don, altering the fashion of his inquiry when it was half uttered. "Often." "And--? You know," said Jem, who felt no delicacy about the matter. The Englishman nodded his head slowly, and sent forth a tremendous puff of smoke, while his companion moved toward Don, and smiled at him, tapping him on the shoulder with his hand, and seeming to nod approval. "Pakeha!" he said, excitedly; "my pakeha; Maori pakeha." "What does he mean by that?" said Don, after he had suffered these attentions patiently for a few minutes. "Means he wants you to be his pakeha." "Yes: my pakeha; Maori pakeha!" cried the chief eagerly. "But what is a pakeha?" "Why, you're a pakeha, I'm a pakeha. They call foreigners pakehas; and he wants to claim you as his." "What, his slave?" cried Don. "No, no; he means his foreign brother. If you become his pakeha, he will be bound to fight for you. Eh, Ngati?" The savage gave vent to a fierce shout, and went through his former performance, but with more flourish, as if he were slaying numbers of enemies, and his facial distortion was hideous. "Well, when I was a little un, and went to school," said Jem, "I used to get spanks if I put out my tongue. Seems as if it's a fine thing to do out here." "Yes; it's a way they have when they're going to fight," said the Englishman thoughtfully. "S'pose it would mean trouble if I were to set you on to do it; but it wouldn't be at all bad for me if you were both of you to leave the ship and come ashore." "To be cooked?" said Jem. "Bah! Stuff! They'd treat you well. Youngster here's all right; Ngati would make him his pakeha." "My pakeha," cried the chief, patting Don again. "Much powder; much gun." "Pupil of mine," said the Englishman, smiling; "I taught him our lingo." "What does he mean?" said Don; "that he'd give me a big gun and plenty of powder?" The Englishman laughed. "No, no; he wants you to bring plenty of guns and powder ashore with you when you come." "When I come!" said Don, thoughtfully. "I sha'n't persuade you, my lad; but you might do worse. You'd be all right with us; and there are Englishmen here and there beginning to settle." "And how often is there a post goes out for England?" "Post? For England? Letters?" "Yes." "I don't know; I've been here a long time now, and I never had a letter and I never sent one away." "Then how should I be able to send to my Sally." "Dunno," said the man. "There, you think it over. Ngati here will be ready to take care of you, youngster; and matey here shall soon have a chief to take care of him." "I don't know so much about that," said Jem. "I should be ready enough to come ashore, but you've got some precious unpleasant ways out here as wouldn't | wrong," said the Englishman; "but we don't. Got any tobacco, mate?" "Yes," said Jem, producing his bag. "'Tarn't very good. Say, Mas' Don, if he came to see us in Bristol, we could give him a bit o' real old Charlestown, spun or leaf." "Could you, though?" said the man, filling his pipe. "Yes; my uncle is a large sugar and tobacco merchant," said Don. "Then how came you to be a sailor boy? I know, you young dog; you ran away. Well, I did once." "No, no," said Don, hastily; "we did not ran away; we were pressed." "Pressed?" said the Englishman, pausing in the act of striking a light on one of the thwarts of the boat. "You needn't believe unless you like," said Jem, sourly, "but we were; dragged off just as if we were--well, never mind what. Feel here." He bent forward, took the man's hand, and placed it upon the back of his head. "That's a pretty good scar, isn't it? Reg'lar ridge." "Yes; that was an ugly crack, mate." "Well, that's what I got, and a lot beside. Young Mas' Don here, too, was awfully knocked about." "And you stood it?" "Stood it?" said Don, laughing. "How could we help it?" "Made you be sailors, eh, whether you would or no?" "That's it," said Jem. "Well, you can do as you like," said the man; "but I know what I should do if they'd served me so." "Cutoff?"<|quote|>said Jem.</|quote|>"That's it, mate. I wouldn't ha' minded being a sailor, but not be made one whether I liked or no." "You weren't a sailor, were you?" said Don. "I? No; never mind what I was." "Then we had better cut off, Mas' Don," said Jem, grinning till his eyes were shut; "and you and me 'll be painted like he is in fast colours, and you shall be a chief, and I'll be your head man." "To be sure," said the Englishman; "and you shall have a wife." "Eh?" cried Jem fiercely; "that I just won't. And, Mas' Don, if we ever do get back, don't you never say a word to my Sally about this here." "No, Jem, not I." "But you'll leave the ship, mate?" "Well, I dunno," said Jem, thoughtfully. "Will that there pattern all over your face and chest wash off?" "Wash off? No." "Not with pearl-ash or soda?" "No, not unless you skinned me," said the man, laughing. "Well, that part arn't tempting, is it, Mas' Don?" Don shook his head. "And then about that other part, old chap--cannibalism? I say, that's gammon, isn't it?" "What do you mean?" "Why, you know--the cooking a fellow and eating him. How dull you are!" "Dull? You be here a few years among these people, talking their lingo, and not seeing an Englishman above once in two years, and see if you wouldn't be dull." "But is that true?" "About being cannibals? Yes it's true enough," said the man seriously; "and very horrid it is; but it's | Don Lavington |
"I am afraid we must be running away," | Emma | can tell it for her."<|quote|>"I am afraid we must be running away,"</|quote|>said Emma, glancing at Harriet, | great deal better than I can tell it for her."<|quote|>"I am afraid we must be running away,"</|quote|>said Emma, glancing at Harriet, and beginning to rise--" "My | maintain, and is not to be giving away his time. Well, now I have just given you a hint of what Jane writes about, we will turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal better than I can tell it for her."<|quote|>"I am afraid we must be running away,"</|quote|>said Emma, glancing at Harriet, and beginning to rise--" "My father will be expecting us. I had no intention, I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes, when I first entered the house. I merely called, because I would not pass the door without inquiring after | Perry. The expense shall not be thought of; and though he is so liberal, and so fond of Jane that I dare say he would not mean to charge any thing for attendance, we could not suffer it to be so, you know. He has a wife and family to maintain, and is not to be giving away his time. Well, now I have just given you a hint of what Jane writes about, we will turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal better than I can tell it for her."<|quote|>"I am afraid we must be running away,"</|quote|>said Emma, glancing at Harriet, and beginning to rise--" "My father will be expecting us. I had no intention, I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes, when I first entered the house. I merely called, because I would not pass the door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I have been so pleasantly detained! Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs. Bates good morning." And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded. She regained the street--happy in this, that though much had been forced on her against her will, though she | no sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell, than I burst out, quite frightened, with" 'Bless me! poor Jane is ill!' "--which my mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly, and was sadly alarmed at. However, when I read on, I found it was not near so bad as I had fancied at first; and I make so light of it now to her, that she does not think much about it. But I cannot imagine how I could be so off my guard. If Jane does not get well soon, we will call in Mr. Perry. The expense shall not be thought of; and though he is so liberal, and so fond of Jane that I dare say he would not mean to charge any thing for attendance, we could not suffer it to be so, you know. He has a wife and family to maintain, and is not to be giving away his time. Well, now I have just given you a hint of what Jane writes about, we will turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal better than I can tell it for her."<|quote|>"I am afraid we must be running away,"</|quote|>said Emma, glancing at Harriet, and beginning to rise--" "My father will be expecting us. I had no intention, I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes, when I first entered the house. I merely called, because I would not pass the door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I have been so pleasantly detained! Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs. Bates good morning." And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded. She regained the street--happy in this, that though much had been forced on her against her will, though she had in fact heard the whole substance of Jane Fairfax's letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself. CHAPTER II Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates's youngest daughter. The marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the ----regiment of infantry, and Miss Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and pleasure, hope and interest; but nothing now remained of it, save the melancholy remembrance of him dying in action abroad--of his widow sinking under consumption and grief soon afterwards--and this girl. By birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at three years old, on | that always agrees with her; and they have no doubt that three or four months at Highbury will entirely cure her--and it is certainly a great deal better that she should come here, than go to Ireland, if she is unwell. Nobody could nurse her, as we should do." "It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world." "And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and the Campbells leave town in their way to Holyhead the Monday following--as you will find from Jane's letter. So sudden!--You may guess, dear Miss Woodhouse, what a flurry it has thrown me in! If it was not for the drawback of her illness--but I am afraid we must expect to see her grown thin, and looking very poorly. I must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to me, as to that. I always make a point of reading Jane's letters through to myself first, before I read them aloud to my mother, you know, for fear of there being any thing in them to distress her. Jane desired me to do it, so I always do: and so I began to-day with my usual caution; but no sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell, than I burst out, quite frightened, with" 'Bless me! poor Jane is ill!' "--which my mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly, and was sadly alarmed at. However, when I read on, I found it was not near so bad as I had fancied at first; and I make so light of it now to her, that she does not think much about it. But I cannot imagine how I could be so off my guard. If Jane does not get well soon, we will call in Mr. Perry. The expense shall not be thought of; and though he is so liberal, and so fond of Jane that I dare say he would not mean to charge any thing for attendance, we could not suffer it to be so, you know. He has a wife and family to maintain, and is not to be giving away his time. Well, now I have just given you a hint of what Jane writes about, we will turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal better than I can tell it for her."<|quote|>"I am afraid we must be running away,"</|quote|>said Emma, glancing at Harriet, and beginning to rise--" "My father will be expecting us. I had no intention, I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes, when I first entered the house. I merely called, because I would not pass the door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I have been so pleasantly detained! Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs. Bates good morning." And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded. She regained the street--happy in this, that though much had been forced on her against her will, though she had in fact heard the whole substance of Jane Fairfax's letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself. CHAPTER II Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates's youngest daughter. The marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the ----regiment of infantry, and Miss Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and pleasure, hope and interest; but nothing now remained of it, save the melancholy remembrance of him dying in action abroad--of his widow sinking under consumption and grief soon afterwards--and this girl. By birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at three years old, on losing her mother, she became the property, the charge, the consolation, the foundling of her grandmother and aunt, there had seemed every probability of her being permanently fixed there; of her being taught only what very limited means could command, and growing up with no advantages of connexion or improvement, to be engrafted on what nature had given her in a pleasing person, good understanding, and warm-hearted, well-meaning relations. But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change to her destiny. This was Colonel Campbell, who had very highly regarded Fairfax, as an excellent officer and most deserving young man; and farther, had been indebted to him for such attentions, during a severe camp-fever, as he believed had saved his life. These were claims which he did not learn to overlook, though some years passed away from the death of poor Fairfax, before his own return to England put any thing in his power. When he did return, he sought out the child and took notice of her. He was a married man, with only one living child, a girl, about Jane's age: and Jane became their guest, paying them long visits and growing a favourite | her at such a distance from us, for months together--not able to come if any thing was to happen. But you see, every thing turns out for the best. They want her (Mr. and Mrs. Dixon) excessively to come over with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell; quite depend upon it; nothing can be more kind or pressing than their _joint_ invitation, Jane says, as you will hear presently; Mr. Dixon does not seem in the least backward in any attention. He is a most charming young man. Ever since the service he rendered Jane at Weymouth, when they were out in that party on the water, and she, by the sudden whirling round of something or other among the sails, would have been dashed into the sea at once, and actually was all but gone, if he had not, with the greatest presence of mind, caught hold of her habit-- (I can never think of it without trembling!)--But ever since we had the history of that day, I have been so fond of Mr. Dixon!" "But, in spite of all her friends' urgency, and her own wish of seeing Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to you and Mrs. Bates?" "Yes--entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice; and Colonel and Mrs. Campbell think she does quite right, just what they should recommend; and indeed they particularly _wish_ her to try her native air, as she has not been quite so well as usual lately." "I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely. But Mrs. Dixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs. Dixon, I understand, has no remarkable degree of personal beauty; is not, by any means, to be compared with Miss Fairfax." "Oh! no. You are very obliging to say such things--but certainly not. There is no comparison between them. Miss Campbell always was absolutely plain--but extremely elegant and amiable." "Yes, that of course." "Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the 7th of November, (as I am going to read to you,) and has never been well since. A long time, is not it, for a cold to hang upon her? She never mentioned it before, because she would not alarm us. Just like her! so considerate!--But however, she is so far from well, that her kind friends the Campbells think she had better come home, and try an air that always agrees with her; and they have no doubt that three or four months at Highbury will entirely cure her--and it is certainly a great deal better that she should come here, than go to Ireland, if she is unwell. Nobody could nurse her, as we should do." "It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world." "And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and the Campbells leave town in their way to Holyhead the Monday following--as you will find from Jane's letter. So sudden!--You may guess, dear Miss Woodhouse, what a flurry it has thrown me in! If it was not for the drawback of her illness--but I am afraid we must expect to see her grown thin, and looking very poorly. I must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to me, as to that. I always make a point of reading Jane's letters through to myself first, before I read them aloud to my mother, you know, for fear of there being any thing in them to distress her. Jane desired me to do it, so I always do: and so I began to-day with my usual caution; but no sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell, than I burst out, quite frightened, with" 'Bless me! poor Jane is ill!' "--which my mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly, and was sadly alarmed at. However, when I read on, I found it was not near so bad as I had fancied at first; and I make so light of it now to her, that she does not think much about it. But I cannot imagine how I could be so off my guard. If Jane does not get well soon, we will call in Mr. Perry. The expense shall not be thought of; and though he is so liberal, and so fond of Jane that I dare say he would not mean to charge any thing for attendance, we could not suffer it to be so, you know. He has a wife and family to maintain, and is not to be giving away his time. Well, now I have just given you a hint of what Jane writes about, we will turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal better than I can tell it for her."<|quote|>"I am afraid we must be running away,"</|quote|>said Emma, glancing at Harriet, and beginning to rise--" "My father will be expecting us. I had no intention, I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes, when I first entered the house. I merely called, because I would not pass the door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I have been so pleasantly detained! Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs. Bates good morning." And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded. She regained the street--happy in this, that though much had been forced on her against her will, though she had in fact heard the whole substance of Jane Fairfax's letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself. CHAPTER II Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates's youngest daughter. The marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the ----regiment of infantry, and Miss Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and pleasure, hope and interest; but nothing now remained of it, save the melancholy remembrance of him dying in action abroad--of his widow sinking under consumption and grief soon afterwards--and this girl. By birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at three years old, on losing her mother, she became the property, the charge, the consolation, the foundling of her grandmother and aunt, there had seemed every probability of her being permanently fixed there; of her being taught only what very limited means could command, and growing up with no advantages of connexion or improvement, to be engrafted on what nature had given her in a pleasing person, good understanding, and warm-hearted, well-meaning relations. But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change to her destiny. This was Colonel Campbell, who had very highly regarded Fairfax, as an excellent officer and most deserving young man; and farther, had been indebted to him for such attentions, during a severe camp-fever, as he believed had saved his life. These were claims which he did not learn to overlook, though some years passed away from the death of poor Fairfax, before his own return to England put any thing in his power. When he did return, he sought out the child and took notice of her. He was a married man, with only one living child, a girl, about Jane's age: and Jane became their guest, paying them long visits and growing a favourite with all; and before she was nine years old, his daughter's great fondness for her, and his own wish of being a real friend, united to produce an offer from Colonel Campbell of undertaking the whole charge of her education. It was accepted; and from that period Jane had belonged to Colonel Campbell's family, and had lived with them entirely, only visiting her grandmother from time to time. The plan was that she should be brought up for educating others; the very few hundred pounds which she inherited from her father making independence impossible. To provide for her otherwise was out of Colonel Campbell's power; for though his income, by pay and appointments, was handsome, his fortune was moderate and must be all his daughter's; but, by giving her an education, he hoped to be supplying the means of respectable subsistence hereafter. Such was Jane Fairfax's history. She had fallen into good hands, known nothing but kindness from the Campbells, and been given an excellent education. Living constantly with right-minded and well-informed people, her heart and understanding had received every advantage of discipline and culture; and Colonel Campbell's residence being in London, every lighter talent had been done full justice to, by the attendance of first-rate masters. Her disposition and abilities were equally worthy of all that friendship could do; and at eighteen or nineteen she was, as far as such an early age can be qualified for the care of children, fully competent to the office of instruction herself; but she was too much beloved to be parted with. Neither father nor mother could promote, and the daughter could not endure it. The evil day was put off. It was easy to decide that she was still too young; and Jane remained with them, sharing, as another daughter, in all the rational pleasures of an elegant society, and a judicious mixture of home and amusement, with only the drawback of the future, the sobering suggestions of her own good understanding to remind her that all this might soon be over. The affection of the whole family, the warm attachment of Miss Campbell in particular, was the more honourable to each party from the circumstance of Jane's decided superiority both in beauty and acquirements. That nature had given it in feature could not be unseen by the young woman, nor could her higher powers of mind be unfelt by the | particularly _wish_ her to try her native air, as she has not been quite so well as usual lately." "I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely. But Mrs. Dixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs. Dixon, I understand, has no remarkable degree of personal beauty; is not, by any means, to be compared with Miss Fairfax." "Oh! no. You are very obliging to say such things--but certainly not. There is no comparison between them. Miss Campbell always was absolutely plain--but extremely elegant and amiable." "Yes, that of course." "Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the 7th of November, (as I am going to read to you,) and has never been well since. A long time, is not it, for a cold to hang upon her? She never mentioned it before, because she would not alarm us. Just like her! so considerate!--But however, she is so far from well, that her kind friends the Campbells think she had better come home, and try an air that always agrees with her; and they have no doubt that three or four months at Highbury will entirely cure her--and it is certainly a great deal better that she should come here, than go to Ireland, if she is unwell. Nobody could nurse her, as we should do." "It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world." "And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and the Campbells leave town in their way to Holyhead the Monday following--as you will find from Jane's letter. So sudden!--You may guess, dear Miss Woodhouse, what a flurry it has thrown me in! If it was not for the drawback of her illness--but I am afraid we must expect to see her grown thin, and looking very poorly. I must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to me, as to that. I always make a point of reading Jane's letters through to myself first, before I read them aloud to my mother, you know, for fear of there being any thing in them to distress her. Jane desired me to do it, so I always do: and so I began to-day with my usual caution; but no sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell, than I burst out, quite frightened, with" 'Bless me! poor Jane is ill!' "--which my mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly, and was sadly alarmed at. However, when I read on, I found it was not near so bad as I had fancied at first; and I make so light of it now to her, that she does not think much about it. But I cannot imagine how I could be so off my guard. If Jane does not get well soon, we will call in Mr. Perry. The expense shall not be thought of; and though he is so liberal, and so fond of Jane that I dare say he would not mean to charge any thing for attendance, we could not suffer it to be so, you know. He has a wife and family to maintain, and is not to be giving away his time. Well, now I have just given you a hint of what Jane writes about, we will turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal better than I can tell it for her."<|quote|>"I am afraid we must be running away,"</|quote|>said Emma, glancing at Harriet, and beginning to rise--" "My father will be expecting us. I had no intention, I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes, when I first entered the house. I merely called, because I would not pass the door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I have been so pleasantly detained! Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs. Bates good morning." And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded. She regained the street--happy in this, that though much had been forced on her against her will, though she had in fact heard the whole substance of Jane Fairfax's letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself. CHAPTER II Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates's youngest daughter. The marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the ----regiment of infantry, and Miss Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and pleasure, hope and interest; but nothing now remained of it, save the melancholy remembrance of him dying in action abroad--of his widow sinking under consumption and grief soon afterwards--and this girl. By birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at three years old, on losing her mother, she became the property, the charge, the consolation, the foundling of her grandmother and aunt, there had seemed every probability of her being permanently fixed there; of her being taught only what very limited means could command, and growing up with no advantages of connexion or improvement, to be engrafted on what nature had given her in a pleasing person, good understanding, and warm-hearted, well-meaning relations. But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change to her destiny. This was Colonel Campbell, who had very highly regarded Fairfax, as an excellent officer and most deserving young man; and farther, had been indebted to him for such attentions, during a severe camp-fever, as he believed had saved his life. These were claims which he did not learn to overlook, though some years passed away from the death of poor Fairfax, before his own return to England put any thing in his power. When he did return, he sought out the child and took notice of her. He was a married man, with only one living child, a | Emma |
"you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore." | Mr. Knightley | nearly at the same time;<|quote|>"you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore."</|quote|>An arch look expressed--"I understand | enough." "No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time;<|quote|>"you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore."</|quote|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she | I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough." "No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time;<|quote|>"you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore."</|quote|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I always told you she was--a little; but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion | her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence." "I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling; "but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield." "No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough." "No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time;<|quote|>"you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore."</|quote|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I always told you she was--a little; but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured." "You think her diffident. I do not see it." "My dear Emma," said he, moving from his chair into one close by her, "you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening." "Oh! no; I was pleased with my own | had now great pleasure in marking an improvement. "A very pleasant evening," he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers swept away;--" "particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence." "I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling; "but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield." "No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough." "No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time;<|quote|>"you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore."</|quote|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I always told you she was--a little; but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured." "You think her diffident. I do not see it." "My dear Emma," said he, moving from his chair into one close by her, "you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening." "Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and amused to think how little information I obtained." "I am disappointed," was his only answer. "I hope every body had a pleasant evening," said Mr. Woodhouse, in his quiet way. "I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me. Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs. Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane | time. It was known that they were a little acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma procure as to what he truly was. "Was he handsome?"--"She believed he was reckoned a very fine young man." "Was he agreeable?"--"He was generally thought so." "Did he appear a sensible young man; a young man of information?"--"At a watering-place, or in a common London acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his manners pleasing." Emma could not forgive her. CHAPTER III Emma could not forgive her;--but as neither provocation nor resentment were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement. "A very pleasant evening," he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers swept away;--" "particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence." "I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling; "but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield." "No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough." "No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time;<|quote|>"you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore."</|quote|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I always told you she was--a little; but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured." "You think her diffident. I do not see it." "My dear Emma," said he, moving from his chair into one close by her, "you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening." "Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and amused to think how little information I obtained." "I am disappointed," was his only answer. "I hope every body had a pleasant evening," said Mr. Woodhouse, in his quiet way. "I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me. Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs. Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a very well-behaved young lady indeed. She must have found the evening agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma." "True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax." Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question-- "She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one's eyes from. I am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my heart." Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to express; and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose thoughts were on the Bates's, said-- "It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined! a great pity indeed! and I have often wished--but it is so little one can venture to do--small, trifling presents, of any thing uncommon--Now we have killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg; it is very small and delicate--Hartfield pork is not like any other pork--but still it is pork--and, my dear Emma, unless one could be | softened, charitable feelings, as made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence; nobody that she could wish to scheme about for her. These were charming feelings--but not lasting. Before she had committed herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane Fairfax, or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and errors, than saying to Mr. Knightley, "She certainly is handsome; she is better than handsome!" Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with her grandmother and aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its usual state. Former provocations reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome as ever; more tiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to admiration of her powers; and they had to listen to the description of exactly how little bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how small a slice of mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibitions of new caps and new workbags for her mother and herself; and Jane's offences rose again. They had music; Emma was obliged to play; and the thanks and praise which necessarily followed appeared to her an affectation of candour, an air of greatness, meaning only to shew off in higher style her own very superior performance. She was, besides, which was the worst of all, so cold, so cautious! There was no getting at her real opinion. Wrapt up in a cloak of politeness, she seemed determined to hazard nothing. She was disgustingly, was suspiciously reserved. If any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved on the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing. She seemed bent on giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon's character, or her own value for his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It was all general approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or distinguished. It did her no service however. Her caution was thrown away. Emma saw its artifice, and returned to her first surmises. There probably _was_ something more to conceal than her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps, had been very near changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only to Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds. The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill had been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a little acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma procure as to what he truly was. "Was he handsome?"--"She believed he was reckoned a very fine young man." "Was he agreeable?"--"He was generally thought so." "Did he appear a sensible young man; a young man of information?"--"At a watering-place, or in a common London acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his manners pleasing." Emma could not forgive her. CHAPTER III Emma could not forgive her;--but as neither provocation nor resentment were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement. "A very pleasant evening," he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers swept away;--" "particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence." "I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling; "but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield." "No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough." "No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time;<|quote|>"you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore."</|quote|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I always told you she was--a little; but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured." "You think her diffident. I do not see it." "My dear Emma," said he, moving from his chair into one close by her, "you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening." "Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and amused to think how little information I obtained." "I am disappointed," was his only answer. "I hope every body had a pleasant evening," said Mr. Woodhouse, in his quiet way. "I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me. Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs. Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a very well-behaved young lady indeed. She must have found the evening agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma." "True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax." Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question-- "She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one's eyes from. I am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my heart." Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to express; and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose thoughts were on the Bates's, said-- "It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined! a great pity indeed! and I have often wished--but it is so little one can venture to do--small, trifling presents, of any thing uncommon--Now we have killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg; it is very small and delicate--Hartfield pork is not like any other pork--but still it is pork--and, my dear Emma, unless one could be sure of their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours are fried, without the smallest grease, and not roast it, for no stomach can bear roast pork--I think we had better send the leg--do not you think so, my dear?" "My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew you would wish it. There will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice, and the loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like." "That's right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of it before, but that is the best way. They must not over-salt the leg; and then, if it is not over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled, just as Serle boils ours, and eaten very moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a little carrot or parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome." "Emma," said Mr. Knightley presently, "I have a piece of news for you. You like news--and I heard an article in my way hither that I think will interest you." "News! Oh! yes, I always like news. What is it?--why do you smile so?--where did you hear it?--at Randalls?" He had time only to say, "No, not at Randalls; I have not been near Randalls," when the door was thrown open, and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax walked into the room. Full of thanks, and full of news, Miss Bates knew not which to give quickest. Mr. Knightley soon saw that he had lost his moment, and that not another syllable of communication could rest with him. "Oh! my dear sir, how are you this morning? My dear Miss Woodhouse--I come quite over-powered. Such a beautiful hind-quarter of pork! You are too bountiful! Have you heard the news? Mr. Elton is going to be married." Emma had not had time even to think of Mr. Elton, and she was so completely surprized that she could not avoid a little start, and a little blush, at the sound. "There is my news:--I thought it would interest you," said Mr. Knightley, with a smile which implied a conviction of some part of what had passed between them. "But where could _you_ hear it?" cried Miss Bates. "Where could you possibly hear it, Mr. Knightley? For it is not five minutes since I received Mrs. Cole's note--no, it cannot be more than five--or at least ten--for | to what he truly was. "Was he handsome?"--"She believed he was reckoned a very fine young man." "Was he agreeable?"--"He was generally thought so." "Did he appear a sensible young man; a young man of information?"--"At a watering-place, or in a common London acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his manners pleasing." Emma could not forgive her. CHAPTER III Emma could not forgive her;--but as neither provocation nor resentment were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement. "A very pleasant evening," he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers swept away;--" "particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence." "I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling; "but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield." "No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough." "No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time;<|quote|>"you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore."</|quote|>An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I always told you she was--a little; but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured." "You think her diffident. I do not see it." "My dear Emma," said he, moving from his chair into one close by her, "you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening." "Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and amused to think how little information I obtained." "I am disappointed," was his only answer. "I hope every body had a pleasant evening," said Mr. Woodhouse, in his quiet way. "I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me. Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs. Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a very well-behaved young lady indeed. She must have found the evening agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma." "True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax." Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question-- "She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one's eyes from. I am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my heart." Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to express; and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose thoughts were on the Bates's, said-- "It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined! a great pity indeed! and I have often wished--but it is so little one can venture to do--small, trifling presents, of any thing uncommon--Now we have killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg; it is very small and delicate--Hartfield pork is not like any other pork--but still it is pork--and, my dear Emma, unless one could be sure of their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours are fried, without the smallest grease, and not roast it, for no stomach can bear roast pork--I think we had better send the leg--do not you think so, my dear?" "My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew you would wish it. There will be the leg to be | Emma |
"Always," | Pedro Romero | kill your friends?" she asked.<|quote|>"Always,"</|quote|>he said in English, and | I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked.<|quote|>"Always,"</|quote|>he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill | 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.<|quote|>"Always,"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"Always,"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"Always,"</|quote|>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 of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?" "No." "All right." He laughed again. "I would like a hat like that," Brett said. "Good. I'll get you one." "Right. See that you do." "I will. I'll get you one to-night." I stood up. Romero rose, too. "Sit down," I said. "I must go and find our friends and bring them here." He looked at me. It was a final look to ask if it | 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.<|quote|>"Always,"</|quote|>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 of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?" "No." "All right." He laughed again. "I would like a hat like that," Brett said. "Good. I'll get you one." "Right. See that you do." "I will. I'll get you one to-night." I stood up. Romero rose, too. "Sit down," I said. "I must go and find our friends and bring them here." He looked at me. It was a final look to ask if it were understood. It was understood all right. "Sit down," Brett said to him. "You must teach me Spanish." He sat down and looked at her across the table. I went out. The hard-eyed people at the bull-fighter table watched me go. It was not pleasant. When I came back and looked in the caf , twenty minutes later, Brett and Pedro Romero were gone. The coffee-glasses and our three empty cognac-glasses were on the table. A waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses and mopped off the table. CHAPTER 17 Outside the Bar Milano I found Bill and Mike and Edna. Edna was the girl's name. "We've been thrown out," Edna said. "By the police," said Mike. "There's some people in there that don't like me." "I've kept them out of four fights," Edna said. "You've got to help me." Bill's face was red. "Come back in, Edna," he said. "Go on in there and dance with Mike." "It's silly," Edna said. "There'll just be another row." "Damned Biarritz swine," Bill said. "Come on," Mike said. "After all, it's a pub. They can't occupy a whole pub." "Good old Mike," Bill said. "Damned English swine come here | 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." "I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside." "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.<|quote|>"Always,"</|quote|>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 of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?" "No." "All right." He laughed again. "I would like a hat like that," Brett said. "Good. I'll get you one." "Right. See that you do." "I will. I'll get you one to-night." I stood up. Romero rose, too. "Sit down," I said. "I must go and find our friends and bring them here." He looked at me. It was a final look to ask if it were understood. It was understood all right. "Sit down," Brett said to him. "You must teach me Spanish." He sat down and looked at her across the table. I went out. The hard-eyed people at the bull-fighter table watched me go. It was not pleasant. When I came back and looked in the caf , twenty minutes later, Brett and Pedro Romero were gone. The coffee-glasses and our three empty cognac-glasses were on the table. A waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses and mopped off the table. CHAPTER 17 Outside the Bar Milano I found Bill and Mike and Edna. Edna was the girl's name. "We've been thrown out," Edna said. "By the police," said Mike. "There's some people in there that don't like me." "I've kept them out of four fights," Edna said. "You've got to help me." Bill's face was red. "Come back in, Edna," he said. "Go on in there and dance with Mike." "It's silly," Edna said. "There'll just be another row." "Damned Biarritz swine," Bill said. "Come on," Mike said. "After all, it's a pub. They can't occupy a whole pub." "Good old Mike," Bill said. "Damned English swine come here and insult Mike and try and spoil the fiesta." "They're so bloody," Mike said. "I hate the English." "They can't insult Mike," Bill said. "Mike is a swell fellow. They can't insult Mike. I won't stand it. Who cares if he is a damn bankrupt?" His voice broke. "Who cares?" Mike said. "I don't care. Jake doesn't care. Do _you_ care?" "No," Edna said. "Are you a bankrupt?" "Of course I am. You don't care, do you, Bill?" Bill put his arm around Mike's shoulder. "I wish to hell I was a bankrupt. I'd show those bastards." "They're just English," Mike said. "It never makes any difference what the English say." "The dirty swine," Bill said. "I'm going to clean them out." "Bill," Edna looked at me. "Please don't go in again, Bill. They're so stupid." "That's it," said Mike. "They're stupid. I knew that was what it was." "They can't say things like that about Mike," Bill said. "Do you know them?" I asked Mike. "No. I never saw them. They say they know me." "I won't stand it," Bill said. "Come on. Let's go over to the Suizo," I said. "They're a bunch of Edna's friends from Biarritz," Bill said. "They're simply stupid," Edna said. "One of them's Charley Blackman, from Chicago," Bill said. "I was never in Chicago," Mike said. Edna started to laugh and could not stop. "Take me away from here," she said, "you bankrupts." "What kind of a row was it?" I asked Edna. We were walking across the square to the Suizo. Bill was gone. "I don't know what happened, but some one had the police called to keep Mike out of the back room. There were some people that had known Mike at Cannes. What's the matter with Mike?" "Probably he owes them money" I said. "That's what people usually get bitter about." In front of the ticket-booths out in the square there were two lines of people waiting. They were sitting on chairs or crouched on the ground with blankets and newspapers around them. They were waiting for the wickets to open in the morning to buy tickets for the bull-fight. The night was clearing and the moon was out. Some of the people in the line were sleeping. At the Caf Suizo we had just sat down and ordered Fundador when Robert Cohn came up. "Where's Brett?" he asked. "I | "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.<|quote|>"Always,"</|quote|>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 of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?" "No." "All right." He laughed again. "I would like a hat like that," Brett said. "Good. I'll get you one." "Right. See that you do." "I will. I'll get you one to-night." I stood up. Romero rose, too. "Sit down," I said. "I must go and find our friends and bring them here." He looked at me. It was a final look to ask if it were understood. It was understood all right. "Sit down," Brett said to him. "You must teach me Spanish." He sat down and looked at her across the table. I went out. The hard-eyed people at the bull-fighter table watched me go. It was not pleasant. When I came back and looked in the caf , twenty minutes later, Brett and Pedro Romero were gone. The coffee-glasses and our three empty cognac-glasses were on the table. A waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses and mopped off the table. CHAPTER 17 Outside the Bar Milano I found Bill and Mike and Edna. Edna was the girl's name. "We've been thrown out," Edna said. "By the police," said Mike. "There's some people in there that don't like me." "I've kept them out of four fights," Edna said. "You've got to help me." Bill's face was red. "Come back in, Edna," he said. "Go on in there and dance with Mike." "It's silly," Edna said. "There'll just be another row." "Damned Biarritz swine," Bill said. "Come on," Mike said. "After all, it's a pub. They can't occupy a whole pub." "Good old Mike," Bill said. "Damned English swine come here and insult Mike and try and spoil the fiesta." "They're so bloody," Mike said. "I hate the English." "They can't insult Mike," Bill said. "Mike is a swell fellow. They can't insult Mike. I won't stand it. Who cares if he is a damn bankrupt?" His voice broke. "Who cares?" Mike said. "I don't care. Jake doesn't care. Do _you_ care?" "No," Edna said. "Are you a bankrupt?" "Of course I am. You don't care, do you, Bill?" Bill put his arm around Mike's shoulder. "I wish to hell I was a bankrupt. I'd show those bastards." "They're just English," Mike said. "It never makes any difference what the English say." "The dirty swine," Bill said. "I'm going to clean them out." "Bill," Edna looked at me. "Please don't go in again, Bill. They're so stupid." "That's it," said Mike. "They're stupid. I knew that was what it was." "They can't say things like that about Mike," Bill said. "Do you know them?" I asked | The Sun Also Rises |
"That will do," | Constable | roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?"<|quote|>"That will do,"</|quote|>said the constable, taking a | the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?"<|quote|>"That will do,"</|quote|>said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass | sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?"<|quote|>"That will do,"</|quote|>said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started | he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?"<|quote|>"That will do,"</|quote|>said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash. Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel. "You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, | master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more." "Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. Uncle Josiah did not reply, only looked at him searchingly. "He can't help believing it, my lad," said Mike sadly. "It's werry shocking in one so young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?"<|quote|>"That will do,"</|quote|>said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash. Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel. "You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears | true!" cried Lindon, excitedly. "But you had one of the guineas in your pocket, sir." "Yes, uncle, but--" "Course he had," interrupted Mike sharply. "I told you it wouldn't do, Master Don. I begged you not to." "You villain!" cried Don, grinding his teeth, while his uncle watched him with a sidelong look. "Calling names won't mend it, my lad. I knowed it was wrong. I telled him not to, sir, but he would." This was to the constable in a confidential tone, and that functionary responded with a solemn wink. "It is not true, uncle!" cried Don again. "Oh, come now," said Mike, shaking his head with half tipsy reproach, "I wouldn't make worse on it, my lad, by telling a lot o' lies. You did wrong, as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss it." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a sound resembling a disgusted grunt, and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,-- "What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more." "Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. Uncle Josiah did not reply, only looked at him searchingly. "He can't help believing it, my lad," said Mike sadly. "It's werry shocking in one so young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?"<|quote|>"That will do,"</|quote|>said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash. Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel. "You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you too, Mike," said the constable, jocularly. "Don't you forget to tell that to the magistrates." "Magistrits? What magistrits? Master arn't going to give me in custody, I know." "Indeed, but I am, you scoundrel," cried Uncle Josiah, wrathfully. "You are one of the worst kind of thieves--" "Here, take that back, master." "Worst kind of scoundrels--dogs who bite the hand that has fed them." "I tell yer it was him," said Mike, with a ferocious glare at Don. "All right, Mike, you tell the magistrates that," said the constable, "and don't forget." "I arn't going 'fore no magistrits," grumbled Mike. "Yes, you are," said the constable, taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "Now then, is it to be quietly?" Mike made a furious gesture. "Just as you | my lad; and this and what I've got against you will send you to Botany Bay." "What, me? Rob a good master? Not a penny." "What have you done with the rest?" continued the constable. "Never had no more, and wouldn't have had that if I'd knowed." "This will do, sir," said the constable. "You charge him here with stealing money from your desk?" "I am afraid I must," said Uncle Josiah. "What, me? Charge me?" cried the man, angrily. "Yes, Bannock, reluctantly; but it seems that you are the thief." "No: not me!" cried the man, fiercely. "It warn't me. It was him." Don started and turned pale, as the man stood pointing at him. "What do you mean?" cried Uncle Josiah. "Mean? Why, I ketched him a-helping hisself to the money, and he give me three guineas to hold my tongue." "What?" "And when I wouldn't take 'em he said if I didn't he'd say it was me; and that's the whole truth, and nothing else." "Lindon, what have you to say to this?" cried Uncle Josiah. Don thought of the guinea he had picked up, of his uncle's curious look when he gave it to him, and as he turned red and white with terror and dismay, mingled with confusion, he tried to speak, but try how he would, no words would come. CHAPTER FOUR. MIKE BANNOCK HAS A RIDE. "You wretch!" Those two words were a long time coming, but when they did escape from Lindon's lips, they made up in emphasis and force for their brevity. "Steady, Master Don, steady," said Jem, throwing his arms round the boy's waist, and holding him back. "You arn't strong enough to fight him." "Wretch? Oh! Well, I like that. Why, some men would ha' gone straight to your uncle here, and told him all about it; but I didn't, and I'd made up my mind to send him the money back, only I met two or three mates, and I had to change one of 'em to give the poor lads a drink o' ale." "You own, then, that you had my money, sir?" cried the old merchant. "Well--some on it, master. He give it me. S'pose I oughtn't to have took it, but I didn't like to come and tell you, and get the poor lad into trouble. He's so young, you see." "Uncle, it is not true!" cried Lindon, excitedly. "But you had one of the guineas in your pocket, sir." "Yes, uncle, but--" "Course he had," interrupted Mike sharply. "I told you it wouldn't do, Master Don. I begged you not to." "You villain!" cried Don, grinding his teeth, while his uncle watched him with a sidelong look. "Calling names won't mend it, my lad. I knowed it was wrong. I telled him not to, sir, but he would." This was to the constable in a confidential tone, and that functionary responded with a solemn wink. "It is not true, uncle!" cried Don again. "Oh, come now," said Mike, shaking his head with half tipsy reproach, "I wouldn't make worse on it, my lad, by telling a lot o' lies. You did wrong, as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss it." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a sound resembling a disgusted grunt, and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,-- "What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more." "Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. Uncle Josiah did not reply, only looked at him searchingly. "He can't help believing it, my lad," said Mike sadly. "It's werry shocking in one so young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?"<|quote|>"That will do,"</|quote|>said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash. Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel. "You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you too, Mike," said the constable, jocularly. "Don't you forget to tell that to the magistrates." "Magistrits? What magistrits? Master arn't going to give me in custody, I know." "Indeed, but I am, you scoundrel," cried Uncle Josiah, wrathfully. "You are one of the worst kind of thieves--" "Here, take that back, master." "Worst kind of scoundrels--dogs who bite the hand that has fed them." "I tell yer it was him," said Mike, with a ferocious glare at Don. "All right, Mike, you tell the magistrates that," said the constable, "and don't forget." "I arn't going 'fore no magistrits," grumbled Mike. "Yes, you are," said the constable, taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "Now then, is it to be quietly?" Mike made a furious gesture. "Just as you like," said the constable. "Jem Wimble, I call you in the King's name to help." "Which I just will," cried Jem, with alacrity; and he made at Mike, while Don felt a strange desire tingling in his veins as he longed to help as well. "I gives in," growled Mike. "I could chuck the whole lot on you outer winder, but I won't. It would only make it seem as if I was guilty, and it's not guilty, and so I tell you. Master says I took the money, and I says it was that young Don Lavington as is the thief. Come on, youngster. I'll talk to you when we're in the lock-up." Don looked wildly from Mike to his uncle, whose eyes were fixed on the constable. "Do you charge the boy too, sir?" Uncle Josiah was silent for some moments. "No! Not now!" Lindon's heart leapt at that word "_no_!" But it sank again at the "_not now_." "But the case is awkward, sir," said the constable. "After what this man has said we shall be obliged to take some notice of the matter." "'Bliged to? Course you will. Here, bring 'im along. Come on, mate. I can tell you stories all night now about my bygones. Keep up yer sperrits, and I daresay the magistrits 'll let you off pretty easy." "If there is any charge made against my young clerk," --Don winced, for his uncle did not say, "against my nephew," -- "I will be answerable for his appearance before the magistrates. That will be sufficient, I presume." "Yes, sir, I suppose that will do," said the constable. "But I s'pose it won't," said Mike. "He's the monkey and I'm only the cat. You've got to take him if you does your dooty, and master 'll be answerable for me." "Exactly," said the constable; "come along." "Nay, but this arn't fair, master. Take one, take all. You bring us both." "Come along." "If you don't bring that there young un too, I won't go," exclaimed the scoundrel, fiercely. _Click_! A short struggle, and then _click_ again, and Mike Bannock's hands were useless, but he threw himself down. "Fair play, fair play," he cried, savagely; "take one, take all. Are you going to charge him, master?" "Take the scoundrel away, Smithers, and once more I will be bail--before the magistrates, if necessary--for my clerk's appearance," cried | see." "Uncle, it is not true!" cried Lindon, excitedly. "But you had one of the guineas in your pocket, sir." "Yes, uncle, but--" "Course he had," interrupted Mike sharply. "I told you it wouldn't do, Master Don. I begged you not to." "You villain!" cried Don, grinding his teeth, while his uncle watched him with a sidelong look. "Calling names won't mend it, my lad. I knowed it was wrong. I telled him not to, sir, but he would." This was to the constable in a confidential tone, and that functionary responded with a solemn wink. "It is not true, uncle!" cried Don again. "Oh, come now," said Mike, shaking his head with half tipsy reproach, "I wouldn't make worse on it, my lad, by telling a lot o' lies. You did wrong, as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss it." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a sound resembling a disgusted grunt, and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,-- "What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more." "Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. Uncle Josiah did not reply, only looked at him searchingly. "He can't help believing it, my lad," said Mike sadly. "It's werry shocking in one so young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?"<|quote|>"That will do,"</|quote|>said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash. Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel. "You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you too, Mike," said the constable, jocularly. "Don't you forget to tell that to the magistrates." "Magistrits? What magistrits? Master arn't going to give me in custody, I know." "Indeed, but I am, you scoundrel," cried | Don Lavington |
"I didn't catch that answer." | Mr. Mcbryde | be sure . . ."<|quote|>"I didn't catch that answer."</|quote|>He looked scared, his mouth | Superintendent of Police. "I cannot be sure . . ."<|quote|>"I didn't catch that answer."</|quote|>He looked scared, his mouth shut with a snap. "You | failed to locate him. It was the doubt that had often visited her, but solid and attractive, like the hills, "I am not" Speech was more difficult than vision. "I am not quite sure." "I beg your pardon?" said the Superintendent of Police. "I cannot be sure . . ."<|quote|>"I didn't catch that answer."</|quote|>He looked scared, his mouth shut with a snap. "You are on that landing, or whatever we term it, and you have entered a cave. I suggest to you that the prisoner followed you." She shook her head. "What do you mean, please?" "No," she said in a flat, unattractive | so that this part of the proceedings held no surprises. "May I have half a minute before I reply to that, Mr. McBryde?" "Certainly." Her vision was of several caves. She saw herself in one, and she was also outside it, watching its entrance, for Aziz to pass in. She failed to locate him. It was the doubt that had often visited her, but solid and attractive, like the hills, "I am not" Speech was more difficult than vision. "I am not quite sure." "I beg your pardon?" said the Superintendent of Police. "I cannot be sure . . ."<|quote|>"I didn't catch that answer."</|quote|>He looked scared, his mouth shut with a snap. "You are on that landing, or whatever we term it, and you have entered a cave. I suggest to you that the prisoner followed you." She shook her head. "What do you mean, please?" "No," she said in a flat, unattractive voice. Slight noises began in various parts of the room, but no one yet understood what was occurring except Fielding. He saw that she was going to have a nervous breakdown and that his friend was saved. "What is that, what are you saying? Speak up, please." The Magistrate bent | alone." "Very well, there is a ledge half-way up the hill, or broken ground rather, with caves scattered near the beginning of a nullah." "I know where you mean." "You went alone into one of those caves?" "That is quite correct." "And the prisoner followed you." "Now we've got 'im," from the Major. She was silent. The court, the place of question, awaited her reply. But she could not give it until Aziz entered the place of answer. "The prisoner followed you, didn't he?" he repeated in the monotonous tones that they both used; they were employing agreed words throughout, so that this part of the proceedings held no surprises. "May I have half a minute before I reply to that, Mr. McBryde?" "Certainly." Her vision was of several caves. She saw herself in one, and she was also outside it, watching its entrance, for Aziz to pass in. She failed to locate him. It was the doubt that had often visited her, but solid and attractive, like the hills, "I am not" Speech was more difficult than vision. "I am not quite sure." "I beg your pardon?" said the Superintendent of Police. "I cannot be sure . . ."<|quote|>"I didn't catch that answer."</|quote|>He looked scared, his mouth shut with a snap. "You are on that landing, or whatever we term it, and you have entered a cave. I suggest to you that the prisoner followed you." She shook her head. "What do you mean, please?" "No," she said in a flat, unattractive voice. Slight noises began in various parts of the room, but no one yet understood what was occurring except Fielding. He saw that she was going to have a nervous breakdown and that his friend was saved. "What is that, what are you saying? Speak up, please." The Magistrate bent forward. "I'm afraid I have made a mistake." "What nature of mistake?" "Dr. Aziz never followed me into the cave." The Superintendent slammed down his papers, then picked them up and said calmly: "Now, Miss Quested, let us go on. I will read you the words of the deposition which you signed two hours later in my bungalow." "Excuse me, Mr. McBryde, you cannot go on. I am speaking to the witness myself. And the public will be silent. If it continues to talk, I have the court cleared. Miss Quested, address your remarks to me, who am the Magistrate | splendour. Why had she thought the expedition "dull"? Now the sun rose again, the elephant waited, the pale masses of the rock flowed round her and presented the first cave; she entered, and a match was reflected in the polished walls all beautiful and significant, though she had been blind to it at the time. Questions were asked, and to each she found the exact reply; yes, she had noticed the "Tank of the Dagger," but not known its name; yes, Mrs. Moore had been tired after the first cave and sat in the shadow of a great rock, near the dried-up mud. Smoothly the voice in the distance proceeded, leading along the paths of truth, and the airs from the punkah behind her wafted her on. . . . ". . . the prisoner and the guide took you on to the Kawa Dol, no one else being present?" "The most wonderfully shaped of those hills. Yes." As she spoke, she created the Kawa Dol, saw the niches up the curve of the stone, and felt the heat strike her face. And something caused her to add: "No one else was present to my knowledge. We appeared to be alone." "Very well, there is a ledge half-way up the hill, or broken ground rather, with caves scattered near the beginning of a nullah." "I know where you mean." "You went alone into one of those caves?" "That is quite correct." "And the prisoner followed you." "Now we've got 'im," from the Major. She was silent. The court, the place of question, awaited her reply. But she could not give it until Aziz entered the place of answer. "The prisoner followed you, didn't he?" he repeated in the monotonous tones that they both used; they were employing agreed words throughout, so that this part of the proceedings held no surprises. "May I have half a minute before I reply to that, Mr. McBryde?" "Certainly." Her vision was of several caves. She saw herself in one, and she was also outside it, watching its entrance, for Aziz to pass in. She failed to locate him. It was the doubt that had often visited her, but solid and attractive, like the hills, "I am not" Speech was more difficult than vision. "I am not quite sure." "I beg your pardon?" said the Superintendent of Police. "I cannot be sure . . ."<|quote|>"I didn't catch that answer."</|quote|>He looked scared, his mouth shut with a snap. "You are on that landing, or whatever we term it, and you have entered a cave. I suggest to you that the prisoner followed you." She shook her head. "What do you mean, please?" "No," she said in a flat, unattractive voice. Slight noises began in various parts of the room, but no one yet understood what was occurring except Fielding. He saw that she was going to have a nervous breakdown and that his friend was saved. "What is that, what are you saying? Speak up, please." The Magistrate bent forward. "I'm afraid I have made a mistake." "What nature of mistake?" "Dr. Aziz never followed me into the cave." The Superintendent slammed down his papers, then picked them up and said calmly: "Now, Miss Quested, let us go on. I will read you the words of the deposition which you signed two hours later in my bungalow." "Excuse me, Mr. McBryde, you cannot go on. I am speaking to the witness myself. And the public will be silent. If it continues to talk, I have the court cleared. Miss Quested, address your remarks to me, who am the Magistrate in charge of the case, and realize their extreme gravity. Remember you speak on oath, Miss Quested." "Dr. Aziz never" "I stop these proceedings on medical grounds," cried the Major on a word from Turton, and all the English rose from their chairs at once, large white figures behind which the little magistrate was hidden. The Indians rose too, hundreds of things went on at once, so that afterwards each person gave a different account of the catastrophe. "You withdraw the charge? Answer me," shrieked the representative of Justice. Something that she did not understand took hold of the girl and pulled her through. Though the vision was over, and she had returned to the insipidity of the world, she remembered what she had learnt. Atonement and confession they could wait. It was in hard prosaic tones that she said, "I withdraw everything." "Enough sit down. Mr. McBryde, do you wish to continue in the face of this?" The Superintendent gazed at his witness as if she was a broken machine, and said, "Are you mad?" "Don't question her, sir; you have no longer the right." "Give me time to consider" "Sahib, you will have to withdraw; this becomes a | lady would have said. She is not here, and consequently she can say nothing." "Well, I withdraw my reference," said the Superintendent wearily. "I would have done so fifteen minutes ago if I had been given the chance. She is not of the least importance to me." "I have already withdrawn it for the defence." He added with forensic humour: "Perhaps you can persuade the gentlemen outside to withdraw it too," for the refrain in the street continued. "I am afraid my powers do not extend so far," said Das, smiling. So peace was restored, and when Adela came to give her evidence the atmosphere was quieter than it had been since the beginning of the trial. Experts were not surprised. There is no stay in your native. He blazes up over a minor point, and has nothing left for the crisis. What he seeks is a grievance, and this he had found in the supposed abduction of an old lady. He would now be less aggrieved when Aziz was deported. But the crisis was still to come. Adela had always meant to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, and she had rehearsed this as a difficult task difficult, because her disaster in the cave was connected, though by a thread, with another part of her life, her engagement to Ronny. She had thought of love just before she went in, and had innocently asked Aziz what marriage was like, and she supposed that her question had roused evil in him. To recount this would have been incredibly painful, it was the one point she wanted to keep obscure; she was willing to give details that would have distressed other girls, but this story of her private failure she dared not allude to, and she dreaded being examined in public in case something came out. But as soon as she rose to reply, and heard the sound of her own voice, she feared not even that. A new and unknown sensation protected her, like magnificent armour. She didn't think what had happened, or even remember in the ordinary way of memory, but she returned to the Marabar Hills, and spoke from them across a sort of darkness to Mr. McBryde. The fatal day recurred, in every detail, but now she was of it and not of it at the same time, and this double relation gave it indescribable splendour. Why had she thought the expedition "dull"? Now the sun rose again, the elephant waited, the pale masses of the rock flowed round her and presented the first cave; she entered, and a match was reflected in the polished walls all beautiful and significant, though she had been blind to it at the time. Questions were asked, and to each she found the exact reply; yes, she had noticed the "Tank of the Dagger," but not known its name; yes, Mrs. Moore had been tired after the first cave and sat in the shadow of a great rock, near the dried-up mud. Smoothly the voice in the distance proceeded, leading along the paths of truth, and the airs from the punkah behind her wafted her on. . . . ". . . the prisoner and the guide took you on to the Kawa Dol, no one else being present?" "The most wonderfully shaped of those hills. Yes." As she spoke, she created the Kawa Dol, saw the niches up the curve of the stone, and felt the heat strike her face. And something caused her to add: "No one else was present to my knowledge. We appeared to be alone." "Very well, there is a ledge half-way up the hill, or broken ground rather, with caves scattered near the beginning of a nullah." "I know where you mean." "You went alone into one of those caves?" "That is quite correct." "And the prisoner followed you." "Now we've got 'im," from the Major. She was silent. The court, the place of question, awaited her reply. But she could not give it until Aziz entered the place of answer. "The prisoner followed you, didn't he?" he repeated in the monotonous tones that they both used; they were employing agreed words throughout, so that this part of the proceedings held no surprises. "May I have half a minute before I reply to that, Mr. McBryde?" "Certainly." Her vision was of several caves. She saw herself in one, and she was also outside it, watching its entrance, for Aziz to pass in. She failed to locate him. It was the doubt that had often visited her, but solid and attractive, like the hills, "I am not" Speech was more difficult than vision. "I am not quite sure." "I beg your pardon?" said the Superintendent of Police. "I cannot be sure . . ."<|quote|>"I didn't catch that answer."</|quote|>He looked scared, his mouth shut with a snap. "You are on that landing, or whatever we term it, and you have entered a cave. I suggest to you that the prisoner followed you." She shook her head. "What do you mean, please?" "No," she said in a flat, unattractive voice. Slight noises began in various parts of the room, but no one yet understood what was occurring except Fielding. He saw that she was going to have a nervous breakdown and that his friend was saved. "What is that, what are you saying? Speak up, please." The Magistrate bent forward. "I'm afraid I have made a mistake." "What nature of mistake?" "Dr. Aziz never followed me into the cave." The Superintendent slammed down his papers, then picked them up and said calmly: "Now, Miss Quested, let us go on. I will read you the words of the deposition which you signed two hours later in my bungalow." "Excuse me, Mr. McBryde, you cannot go on. I am speaking to the witness myself. And the public will be silent. If it continues to talk, I have the court cleared. Miss Quested, address your remarks to me, who am the Magistrate in charge of the case, and realize their extreme gravity. Remember you speak on oath, Miss Quested." "Dr. Aziz never" "I stop these proceedings on medical grounds," cried the Major on a word from Turton, and all the English rose from their chairs at once, large white figures behind which the little magistrate was hidden. The Indians rose too, hundreds of things went on at once, so that afterwards each person gave a different account of the catastrophe. "You withdraw the charge? Answer me," shrieked the representative of Justice. Something that she did not understand took hold of the girl and pulled her through. Though the vision was over, and she had returned to the insipidity of the world, she remembered what she had learnt. Atonement and confession they could wait. It was in hard prosaic tones that she said, "I withdraw everything." "Enough sit down. Mr. McBryde, do you wish to continue in the face of this?" The Superintendent gazed at his witness as if she was a broken machine, and said, "Are you mad?" "Don't question her, sir; you have no longer the right." "Give me time to consider" "Sahib, you will have to withdraw; this becomes a scandal," boomed the Nawab Bahadur suddenly from the back of the court. "He shall not," shouted Mrs. Turton against the gathering tumult. "Call the other witnesses; we're none of us safe" Ronny tried to check her, and she gave him an irritable blow, then screamed insults at Adela. The Superintendent moved to the support of his friends, saying nonchalantly to the Magistrate as he did so, "Right, I withdraw." Mr. Das rose, nearly dead with the strain. He had controlled the case, just controlled it. He had shown that an Indian can preside. To those who could hear him he said, "The prisoner is released without one stain on his character; the question of costs will be decided elsewhere." And then the flimsy framework of the court broke up, the shouts of derision and rage culminated, people screamed and cursed, kissed one another, wept passionately. Here were the English, whom their servants protected, there Aziz fainted in Hamidullah's arms. Victory on this side, defeat on that complete for one moment was the antithesis. Then life returned to its complexities, person after person struggled out of the room to their various purposes, and before long no one remained on the scene of the fantasy but the beautiful naked god. Unaware that anything unusual had occurred, he continued to pull the cord of his punkah, to gaze at the empty dais and the overturned special chairs, and rhythmically to agitate the clouds of descending dust. CHAPTER XXV Miss Quested had renounced her own people. Turning from them, she was drawn into a mass of Indians of the shopkeeping class, and carried by them towards the public exit of the court. The faint, indescribable smell of the bazaars invaded her, sweeter than a London slum, yet more disquieting: a tuft of scented cotton wool, wedged in an old man's ear, fragments of pan between his black teeth, odorous powders, oils the Scented East of tradition, but blended with human sweat as if a great king had been entangled in ignominy and could not free himself, or as if the heat of the sun had boiled and fried all the glories of the earth into a single mess. They paid no attention to her. They shook hands over her shoulder, shouted through her body for when the Indian does ignore his rulers, he becomes genuinely unaware of their existence. Without part in the universe | the pale masses of the rock flowed round her and presented the first cave; she entered, and a match was reflected in the polished walls all beautiful and significant, though she had been blind to it at the time. Questions were asked, and to each she found the exact reply; yes, she had noticed the "Tank of the Dagger," but not known its name; yes, Mrs. Moore had been tired after the first cave and sat in the shadow of a great rock, near the dried-up mud. Smoothly the voice in the distance proceeded, leading along the paths of truth, and the airs from the punkah behind her wafted her on. . . . ". . . the prisoner and the guide took you on to the Kawa Dol, no one else being present?" "The most wonderfully shaped of those hills. Yes." As she spoke, she created the Kawa Dol, saw the niches up the curve of the stone, and felt the heat strike her face. And something caused her to add: "No one else was present to my knowledge. We appeared to be alone." "Very well, there is a ledge half-way up the hill, or broken ground rather, with caves scattered near the beginning of a nullah." "I know where you mean." "You went alone into one of those caves?" "That is quite correct." "And the prisoner followed you." "Now we've got 'im," from the Major. She was silent. The court, the place of question, awaited her reply. But she could not give it until Aziz entered the place of answer. "The prisoner followed you, didn't he?" he repeated in the monotonous tones that they both used; they were employing agreed words throughout, so that this part of the proceedings held no surprises. "May I have half a minute before I reply to that, Mr. McBryde?" "Certainly." Her vision was of several caves. She saw herself in one, and she was also outside it, watching its entrance, for Aziz to pass in. She failed to locate him. It was the doubt that had often visited her, but solid and attractive, like the hills, "I am not" Speech was more difficult than vision. "I am not quite sure." "I beg your pardon?" said the Superintendent of Police. "I cannot be sure . . ."<|quote|>"I didn't catch that answer."</|quote|>He looked scared, his mouth shut with a snap. "You are on that landing, or whatever we term it, and you have entered a cave. I suggest to you that the prisoner followed you." She shook her head. "What do you mean, please?" "No," she said in a flat, unattractive voice. Slight noises began in various parts of the room, but no one yet understood what was occurring except Fielding. He saw that she was going to have a nervous breakdown and that his friend was saved. "What is that, what are you saying? Speak up, please." The Magistrate bent forward. "I'm afraid I have made a mistake." "What nature of mistake?" "Dr. Aziz never followed me into the cave." The Superintendent slammed down his papers, then picked them up and said calmly: "Now, Miss Quested, let us go on. I will read you the words of the deposition which you signed two hours later in my bungalow." "Excuse me, Mr. McBryde, you cannot go on. I am speaking to the witness myself. And the public will be silent. If it continues to talk, I have the court cleared. Miss Quested, address your remarks to me, who am the Magistrate in charge of the case, and realize their extreme gravity. Remember you speak on oath, Miss Quested." "Dr. Aziz never" "I stop these proceedings on medical grounds," cried the Major on a word from Turton, and all the English rose from their chairs at once, large white figures behind which the little magistrate was hidden. The Indians rose too, hundreds of things went on at once, so that afterwards each person gave a different account of the catastrophe. "You withdraw the charge? Answer me," shrieked the representative of Justice. Something that she did not understand took hold of the girl and pulled her through. Though the vision was over, and she had returned to the insipidity of the world, she remembered what she had learnt. Atonement and confession they could wait. It was in hard prosaic tones that she said, "I withdraw everything." "Enough sit down. Mr. McBryde, do you wish to continue in the face of this?" The Superintendent gazed at his witness as if she was a broken machine, and said, "Are you mad?" "Don't question her, sir; you have no longer the right." "Give me time to consider" "Sahib, you will have to withdraw; this becomes a scandal," boomed the Nawab Bahadur suddenly from the back of the court. "He shall not," shouted Mrs. Turton against the gathering tumult. "Call the other witnesses; we're none of us safe" Ronny tried to check her, and she gave him an irritable blow, then screamed insults at Adela. The Superintendent moved to the support of his friends, saying nonchalantly to the Magistrate as he did so, "Right, I withdraw." Mr. Das rose, nearly dead with the strain. He had controlled the case, just controlled it. He had shown that an Indian can preside. | A Passage To India |
"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." | Eeyore | "As I expected," he said.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"Poor old Eeyore. I'll dry | it from side to side. "As I expected," he said.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"Poor old Eeyore. I'll dry it for you," said Christopher | 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.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 sorry you were about my tail, being all numb, and could you do anything to help?" "No," said Pooh. "That wasn't me," he said. He thought for a little and then suggested helpfully, "Perhaps it was somebody else." "Well, thank him for me when you see him." Pooh looked | 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.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 sorry you were about my tail, being all numb, and could you do anything to help?" "No," said Pooh. "That wasn't me," he said. He thought for a little and then suggested helpfully, "Perhaps it was somebody else." "Well, thank him for me when you see him." Pooh looked anxiously at Christopher Robin. "Pooh's found the North Pole," said Christopher Robin. "Isn't that lovely?" Pooh looked modestly down. "Is that it?" said Eeyore. "Yes," said Christopher Robin. "Is that what we were looking for?" "Yes," said Pooh. "Oh!" said Eeyore. "Well, anyhow--it didn't rain," he said. They stuck the pole in the ground, and Christopher Robin tied a message on to it. NORTH POLE DISCOVERED BY POOH POOH FOUND IT. Then they all went home again. And I think, but I am not quite sure, that Roo had a hot bath and went straight to bed. But Pooh went back to his own house, and feeling very proud of what he had done, had a little something to revive himself. CHAPTER IX IN WHICH PIGLET IS ENTIRELY SURROUNDED BY WATER It rained and it rained and it rained. Piglet told himself that never in all his life, and _he_ was goodness knows _how_ old--three, was it, or four?--never had he seen so much rain. Days and days and days. "If only," he thought, as he looked out of the window, "I had been in Pooh's house, or Christopher Robin's house, or Rabbit's house when it began to rain, then | 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." "The only thing," 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.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 sorry you were about my tail, being all numb, and could you do anything to help?" "No," said Pooh. "That wasn't me," he said. He thought for a little and then suggested helpfully, "Perhaps it was somebody else." "Well, thank him for me when you see him." Pooh looked anxiously at Christopher Robin. "Pooh's found the North Pole," said Christopher Robin. "Isn't that lovely?" Pooh looked modestly down. "Is that it?" said Eeyore. "Yes," said Christopher Robin. "Is that what we were looking for?" "Yes," said Pooh. "Oh!" said Eeyore. "Well, anyhow--it didn't rain," he said. They stuck the pole in the ground, and Christopher Robin tied a message on to it. NORTH POLE DISCOVERED BY POOH POOH FOUND IT. Then they all went home again. And I think, but I am not quite sure, that Roo had a hot bath and went straight to bed. But Pooh went back to his own house, and feeling very proud of what he had done, had a little something to revive himself. CHAPTER IX IN WHICH PIGLET IS ENTIRELY SURROUNDED BY WATER It rained and it rained and it rained. Piglet told himself that never in all his life, and _he_ was goodness knows _how_ old--three, was it, or four?--never had he seen so much rain. Days and days and days. "If only," he thought, as he looked out of the window, "I had been in Pooh's house, or Christopher Robin's house, or Rabbit's house when it began to rain, then I should have had Company all this time, instead of being here all alone, with nothing to do except wonder when it will stop." And he imagined himself with Pooh, saying, "Did you ever see such rain, Pooh?" and Pooh saying, "Isn't it _awful_, Piglet?" and Piglet saying, "I wonder how it is over Christopher Robin's way" and Pooh saying, "I should think poor old Rabbit is about flooded out by this time." It would have been jolly to talk like this, and really, it wasn't much good having anything exciting like floods, if you couldn't share them with somebody. For it was rather exciting. The little dry ditches in which Piglet had nosed about so often had become streams, the little streams across which he had splashed were rivers, and the river, between whose steep banks they had played so happily, had sprawled out of its own bed and was taking up so much room everywhere, that Piglet was beginning to wonder whether it would be coming into _his_ bed soon. "It's a little Anxious," he said to himself, "to be a Very Small Animal Entirely Surrounded by Water. Christopher Robin and Pooh could escape by Climbing Trees, and Kanga could escape by Jumping, and Rabbit could escape by Burrowing, and Owl could escape by Flying, and Eeyore could escape by--by Making a Loud Noise Until Rescued, and here am I, surrounded by water and I can't do _anything_." It went on raining, and every day the water got a little higher, until now it was nearly up to Piglet's window ... and still he hadn't done anything. "There's Pooh," he thought to himself. "Pooh hasn't much Brain, but he never comes to any harm. He does silly things and they turn out right. There's Owl. Owl hasn't exactly got Brain, but he Knows Things. He would know the Right Thing to Do when Surrounded by Water. There's Rabbit. He hasn't Learnt in Books, but he can always Think of a Clever Plan. There's Kanga. She isn't Clever, Kanga isn't, but she would be so anxious about Roo that she would do a Good Thing to Do without thinking about It. And then there's Eeyore. And Eeyore is so miserable anyhow that he wouldn't mind about this. But I wonder what Christopher Robin would do?" Then suddenly he remembered a story which Christopher Robin had told him about a | 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.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 sorry you were about my tail, being all numb, and could you do anything to help?" "No," said Pooh. "That wasn't me," he said. He thought for a little and then suggested helpfully, "Perhaps it was somebody else." "Well, thank him for me when you see him." Pooh looked anxiously at Christopher Robin. "Pooh's found the North | Winnie The Pooh |
"has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke." | Mr. Darcy | laugh." "Miss Bingley," said he,<|quote|>"has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke."</|quote|>"Certainly," replied Elizabeth--" "there are | acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh." "Miss Bingley," said he,<|quote|>"has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke."</|quote|>"Certainly," replied Elizabeth--" "there are such people, but I hope | Mr. Darcy may hug himself." "Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!" cried Elizabeth. "That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh." "Miss Bingley," said he,<|quote|>"has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke."</|quote|>"Certainly," replied Elizabeth--" "there are such people, but I hope I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies _do_ divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.--But these, I suppose, are precisely | do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me _that_. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no--I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself." "Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!" cried Elizabeth. "That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh." "Miss Bingley," said he,<|quote|>"has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke."</|quote|>"Certainly," replied Elizabeth--" "there are such people, but I hope I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies _do_ divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.--But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without." "Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule." "Such as vanity and pride." "Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real | or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking;--if the first, I should be completely in your way;--and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire." "Oh! shocking!" cried Miss Bingley. "I never heard any thing so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?" "Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination," said Elizabeth. "We can all plague and punish one another. Teaze him--laugh at him.--Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done." "But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me _that_. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no--I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself." "Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!" cried Elizabeth. "That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh." "Miss Bingley," said he,<|quote|>"has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke."</|quote|>"Certainly," replied Elizabeth--" "there are such people, but I hope I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies _do_ divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.--But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without." "Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule." "Such as vanity and pride." "Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation." Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile. "Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," said Miss Bingley;--" "and pray what is the result?" "I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise." "No" "--said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for.--It is I believe too little yielding--certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies | it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing, that he could imagine but two motives for their chusing to walk up and down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would interfere. "What could he mean? she was dying to know what could be his meaning"--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him? "Not at all," was her answer; "but depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him, will be to ask nothing about it." Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in any thing, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two motives. "I have not the smallest objection to explaining them," said he, as soon as she allowed him to speak. "You either chuse this method of passing the evening because you are in each other's confidence and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking;--if the first, I should be completely in your way;--and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire." "Oh! shocking!" cried Miss Bingley. "I never heard any thing so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?" "Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination," said Elizabeth. "We can all plague and punish one another. Teaze him--laugh at him.--Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done." "But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me _that_. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no--I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself." "Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!" cried Elizabeth. "That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh." "Miss Bingley," said he,<|quote|>"has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke."</|quote|>"Certainly," replied Elizabeth--" "there are such people, but I hope I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies _do_ divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.--But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without." "Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule." "Such as vanity and pride." "Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation." Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile. "Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," said Miss Bingley;--" "and pray what is the result?" "I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise." "No" "--said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for.--It is I believe too little yielding--certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful.--My good opinion once lost is lost for ever." "_That_ is a failing indeed!" "--cried Elizabeth. "Implacable resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well.--I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me." "There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome." "And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate every body." "And yours," he replied with a smile, "is wilfully to misunderstand them." "Do let us have a little music," "--cried Miss Bingley, tired of a conversation in which she had no share.--" "Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst." Her sister made not the smallest objection, and the piano-forte was opened, and Darcy, after a few moments recollection, was not sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention. CHAPTER XII. In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the next morning to | his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, "How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a book!--When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library." No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest of some amusement; when hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said, "By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield?--I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure." "If you mean Darcy," cried her brother, "he may go to bed, if he chuses, before it begins--but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send round my cards." "I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the day." "Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be near so much like a ball." Miss Bingley made no answer; and soon afterwards got up and walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well;--but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of her feelings she resolved on one effort more; and, turning to Elizabeth, said, "Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room.--I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude." Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing, that he could imagine but two motives for their chusing to walk up and down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would interfere. "What could he mean? she was dying to know what could be his meaning"--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him? "Not at all," was her answer; "but depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him, will be to ask nothing about it." Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in any thing, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two motives. "I have not the smallest objection to explaining them," said he, as soon as she allowed him to speak. "You either chuse this method of passing the evening because you are in each other's confidence and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking;--if the first, I should be completely in your way;--and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire." "Oh! shocking!" cried Miss Bingley. "I never heard any thing so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?" "Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination," said Elizabeth. "We can all plague and punish one another. Teaze him--laugh at him.--Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done." "But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me _that_. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no--I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself." "Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!" cried Elizabeth. "That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh." "Miss Bingley," said he,<|quote|>"has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke."</|quote|>"Certainly," replied Elizabeth--" "there are such people, but I hope I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies _do_ divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.--But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without." "Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule." "Such as vanity and pride." "Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation." Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile. "Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," said Miss Bingley;--" "and pray what is the result?" "I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise." "No" "--said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for.--It is I believe too little yielding--certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful.--My good opinion once lost is lost for ever." "_That_ is a failing indeed!" "--cried Elizabeth. "Implacable resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well.--I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me." "There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome." "And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate every body." "And yours," he replied with a smile, "is wilfully to misunderstand them." "Do let us have a little music," "--cried Miss Bingley, tired of a conversation in which she had no share.--" "Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst." Her sister made not the smallest objection, and the piano-forte was opened, and Darcy, after a few moments recollection, was not sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention. CHAPTER XII. In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the next morning to her mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at least not to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs. Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very well.--Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively resolved--nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, as being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long, she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage immediately, and at length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning should be mentioned, and the request made. The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work on Jane; and till the morrow, their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike of one sister much exceeded her affection for the other. The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be safe for her--that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where she felt herself to be right. To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence--Elizabeth had been at Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked--and Miss Bingley was uncivil to _her_, and more teazing than usual to himself. He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration should _now_ escape him, nothing that could elevate her with the hope of influencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea had been suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight in confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were at one time left by themselves for half an hour, he adhered most conscientiously to his book, and would not | for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send round my cards." "I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the day." "Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be near so much like a ball." Miss Bingley made no answer; and soon afterwards got up and walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well;--but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of her feelings she resolved on one effort more; and, turning to Elizabeth, said, "Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room.--I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude." Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing, that he could imagine but two motives for their chusing to walk up and down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would interfere. "What could he mean? she was dying to know what could be his meaning"--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him? "Not at all," was her answer; "but depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him, will be to ask nothing about it." Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in any thing, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two motives. "I have not the smallest objection to explaining them," said he, as soon as she allowed him to speak. "You either chuse this method of passing the evening because you are in each other's confidence and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking;--if the first, I should be completely in your way;--and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire." "Oh! shocking!" cried Miss Bingley. "I never heard any thing so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?" "Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination," said Elizabeth. "We can all plague and punish one another. Teaze him--laugh at him.--Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done." "But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me _that_. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no--I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself." "Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!" cried Elizabeth. "That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh." "Miss Bingley," said he,<|quote|>"has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke."</|quote|>"Certainly," replied Elizabeth--" "there are such people, but I hope I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies _do_ divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.--But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without." "Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule." "Such as vanity and pride." "Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation." Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile. "Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," said Miss Bingley;--" "and pray what is the result?" "I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise." "No" "--said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for.--It is I believe too little yielding--certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful.--My good opinion once lost is lost for ever." "_That_ is a failing indeed!" "--cried Elizabeth. "Implacable resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well.--I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me." "There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome." "And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate every body." "And yours," he replied with a smile, "is wilfully to misunderstand them." "Do let us have a little music," "--cried Miss Bingley, tired of a conversation in which she had no share.--" "Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst." Her sister made not the smallest objection, and the piano-forte was opened, and Darcy, after a few moments recollection, was not sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention. CHAPTER XII. In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the next morning to her mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for them in | Pride And Prejudice |
"Was that him?" | Cassandra Otway | that was new to her.<|quote|>"Was that him?"</|quote|>she asked. "It was Ralph | gained a look of dignity that was new to her.<|quote|>"Was that him?"</|quote|>she asked. "It was Ralph Denham," Katharine replied. "I meant | and clenched her hands. She suffered more fiery torture in those few minutes than she had suffered in the whole of her life; she learnt more of her capacities for feeling. But when Katharine reappeared she was calm, and had gained a look of dignity that was new to her.<|quote|>"Was that him?"</|quote|>she asked. "It was Ralph Denham," Katharine replied. "I meant Ralph Denham." "Why did you mean Ralph Denham? What has William told you about Ralph Denham?" The accusation that Katharine was calm, callous, and indifferent was not possible in face of her present air of animation. She gave Cassandra no | She called her cold, unseeing, unscrupulous, but the only sign she gave outwardly was a curious one she reached out her hand and grasped the volume of history. At that moment the bell of the telephone rang and Katharine went to answer it. Cassandra, released from observation, dropped her book and clenched her hands. She suffered more fiery torture in those few minutes than she had suffered in the whole of her life; she learnt more of her capacities for feeling. But when Katharine reappeared she was calm, and had gained a look of dignity that was new to her.<|quote|>"Was that him?"</|quote|>she asked. "It was Ralph Denham," Katharine replied. "I meant Ralph Denham." "Why did you mean Ralph Denham? What has William told you about Ralph Denham?" The accusation that Katharine was calm, callous, and indifferent was not possible in face of her present air of animation. She gave Cassandra no time to frame an answer. "Now, when are you and William going to be married?" she asked. Cassandra made no reply for some moments. It was, indeed, a very difficult question to answer. In conversation the night before, William had indicated to Cassandra that, in his belief, Katharine was becoming | rashness in having influenced the life of another, as she had influenced Cassandra s life. "We weren t serious," she said quickly. "But I m fearfully serious," said Cassandra, with a little shudder, and her look showed that she spoke the truth. She turned and glanced at Katharine as she had never glanced at her before. There was fear in her glance, which darted on her and then dropped guiltily. Oh, Katharine had everything beauty, mind, character. She could never compete with Katharine; she could never be safe so long as Katharine brooded over her, dominating her, disposing of her. She called her cold, unseeing, unscrupulous, but the only sign she gave outwardly was a curious one she reached out her hand and grasped the volume of history. At that moment the bell of the telephone rang and Katharine went to answer it. Cassandra, released from observation, dropped her book and clenched her hands. She suffered more fiery torture in those few minutes than she had suffered in the whole of her life; she learnt more of her capacities for feeling. But when Katharine reappeared she was calm, and had gained a look of dignity that was new to her.<|quote|>"Was that him?"</|quote|>she asked. "It was Ralph Denham," Katharine replied. "I meant Ralph Denham." "Why did you mean Ralph Denham? What has William told you about Ralph Denham?" The accusation that Katharine was calm, callous, and indifferent was not possible in face of her present air of animation. She gave Cassandra no time to frame an answer. "Now, when are you and William going to be married?" she asked. Cassandra made no reply for some moments. It was, indeed, a very difficult question to answer. In conversation the night before, William had indicated to Cassandra that, in his belief, Katharine was becoming engaged to Ralph Denham in the dining-room. Cassandra, in the rosy light of her own circumstances, had been disposed to think that the matter must be settled already. But a letter which she had received that morning from William, while ardent in its expression of affection, had conveyed to her obliquely that he would prefer the announcement of their engagement to coincide with that of Katharine s. This document Cassandra now produced, and read aloud, with considerable excisions and much hesitation. "... a thousand pities ahem I fear we shall cause a great deal of natural annoyance. If, on the | Why shouldn t you ?" "Yes?" "Why shouldn t you be happy too?" "I am quite happy," Katharine replied. "I mean as I am. Katharine," she said impulsively, "do let s be married on the same day." "To the same man?" "Oh, no, no. But why shouldn t you marry some one else?" "Here s your Macaulay," said Katharine, turning round with the book in her hand. "I should say you d better begin to read at once if you mean to be educated by tea-time." "Damn Lord Macaulay!" cried Cassandra, slapping the book upon the table. "Would you rather not talk?" "We ve talked enough already," Katharine replied evasively. "I know I shan t be able to settle to Macaulay," said Cassandra, looking ruefully at the dull red cover of the prescribed volume, which, however, possessed a talismanic property, since William admired it. He had advised a little serious reading for the morning hours. "Have _you_ read Macaulay?" she asked. "No. William never tried to educate me." As she spoke she saw the light fade from Cassandra s face, as if she had implied some other, more mysterious, relationship. She was stung with compunction. She marveled at her own rashness in having influenced the life of another, as she had influenced Cassandra s life. "We weren t serious," she said quickly. "But I m fearfully serious," said Cassandra, with a little shudder, and her look showed that she spoke the truth. She turned and glanced at Katharine as she had never glanced at her before. There was fear in her glance, which darted on her and then dropped guiltily. Oh, Katharine had everything beauty, mind, character. She could never compete with Katharine; she could never be safe so long as Katharine brooded over her, dominating her, disposing of her. She called her cold, unseeing, unscrupulous, but the only sign she gave outwardly was a curious one she reached out her hand and grasped the volume of history. At that moment the bell of the telephone rang and Katharine went to answer it. Cassandra, released from observation, dropped her book and clenched her hands. She suffered more fiery torture in those few minutes than she had suffered in the whole of her life; she learnt more of her capacities for feeling. But when Katharine reappeared she was calm, and had gained a look of dignity that was new to her.<|quote|>"Was that him?"</|quote|>she asked. "It was Ralph Denham," Katharine replied. "I meant Ralph Denham." "Why did you mean Ralph Denham? What has William told you about Ralph Denham?" The accusation that Katharine was calm, callous, and indifferent was not possible in face of her present air of animation. She gave Cassandra no time to frame an answer. "Now, when are you and William going to be married?" she asked. Cassandra made no reply for some moments. It was, indeed, a very difficult question to answer. In conversation the night before, William had indicated to Cassandra that, in his belief, Katharine was becoming engaged to Ralph Denham in the dining-room. Cassandra, in the rosy light of her own circumstances, had been disposed to think that the matter must be settled already. But a letter which she had received that morning from William, while ardent in its expression of affection, had conveyed to her obliquely that he would prefer the announcement of their engagement to coincide with that of Katharine s. This document Cassandra now produced, and read aloud, with considerable excisions and much hesitation. "... a thousand pities ahem I fear we shall cause a great deal of natural annoyance. If, on the other hand, what I have reason to think will happen, should happen within reasonable time, and the present position is not in any way offensive to you, delay would, in my opinion, serve all our interests better than a premature explanation, which is bound to cause more surprise than is desirable " "Very like William," Katharine exclaimed, having gathered the drift of these remarks with a speed that, by itself, disconcerted Cassandra. "I quite understand his feelings," Cassandra replied. "I quite agree with them. I think it would be much better, if you intend to marry Mr. Denham, that we should wait as William says." "But, then, if I don t marry him for months or, perhaps, not at all?" Cassandra was silent. The prospect appalled her. Katharine had been telephoning to Ralph Denham; she looked queer, too; she must be, or about to become, engaged to him. But if Cassandra could have overheard the conversation upon the telephone, she would not have felt so certain that it tended in that direction. It was to this effect: "I m Ralph Denham speaking. I m in my right senses now." "How long did you wait outside the house?" "I went home | dust. The china shepherdesses were already shining from a bath of hot water. The writing-table might have belonged to a professional man of methodical habits. Gathering together a few papers upon which she was at work, Katharine proceeded to her own room with the intention of looking through them, perhaps, in the course of the morning. But she was met on the stairs by Cassandra, who followed her up, but with such intervals between each step that Katharine began to feel her purpose dwindling before they had reached the door. Cassandra leant over the banisters, and looked down upon the Persian rug that lay on the floor of the hall. "Doesn t everything look odd this morning?" she inquired. "Are you really going to spend the morning with those dull old letters, because if so" The dull old letters, which would have turned the heads of the most sober of collectors, were laid upon a table, and, after a moment s pause, Cassandra, looking grave all of a sudden, asked Katharine where she should find the "History of England" by Lord Macaulay. It was downstairs in Mr. Hilbery s study. The cousins descended together in search of it. They diverged into the drawing-room for the good reason that the door was open. The portrait of Richard Alardyce attracted their attention. "I wonder what he was like?" It was a question that Katharine had often asked herself lately. "Oh, a fraud like the rest of them at least Henry says so," Cassandra replied. "Though I don t believe everything Henry says," she added a little defensively. Down they went into Mr. Hilbery s study, where they began to look among his books. So desultory was this examination that some fifteen minutes failed to discover the work they were in search of. "Must you read Macaulay s History, Cassandra?" Katharine asked, with a stretch of her arms. "I must," Cassandra replied briefly. "Well, I m going to leave you to look for it by yourself." "Oh, no, Katharine. Please stay and help me. You see you see I told William I d read a little every day. And I want to tell him that I ve begun when he comes." "When does William come?" Katharine asked, turning to the shelves again. "To tea, if that suits you?" "If it suits me to be out, I suppose you mean." "Oh, you re horrid.... Why shouldn t you ?" "Yes?" "Why shouldn t you be happy too?" "I am quite happy," Katharine replied. "I mean as I am. Katharine," she said impulsively, "do let s be married on the same day." "To the same man?" "Oh, no, no. But why shouldn t you marry some one else?" "Here s your Macaulay," said Katharine, turning round with the book in her hand. "I should say you d better begin to read at once if you mean to be educated by tea-time." "Damn Lord Macaulay!" cried Cassandra, slapping the book upon the table. "Would you rather not talk?" "We ve talked enough already," Katharine replied evasively. "I know I shan t be able to settle to Macaulay," said Cassandra, looking ruefully at the dull red cover of the prescribed volume, which, however, possessed a talismanic property, since William admired it. He had advised a little serious reading for the morning hours. "Have _you_ read Macaulay?" she asked. "No. William never tried to educate me." As she spoke she saw the light fade from Cassandra s face, as if she had implied some other, more mysterious, relationship. She was stung with compunction. She marveled at her own rashness in having influenced the life of another, as she had influenced Cassandra s life. "We weren t serious," she said quickly. "But I m fearfully serious," said Cassandra, with a little shudder, and her look showed that she spoke the truth. She turned and glanced at Katharine as she had never glanced at her before. There was fear in her glance, which darted on her and then dropped guiltily. Oh, Katharine had everything beauty, mind, character. She could never compete with Katharine; she could never be safe so long as Katharine brooded over her, dominating her, disposing of her. She called her cold, unseeing, unscrupulous, but the only sign she gave outwardly was a curious one she reached out her hand and grasped the volume of history. At that moment the bell of the telephone rang and Katharine went to answer it. Cassandra, released from observation, dropped her book and clenched her hands. She suffered more fiery torture in those few minutes than she had suffered in the whole of her life; she learnt more of her capacities for feeling. But when Katharine reappeared she was calm, and had gained a look of dignity that was new to her.<|quote|>"Was that him?"</|quote|>she asked. "It was Ralph Denham," Katharine replied. "I meant Ralph Denham." "Why did you mean Ralph Denham? What has William told you about Ralph Denham?" The accusation that Katharine was calm, callous, and indifferent was not possible in face of her present air of animation. She gave Cassandra no time to frame an answer. "Now, when are you and William going to be married?" she asked. Cassandra made no reply for some moments. It was, indeed, a very difficult question to answer. In conversation the night before, William had indicated to Cassandra that, in his belief, Katharine was becoming engaged to Ralph Denham in the dining-room. Cassandra, in the rosy light of her own circumstances, had been disposed to think that the matter must be settled already. But a letter which she had received that morning from William, while ardent in its expression of affection, had conveyed to her obliquely that he would prefer the announcement of their engagement to coincide with that of Katharine s. This document Cassandra now produced, and read aloud, with considerable excisions and much hesitation. "... a thousand pities ahem I fear we shall cause a great deal of natural annoyance. If, on the other hand, what I have reason to think will happen, should happen within reasonable time, and the present position is not in any way offensive to you, delay would, in my opinion, serve all our interests better than a premature explanation, which is bound to cause more surprise than is desirable " "Very like William," Katharine exclaimed, having gathered the drift of these remarks with a speed that, by itself, disconcerted Cassandra. "I quite understand his feelings," Cassandra replied. "I quite agree with them. I think it would be much better, if you intend to marry Mr. Denham, that we should wait as William says." "But, then, if I don t marry him for months or, perhaps, not at all?" Cassandra was silent. The prospect appalled her. Katharine had been telephoning to Ralph Denham; she looked queer, too; she must be, or about to become, engaged to him. But if Cassandra could have overheard the conversation upon the telephone, she would not have felt so certain that it tended in that direction. It was to this effect: "I m Ralph Denham speaking. I m in my right senses now." "How long did you wait outside the house?" "I went home and wrote you a letter. I tore it up." "I shall tear up everything too." "I shall come." "Yes. Come to-day." "I must explain to you" "Yes. We must explain" A long pause followed. Ralph began a sentence, which he canceled with the word, "Nothing." Suddenly, together, at the same moment, they said good-bye. And yet, if the telephone had been miraculously connected with some higher atmosphere pungent with the scent of thyme and the savor of salt, Katharine could hardly have breathed in a keener sense of exhilaration. She ran downstairs on the crest of it. She was amazed to find herself already committed by William and Cassandra to marry the owner of the halting voice she had just heard on the telephone. The tendency of her spirit seemed to be in an altogether different direction; and of a different nature. She had only to look at Cassandra to see what the love that results in an engagement and marriage means. She considered for a moment, and then said: "If you don t want to tell people yourselves, I ll do it for you. I know William has feelings about these matters that make it very difficult for him to do anything." "Because he s fearfully sensitive about other people s feelings," said Cassandra. "The idea that he could upset Aunt Maggie or Uncle Trevor would make him ill for weeks." This interpretation of what she was used to call William s conventionality was new to Katharine. And yet she felt it now to be the true one. "Yes, you re right," she said. "And then he worships beauty. He wants life to be beautiful in every part of it. Have you ever noticed how exquisitely he finishes everything? Look at the address on that envelope. Every letter is perfect." Whether this applied also to the sentiments expressed in the letter, Katharine was not so sure; but when William s solicitude was spent upon Cassandra it not only failed to irritate her, as it had done when she was the object of it, but appeared, as Cassandra said, the fruit of his love of beauty. "Yes," she said, "he loves beauty." "I hope we shall have a great many children," said Cassandra. "He loves children." This remark made Katharine realize the depths of their intimacy better than any other words could have done; she was jealous for one moment; | into the drawing-room for the good reason that the door was open. The portrait of Richard Alardyce attracted their attention. "I wonder what he was like?" It was a question that Katharine had often asked herself lately. "Oh, a fraud like the rest of them at least Henry says so," Cassandra replied. "Though I don t believe everything Henry says," she added a little defensively. Down they went into Mr. Hilbery s study, where they began to look among his books. So desultory was this examination that some fifteen minutes failed to discover the work they were in search of. "Must you read Macaulay s History, Cassandra?" Katharine asked, with a stretch of her arms. "I must," Cassandra replied briefly. "Well, I m going to leave you to look for it by yourself." "Oh, no, Katharine. Please stay and help me. You see you see I told William I d read a little every day. And I want to tell him that I ve begun when he comes." "When does William come?" Katharine asked, turning to the shelves again. "To tea, if that suits you?" "If it suits me to be out, I suppose you mean." "Oh, you re horrid.... Why shouldn t you ?" "Yes?" "Why shouldn t you be happy too?" "I am quite happy," Katharine replied. "I mean as I am. Katharine," she said impulsively, "do let s be married on the same day." "To the same man?" "Oh, no, no. But why shouldn t you marry some one else?" "Here s your Macaulay," said Katharine, turning round with the book in her hand. "I should say you d better begin to read at once if you mean to be educated by tea-time." "Damn Lord Macaulay!" cried Cassandra, slapping the book upon the table. "Would you rather not talk?" "We ve talked enough already," Katharine replied evasively. "I know I shan t be able to settle to Macaulay," said Cassandra, looking ruefully at the dull red cover of the prescribed volume, which, however, possessed a talismanic property, since William admired it. He had advised a little serious reading for the morning hours. "Have _you_ read Macaulay?" she asked. "No. William never tried to educate me." As she spoke she saw the light fade from Cassandra s face, as if she had implied some other, more mysterious, relationship. She was stung with compunction. She marveled at her own rashness in having influenced the life of another, as she had influenced Cassandra s life. "We weren t serious," she said quickly. "But I m fearfully serious," said Cassandra, with a little shudder, and her look showed that she spoke the truth. She turned and glanced at Katharine as she had never glanced at her before. There was fear in her glance, which darted on her and then dropped guiltily. Oh, Katharine had everything beauty, mind, character. She could never compete with Katharine; she could never be safe so long as Katharine brooded over her, dominating her, disposing of her. She called her cold, unseeing, unscrupulous, but the only sign she gave outwardly was a curious one she reached out her hand and grasped the volume of history. At that moment the bell of the telephone rang and Katharine went to answer it. Cassandra, released from observation, dropped her book and clenched her hands. She suffered more fiery torture in those few minutes than she had suffered in the whole of her life; she learnt more of her capacities for feeling. But when Katharine reappeared she was calm, and had gained a look of dignity that was new to her.<|quote|>"Was that him?"</|quote|>she asked. "It was Ralph Denham," Katharine replied. "I meant Ralph Denham." "Why did you mean Ralph Denham? What has William told you about Ralph Denham?" The accusation that Katharine was calm, callous, and indifferent was not possible in face of her present air of animation. She gave Cassandra no time to frame an answer. "Now, when are you and William going to be married?" she asked. Cassandra made no reply for some moments. It was, indeed, a very difficult question to answer. In conversation the night before, William had indicated to Cassandra that, in his belief, Katharine was becoming engaged to Ralph Denham in the dining-room. Cassandra, in the rosy light of her own circumstances, had been disposed to think that the matter must be settled already. But a letter which she had received that morning from William, while ardent in its expression of affection, had conveyed to her obliquely that he would prefer the announcement of their engagement to coincide with that of Katharine s. This document Cassandra now produced, and read aloud, with considerable excisions and much hesitation. "... a thousand pities ahem I fear we shall cause a great deal of natural annoyance. If, on the other hand, what I have reason to think will happen, should happen within reasonable time, and the present position is not in any way offensive to you, delay would, in my opinion, serve all our interests better than a premature explanation, which is bound to cause more surprise than is desirable " "Very like William," Katharine exclaimed, having gathered the drift of these remarks with a speed that, by itself, disconcerted Cassandra. "I quite understand his feelings," Cassandra replied. "I quite agree with them. I think it would be much better, if you intend to marry Mr. Denham, that we should wait as William says." "But, then, if I don t marry him for months or, perhaps, not at all?" Cassandra was silent. The prospect appalled her. Katharine had been telephoning to Ralph Denham; she looked queer, too; she must be, or about to become, engaged to him. But if Cassandra could have overheard the conversation upon the telephone, she would not have felt so certain that it tended in that direction. It was to this effect: "I m Ralph Denham speaking. I m in my right senses now." "How long did you wait outside the house?" "I went home and wrote you a letter. I tore it up." "I shall tear up everything too." "I shall come." "Yes. Come to-day." "I must explain to you" "Yes. We must | Night And Day |
"Is it? I am only used to country Christmases." | Mrs. Wilcox | it is clumsier every year."<|quote|>"Is it? I am only used to country Christmases."</|quote|>"We are usually in London, | Peace and Goodwill. But oh, it is clumsier every year."<|quote|>"Is it? I am only used to country Christmases."</|quote|>"We are usually in London, and play the game with | life that holds out the mirror to infinity; personal intercourse, and that alone, that ever hints at a personality beyond our daily vision. "No, I do like Christmas on the whole," she announced. "In its clumsy way, it does approach Peace and Goodwill. But oh, it is clumsier every year."<|quote|>"Is it? I am only used to country Christmases."</|quote|>"We are usually in London, and play the game with vigour--carols at the Abbey, clumsy midday meal, clumsy dinner for the maids, followed by Christmas-tree and dancing of poor children, with songs from Helen. The drawing-room does very well for that. We put the tree in the powder-closet, and draw | it, and if pressed, would affirm it in words. But the visible signs of their belief were Regent Street or Drury Lane, a little mud displaced, a little money spent, a little food cooked, eaten, and forgotten. Inadequate. But in public who shall express the unseen adequately? It is private life that holds out the mirror to infinity; personal intercourse, and that alone, that ever hints at a personality beyond our daily vision. "No, I do like Christmas on the whole," she announced. "In its clumsy way, it does approach Peace and Goodwill. But oh, it is clumsier every year."<|quote|>"Is it? I am only used to country Christmases."</|quote|>"We are usually in London, and play the game with vigour--carols at the Abbey, clumsy midday meal, clumsy dinner for the maids, followed by Christmas-tree and dancing of poor children, with songs from Helen. The drawing-room does very well for that. We put the tree in the powder-closet, and draw a curtain when the candles are lighted, and with the looking-glass behind it looks quite pretty. I wish we might have a powder-closet in our next house. Of course, the tree has to be very small, and the presents don t hang on it. No; the presents reside in a | had come in again that year, were prevalent upon the Christmas-cards. Margaret was no morbid idealist. She did not wish this spate of business and self-advertisement checked. It was only the occasion of it that struck her with amazement annually. How many of these vacillating shoppers and tired shop-assistants realised that it was a divine event that drew them together? She realised it, though standing outside in the matter. She was not a Christian in the accepted sense; she did not believe that God had ever worked among us as a young artisan. These people, or most of them, believed it, and if pressed, would affirm it in words. But the visible signs of their belief were Regent Street or Drury Lane, a little mud displaced, a little money spent, a little food cooked, eaten, and forgotten. Inadequate. But in public who shall express the unseen adequately? It is private life that holds out the mirror to infinity; personal intercourse, and that alone, that ever hints at a personality beyond our daily vision. "No, I do like Christmas on the whole," she announced. "In its clumsy way, it does approach Peace and Goodwill. But oh, it is clumsier every year."<|quote|>"Is it? I am only used to country Christmases."</|quote|>"We are usually in London, and play the game with vigour--carols at the Abbey, clumsy midday meal, clumsy dinner for the maids, followed by Christmas-tree and dancing of poor children, with songs from Helen. The drawing-room does very well for that. We put the tree in the powder-closet, and draw a curtain when the candles are lighted, and with the looking-glass behind it looks quite pretty. I wish we might have a powder-closet in our next house. Of course, the tree has to be very small, and the presents don t hang on it. No; the presents reside in a sort of rocky landscape made of crumpled brown paper." "You spoke of your next house, Miss Schlegel. Then are you leaving Wickham Place?" "Yes, in two or three years, when the lease expires. We must." "Have you been there long?" "All our lives." "You will be very sorry to leave it." "I suppose so. We scarcely realise it yet. My father--" She broke off, for they had reached the stationery department of the Haymarket Stores, and Mrs. Wilcox wanted to order some private greeting cards. "If possible, something distinctive," she sighed. At the counter she found a friend, bent on | "if I have happened to be of use to you, which I didn t know, you cannot pay me back with anything tangible." "I suppose not, but one would like to. Perhaps I shall think of something as we go about." Her name remained at the head of the list, but nothing was written opposite it. They drove from shop to shop. The air was white, and when they alighted it tasted like cold pennies. At times they passed through a clot of grey. Mrs. Wilcox s vitality was low that morning, and it was Margaret who decided on a horse for this little girl, a golliwog for that, for the rector s wife a copper warming-tray. "We always give the servants money." "Yes, do you, yes, much easier," replied Margaret but felt the grotesque impact of the unseen upon the seen, and saw issuing from a forgotten manger at Bethlehem this torrent of coins and toys. Vulgarity reigned. Public-houses, besides their usual exhortation against temperance reform, invited men to "Join our Christmas goose club"--one bottle of gin, etc., or two, according to subscription. A poster of a woman in tights heralded the Christmas pantomime, and little red devils, who had come in again that year, were prevalent upon the Christmas-cards. Margaret was no morbid idealist. She did not wish this spate of business and self-advertisement checked. It was only the occasion of it that struck her with amazement annually. How many of these vacillating shoppers and tired shop-assistants realised that it was a divine event that drew them together? She realised it, though standing outside in the matter. She was not a Christian in the accepted sense; she did not believe that God had ever worked among us as a young artisan. These people, or most of them, believed it, and if pressed, would affirm it in words. But the visible signs of their belief were Regent Street or Drury Lane, a little mud displaced, a little money spent, a little food cooked, eaten, and forgotten. Inadequate. But in public who shall express the unseen adequately? It is private life that holds out the mirror to infinity; personal intercourse, and that alone, that ever hints at a personality beyond our daily vision. "No, I do like Christmas on the whole," she announced. "In its clumsy way, it does approach Peace and Goodwill. But oh, it is clumsier every year."<|quote|>"Is it? I am only used to country Christmases."</|quote|>"We are usually in London, and play the game with vigour--carols at the Abbey, clumsy midday meal, clumsy dinner for the maids, followed by Christmas-tree and dancing of poor children, with songs from Helen. The drawing-room does very well for that. We put the tree in the powder-closet, and draw a curtain when the candles are lighted, and with the looking-glass behind it looks quite pretty. I wish we might have a powder-closet in our next house. Of course, the tree has to be very small, and the presents don t hang on it. No; the presents reside in a sort of rocky landscape made of crumpled brown paper." "You spoke of your next house, Miss Schlegel. Then are you leaving Wickham Place?" "Yes, in two or three years, when the lease expires. We must." "Have you been there long?" "All our lives." "You will be very sorry to leave it." "I suppose so. We scarcely realise it yet. My father--" She broke off, for they had reached the stationery department of the Haymarket Stores, and Mrs. Wilcox wanted to order some private greeting cards. "If possible, something distinctive," she sighed. At the counter she found a friend, bent on the same errand, and conversed with her insipidly, wasting much time. "My husband and our daughter are motoring." "Bertha, too? Oh, fancy, what a coincidence!" Margaret, though not practical, could shine in such company as this. While they talked, she went through a volume of specimen cards, and submitted one for Mrs. Wilcox s inspection. Mrs. Wilcox was delighted--so original, words so sweet; she would order a hundred like that, and could never be sufficiently grateful. Then, just as the assistant was booking the order, she said: "Do you know, I ll wait. On second thoughts, I ll wait. There s plenty of time still, isn t there, and I shall be able to get Evie s opinion." They returned to the carriage by devious paths; when they were in, she said, "But couldn t you get it renewed?" "I beg your pardon?" asked Margaret. "The lease, I mean." "Oh, the lease! Have you been thinking of that all the time? How very kind of you!" "Surely something could be done." "No; values have risen too enormously. They mean to pull down Wickham Place, and build flats like yours." "But how horrible!" "Landlords are horrible." Then she said vehemently: "It | hand, pressing the more because the rest of the family were away, and the opportunity seemed favourable. But the elder woman would not be hurried. She refused to fit in with the Wickham Place set, or to reopen discussion of Helen and Paul, whom Margaret would have utilised as a short-cut. She took her time, or perhaps let time take her, and when the crisis did come all was ready. The crisis opened with a message: Would Miss Schlegel come shopping? Christmas was nearing, and Mrs. Wilcox felt behindhand with the presents. She had taken some more days in bed, and must make up for lost time. Margaret accepted, and at eleven o clock one cheerless morning they started out in a brougham. "First of all," began Margaret, "we must make a list and tick off the people s names. My aunt always does, and this fog may thicken up any moment. Have you any ideas?" "I thought we would go to Harrods or the Haymarket Stores," said Mrs. Wilcox rather hopelessly. "Everything is sure to be there. I am not a good shopper. The din is so confusing, and your aunt is quite right--one ought to make a list. Take my notebook, then, and write your own name at the top of the page." "Oh, hooray!" said Margaret, writing it. "How very kind of you to start with me!" But she did not want to receive anything expensive. Their acquaintance was singular rather than intimate, and she divined that the Wilcox clan would resent any expenditure on outsiders; the more compact families do. She did not want to be thought a second Helen, who would snatch presents since she could not snatch young men, nor to be exposed like a second Aunt Juley, to the insults of Charles. A certain austerity of demeanour was best, and she added: "I don t really want a Yuletide gift, though. In fact, I d rather not." "Why?" "Because I ve odd ideas about Christmas. Because I have all that money can buy. I want more people, but no more things." "I should like to give you something worth your acquaintance, Miss Schlegel, in memory of your kindness to me during my lonely fortnight. It has so happened that I have been left alone, and you have stopped me from brooding. I am too apt to brood." "If that is so," said Margaret, "if I have happened to be of use to you, which I didn t know, you cannot pay me back with anything tangible." "I suppose not, but one would like to. Perhaps I shall think of something as we go about." Her name remained at the head of the list, but nothing was written opposite it. They drove from shop to shop. The air was white, and when they alighted it tasted like cold pennies. At times they passed through a clot of grey. Mrs. Wilcox s vitality was low that morning, and it was Margaret who decided on a horse for this little girl, a golliwog for that, for the rector s wife a copper warming-tray. "We always give the servants money." "Yes, do you, yes, much easier," replied Margaret but felt the grotesque impact of the unseen upon the seen, and saw issuing from a forgotten manger at Bethlehem this torrent of coins and toys. Vulgarity reigned. Public-houses, besides their usual exhortation against temperance reform, invited men to "Join our Christmas goose club"--one bottle of gin, etc., or two, according to subscription. A poster of a woman in tights heralded the Christmas pantomime, and little red devils, who had come in again that year, were prevalent upon the Christmas-cards. Margaret was no morbid idealist. She did not wish this spate of business and self-advertisement checked. It was only the occasion of it that struck her with amazement annually. How many of these vacillating shoppers and tired shop-assistants realised that it was a divine event that drew them together? She realised it, though standing outside in the matter. She was not a Christian in the accepted sense; she did not believe that God had ever worked among us as a young artisan. These people, or most of them, believed it, and if pressed, would affirm it in words. But the visible signs of their belief were Regent Street or Drury Lane, a little mud displaced, a little money spent, a little food cooked, eaten, and forgotten. Inadequate. But in public who shall express the unseen adequately? It is private life that holds out the mirror to infinity; personal intercourse, and that alone, that ever hints at a personality beyond our daily vision. "No, I do like Christmas on the whole," she announced. "In its clumsy way, it does approach Peace and Goodwill. But oh, it is clumsier every year."<|quote|>"Is it? I am only used to country Christmases."</|quote|>"We are usually in London, and play the game with vigour--carols at the Abbey, clumsy midday meal, clumsy dinner for the maids, followed by Christmas-tree and dancing of poor children, with songs from Helen. The drawing-room does very well for that. We put the tree in the powder-closet, and draw a curtain when the candles are lighted, and with the looking-glass behind it looks quite pretty. I wish we might have a powder-closet in our next house. Of course, the tree has to be very small, and the presents don t hang on it. No; the presents reside in a sort of rocky landscape made of crumpled brown paper." "You spoke of your next house, Miss Schlegel. Then are you leaving Wickham Place?" "Yes, in two or three years, when the lease expires. We must." "Have you been there long?" "All our lives." "You will be very sorry to leave it." "I suppose so. We scarcely realise it yet. My father--" She broke off, for they had reached the stationery department of the Haymarket Stores, and Mrs. Wilcox wanted to order some private greeting cards. "If possible, something distinctive," she sighed. At the counter she found a friend, bent on the same errand, and conversed with her insipidly, wasting much time. "My husband and our daughter are motoring." "Bertha, too? Oh, fancy, what a coincidence!" Margaret, though not practical, could shine in such company as this. While they talked, she went through a volume of specimen cards, and submitted one for Mrs. Wilcox s inspection. Mrs. Wilcox was delighted--so original, words so sweet; she would order a hundred like that, and could never be sufficiently grateful. Then, just as the assistant was booking the order, she said: "Do you know, I ll wait. On second thoughts, I ll wait. There s plenty of time still, isn t there, and I shall be able to get Evie s opinion." They returned to the carriage by devious paths; when they were in, she said, "But couldn t you get it renewed?" "I beg your pardon?" asked Margaret. "The lease, I mean." "Oh, the lease! Have you been thinking of that all the time? How very kind of you!" "Surely something could be done." "No; values have risen too enormously. They mean to pull down Wickham Place, and build flats like yours." "But how horrible!" "Landlords are horrible." Then she said vehemently: "It is monstrous, Miss Schlegel; it isn t right. I had no idea that this was hanging over you. I do pity you from the bottom of my heart. To be parted from your house, your father s house--it oughtn t to be allowed. It is worse than dying. I would rather die than--Oh, poor girls! Can what they call civilisation be right, if people mayn t die in the room where they were born? My dear, I am so sorry." Margaret did not know what to say. Mrs. Wilcox had been overtired by the shopping, and was inclined to hysteria. "Howards End was nearly pulled down once. It would have killed me." "I--Howards End must be a very different house to ours. We are fond of ours, but there is nothing distinctive about it. As you saw, it is an ordinary London house. We shall easily find another." "So you think." "Again my lack of experience, I suppose!" said Margaret, easing away from the subject. "I can t say anything when you take up that line, Mrs. Wilcox. I wish I could see myself as you see me--foreshortened into a backfisch. Quite the ingenue. Very charming--wonderfully well read for my age, but incapable--" Mrs. Wilcox would not be deterred. "Come down with me to Howards End now," she said, more vehemently than ever. "I want you to see it. You have never seen it. I want to hear what you say about it, for you do put things so wonderfully." Margaret glanced at the pitiless air and then at the tired face of her companion. "Later on I should love it," she continued, "but it s hardly the weather for such an expedition, and we ought to start when we re fresh. Isn t the house shut up, too?" She received no answer. Mrs. Wilcox appeared to be annoyed. "Might I come some other day?" Mrs. Wilcox bent forward and tapped the glass. "Back to Wickham Place, please!" was her order to the coachman. Margaret had been snubbed. "A thousand thanks, Miss Schlegel, for all your help." "Not at all." "It is such a comfort to get the presents off my mind--the Christmas-cards especially. I do admire your choice." It was her turn to receive no answer. In her turn Margaret became annoyed. "My husband and Evie will be back the day after to-morrow. That is why I dragged you | They drove from shop to shop. The air was white, and when they alighted it tasted like cold pennies. At times they passed through a clot of grey. Mrs. Wilcox s vitality was low that morning, and it was Margaret who decided on a horse for this little girl, a golliwog for that, for the rector s wife a copper warming-tray. "We always give the servants money." "Yes, do you, yes, much easier," replied Margaret but felt the grotesque impact of the unseen upon the seen, and saw issuing from a forgotten manger at Bethlehem this torrent of coins and toys. Vulgarity reigned. Public-houses, besides their usual exhortation against temperance reform, invited men to "Join our Christmas goose club"--one bottle of gin, etc., or two, according to subscription. A poster of a woman in tights heralded the Christmas pantomime, and little red devils, who had come in again that year, were prevalent upon the Christmas-cards. Margaret was no morbid idealist. She did not wish this spate of business and self-advertisement checked. It was only the occasion of it that struck her with amazement annually. How many of these vacillating shoppers and tired shop-assistants realised that it was a divine event that drew them together? She realised it, though standing outside in the matter. She was not a Christian in the accepted sense; she did not believe that God had ever worked among us as a young artisan. These people, or most of them, believed it, and if pressed, would affirm it in words. But the visible signs of their belief were Regent Street or Drury Lane, a little mud displaced, a little money spent, a little food cooked, eaten, and forgotten. Inadequate. But in public who shall express the unseen adequately? It is private life that holds out the mirror to infinity; personal intercourse, and that alone, that ever hints at a personality beyond our daily vision. "No, I do like Christmas on the whole," she announced. "In its clumsy way, it does approach Peace and Goodwill. But oh, it is clumsier every year."<|quote|>"Is it? I am only used to country Christmases."</|quote|>"We are usually in London, and play the game with vigour--carols at the Abbey, clumsy midday meal, clumsy dinner for the maids, followed by Christmas-tree and dancing of poor children, with songs from Helen. The drawing-room does very well for that. We put the tree in the powder-closet, and draw a curtain when the candles are lighted, and with the looking-glass behind it looks quite pretty. I wish we might have a powder-closet in our next house. Of course, the tree has to be very small, and the presents don t hang on it. No; the presents reside in a sort of rocky landscape made of crumpled brown paper." "You spoke of your next house, Miss Schlegel. Then are you leaving Wickham Place?" "Yes, in two or three years, when the lease expires. We must." "Have you been there long?" "All our lives." "You will be very sorry to leave it." "I suppose so. We scarcely realise it yet. My father--" She broke off, for they had reached the stationery department of the Haymarket Stores, and Mrs. Wilcox wanted to order some private greeting cards. "If possible, something distinctive," she sighed. At the counter she found a friend, bent on the same errand, and conversed with her insipidly, wasting much time. "My husband and our daughter are motoring." "Bertha, too? Oh, fancy, what a coincidence!" Margaret, though not practical, could shine in such company as this. While they talked, she went through a volume of specimen cards, and submitted one for Mrs. Wilcox s inspection. Mrs. Wilcox was delighted--so original, words so sweet; she would order a hundred like that, and could never be sufficiently grateful. Then, just as the assistant was booking the order, she said: "Do you know, I ll wait. On second thoughts, I ll wait. There s plenty of time still, isn t there, and I shall be able to get Evie s opinion." They returned to the carriage by devious paths; when they were in, she said, "But couldn t you get it renewed?" "I beg your pardon?" asked Margaret. "The lease, I mean." "Oh, the lease! Have you been thinking of that all the time? How very kind of you!" "Surely something could be done." "No; values have risen too enormously. They mean to pull down Wickham Place, and build flats like yours." "But how horrible!" "Landlords are horrible." Then she said vehemently: "It is monstrous, Miss Schlegel; it isn t right. I had no idea that this was hanging over you. I do pity you from the bottom of my heart. To be parted from your house, your father s house--it oughtn t to be allowed. It is worse than dying. I would rather die than--Oh, poor girls! Can what they call civilisation be right, if people mayn t die in | Howards End |
"He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What is the amount of his fortune?" | John Dashwood | brother! what do you mean?"<|quote|>"He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What is the amount of his fortune?"</|quote|>"I believe about two thousand | respectable establishment in life." "Me, brother! what do you mean?"<|quote|>"He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What is the amount of his fortune?"</|quote|>"I believe about two thousand a year." "Two thousand a-year;" | Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?" "Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire." "I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think, Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable establishment in life." "Me, brother! what do you mean?"<|quote|>"He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What is the amount of his fortune?"</|quote|>"I believe about two thousand a year." "Two thousand a-year;" and then working himself up to a pitch of enthusiastic generosity, he added, "Elinor, I wish with all my heart it were _twice_ as much, for your sake." "Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor; "but I am very sure that | After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton. The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon as they were out of the house, his enquiries began. "Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?" "Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire." "I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think, Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable establishment in life." "Me, brother! what do you mean?"<|quote|>"He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What is the amount of his fortune?"</|quote|>"I believe about two thousand a year." "Two thousand a-year;" and then working himself up to a pitch of enthusiastic generosity, he added, "Elinor, I wish with all my heart it were _twice_ as much, for your sake." "Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor; "but I am very sure that Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying _me_." "You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very little trouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his friends may all | really she had no leisure for going any where." Mrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not stand upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring her sisters to see her. His manners to _them_, though calm, were perfectly kind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and on Colonel Brandon s coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be equally civil to _him_. After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton. The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon as they were out of the house, his enquiries began. "Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?" "Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire." "I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think, Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable establishment in life." "Me, brother! what do you mean?"<|quote|>"He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What is the amount of his fortune?"</|quote|>"I believe about two thousand a year." "Two thousand a-year;" and then working himself up to a pitch of enthusiastic generosity, he added, "Elinor, I wish with all my heart it were _twice_ as much, for your sake." "Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor; "but I am very sure that Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying _me_." "You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very little trouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his friends may all advise him against it. But some of those little attentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix him, in spite of himself. And there can be no reason why you should not try for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on your side in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is quite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable you have too much sense not to see all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man; and no civility shall be wanting on my part to make | But so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected. And so you are most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for nothing! Edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a great satisfaction to us to hear it, I assure you." Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs. Jennings s servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for them at the door. Mr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs. Jennings at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to call on them the next day, took leave. His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology from their sister-in-law, for not coming too; "but she was so much engaged with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where." Mrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not stand upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring her sisters to see her. His manners to _them_, though calm, were perfectly kind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and on Colonel Brandon s coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be equally civil to _him_. After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton. The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon as they were out of the house, his enquiries began. "Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?" "Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire." "I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think, Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable establishment in life." "Me, brother! what do you mean?"<|quote|>"He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What is the amount of his fortune?"</|quote|>"I believe about two thousand a year." "Two thousand a-year;" and then working himself up to a pitch of enthusiastic generosity, he added, "Elinor, I wish with all my heart it were _twice_ as much, for your sake." "Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor; "but I am very sure that Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying _me_." "You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very little trouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his friends may all advise him against it. But some of those little attentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix him, in spite of himself. And there can be no reason why you should not try for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on your side in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is quite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable you have too much sense not to see all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man; and no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with you and your family. It is a match that must give universal satisfaction. In short, it is a kind of thing that" lowering his voice to an important whisper "will be exceedingly welcome to _all parties_." Recollecting himself, however, he added, "That is, I mean to say your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled; Fanny particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, I assure you. And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured woman, I am sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much the other day." Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer. "It would be something remarkable, now," he continued, "something droll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the same time. And yet it is not very unlikely." "Is Mr. Edward Ferrars," said Elinor, with resolution, "going to be married?" "It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation. He has a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost liberality, will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if the match takes place. The lady is the Hon. Miss Morton, only | by remaining unconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect her thoughts within herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing around her, in Mr. Gray s shop, as in her own bedroom. At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls, all received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last day on which his existence could be continued without the possession of the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and bestowing another glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a one as seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off with a happy air of real conceit and affected indifference. Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her side. She turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some surprise to be her brother. Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very creditable appearance in Mr. Gray s shop. John Dashwood was really far from being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them satisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and attentive. Elinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days. "I wished very much to call upon you yesterday," said he, "but it was impossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts at Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Ferrars. Harry was vastly pleased. _This_ morning I had fully intended to call on you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always so much to do on first coming to town. I am come here to bespeak Fanny a seal. But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in Berkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings. I understand she is a woman of very good fortune. And the Middletons too, you must introduce me to _them_. As my mother-in-law s relations, I shall be happy to show them every respect. They are excellent neighbours to you in the country, I understand." "Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness in every particular, is more than I can express." "I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed. But so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected. And so you are most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for nothing! Edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a great satisfaction to us to hear it, I assure you." Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs. Jennings s servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for them at the door. Mr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs. Jennings at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to call on them the next day, took leave. His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology from their sister-in-law, for not coming too; "but she was so much engaged with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where." Mrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not stand upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring her sisters to see her. His manners to _them_, though calm, were perfectly kind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and on Colonel Brandon s coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be equally civil to _him_. After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton. The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon as they were out of the house, his enquiries began. "Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?" "Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire." "I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think, Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable establishment in life." "Me, brother! what do you mean?"<|quote|>"He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What is the amount of his fortune?"</|quote|>"I believe about two thousand a year." "Two thousand a-year;" and then working himself up to a pitch of enthusiastic generosity, he added, "Elinor, I wish with all my heart it were _twice_ as much, for your sake." "Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor; "but I am very sure that Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying _me_." "You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very little trouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his friends may all advise him against it. But some of those little attentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix him, in spite of himself. And there can be no reason why you should not try for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on your side in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is quite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable you have too much sense not to see all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man; and no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with you and your family. It is a match that must give universal satisfaction. In short, it is a kind of thing that" lowering his voice to an important whisper "will be exceedingly welcome to _all parties_." Recollecting himself, however, he added, "That is, I mean to say your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled; Fanny particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, I assure you. And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured woman, I am sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much the other day." Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer. "It would be something remarkable, now," he continued, "something droll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the same time. And yet it is not very unlikely." "Is Mr. Edward Ferrars," said Elinor, with resolution, "going to be married?" "It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation. He has a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost liberality, will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if the match takes place. The lady is the Hon. Miss Morton, only daughter of the late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds. A very desirable connection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place in time. A thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away, to make over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit. To give you another instance of her liberality: The other day, as soon as we came to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just now, she put bank-notes into Fanny s hands to the amount of two hundred pounds. And extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a great expense while we are here." He paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to say, "Your expenses both in town and country must certainly be considerable; but your income is a large one." "Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose. I do not mean to complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope will in time be better. The enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying on, is a most serious drain. And then I have made a little purchase within this half year; East Kingham Farm, you must remember the place, where old Gibson used to live. The land was so very desirable for me in every respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that I felt it my duty to buy it. I could not have answered it to my conscience to let it fall into any other hands. A man must pay for his convenience; and it _has_ cost me a vast deal of money." "More than you think it really and intrinsically worth." "Why, I hope not that. I might have sold it again, the next day, for more than I gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, I might have been very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low, that if I had not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker s hands, I must have sold out to very great loss." Elinor could only smile. "Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming to Norland. Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the Stanhill effects that remained at Norland (and very valuable they were) to your mother. Far be it from me to repine | come here to bespeak Fanny a seal. But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in Berkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings. I understand she is a woman of very good fortune. And the Middletons too, you must introduce me to _them_. As my mother-in-law s relations, I shall be happy to show them every respect. They are excellent neighbours to you in the country, I understand." "Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness in every particular, is more than I can express." "I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed. But so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected. And so you are most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for nothing! Edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a great satisfaction to us to hear it, I assure you." Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs. Jennings s servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for them at the door. Mr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs. Jennings at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to call on them the next day, took leave. His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology from their sister-in-law, for not coming too; "but she was so much engaged with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where." Mrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not stand upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring her sisters to see her. His manners to _them_, though calm, were perfectly kind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and on Colonel Brandon s coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be equally civil to _him_. After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton. The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon as they were out of the house, his enquiries began. "Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?" "Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire." "I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think, Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable establishment in life." "Me, brother! what do you mean?"<|quote|>"He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What is the amount of his fortune?"</|quote|>"I believe about two thousand a year." "Two thousand a-year;" and then working himself up to a pitch of enthusiastic generosity, he added, "Elinor, I wish with all my heart it were _twice_ as much, for your sake." "Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor; "but I am very sure that Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying _me_." "You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very little trouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his friends may all advise him against it. But some of those little attentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix him, in spite of himself. And there can be no reason why you should not try for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on your side in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is quite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable you have too much sense not to see all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man; and no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with you and your family. It is a match that must give universal satisfaction. In short, it is a kind of thing that" lowering his voice to an important whisper "will be exceedingly welcome to _all parties_." Recollecting himself, however, he added, "That is, I mean to say your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled; Fanny particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, I assure you. And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured woman, I am sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much the other day." Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer. "It would be something | Sense And Sensibility |
he was going on, as Henry remained silent, but the sentence was not finished, for the door opened, and they were interrupted by Henry s younger brother Gilbert, much to Henry s relief, for he had already said more than he liked. CHAPTER XVII When the sun shone, as it did with unusual brightness that Christmas week, it revealed much that was faded and not altogether well-kept-up in Stogdon House and its grounds. In truth, Sir Francis had retired from service under the Government of India with a pension that was not adequate, in his opinion, to his services, as it certainly was not adequate to his ambitions. His career had not come up to his expectations, and although he was a very fine, white-whiskered, mahogany-colored old man to look at, and had laid down a very choice cellar of good reading and good stories, you could not long remain ignorant of the fact that some thunder-storm had soured them; he had a grievance. This grievance dated back to the middle years of the last century, when, owing to some official intrigue, his merits had been passed over in a disgraceful manner in favor of another, his junior. The rights and wrongs of the story, presuming that they had some existence in fact, were no longer clearly known to his wife and children; but this disappointment had played a very large part in their lives, and had poisoned the life of Sir Francis much as a disappointment in love is said to poison the whole life of a woman. Long brooding on his failure, continual arrangement and rearrangement of his deserts and rebuffs, had made Sir Francis much of an egoist, and in his retirement his temper became increasingly difficult and exacting. His wife now offered so little resistance to his moods that she was practically useless to him. He made his daughter Eleanor into his chief confidante, and the prime of her life was being rapidly consumed by her father. To her he dictated the memoirs which were to avenge his memory, and she had to assure him constantly that his treatment had been a disgrace. Already, at the age of thirty-five, her cheeks were whitening as her mother s had whitened, but for her there would be no memories of Indian suns and Indian rivers, and clamor of children in a nursery; she would have very little of substance to think about when she sat, as Lady Otway now sat, knitting white wool, with her eyes fixed almost perpetually upon the same embroidered bird upon the same fire-screen. But then Lady Otway was one of the people for whom the great make-believe game of English social life has been invented; she spent most of her time in pretending to herself and her neighbors that she was a dignified, important, much-occupied person, of considerable social standing and sufficient wealth. In view of the actual state of things this game needed a great deal of skill; and, perhaps, at the age she had reached she was over sixty she played far more to deceive herself than to deceive any one else. Moreover, the armor was wearing thin; she forgot to keep up appearances more and more. The worn patches in the carpets, and the pallor of the drawing-room, where no chair or cover had been renewed for some years, were due not only to the miserable pension, but to the wear and tear of twelve children, eight of whom were sons. As often happens in these large families, a distinct dividing-line could be traced, about half-way in the succession, where the money for educational purposes had run short, and the six younger children had grown up far more economically than the elder. If the boys were clever, they won scholarships, and went to school; if they were not clever, they took what the family connection had to offer them. The girls accepted situations occasionally, but there were always one or two at home, nursing sick animals, tending silkworms, or playing the flute in their bedrooms. The distinction between the elder children and the younger corresponded almost to the distinction between a higher class and a lower one, for with only a haphazard education and insufficient allowances, the younger children had picked up accomplishments, friends, and points of view which were not to be found within the walls of a public school or of a Government office. Between the two divisions there was considerable hostility, the elder trying to patronize the younger, the younger refusing to respect the elder; but one feeling united them and instantly closed any risk of a breach their common belief in the superiority of their own family to all others. Henry was the eldest of the younger group, and their leader; he bought strange books and joined odd societies; he went without a tie for a whole year, and had six shirts made of black flannel. He had long refused to take a seat either in a shipping office or in a tea-merchant s warehouse; and persisted, in spite of the disapproval of uncles and aunts, in practicing both violin and piano, with the result that he could not perform professionally upon either. Indeed, for thirty-two years of life he had nothing more substantial to show than a manuscript book containing the score of half an opera. In this protest of his, Katharine had always given him her support, and as she was generally held to be an extremely sensible person, who dressed too well to be eccentric, he had found her support of some use. Indeed, when she came down at Christmas she usually spent a great part of her time in private conferences with Henry and with Cassandra, the youngest girl, to whom the silkworms belonged. With the younger section she had a great reputation for common sense, and for something that they despised but inwardly respected and called knowledge of the world that is to say, of the way in which respectable elderly people, going to their clubs and dining out with ministers, think and behave. She had more than once played the part of ambassador between Lady Otway and her children. That poor lady, for instance, consulted her for advice when, one day, she opened Cassandra s bedroom door on a mission of discovery, and found the ceiling hung with mulberry-leaves, the windows blocked with cages, and the tables stacked with home-made machines for the manufacture of silk dresses. | No speaker | continue. "That is what I"<|quote|>he was going on, as Henry remained silent, but the sentence was not finished, for the door opened, and they were interrupted by Henry s younger brother Gilbert, much to Henry s relief, for he had already said more than he liked. CHAPTER XVII When the sun shone, as it did with unusual brightness that Christmas week, it revealed much that was faded and not altogether well-kept-up in Stogdon House and its grounds. In truth, Sir Francis had retired from service under the Government of India with a pension that was not adequate, in his opinion, to his services, as it certainly was not adequate to his ambitions. His career had not come up to his expectations, and although he was a very fine, white-whiskered, mahogany-colored old man to look at, and had laid down a very choice cellar of good reading and good stories, you could not long remain ignorant of the fact that some thunder-storm had soured them; he had a grievance. This grievance dated back to the middle years of the last century, when, owing to some official intrigue, his merits had been passed over in a disgraceful manner in favor of another, his junior. The rights and wrongs of the story, presuming that they had some existence in fact, were no longer clearly known to his wife and children; but this disappointment had played a very large part in their lives, and had poisoned the life of Sir Francis much as a disappointment in love is said to poison the whole life of a woman. Long brooding on his failure, continual arrangement and rearrangement of his deserts and rebuffs, had made Sir Francis much of an egoist, and in his retirement his temper became increasingly difficult and exacting. His wife now offered so little resistance to his moods that she was practically useless to him. He made his daughter Eleanor into his chief confidante, and the prime of her life was being rapidly consumed by her father. To her he dictated the memoirs which were to avenge his memory, and she had to assure him constantly that his treatment had been a disgrace. Already, at the age of thirty-five, her cheeks were whitening as her mother s had whitened, but for her there would be no memories of Indian suns and Indian rivers, and clamor of children in a nursery; she would have very little of substance to think about when she sat, as Lady Otway now sat, knitting white wool, with her eyes fixed almost perpetually upon the same embroidered bird upon the same fire-screen. But then Lady Otway was one of the people for whom the great make-believe game of English social life has been invented; she spent most of her time in pretending to herself and her neighbors that she was a dignified, important, much-occupied person, of considerable social standing and sufficient wealth. In view of the actual state of things this game needed a great deal of skill; and, perhaps, at the age she had reached she was over sixty she played far more to deceive herself than to deceive any one else. Moreover, the armor was wearing thin; she forgot to keep up appearances more and more. The worn patches in the carpets, and the pallor of the drawing-room, where no chair or cover had been renewed for some years, were due not only to the miserable pension, but to the wear and tear of twelve children, eight of whom were sons. As often happens in these large families, a distinct dividing-line could be traced, about half-way in the succession, where the money for educational purposes had run short, and the six younger children had grown up far more economically than the elder. If the boys were clever, they won scholarships, and went to school; if they were not clever, they took what the family connection had to offer them. The girls accepted situations occasionally, but there were always one or two at home, nursing sick animals, tending silkworms, or playing the flute in their bedrooms. The distinction between the elder children and the younger corresponded almost to the distinction between a higher class and a lower one, for with only a haphazard education and insufficient allowances, the younger children had picked up accomplishments, friends, and points of view which were not to be found within the walls of a public school or of a Government office. Between the two divisions there was considerable hostility, the elder trying to patronize the younger, the younger refusing to respect the elder; but one feeling united them and instantly closed any risk of a breach their common belief in the superiority of their own family to all others. Henry was the eldest of the younger group, and their leader; he bought strange books and joined odd societies; he went without a tie for a whole year, and had six shirts made of black flannel. He had long refused to take a seat either in a shipping office or in a tea-merchant s warehouse; and persisted, in spite of the disapproval of uncles and aunts, in practicing both violin and piano, with the result that he could not perform professionally upon either. Indeed, for thirty-two years of life he had nothing more substantial to show than a manuscript book containing the score of half an opera. In this protest of his, Katharine had always given him her support, and as she was generally held to be an extremely sensible person, who dressed too well to be eccentric, he had found her support of some use. Indeed, when she came down at Christmas she usually spent a great part of her time in private conferences with Henry and with Cassandra, the youngest girl, to whom the silkworms belonged. With the younger section she had a great reputation for common sense, and for something that they despised but inwardly respected and called knowledge of the world that is to say, of the way in which respectable elderly people, going to their clubs and dining out with ministers, think and behave. She had more than once played the part of ambassador between Lady Otway and her children. That poor lady, for instance, consulted her for advice when, one day, she opened Cassandra s bedroom door on a mission of discovery, and found the ceiling hung with mulberry-leaves, the windows blocked with cages, and the tables stacked with home-made machines for the manufacture of silk dresses.</|quote|>"I wish you could help | were eager for Henry to continue. "That is what I"<|quote|>he was going on, as Henry remained silent, but the sentence was not finished, for the door opened, and they were interrupted by Henry s younger brother Gilbert, much to Henry s relief, for he had already said more than he liked. CHAPTER XVII When the sun shone, as it did with unusual brightness that Christmas week, it revealed much that was faded and not altogether well-kept-up in Stogdon House and its grounds. In truth, Sir Francis had retired from service under the Government of India with a pension that was not adequate, in his opinion, to his services, as it certainly was not adequate to his ambitions. His career had not come up to his expectations, and although he was a very fine, white-whiskered, mahogany-colored old man to look at, and had laid down a very choice cellar of good reading and good stories, you could not long remain ignorant of the fact that some thunder-storm had soured them; he had a grievance. This grievance dated back to the middle years of the last century, when, owing to some official intrigue, his merits had been passed over in a disgraceful manner in favor of another, his junior. The rights and wrongs of the story, presuming that they had some existence in fact, were no longer clearly known to his wife and children; but this disappointment had played a very large part in their lives, and had poisoned the life of Sir Francis much as a disappointment in love is said to poison the whole life of a woman. Long brooding on his failure, continual arrangement and rearrangement of his deserts and rebuffs, had made Sir Francis much of an egoist, and in his retirement his temper became increasingly difficult and exacting. His wife now offered so little resistance to his moods that she was practically useless to him. He made his daughter Eleanor into his chief confidante, and the prime of her life was being rapidly consumed by her father. To her he dictated the memoirs which were to avenge his memory, and she had to assure him constantly that his treatment had been a disgrace. Already, at the age of thirty-five, her cheeks were whitening as her mother s had whitened, but for her there would be no memories of Indian suns and Indian rivers, and clamor of children in a nursery; she would have very little of substance to think about when she sat, as Lady Otway now sat, knitting white wool, with her eyes fixed almost perpetually upon the same embroidered bird upon the same fire-screen. But then Lady Otway was one of the people for whom the great make-believe game of English social life has been invented; she spent most of her time in pretending to herself and her neighbors that she was a dignified, important, much-occupied person, of considerable social standing and sufficient wealth. In view of the actual state of things this game needed a great deal of skill; and, perhaps, at the age she had reached she was over sixty she played far more to deceive herself than to deceive any one else. Moreover, the armor was wearing thin; she forgot to keep up appearances more and more. The worn patches in the carpets, and the pallor of the drawing-room, where no chair or cover had been renewed for some years, were due not only to the miserable pension, but to the wear and tear of twelve children, eight of whom were sons. As often happens in these large families, a distinct dividing-line could be traced, about half-way in the succession, where the money for educational purposes had run short, and the six younger children had grown up far more economically than the elder. If the boys were clever, they won scholarships, and went to school; if they were not clever, they took what the family connection had to offer them. The girls accepted situations occasionally, but there were always one or two at home, nursing sick animals, tending silkworms, or playing the flute in their bedrooms. The distinction between the elder children and the younger corresponded almost to the distinction between a higher class and a lower one, for with only a haphazard education and insufficient allowances, the younger children had picked up accomplishments, friends, and points of view which were not to be found within the walls of a public school or of a Government office. Between the two divisions there was considerable hostility, the elder trying to patronize the younger, the younger refusing to respect the elder; but one feeling united them and instantly closed any risk of a breach their common belief in the superiority of their own family to all others. Henry was the eldest of the younger group, and their leader; he bought strange books and joined odd societies; he went without a tie for a whole year, and had six shirts made of black flannel. He had long refused to take a seat either in a shipping office or in a tea-merchant s warehouse; and persisted, in spite of the disapproval of uncles and aunts, in practicing both violin and piano, with the result that he could not perform professionally upon either. Indeed, for thirty-two years of life he had nothing more substantial to show than a manuscript book containing the score of half an opera. In this protest of his, Katharine had always given him her support, and as she was generally held to be an extremely sensible person, who dressed too well to be eccentric, he had found her support of some use. Indeed, when she came down at Christmas she usually spent a great part of her time in private conferences with Henry and with Cassandra, the youngest girl, to whom the silkworms belonged. With the younger section she had a great reputation for common sense, and for something that they despised but inwardly respected and called knowledge of the world that is to say, of the way in which respectable elderly people, going to their clubs and dining out with ministers, think and behave. She had more than once played the part of ambassador between Lady Otway and her children. That poor lady, for instance, consulted her for advice when, one day, she opened Cassandra s bedroom door on a mission of discovery, and found the ceiling hung with mulberry-leaves, the windows blocked with cages, and the tables stacked with home-made machines for the manufacture of silk dresses.</|quote|>"I wish you could help her to take an interest | He paused. "I think you re right," he added, as if he were summing up his thoughts. "Katharine hasn t found herself yet. Life isn t altogether real to her yet I sometimes think" "Yes?" Rodney inquired, as if he were eager for Henry to continue. "That is what I"<|quote|>he was going on, as Henry remained silent, but the sentence was not finished, for the door opened, and they were interrupted by Henry s younger brother Gilbert, much to Henry s relief, for he had already said more than he liked. CHAPTER XVII When the sun shone, as it did with unusual brightness that Christmas week, it revealed much that was faded and not altogether well-kept-up in Stogdon House and its grounds. In truth, Sir Francis had retired from service under the Government of India with a pension that was not adequate, in his opinion, to his services, as it certainly was not adequate to his ambitions. His career had not come up to his expectations, and although he was a very fine, white-whiskered, mahogany-colored old man to look at, and had laid down a very choice cellar of good reading and good stories, you could not long remain ignorant of the fact that some thunder-storm had soured them; he had a grievance. This grievance dated back to the middle years of the last century, when, owing to some official intrigue, his merits had been passed over in a disgraceful manner in favor of another, his junior. The rights and wrongs of the story, presuming that they had some existence in fact, were no longer clearly known to his wife and children; but this disappointment had played a very large part in their lives, and had poisoned the life of Sir Francis much as a disappointment in love is said to poison the whole life of a woman. Long brooding on his failure, continual arrangement and rearrangement of his deserts and rebuffs, had made Sir Francis much of an egoist, and in his retirement his temper became increasingly difficult and exacting. His wife now offered so little resistance to his moods that she was practically useless to him. He made his daughter Eleanor into his chief confidante, and the prime of her life was being rapidly consumed by her father. To her he dictated the memoirs which were to avenge his memory, and she had to assure him constantly that his treatment had been a disgrace. Already, at the age of thirty-five, her cheeks were whitening as her mother s had whitened, but for her there would be no memories of Indian suns and Indian rivers, and clamor of children in a nursery; she would have very little of substance to think about when she sat, as Lady Otway now sat, knitting white wool, with her eyes fixed almost perpetually upon the same embroidered bird upon the same fire-screen. But then Lady Otway was one of the people for whom the great make-believe game of English social life has been invented; she spent most of her time in pretending to herself and her neighbors that she was a dignified, important, much-occupied person, of considerable social standing and sufficient wealth. In view of the actual state of things this game needed a great deal of skill; and, perhaps, at the age she had reached she was over sixty she played far more to deceive herself than to deceive any one else. Moreover, the armor was wearing thin; she forgot to keep up appearances more and more. The worn patches in the carpets, and the pallor of the drawing-room, where no chair or cover had been renewed for some years, were due not only to the miserable pension, but to the wear and tear of twelve children, eight of whom were sons. As often happens in these large families, a distinct dividing-line could be traced, about half-way in the succession, where the money for educational purposes had run short, and the six younger children had grown up far more economically than the elder. If the boys were clever, they won scholarships, and went to school; if they were not clever, they took what the family connection had to offer them. The girls accepted situations occasionally, but there were always one or two at home, nursing sick animals, tending silkworms, or playing the flute in their bedrooms. The distinction between the elder children and the younger corresponded almost to the distinction between a higher class and a lower one, for with only a haphazard education and insufficient allowances, the younger children had picked up accomplishments, friends, and points of view which were not to be found within the walls of a public school or of a Government office. Between the two divisions there was considerable hostility, the elder trying to patronize the younger, the younger refusing to respect the elder; but one feeling united them and instantly closed any risk of a breach their common belief in the superiority of their own family to all others. Henry was the eldest of the younger group, and their leader; he bought strange books and joined odd societies; he went without a tie for a whole year, and had six shirts made of black flannel. He had long refused to take a seat either in a shipping office or in a tea-merchant s warehouse; and persisted, in spite of the disapproval of uncles and aunts, in practicing both violin and piano, with the result that he could not perform professionally upon either. Indeed, for thirty-two years of life he had nothing more substantial to show than a manuscript book containing the score of half an opera. In this protest of his, Katharine had always given him her support, and as she was generally held to be an extremely sensible person, who dressed too well to be eccentric, he had found her support of some use. Indeed, when she came down at Christmas she usually spent a great part of her time in private conferences with Henry and with Cassandra, the youngest girl, to whom the silkworms belonged. With the younger section she had a great reputation for common sense, and for something that they despised but inwardly respected and called knowledge of the world that is to say, of the way in which respectable elderly people, going to their clubs and dining out with ministers, think and behave. She had more than once played the part of ambassador between Lady Otway and her children. That poor lady, for instance, consulted her for advice when, one day, she opened Cassandra s bedroom door on a mission of discovery, and found the ceiling hung with mulberry-leaves, the windows blocked with cages, and the tables stacked with home-made machines for the manufacture of silk dresses.</|quote|>"I wish you could help her to take an interest in something that other people are interested in, Katharine," she observed, rather plaintively, detailing her grievances. "It s all Henry s doing, you know, giving up her parties and taking to these nasty insects. It doesn t follow that if | I m out all day." "She would certainly be very competent," Henry stated. "Oh, she s wonderfully competent," said Rodney. "But I get absorbed in my poetry. Well, Katharine hasn t got that. She admires my poetry, you know, but that wouldn t be enough for her?" "No," said Henry. He paused. "I think you re right," he added, as if he were summing up his thoughts. "Katharine hasn t found herself yet. Life isn t altogether real to her yet I sometimes think" "Yes?" Rodney inquired, as if he were eager for Henry to continue. "That is what I"<|quote|>he was going on, as Henry remained silent, but the sentence was not finished, for the door opened, and they were interrupted by Henry s younger brother Gilbert, much to Henry s relief, for he had already said more than he liked. CHAPTER XVII When the sun shone, as it did with unusual brightness that Christmas week, it revealed much that was faded and not altogether well-kept-up in Stogdon House and its grounds. In truth, Sir Francis had retired from service under the Government of India with a pension that was not adequate, in his opinion, to his services, as it certainly was not adequate to his ambitions. His career had not come up to his expectations, and although he was a very fine, white-whiskered, mahogany-colored old man to look at, and had laid down a very choice cellar of good reading and good stories, you could not long remain ignorant of the fact that some thunder-storm had soured them; he had a grievance. This grievance dated back to the middle years of the last century, when, owing to some official intrigue, his merits had been passed over in a disgraceful manner in favor of another, his junior. The rights and wrongs of the story, presuming that they had some existence in fact, were no longer clearly known to his wife and children; but this disappointment had played a very large part in their lives, and had poisoned the life of Sir Francis much as a disappointment in love is said to poison the whole life of a woman. Long brooding on his failure, continual arrangement and rearrangement of his deserts and rebuffs, had made Sir Francis much of an egoist, and in his retirement his temper became increasingly difficult and exacting. His wife now offered so little resistance to his moods that she was practically useless to him. He made his daughter Eleanor into his chief confidante, and the prime of her life was being rapidly consumed by her father. To her he dictated the memoirs which were to avenge his memory, and she had to assure him constantly that his treatment had been a disgrace. Already, at the age of thirty-five, her cheeks were whitening as her mother s had whitened, but for her there would be no memories of Indian suns and Indian rivers, and clamor of children in a nursery; she would have very little of substance to think about when she sat, as Lady Otway now sat, knitting white wool, with her eyes fixed almost perpetually upon the same embroidered bird upon the same fire-screen. But then Lady Otway was one of the people for whom the great make-believe game of English social life has been invented; she spent most of her time in pretending to herself and her neighbors that she was a dignified, important, much-occupied person, of considerable social standing and sufficient wealth. In view of the actual state of things this game needed a great deal of skill; and, perhaps, at the age she had reached she was over sixty she played far more to deceive herself than to deceive any one else. Moreover, the armor was wearing thin; she forgot to keep up appearances more and more. The worn patches in the carpets, and the pallor of the drawing-room, where no chair or cover had been renewed for some years, were due not only to the miserable pension, but to the wear and tear of twelve children, eight of whom were sons. As often happens in these large families, a distinct dividing-line could be traced, about half-way in the succession, where the money for educational purposes had run short, and the six younger children had grown up far more economically than the elder. If the boys were clever, they won scholarships, and went to school; if they were not clever, they took what the family connection had to offer them. The girls accepted situations occasionally, but there were always one or two at home, nursing sick animals, tending silkworms, or playing the flute in their bedrooms. The distinction between the elder children and the younger corresponded almost to the distinction between a higher class and a lower one, for with only a haphazard education and insufficient allowances, the younger children had picked up accomplishments, friends, and points of view which were not to be found within the walls of a public school or of a Government office. Between the two divisions there was considerable hostility, the elder trying to patronize the younger, the younger refusing to respect the elder; but one feeling united them and instantly closed any risk of a breach their common belief in the superiority of their own family to all others. Henry was the eldest of the younger group, and their leader; he bought strange books and joined odd societies; he went without a tie for a whole year, and had six shirts made of black flannel. He had long refused to take a seat either in a shipping office or in a tea-merchant s warehouse; and persisted, in spite of the disapproval of uncles and aunts, in practicing both violin and piano, with the result that he could not perform professionally upon either. Indeed, for thirty-two years of life he had nothing more substantial to show than a manuscript book containing the score of half an opera. In this protest of his, Katharine had always given him her support, and as she was generally held to be an extremely sensible person, who dressed too well to be eccentric, he had found her support of some use. Indeed, when she came down at Christmas she usually spent a great part of her time in private conferences with Henry and with Cassandra, the youngest girl, to whom the silkworms belonged. With the younger section she had a great reputation for common sense, and for something that they despised but inwardly respected and called knowledge of the world that is to say, of the way in which respectable elderly people, going to their clubs and dining out with ministers, think and behave. She had more than once played the part of ambassador between Lady Otway and her children. That poor lady, for instance, consulted her for advice when, one day, she opened Cassandra s bedroom door on a mission of discovery, and found the ceiling hung with mulberry-leaves, the windows blocked with cages, and the tables stacked with home-made machines for the manufacture of silk dresses.</|quote|>"I wish you could help her to take an interest in something that other people are interested in, Katharine," she observed, rather plaintively, detailing her grievances. "It s all Henry s doing, you know, giving up her parties and taking to these nasty insects. It doesn t follow that if a man can do a thing a woman may too." The morning was sufficiently bright to make the chairs and sofas in Lady Otway s private sitting-room appear more than usually shabby, and the gallant gentlemen, her brothers and cousins, who had defended the Empire and left their bones on | He waited for Henry to confirm this statement, but Henry remained silent. "Katharine has had a difficult life, in some ways," he continued. "I expect that marriage will be good for her. She has great powers." "Great," said Henry, with decision. "Yes but now what direction d you think they take?" Rodney had completely dropped his pose as a man of the world, and seemed to be asking Henry to help him in a difficulty. "I don t know," Henry hesitated cautiously. "D you think children a household that sort of thing d you think that ll satisfy her? Mind, I m out all day." "She would certainly be very competent," Henry stated. "Oh, she s wonderfully competent," said Rodney. "But I get absorbed in my poetry. Well, Katharine hasn t got that. She admires my poetry, you know, but that wouldn t be enough for her?" "No," said Henry. He paused. "I think you re right," he added, as if he were summing up his thoughts. "Katharine hasn t found herself yet. Life isn t altogether real to her yet I sometimes think" "Yes?" Rodney inquired, as if he were eager for Henry to continue. "That is what I"<|quote|>he was going on, as Henry remained silent, but the sentence was not finished, for the door opened, and they were interrupted by Henry s younger brother Gilbert, much to Henry s relief, for he had already said more than he liked. CHAPTER XVII When the sun shone, as it did with unusual brightness that Christmas week, it revealed much that was faded and not altogether well-kept-up in Stogdon House and its grounds. In truth, Sir Francis had retired from service under the Government of India with a pension that was not adequate, in his opinion, to his services, as it certainly was not adequate to his ambitions. His career had not come up to his expectations, and although he was a very fine, white-whiskered, mahogany-colored old man to look at, and had laid down a very choice cellar of good reading and good stories, you could not long remain ignorant of the fact that some thunder-storm had soured them; he had a grievance. This grievance dated back to the middle years of the last century, when, owing to some official intrigue, his merits had been passed over in a disgraceful manner in favor of another, his junior. The rights and wrongs of the story, presuming that they had some existence in fact, were no longer clearly known to his wife and children; but this disappointment had played a very large part in their lives, and had poisoned the life of Sir Francis much as a disappointment in love is said to poison the whole life of a woman. Long brooding on his failure, continual arrangement and rearrangement of his deserts and rebuffs, had made Sir Francis much of an egoist, and in his retirement his temper became increasingly difficult and exacting. His wife now offered so little resistance to his moods that she was practically useless to him. He made his daughter Eleanor into his chief confidante, and the prime of her life was being rapidly consumed by her father. To her he dictated the memoirs which were to avenge his memory, and she had to assure him constantly that his treatment had been a disgrace. Already, at the age of thirty-five, her cheeks were whitening as her mother s had whitened, but for her there would be no memories of Indian suns and Indian rivers, and clamor of children in a nursery; she would have very little of substance to think about when she sat, as Lady Otway now sat, knitting white wool, with her eyes fixed almost perpetually upon the same embroidered bird upon the same fire-screen. But then Lady Otway was one of the people for whom the great make-believe game of English social life has been invented; she spent most of her time in pretending to herself and her neighbors that she was a dignified, important, much-occupied person, of considerable social standing and sufficient wealth. In view of the actual state of things this game needed a great deal of skill; and, perhaps, at the age she had reached she was over sixty she played far more to deceive herself than to deceive any one else. Moreover, the armor was wearing thin; she forgot to keep up appearances more and more. The worn patches in the carpets, and the pallor of the drawing-room, where no chair or cover had been renewed for some years, were due not only to the miserable pension, but to the wear and tear of twelve children, eight of whom were sons. As often happens in these large families, a distinct dividing-line could be traced, about half-way in the succession, where the money for educational purposes had run short, and the six younger children had grown up far more economically than the elder. If the boys were clever, they won scholarships, and went to school; if they were not clever, they took what the family connection had to offer them. The girls accepted situations occasionally, but there were always one or two at home, nursing sick animals, tending silkworms, or playing the flute in their bedrooms. The distinction between the elder children and the younger corresponded almost to the distinction between a higher class and a lower one, for with only a haphazard education and insufficient allowances, the younger children had picked up accomplishments, friends, and points of view which were not to be found within the walls of a public school or of a Government office. Between the two divisions there was considerable hostility, the elder trying to patronize the younger, the younger refusing to respect the elder; but one feeling united them and instantly closed any risk of a breach their common belief in the superiority of their own family to all others. Henry was the eldest of the younger group, and their leader; he bought strange books and joined odd societies; he went without a tie for a whole year, and had six shirts made of black flannel. He had long refused to take a seat either in a shipping office or in a tea-merchant s warehouse; and persisted, in spite of the disapproval of uncles and aunts, in practicing both violin and piano, with the result that he could not perform professionally upon either. Indeed, for thirty-two years of life he had nothing more substantial to show than a manuscript book containing the score of half an opera. In this protest of his, Katharine had always given him her support, and as she was generally held to be an extremely sensible person, who dressed too well to be eccentric, he had found her support of some use. Indeed, when she came down at Christmas she usually spent a great part of her time in private conferences with Henry and with Cassandra, the youngest girl, to whom the silkworms belonged. With the younger section she had a great reputation for common sense, and for something that they despised but inwardly respected and called knowledge of the world that is to say, of the way in which respectable elderly people, going to their clubs and dining out with ministers, think and behave. She had more than once played the part of ambassador between Lady Otway and her children. That poor lady, for instance, consulted her for advice when, one day, she opened Cassandra s bedroom door on a mission of discovery, and found the ceiling hung with mulberry-leaves, the windows blocked with cages, and the tables stacked with home-made machines for the manufacture of silk dresses.</|quote|>"I wish you could help her to take an interest in something that other people are interested in, Katharine," she observed, rather plaintively, detailing her grievances. "It s all Henry s doing, you know, giving up her parties and taking to these nasty insects. It doesn t follow that if a man can do a thing a woman may too." The morning was sufficiently bright to make the chairs and sofas in Lady Otway s private sitting-room appear more than usually shabby, and the gallant gentlemen, her brothers and cousins, who had defended the Empire and left their bones on many frontiers, looked at the world through a film of yellow which the morning light seemed to have drawn across their photographs. Lady Otway sighed, it may be at the faded relics, and turned, with resignation, to her balls of wool, which, curiously and characteristically, were not an ivory-white, but rather a tarnished yellow-white. She had called her niece in for a little chat. She had always trusted her, and now more than ever, since her engagement to Rodney, which seemed to Lady Otway extremely suitable, and just what one would wish for one s own daughter. Katharine unwittingly increased | "I don t think I should know what to say to Lady Rose if I met her." "I don t find any difficulty," Rodney chuckled. "You talk to them about their children, if they have any, or their accomplishments painting, gardening, poetry they re so delightfully sympathetic. Seriously, you know I think a woman s opinion of one s poetry is always worth having. Don t ask them for their reasons. Just ask them for their feelings. Katharine, for example" "Katharine," said Henry, with an emphasis upon the name, almost as if he resented Rodney s use of it, "Katharine is very unlike most women." "Quite," Rodney agreed. "She is" He seemed about to describe her, and he hesitated for a long time. "She s looking very well," he stated, or rather almost inquired, in a different tone from that in which he had been speaking. Henry bent his head. "But, as a family, you re given to moods, eh?" "Not Katharine," said Henry, with decision. "Not Katharine," Rodney repeated, as if he weighed the meaning of the words. "No, perhaps you re right. But her engagement has changed her. Naturally," he added, "one would expect that to be so." He waited for Henry to confirm this statement, but Henry remained silent. "Katharine has had a difficult life, in some ways," he continued. "I expect that marriage will be good for her. She has great powers." "Great," said Henry, with decision. "Yes but now what direction d you think they take?" Rodney had completely dropped his pose as a man of the world, and seemed to be asking Henry to help him in a difficulty. "I don t know," Henry hesitated cautiously. "D you think children a household that sort of thing d you think that ll satisfy her? Mind, I m out all day." "She would certainly be very competent," Henry stated. "Oh, she s wonderfully competent," said Rodney. "But I get absorbed in my poetry. Well, Katharine hasn t got that. She admires my poetry, you know, but that wouldn t be enough for her?" "No," said Henry. He paused. "I think you re right," he added, as if he were summing up his thoughts. "Katharine hasn t found herself yet. Life isn t altogether real to her yet I sometimes think" "Yes?" Rodney inquired, as if he were eager for Henry to continue. "That is what I"<|quote|>he was going on, as Henry remained silent, but the sentence was not finished, for the door opened, and they were interrupted by Henry s younger brother Gilbert, much to Henry s relief, for he had already said more than he liked. CHAPTER XVII When the sun shone, as it did with unusual brightness that Christmas week, it revealed much that was faded and not altogether well-kept-up in Stogdon House and its grounds. In truth, Sir Francis had retired from service under the Government of India with a pension that was not adequate, in his opinion, to his services, as it certainly was not adequate to his ambitions. His career had not come up to his expectations, and although he was a very fine, white-whiskered, mahogany-colored old man to look at, and had laid down a very choice cellar of good reading and good stories, you could not long remain ignorant of the fact that some thunder-storm had soured them; he had a grievance. This grievance dated back to the middle years of the last century, when, owing to some official intrigue, his merits had been passed over in a disgraceful manner in favor of another, his junior. The rights and wrongs of the story, presuming that they had some existence in fact, were no longer clearly known to his wife and children; but this disappointment had played a very large part in their lives, and had poisoned the life of Sir Francis much as a disappointment in love is said to poison the whole life of a woman. Long brooding on his failure, continual arrangement and rearrangement of his deserts and rebuffs, had made Sir Francis much of an egoist, and in his retirement his temper became increasingly difficult and exacting. His wife now offered so little resistance to his moods that she was practically useless to him. He made his daughter Eleanor into his chief confidante, and the prime of her life was being rapidly consumed by her father. To her he dictated the memoirs which were to avenge his memory, and she had to assure him constantly that his treatment had been a disgrace. Already, at the age of thirty-five, her cheeks were whitening as her mother s had whitened, but for her there would be no memories of Indian suns and Indian rivers, and clamor of children in a nursery; she would have very little of substance to think about when she sat, as Lady Otway now sat, knitting white wool, with her eyes fixed almost perpetually upon the same embroidered bird upon the same fire-screen. But then Lady Otway was one of the people for whom the great make-believe game of English social life has been invented; she spent most of her time in pretending to herself and her neighbors that she was a dignified, important, much-occupied person, of considerable social standing and sufficient wealth. In view of the actual state of things this game needed a great deal of skill; and, perhaps, at the age she had reached she was over sixty she played far more to deceive herself than to deceive any one else. Moreover, the armor was wearing thin; she forgot to keep up appearances more and more. The worn patches in the carpets, and the pallor of the drawing-room, where no chair or cover had been renewed for some years, were due not only to the miserable pension, but to the wear and tear of twelve children, eight of whom were sons. As often happens in these large families, a distinct dividing-line could be traced, about half-way in the succession, where the money for educational purposes had run short, and the six younger children had grown up far more economically than the elder. If the boys were clever, they won scholarships, and went to school; if they were not clever, they took what the family connection had to offer them. The girls accepted situations occasionally, but there were always one or two at home, nursing sick animals, tending silkworms, or playing the flute in their bedrooms. The distinction between the elder children and the younger corresponded almost to the distinction between a higher class and a lower one, for with only a haphazard education and insufficient allowances, the younger children had picked up accomplishments, friends, and points of view which were not to be found within the walls of a public school or of a Government office. Between the two divisions there was considerable hostility, the elder trying to patronize the younger, the younger refusing to respect the elder; but one feeling united them and instantly closed any risk of a breach their common belief in the superiority of their own family to all others. Henry was the eldest of the younger group, and their leader; he bought strange books and joined odd societies; he went without a tie for a whole year, and had six shirts made of black flannel. He had long refused to take a seat either in a shipping office or in a tea-merchant s warehouse; and persisted, in spite of the disapproval of uncles and aunts, in practicing both violin and piano, with the result that he could not perform professionally upon either. Indeed, for thirty-two years of life he had nothing more substantial to show than a manuscript book containing the score of half an opera. In this protest of his, Katharine had always given him her support, and as she was generally held to be an extremely sensible person, who dressed too well to be eccentric, he had found her support of some use. Indeed, when she came down at Christmas she usually spent a great part of her time in private conferences with Henry and with Cassandra, the youngest girl, to whom the silkworms belonged. With the younger section she had a great reputation for common sense, and for something that they despised but inwardly respected and called knowledge of the world that is to say, of the way in which respectable elderly people, going to their clubs and dining out with ministers, think and behave. She had more than once played the part of ambassador between Lady Otway and her children. That poor lady, for instance, consulted her for advice when, one day, she opened Cassandra s bedroom door on a mission of discovery, and found the ceiling hung with mulberry-leaves, the windows blocked with cages, and the tables stacked with home-made machines for the manufacture of silk dresses.</|quote|>"I wish you could help her to take an interest in something that other people are interested in, Katharine," she observed, rather plaintively, detailing her grievances. "It s all Henry s doing, you know, giving up her parties and taking to these nasty insects. It doesn t follow that if a man can do a thing a woman may too." The morning was sufficiently bright to make the chairs and sofas in Lady Otway s private sitting-room appear more than usually shabby, and the gallant gentlemen, her brothers and cousins, who had defended the Empire and left their bones on many frontiers, looked at the world through a film of yellow which the morning light seemed to have drawn across their photographs. Lady Otway sighed, it may be at the faded relics, and turned, with resignation, to her balls of wool, which, curiously and characteristically, were not an ivory-white, but rather a tarnished yellow-white. She had called her niece in for a little chat. She had always trusted her, and now more than ever, since her engagement to Rodney, which seemed to Lady Otway extremely suitable, and just what one would wish for one s own daughter. Katharine unwittingly increased her reputation for wisdom by asking to be given knitting-needles too. "It s so very pleasant," said Lady Otway, "to knit while one s talking. And now, my dear Katharine, tell me about your plans." The emotions of the night before, which she had suppressed in such a way as to keep her awake till dawn, had left Katharine a little jaded, and thus more matter-of-fact than usual. She was quite ready to discuss her plans houses and rents, servants and economy without feeling that they concerned her very much. As she spoke, knitting methodically meanwhile, Lady Otway noted, with approval, the upright, responsible bearing of her niece, to whom the prospect of marriage had brought some gravity most becoming in a bride, and yet, in these days, most rare. Yes, Katharine s engagement had changed her a little. "What a perfect daughter, or daughter-in-law!" she thought to herself, and could not help contrasting her with Cassandra, surrounded by innumerable silkworms in her bedroom. "Yes," she continued, glancing at Katharine, with the round, greenish eyes which were as inexpressive as moist marbles, "Katharine is like the girls of my youth. We took the serious things of life seriously." But just | Stanham would that be? Verney or Alfred?" "Alfred.... I don t hunt myself. You re a great huntsman, aren t you? You have a great reputation as a horseman, anyhow," he added, desiring to help Rodney in his effort to recover his complacency. "Oh, I love riding," Rodney replied. "Could I get a horse down here? Stupid of me! I forgot to bring any clothes. I can t imagine, though, who told you I was anything of a rider?" To tell the truth, Henry labored under the same difficulty; he did not wish to introduce Katharine s name, and, therefore, he replied vaguely that he had always heard that Rodney was a great rider. In truth, he had heard very little about him, one way or another, accepting him as a figure often to be found in the background at his aunt s house, and inevitably, though inexplicably, engaged to his cousin. "I don t care much for shooting," Rodney continued; "but one has to do it, unless one wants to be altogether out of things. I dare say there s some very pretty country round here. I stayed once at Bolham Hall. Young Cranthorpe was up with you, wasn t he? He married old Lord Bolham s daughter. Very nice people in their way." "I don t mix in that society," Henry remarked, rather shortly. But Rodney, now started on an agreeable current of reflection, could not resist the temptation of pursuing it a little further. He appeared to himself as a man who moved easily in very good society, and knew enough about the true values of life to be himself above it. "Oh, but you should," he went on. "It s well worth staying there, anyhow, once a year. They make one very comfortable, and the women are ravishing." "The women?" Henry thought to himself, with disgust. "What could any woman see in you?" His tolerance was rapidly becoming exhausted, but he could not help liking Rodney nevertheless, and this appeared to him strange, for he was fastidious, and such words in another mouth would have condemned the speaker irreparably. He began, in short, to wonder what kind of creature this man who was to marry his cousin might be. Could any one, except a rather singular character, afford to be so ridiculously vain? "I don t think I should get on in that society," he replied. "I don t think I should know what to say to Lady Rose if I met her." "I don t find any difficulty," Rodney chuckled. "You talk to them about their children, if they have any, or their accomplishments painting, gardening, poetry they re so delightfully sympathetic. Seriously, you know I think a woman s opinion of one s poetry is always worth having. Don t ask them for their reasons. Just ask them for their feelings. Katharine, for example" "Katharine," said Henry, with an emphasis upon the name, almost as if he resented Rodney s use of it, "Katharine is very unlike most women." "Quite," Rodney agreed. "She is" He seemed about to describe her, and he hesitated for a long time. "She s looking very well," he stated, or rather almost inquired, in a different tone from that in which he had been speaking. Henry bent his head. "But, as a family, you re given to moods, eh?" "Not Katharine," said Henry, with decision. "Not Katharine," Rodney repeated, as if he weighed the meaning of the words. "No, perhaps you re right. But her engagement has changed her. Naturally," he added, "one would expect that to be so." He waited for Henry to confirm this statement, but Henry remained silent. "Katharine has had a difficult life, in some ways," he continued. "I expect that marriage will be good for her. She has great powers." "Great," said Henry, with decision. "Yes but now what direction d you think they take?" Rodney had completely dropped his pose as a man of the world, and seemed to be asking Henry to help him in a difficulty. "I don t know," Henry hesitated cautiously. "D you think children a household that sort of thing d you think that ll satisfy her? Mind, I m out all day." "She would certainly be very competent," Henry stated. "Oh, she s wonderfully competent," said Rodney. "But I get absorbed in my poetry. Well, Katharine hasn t got that. She admires my poetry, you know, but that wouldn t be enough for her?" "No," said Henry. He paused. "I think you re right," he added, as if he were summing up his thoughts. "Katharine hasn t found herself yet. Life isn t altogether real to her yet I sometimes think" "Yes?" Rodney inquired, as if he were eager for Henry to continue. "That is what I"<|quote|>he was going on, as Henry remained silent, but the sentence was not finished, for the door opened, and they were interrupted by Henry s younger brother Gilbert, much to Henry s relief, for he had already said more than he liked. CHAPTER XVII When the sun shone, as it did with unusual brightness that Christmas week, it revealed much that was faded and not altogether well-kept-up in Stogdon House and its grounds. In truth, Sir Francis had retired from service under the Government of India with a pension that was not adequate, in his opinion, to his services, as it certainly was not adequate to his ambitions. His career had not come up to his expectations, and although he was a very fine, white-whiskered, mahogany-colored old man to look at, and had laid down a very choice cellar of good reading and good stories, you could not long remain ignorant of the fact that some thunder-storm had soured them; he had a grievance. This grievance dated back to the middle years of the last century, when, owing to some official intrigue, his merits had been passed over in a disgraceful manner in favor of another, his junior. The rights and wrongs of the story, presuming that they had some existence in fact, were no longer clearly known to his wife and children; but this disappointment had played a very large part in their lives, and had poisoned the life of Sir Francis much as a disappointment in love is said to poison the whole life of a woman. Long brooding on his failure, continual arrangement and rearrangement of his deserts and rebuffs, had made Sir Francis much of an egoist, and in his retirement his temper became increasingly difficult and exacting. His wife now offered so little resistance to his moods that she was practically useless to him. He made his daughter Eleanor into his chief confidante, and the prime of her life was being rapidly consumed by her father. To her he dictated the memoirs which were to avenge his memory, and she had to assure him constantly that his treatment had been a disgrace. Already, at the age of thirty-five, her cheeks were whitening as her mother s had whitened, but for her there would be no memories of Indian suns and Indian rivers, and clamor of children in a nursery; she would have very little of substance to think about when she sat, as Lady Otway now sat, knitting white wool, with her eyes fixed almost perpetually upon the same embroidered bird upon the same fire-screen. But then Lady Otway was one of the people for whom the great make-believe game of English social life has been invented; she spent most of her time in pretending to herself and her neighbors that she was a dignified, important, much-occupied person, of considerable social standing and sufficient wealth. In view of the actual state of things this game needed a great deal of skill; and, perhaps, at the age she had reached she was over sixty she played far more to deceive herself than to deceive any one else. Moreover, the armor was wearing thin; she forgot to keep up appearances more and more. The worn patches in the carpets, and the pallor of the drawing-room, where no chair or cover had been renewed for some years, were due not only to the miserable pension, but to the wear and tear of twelve children, eight of whom were sons. As often happens in these large families, a distinct dividing-line could be traced, about half-way in the succession, where the money for educational purposes had run short, and the six younger children had grown up far more economically than the elder. If the boys were clever, they won scholarships, and went to school; if they were not clever, they took what the family connection had to offer them. The girls accepted situations occasionally, but there were always one or two at home, nursing sick animals, tending silkworms, or playing the flute in their bedrooms. The distinction between the elder children and the younger corresponded almost to the distinction between a higher class and a lower one, for with only a haphazard education and insufficient allowances, the younger children had picked up accomplishments, friends, and points of view which were not to be found within the walls of a public school or of a Government office. Between the two divisions there was considerable hostility, the elder trying to patronize the younger, the younger refusing to respect the elder; but one feeling united them and instantly closed any risk of a breach their common belief in the superiority of their own family to all others. Henry was the eldest of the younger group, and their leader; he bought strange books and joined odd societies; he went without a tie for a whole year, and had six shirts made of black flannel. He had long refused to take a seat either in a shipping office or in a tea-merchant s warehouse; and persisted, in spite of the disapproval of uncles and aunts, in practicing both violin and piano, with the result that he could not perform professionally upon either. Indeed, for thirty-two years of life he had nothing more substantial to show than a manuscript book containing the score of half an opera. In this protest of his, Katharine had always given him her support, and as she was generally held to be an extremely sensible person, who dressed too well to be eccentric, he had found her support of some use. Indeed, when she came down at Christmas she usually spent a great part of her time in private conferences with Henry and with Cassandra, the youngest girl, to whom the silkworms belonged. With the younger section she had a great reputation for common sense, and for something that they despised but inwardly respected and called knowledge of the world that is to say, of the way in which respectable elderly people, going to their clubs and dining out with ministers, think and behave. She had more than once played the part of ambassador between Lady Otway and her children. That poor lady, for instance, consulted her for advice when, one day, she opened Cassandra s bedroom door on a mission of discovery, and found the ceiling hung with mulberry-leaves, the windows blocked with cages, and the tables stacked with home-made machines for the manufacture of silk dresses.</|quote|>"I wish you could help her to take an interest in something that other people are interested in, Katharine," she observed, rather plaintively, detailing her grievances. "It s all Henry s doing, you know, giving up her parties and taking to these nasty insects. It doesn t follow that if a man can do a thing a woman may too." The morning was sufficiently bright to make the chairs and sofas in Lady Otway s private sitting-room appear more than usually shabby, and the gallant gentlemen, her brothers and cousins, who had defended the Empire and left their bones on many frontiers, looked at the world through a film of yellow which the morning light seemed to have drawn across their photographs. Lady Otway sighed, it may be at the faded relics, and turned, with resignation, to her balls of wool, which, curiously and characteristically, were not an ivory-white, but rather a tarnished yellow-white. She had called her niece in for a little chat. She had always trusted her, and now more than ever, since her engagement to Rodney, which seemed to Lady Otway extremely suitable, and just what one would wish for one s own daughter. Katharine unwittingly increased her reputation for wisdom by asking to be given knitting-needles too. "It s so very pleasant," said Lady Otway, "to knit while one s talking. And now, my dear Katharine, tell me about your plans." The emotions of the night before, which she had suppressed in such a way as to keep her awake till dawn, had left Katharine a little jaded, and thus more matter-of-fact than usual. She was quite ready to discuss her plans houses and rents, servants and economy without feeling that they concerned her very much. As she spoke, knitting methodically meanwhile, Lady Otway noted, with approval, the upright, responsible bearing of her niece, to whom the prospect of marriage had brought some gravity most becoming in a bride, and yet, in these days, most rare. Yes, Katharine s engagement had changed her a little. "What a perfect daughter, or daughter-in-law!" she thought to herself, and could not help contrasting her with Cassandra, surrounded by innumerable silkworms in her bedroom. "Yes," she continued, glancing at Katharine, with the round, greenish eyes which were as inexpressive as moist marbles, "Katharine is like the girls of my youth. We took the serious things of life seriously." But just as she was deriving satisfaction from this thought, and was producing some of the hoarded wisdom which none of her own daughters, alas! seemed now to need, the door opened, and Mrs. Hilbery came in, or rather, did not come in, but stood in the doorway and smiled, having evidently mistaken the room. "I never _shall_ know my way about this house!" she exclaimed. "I m on my way to the library, and I don t want to interrupt. You and Katharine were having a little chat?" The presence of her sister-in-law made Lady Otway slightly uneasy. How could she go on with what she was saying in Maggie s presence? for she was saying something that she had never said, all these years, to Maggie herself. "I was telling Katharine a few little commonplaces about marriage," she said, with a little laugh. "Are none of my children looking after you, Maggie?" "Marriage," said Mrs. Hilbery, coming into the room, and nodding her head once or twice, "I always say marriage is a school. And you don t get the prizes unless you go to school. Charlotte has won all the prizes," she added, giving her sister-in-law a little pat, which made Lady Otway more uncomfortable still. She half laughed, muttered something, and ended on a sigh. "Aunt Charlotte was saying that it s no good being married unless you submit to your husband," said Katharine, framing her aunt s words into a far more definite shape than they had really worn; and when she spoke thus she did not appear at all old-fashioned. Lady Otway looked at her and paused for a moment. "Well, I really don t advise a woman who wants to have things her own way to get married," she said, beginning a fresh row rather elaborately. Mrs. Hilbery knew something of the circumstances which, as she thought, had inspired this remark. In a moment her face was clouded with sympathy which she did not quite know how to express. "What a shame it was!" she exclaimed, forgetting that her train of thought might not be obvious to her listeners. "But, Charlotte, it would have been much worse if Frank had disgraced himself in any way. And it isn t what our husbands GET, but what they _are_. I used to dream of white horses and palanquins, too; but still, I like the ink-pots best. And | for example" "Katharine," said Henry, with an emphasis upon the name, almost as if he resented Rodney s use of it, "Katharine is very unlike most women." "Quite," Rodney agreed. "She is" He seemed about to describe her, and he hesitated for a long time. "She s looking very well," he stated, or rather almost inquired, in a different tone from that in which he had been speaking. Henry bent his head. "But, as a family, you re given to moods, eh?" "Not Katharine," said Henry, with decision. "Not Katharine," Rodney repeated, as if he weighed the meaning of the words. "No, perhaps you re right. But her engagement has changed her. Naturally," he added, "one would expect that to be so." He waited for Henry to confirm this statement, but Henry remained silent. "Katharine has had a difficult life, in some ways," he continued. "I expect that marriage will be good for her. She has great powers." "Great," said Henry, with decision. "Yes but now what direction d you think they take?" Rodney had completely dropped his pose as a man of the world, and seemed to be asking Henry to help him in a difficulty. "I don t know," Henry hesitated cautiously. "D you think children a household that sort of thing d you think that ll satisfy her? Mind, I m out all day." "She would certainly be very competent," Henry stated. "Oh, she s wonderfully competent," said Rodney. "But I get absorbed in my poetry. Well, Katharine hasn t got that. She admires my poetry, you know, but that wouldn t be enough for her?" "No," said Henry. He paused. "I think you re right," he added, as if he were summing up his thoughts. "Katharine hasn t found herself yet. Life isn t altogether real to her yet I sometimes think" "Yes?" Rodney inquired, as if he were eager for Henry to continue. "That is what I"<|quote|>he was going on, as Henry remained silent, but the sentence was not finished, for the door opened, and they were interrupted by Henry s younger brother Gilbert, much to Henry s relief, for he had already said more than he liked. CHAPTER XVII When the sun shone, as it did with unusual brightness that Christmas week, it revealed much that was faded and not altogether well-kept-up in Stogdon House and its grounds. In truth, Sir Francis had retired from service under the Government of India with a pension that was not adequate, in his opinion, to his services, as it certainly was not adequate to his ambitions. His career had not come up to his expectations, and although he was a very fine, white-whiskered, mahogany-colored old man to look at, and had laid down a very choice cellar of good reading and good stories, you could not long remain ignorant of the fact that some thunder-storm had soured them; he had a grievance. This grievance dated back to the middle years of the last century, when, owing to some official intrigue, his merits had been passed over in a disgraceful manner in favor of another, his junior. The rights and wrongs of the story, presuming that they had some existence in fact, were no longer clearly known to his wife and children; but this disappointment had played a very large part in their lives, and had poisoned the life of Sir Francis much as a disappointment in love is said to poison the whole life of a woman. Long brooding on his failure, continual arrangement and rearrangement of his deserts and rebuffs, had made Sir Francis much of an egoist, and in his retirement his temper became increasingly difficult and exacting. His wife now offered so little resistance to his moods that she was practically useless to him. He made his daughter Eleanor into his chief confidante, and the prime of her life was being rapidly consumed by her father. To her he dictated the memoirs which were to avenge his memory, and she had to assure him constantly that his treatment had been a disgrace. Already, at the age of thirty-five, her cheeks were whitening as her mother s had whitened, but for her there would be no memories of Indian suns and Indian rivers, and clamor of children in a nursery; she would have very little of substance to think about when she sat, as Lady Otway now sat, knitting white wool, with her eyes fixed almost perpetually upon the same embroidered bird upon the same fire-screen. But then Lady Otway was one of the people for whom the great make-believe game of English social life has been invented; she spent most of her time in pretending to herself and her neighbors that she was a dignified, important, much-occupied person, of considerable social standing and sufficient wealth. In view of the actual state of things this game needed a great deal of skill; and, perhaps, at the age she had reached she was over sixty she played far more to deceive herself than to deceive any one else. Moreover, the armor was wearing thin; she forgot to keep up appearances more and more. The worn patches in the carpets, and the pallor of the drawing-room, where no chair or cover had been renewed for some years, were due not only to the miserable pension, but to the wear and tear of twelve children, eight of whom were sons. As often happens in these large families, a distinct dividing-line could be traced, about half-way in the succession, where the money for educational purposes had run short, and the six younger children had grown up far more economically than the elder. If the boys were clever, they won scholarships, and went to school; if they were not clever, they took what the family connection had to offer them. The girls accepted situations occasionally, but there were always one or two at home, nursing sick animals, tending silkworms, or playing the flute in their bedrooms. The distinction between the elder children and the younger corresponded almost to the distinction between a higher class and a lower one, for with only a haphazard education and insufficient allowances, the younger children had picked up accomplishments, friends, and points of view which were not to be found within the walls of a public school or of a Government office. Between the two divisions there was considerable hostility, the elder trying to patronize the younger, the younger refusing to respect the elder; but one feeling united them and instantly closed any risk of a breach their common belief in the superiority of their own family to all others. Henry was the eldest of the younger group, and their leader; he bought strange books and joined odd societies; he went without a tie for a whole year, and had six shirts made of black flannel. He had long refused to take a seat either in a shipping office or in a tea-merchant s warehouse; and persisted, in spite of the disapproval of uncles and aunts, in practicing both violin and piano, with the result that he could not perform professionally upon either. Indeed, for thirty-two years of life he had nothing more substantial to show than a manuscript book containing the score of half an opera. In this protest of his, Katharine had always given him her support, and as she was generally held to be an extremely sensible person, who dressed too well to be eccentric, he had found her support of some use. Indeed, when she came down at Christmas she usually spent a great part of her time in private conferences with Henry and with Cassandra, the youngest girl, to whom the silkworms belonged. With the younger section she had a great reputation for common sense, and for something that they despised but inwardly respected and called knowledge of the world that is to say, of the way in which respectable elderly people, going to their clubs and dining out with ministers, think and behave. She had more than once played the part of ambassador between Lady Otway and her children. That poor lady, for instance, consulted her for advice when, one day, she opened Cassandra s bedroom door on a mission of discovery, and found the ceiling hung with mulberry-leaves, the windows blocked with cages, and the tables stacked with home-made machines for the manufacture of silk dresses.</|quote|>"I wish you could help her to take an interest in something that other people are interested in, Katharine," she observed, rather plaintively, detailing her grievances. "It s all Henry s doing, you know, giving up her parties and taking to these nasty insects. It doesn t follow that if a man can do a thing a woman may too." The morning was sufficiently bright to make the chairs and sofas in Lady Otway s private sitting-room appear more than usually shabby, and the gallant gentlemen, her brothers and cousins, who had defended the Empire and left their bones on many frontiers, looked at the world through a film of yellow which the morning light seemed to have drawn across their photographs. Lady Otway sighed, it may be at the faded relics, and turned, with resignation, to her balls of wool, which, curiously and characteristically, were not an ivory-white, but rather a tarnished yellow-white. She had called her niece in for a little chat. She had always trusted her, and now more than ever, since her engagement to Rodney, which seemed to Lady Otway extremely suitable, and just what one would wish for one s own daughter. Katharine unwittingly increased her reputation for wisdom by asking to be given knitting-needles too. "It s so very pleasant," said Lady Otway, "to knit while one s talking. And now, my dear Katharine, tell me about your plans." The emotions of the night before, which she had suppressed in such a way as to keep her awake till dawn, had left Katharine a little jaded, and thus more matter-of-fact than usual. She was quite ready to discuss her plans houses and rents, servants and | Night And Day |
said Miss Daisy. | No speaker | dance; you re too stiff,"<|quote|>said Miss Daisy.</|quote|>"I hope you enjoyed your | "Of course you don t dance; you re too stiff,"<|quote|>said Miss Daisy.</|quote|>"I hope you enjoyed your drive with Mrs. Walker!" "No. | "It s a pity these rooms are so small; we can t dance," she said to Winterbourne, as if she had seen him five minutes before. "I am not sorry we can t dance," Winterbourne answered; "I don t dance." "Of course you don t dance; you re too stiff,"<|quote|>said Miss Daisy.</|quote|>"I hope you enjoyed your drive with Mrs. Walker!" "No. I didn t enjoy it; I preferred walking with you." "We paired off: that was much better," said Daisy. "But did you ever hear anything so cool as Mrs. Walker s wanting me to get into her carriage and drop | quite unable to find out who asked him. It was apparently not Daisy who had given him his orders. Daisy sat at a distance from the piano, and though she had publicly, as it were, professed a high admiration for his singing, talked, not inaudibly, while it was going on. "It s a pity these rooms are so small; we can t dance," she said to Winterbourne, as if she had seen him five minutes before. "I am not sorry we can t dance," Winterbourne answered; "I don t dance." "Of course you don t dance; you re too stiff,"<|quote|>said Miss Daisy.</|quote|>"I hope you enjoyed your drive with Mrs. Walker!" "No. I didn t enjoy it; I preferred walking with you." "We paired off: that was much better," said Daisy. "But did you ever hear anything so cool as Mrs. Walker s wanting me to get into her carriage and drop poor Mr. Giovanelli, and under the pretext that it was proper? People have different ideas! It would have been most unkind; he had been talking about that walk for ten days." "He should not have talked about it at all," said Winterbourne; "he would never have proposed to a young | round the room, while she gave a series of little pats, round her shoulders, to the edges of her dress. "Is there anyone I know?" she asked. "I think every one knows you!" said Mrs. Walker pregnantly, and she gave a very cursory greeting to Mr. Giovanelli. This gentleman bore himself gallantly. He smiled and bowed and showed his white teeth; he curled his mustaches and rolled his eyes and performed all the proper functions of a handsome Italian at an evening party. He sang very prettily half a dozen songs, though Mrs. Walker afterward declared that she had been quite unable to find out who asked him. It was apparently not Daisy who had given him his orders. Daisy sat at a distance from the piano, and though she had publicly, as it were, professed a high admiration for his singing, talked, not inaudibly, while it was going on. "It s a pity these rooms are so small; we can t dance," she said to Winterbourne, as if she had seen him five minutes before. "I am not sorry we can t dance," Winterbourne answered; "I don t dance." "Of course you don t dance; you re too stiff,"<|quote|>said Miss Daisy.</|quote|>"I hope you enjoyed your drive with Mrs. Walker!" "No. I didn t enjoy it; I preferred walking with you." "We paired off: that was much better," said Daisy. "But did you ever hear anything so cool as Mrs. Walker s wanting me to get into her carriage and drop poor Mr. Giovanelli, and under the pretext that it was proper? People have different ideas! It would have been most unkind; he had been talking about that walk for ten days." "He should not have talked about it at all," said Winterbourne; "he would never have proposed to a young lady of this country to walk about the streets with him." "About the streets?" cried Daisy with her pretty stare. "Where, then, would he have proposed to her to walk? The Pincio is not the streets, either; and I, thank goodness, am not a young lady of this country. The young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as I can learn; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne gravely. "Of course they are," she cried, giving | "This is most horrible!" said Mrs. Walker, turning away and addressing herself to Winterbourne. "Elle s affiche. It s her revenge for my having ventured to remonstrate with her. When she comes, I shall not speak to her." Daisy came after eleven o clock; but she was not, on such an occasion, a young lady to wait to be spoken to. She rustled forward in radiant loveliness, smiling and chattering, carrying a large bouquet, and attended by Mr. Giovanelli. Everyone stopped talking and turned and looked at her. She came straight to Mrs. Walker. "I m afraid you thought I never was coming, so I sent mother off to tell you. I wanted to make Mr. Giovanelli practice some things before he came; you know he sings beautifully, and I want you to ask him to sing. This is Mr. Giovanelli; you know I introduced him to you; he s got the most lovely voice, and he knows the most charming set of songs. I made him go over them this evening on purpose; we had the greatest time at the hotel." Of all this Daisy delivered herself with the sweetest, brightest audibleness, looking now at her hostess and now round the room, while she gave a series of little pats, round her shoulders, to the edges of her dress. "Is there anyone I know?" she asked. "I think every one knows you!" said Mrs. Walker pregnantly, and she gave a very cursory greeting to Mr. Giovanelli. This gentleman bore himself gallantly. He smiled and bowed and showed his white teeth; he curled his mustaches and rolled his eyes and performed all the proper functions of a handsome Italian at an evening party. He sang very prettily half a dozen songs, though Mrs. Walker afterward declared that she had been quite unable to find out who asked him. It was apparently not Daisy who had given him his orders. Daisy sat at a distance from the piano, and though she had publicly, as it were, professed a high admiration for his singing, talked, not inaudibly, while it was going on. "It s a pity these rooms are so small; we can t dance," she said to Winterbourne, as if she had seen him five minutes before. "I am not sorry we can t dance," Winterbourne answered; "I don t dance." "Of course you don t dance; you re too stiff,"<|quote|>said Miss Daisy.</|quote|>"I hope you enjoyed your drive with Mrs. Walker!" "No. I didn t enjoy it; I preferred walking with you." "We paired off: that was much better," said Daisy. "But did you ever hear anything so cool as Mrs. Walker s wanting me to get into her carriage and drop poor Mr. Giovanelli, and under the pretext that it was proper? People have different ideas! It would have been most unkind; he had been talking about that walk for ten days." "He should not have talked about it at all," said Winterbourne; "he would never have proposed to a young lady of this country to walk about the streets with him." "About the streets?" cried Daisy with her pretty stare. "Where, then, would he have proposed to her to walk? The Pincio is not the streets, either; and I, thank goodness, am not a young lady of this country. The young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as I can learn; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne gravely. "Of course they are," she cried, giving him her little smiling stare again. "I m a fearful, frightful flirt! Did you ever hear of a nice girl that was not? But I suppose you will tell me now that I am not a nice girl." "You re a very nice girl; but I wish you would flirt with me, and me only," said Winterbourne. "Ah! thank you--thank you very much; you are the last man I should think of flirting with. As I have had the pleasure of informing you, you are too stiff." "You say that too often," said Winterbourne. Daisy gave a delighted laugh. "If I could have the sweet hope of making you angry, I should say it again." "Don t do that; when I am angry I m stiffer than ever. But if you won t flirt with me, do cease, at least, to flirt with your friend at the piano; they don t understand that sort of thing here." "I thought they understood nothing else!" exclaimed Daisy. "Not in young unmarried women." "It seems to me much more proper in young unmarried women than in old married ones," Daisy declared. "Well," said Winterbourne, "when you deal with natives you must go by | following day that there was no smiling among the servants when he, at least, asked for Mrs. Miller at her hotel. This lady and her daughter, however, were not at home; and on the next day after, repeating his visit, Winterbourne again had the misfortune not to find them. Mrs. Walker s party took place on the evening of the third day, and, in spite of the frigidity of his last interview with the hostess, Winterbourne was among the guests. Mrs. Walker was one of those American ladies who, while residing abroad, make a point, in their own phrase, of studying European society, and she had on this occasion collected several specimens of her diversely born fellow mortals to serve, as it were, as textbooks. When Winterbourne arrived, Daisy Miller was not there, but in a few moments he saw her mother come in alone, very shyly and ruefully. Mrs. Miller s hair above her exposed-looking temples was more frizzled than ever. As she approached Mrs. Walker, Winterbourne also drew near. "You see, I ve come all alone," said poor Mrs. Miller. "I m so frightened; I don t know what to do. It s the first time I ve ever been to a party alone, especially in this country. I wanted to bring Randolph or Eugenio, or someone, but Daisy just pushed me off by myself. I ain t used to going round alone." "And does not your daughter intend to favor us with her society?" demanded Mrs. Walker impressively. "Well, Daisy s all dressed," said Mrs. Miller with that accent of the dispassionate, if not of the philosophic, historian with which she always recorded the current incidents of her daughter s career. "She got dressed on purpose before dinner. But she s got a friend of hers there; that gentleman--the Italian--that she wanted to bring. They ve got going at the piano; it seems as if they couldn t leave off. Mr. Giovanelli sings splendidly. But I guess they ll come before very long," concluded Mrs. Miller hopefully. "I m sorry she should come in that way," said Mrs. Walker. "Well, I told her that there was no use in her getting dressed before dinner if she was going to wait three hours," responded Daisy s mamma. "I didn t see the use of her putting on such a dress as that to sit round with Mr. Giovanelli." "This is most horrible!" said Mrs. Walker, turning away and addressing herself to Winterbourne. "Elle s affiche. It s her revenge for my having ventured to remonstrate with her. When she comes, I shall not speak to her." Daisy came after eleven o clock; but she was not, on such an occasion, a young lady to wait to be spoken to. She rustled forward in radiant loveliness, smiling and chattering, carrying a large bouquet, and attended by Mr. Giovanelli. Everyone stopped talking and turned and looked at her. She came straight to Mrs. Walker. "I m afraid you thought I never was coming, so I sent mother off to tell you. I wanted to make Mr. Giovanelli practice some things before he came; you know he sings beautifully, and I want you to ask him to sing. This is Mr. Giovanelli; you know I introduced him to you; he s got the most lovely voice, and he knows the most charming set of songs. I made him go over them this evening on purpose; we had the greatest time at the hotel." Of all this Daisy delivered herself with the sweetest, brightest audibleness, looking now at her hostess and now round the room, while she gave a series of little pats, round her shoulders, to the edges of her dress. "Is there anyone I know?" she asked. "I think every one knows you!" said Mrs. Walker pregnantly, and she gave a very cursory greeting to Mr. Giovanelli. This gentleman bore himself gallantly. He smiled and bowed and showed his white teeth; he curled his mustaches and rolled his eyes and performed all the proper functions of a handsome Italian at an evening party. He sang very prettily half a dozen songs, though Mrs. Walker afterward declared that she had been quite unable to find out who asked him. It was apparently not Daisy who had given him his orders. Daisy sat at a distance from the piano, and though she had publicly, as it were, professed a high admiration for his singing, talked, not inaudibly, while it was going on. "It s a pity these rooms are so small; we can t dance," she said to Winterbourne, as if she had seen him five minutes before. "I am not sorry we can t dance," Winterbourne answered; "I don t dance." "Of course you don t dance; you re too stiff,"<|quote|>said Miss Daisy.</|quote|>"I hope you enjoyed your drive with Mrs. Walker!" "No. I didn t enjoy it; I preferred walking with you." "We paired off: that was much better," said Daisy. "But did you ever hear anything so cool as Mrs. Walker s wanting me to get into her carriage and drop poor Mr. Giovanelli, and under the pretext that it was proper? People have different ideas! It would have been most unkind; he had been talking about that walk for ten days." "He should not have talked about it at all," said Winterbourne; "he would never have proposed to a young lady of this country to walk about the streets with him." "About the streets?" cried Daisy with her pretty stare. "Where, then, would he have proposed to her to walk? The Pincio is not the streets, either; and I, thank goodness, am not a young lady of this country. The young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as I can learn; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne gravely. "Of course they are," she cried, giving him her little smiling stare again. "I m a fearful, frightful flirt! Did you ever hear of a nice girl that was not? But I suppose you will tell me now that I am not a nice girl." "You re a very nice girl; but I wish you would flirt with me, and me only," said Winterbourne. "Ah! thank you--thank you very much; you are the last man I should think of flirting with. As I have had the pleasure of informing you, you are too stiff." "You say that too often," said Winterbourne. Daisy gave a delighted laugh. "If I could have the sweet hope of making you angry, I should say it again." "Don t do that; when I am angry I m stiffer than ever. But if you won t flirt with me, do cease, at least, to flirt with your friend at the piano; they don t understand that sort of thing here." "I thought they understood nothing else!" exclaimed Daisy. "Not in young unmarried women." "It seems to me much more proper in young unmarried women than in old married ones," Daisy declared. "Well," said Winterbourne, "when you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn t exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother--" "Gracious! poor Mother!" interposed Daisy. "Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something else." "He isn t preaching, at any rate," said Daisy with vivacity. "And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good friends for that: we are very intimate friends." "Ah!" rejoined Winterbourne, "if you are in love with each other, it is another affair." She had allowed him up to this point to talk so frankly that he had no expectation of shocking her by this ejaculation; but she immediately got up, blushing visibly, and leaving him to exclaim mentally that little American flirts were the queerest creatures in the world. "Mr. Giovanelli, at least," she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance, "never says such very disagreeable things to me." Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy. "Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?" he asked, bending before her with his ornamental smile. Daisy turned to Winterbourne, beginning to smile again. He was still more perplexed, for this inconsequent smile made nothing clear, though it seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner. "I have offered you advice," Winterbourne rejoined. "I prefer weak tea!" cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the window, for the rest of the evening. There was an interesting performance at the piano, but neither of these young people gave heed to it. When Daisy came to take leave of Mrs. Walker, this lady conscientiously repaired the weakness of which she had been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left her to depart with what grace she might. Winterbourne was standing near the door; he saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly unconscious | she should come in that way," said Mrs. Walker. "Well, I told her that there was no use in her getting dressed before dinner if she was going to wait three hours," responded Daisy s mamma. "I didn t see the use of her putting on such a dress as that to sit round with Mr. Giovanelli." "This is most horrible!" said Mrs. Walker, turning away and addressing herself to Winterbourne. "Elle s affiche. It s her revenge for my having ventured to remonstrate with her. When she comes, I shall not speak to her." Daisy came after eleven o clock; but she was not, on such an occasion, a young lady to wait to be spoken to. She rustled forward in radiant loveliness, smiling and chattering, carrying a large bouquet, and attended by Mr. Giovanelli. Everyone stopped talking and turned and looked at her. She came straight to Mrs. Walker. "I m afraid you thought I never was coming, so I sent mother off to tell you. I wanted to make Mr. Giovanelli practice some things before he came; you know he sings beautifully, and I want you to ask him to sing. This is Mr. Giovanelli; you know I introduced him to you; he s got the most lovely voice, and he knows the most charming set of songs. I made him go over them this evening on purpose; we had the greatest time at the hotel." Of all this Daisy delivered herself with the sweetest, brightest audibleness, looking now at her hostess and now round the room, while she gave a series of little pats, round her shoulders, to the edges of her dress. "Is there anyone I know?" she asked. "I think every one knows you!" said Mrs. Walker pregnantly, and she gave a very cursory greeting to Mr. Giovanelli. This gentleman bore himself gallantly. He smiled and bowed and showed his white teeth; he curled his mustaches and rolled his eyes and performed all the proper functions of a handsome Italian at an evening party. He sang very prettily half a dozen songs, though Mrs. Walker afterward declared that she had been quite unable to find out who asked him. It was apparently not Daisy who had given him his orders. Daisy sat at a distance from the piano, and though she had publicly, as it were, professed a high admiration for his singing, talked, not inaudibly, while it was going on. "It s a pity these rooms are so small; we can t dance," she said to Winterbourne, as if she had seen him five minutes before. "I am not sorry we can t dance," Winterbourne answered; "I don t dance." "Of course you don t dance; you re too stiff,"<|quote|>said Miss Daisy.</|quote|>"I hope you enjoyed your drive with Mrs. Walker!" "No. I didn t enjoy it; I preferred walking with you." "We paired off: that was much better," said Daisy. "But did you ever hear anything so cool as Mrs. Walker s wanting me to get into her carriage and drop poor Mr. Giovanelli, and under the pretext that it was proper? People have different ideas! It would have been most unkind; he had been talking about that walk for ten days." "He should not have talked about it at all," said Winterbourne; "he would never have proposed to a young lady of this country to walk about the streets with him." "About the streets?" cried Daisy with her pretty stare. "Where, then, would he have proposed to her to walk? The Pincio is not the streets, either; and I, thank goodness, am not a young lady of this country. The young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as I can learn; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne gravely. "Of course they are," she cried, giving him her little smiling stare again. "I m a fearful, frightful flirt! Did you ever hear of a nice girl that was not? But I suppose you will tell me now that I am not a nice girl." "You re a very nice girl; but I wish you would flirt with me, and me only," said Winterbourne. "Ah! thank you--thank you very much; you are the last man I should think of flirting with. As I have had the pleasure of informing you, you are too stiff." "You say that too often," said Winterbourne. Daisy gave a delighted laugh. "If I could have the sweet hope of making you angry, I should say it again." "Don t do that; when I am angry I m stiffer than ever. But if you won t flirt with me, do cease, at least, to flirt with your friend at the piano; they don t understand that sort of thing here." "I thought they understood nothing else!" exclaimed Daisy. "Not in young unmarried women." "It seems to me much more proper in young unmarried women than in old married ones," Daisy declared. "Well," said Winterbourne, "when you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn t exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother--" "Gracious! poor Mother!" interposed Daisy. "Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something else." "He isn t preaching, at any rate," said Daisy with vivacity. "And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good friends for that: we are very intimate friends." "Ah!" rejoined Winterbourne, "if you are in love with each other, it is another affair." She had allowed him up to this point to talk so frankly that he had no expectation of shocking her by this ejaculation; but she immediately got up, blushing visibly, and leaving him to exclaim mentally that little American flirts were the queerest creatures in the world. "Mr. Giovanelli, at least," she said, | Daisy Miller |
"that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." | Mr. Knightley | he replied, speaking very distinctly,<|quote|>"that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day."</|quote|>"I am perfectly satisfied," replied | are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly,<|quote|>"that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day."</|quote|>"I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, | I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly,<|quote|>"that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day."</|quote|>"I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant | that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly,<|quote|>"that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day."</|quote|>"I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must | of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly,<|quote|>"that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day."</|quote|>"I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--" "Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards | but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly,<|quote|>"that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day."</|quote|>"I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--" "Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of | join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly,<|quote|>"that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day."</|quote|>"I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--" "Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message in one of Mrs. | more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly,<|quote|>"that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day."</|quote|>"I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--" "Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was | Emma |
It was absolute and she yielded; only pausing an instant to look as with a certain gathered meaning from one of the men to the other. Faintly and resignedly sighing she passed away to the terrace and disappeared. | No speaker | though not of harshness, “Go!”<|quote|>It was absolute and she yielded; only pausing an instant to look as with a certain gathered meaning from one of the men to the other. Faintly and resignedly sighing she passed away to the terrace and disappeared.</|quote|>“The nature that _can_ let | with the habit of authority, though not of harshness, “Go!”<|quote|>It was absolute and she yielded; only pausing an instant to look as with a certain gathered meaning from one of the men to the other. Faintly and resignedly sighing she passed away to the terrace and disappeared.</|quote|>“The nature that _can_ let you down--I rather like it, | deal with it.” His daughter’s smile, for all this, was perceptibly cold. “You work people up, father, and then leave others to let them down.” “The two things,” he promptly replied, “require different natures.” To which he simply added, as with the habit of authority, though not of harshness, “Go!”<|quote|>It was absolute and she yielded; only pausing an instant to look as with a certain gathered meaning from one of the men to the other. Faintly and resignedly sighing she passed away to the terrace and disappeared.</|quote|>“The nature that _can_ let you down--I rather like it, you know!” Lord John threw off. Which, for an airy elegance in them, were perhaps just slightly rash words--his companion gave him so sharp a look as the two were left together. VI Face to face with his visitor the | still as my pet pointer, when I scratch him, holds his back. The bucket, under the stream--” “Was bound to overflow?” Lady Grace suggested. “Well, the strong recoil of the wave of intelligence has been not unnaturally followed by the formidable break. You must really,” Lord Theign insisted, “go and deal with it.” His daughter’s smile, for all this, was perceptibly cold. “You work people up, father, and then leave others to let them down.” “The two things,” he promptly replied, “require different natures.” To which he simply added, as with the habit of authority, though not of harshness, “Go!”<|quote|>It was absolute and she yielded; only pausing an instant to look as with a certain gathered meaning from one of the men to the other. Faintly and resignedly sighing she passed away to the terrace and disappeared.</|quote|>“The nature that _can_ let you down--I rather like it, you know!” Lord John threw off. Which, for an airy elegance in them, were perhaps just slightly rash words--his companion gave him so sharp a look as the two were left together. VI Face to face with his visitor the master of Dedborough betrayed the impression his daughter appeared to have given him. “She didn’t want to go?” And then before Lord John could reply: “What the deuce is the matter with her?” Lord John took his time. “I think perhaps a little Mr. Crimble.” “And who the deuce is | from one of them to the other. “I feel I must ask _him_ to tell you.” “Then I shall give him a chance--as I should particularly like you to go back and deal with those overwhelming children.” “Ah, they don’t overwhelm _you_, father!” --the girl put it with some point. “If you mean to say I overwhelmed _them_, I dare say I did,” he replied-- “from my view of that vast collective gape of six hundred painfully plain and perfectly expressionless faces. But that was only for the time: I pumped advice--oh _such_ advice!--and they held the large bucket as still as my pet pointer, when I scratch him, holds his back. The bucket, under the stream--” “Was bound to overflow?” Lady Grace suggested. “Well, the strong recoil of the wave of intelligence has been not unnaturally followed by the formidable break. You must really,” Lord Theign insisted, “go and deal with it.” His daughter’s smile, for all this, was perceptibly cold. “You work people up, father, and then leave others to let them down.” “The two things,” he promptly replied, “require different natures.” To which he simply added, as with the habit of authority, though not of harshness, “Go!”<|quote|>It was absolute and she yielded; only pausing an instant to look as with a certain gathered meaning from one of the men to the other. Faintly and resignedly sighing she passed away to the terrace and disappeared.</|quote|>“The nature that _can_ let you down--I rather like it, you know!” Lord John threw off. Which, for an airy elegance in them, were perhaps just slightly rash words--his companion gave him so sharp a look as the two were left together. VI Face to face with his visitor the master of Dedborough betrayed the impression his daughter appeared to have given him. “She didn’t want to go?” And then before Lord John could reply: “What the deuce is the matter with her?” Lord John took his time. “I think perhaps a little Mr. Crimble.” “And who the deuce is a little Mr. Crimble?” “A young man who was just with her--and whom she appears to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded. “Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.” “Oh!” --it made his lordship easier. “Then he’s all right--on such a day.” His companion could none the less just wonder. “Hadn’t Lady Grace told you?” “That he was coming? Not that I remember.” But Lord Theign, perceptibly preoccupied, made nothing of this. “We’ve had other fish to fry, and you know the freedom I allow her.” His friend had a vivid gesture. | help it now,” his companion remarked with amusement. “You mean that he ought to allow _you_ as much?” Lord John inquired. “I’m sure you’re right, and that he will,” he continued quite as in good faith; “but I want you to understand that I don’t care in the least what it may be!” The subject of his suit took the longest look at him she had taken yet. “You’re very good to say so!” If this was ironic the touch fell short, thanks to his perception that they had practically just ceased to be alone. They were in presence of a third figure, who had arrived from the terrace, but whose approach to them was not so immediate as to deprive Lord John of time for another question. “Will you let _him_ tell you, at all events, how good he thinks me?--and then let me come back and have it from you again?” Lady Grace’s answer to this was to turn, as he drew nearer, to the person by whom they were now joined. “Lord John desires you should tell me, father, how good you think him.” “‘Good,’ my dear?--good for what?” said Lord Theign a trifle absurdly, but looking from one of them to the other. “I feel I must ask _him_ to tell you.” “Then I shall give him a chance--as I should particularly like you to go back and deal with those overwhelming children.” “Ah, they don’t overwhelm _you_, father!” --the girl put it with some point. “If you mean to say I overwhelmed _them_, I dare say I did,” he replied-- “from my view of that vast collective gape of six hundred painfully plain and perfectly expressionless faces. But that was only for the time: I pumped advice--oh _such_ advice!--and they held the large bucket as still as my pet pointer, when I scratch him, holds his back. The bucket, under the stream--” “Was bound to overflow?” Lady Grace suggested. “Well, the strong recoil of the wave of intelligence has been not unnaturally followed by the formidable break. You must really,” Lord Theign insisted, “go and deal with it.” His daughter’s smile, for all this, was perceptibly cold. “You work people up, father, and then leave others to let them down.” “The two things,” he promptly replied, “require different natures.” To which he simply added, as with the habit of authority, though not of harshness, “Go!”<|quote|>It was absolute and she yielded; only pausing an instant to look as with a certain gathered meaning from one of the men to the other. Faintly and resignedly sighing she passed away to the terrace and disappeared.</|quote|>“The nature that _can_ let you down--I rather like it, you know!” Lord John threw off. Which, for an airy elegance in them, were perhaps just slightly rash words--his companion gave him so sharp a look as the two were left together. VI Face to face with his visitor the master of Dedborough betrayed the impression his daughter appeared to have given him. “She didn’t want to go?” And then before Lord John could reply: “What the deuce is the matter with her?” Lord John took his time. “I think perhaps a little Mr. Crimble.” “And who the deuce is a little Mr. Crimble?” “A young man who was just with her--and whom she appears to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded. “Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.” “Oh!” --it made his lordship easier. “Then he’s all right--on such a day.” His companion could none the less just wonder. “Hadn’t Lady Grace told you?” “That he was coming? Not that I remember.” But Lord Theign, perceptibly preoccupied, made nothing of this. “We’ve had other fish to fry, and you know the freedom I allow her.” His friend had a vivid gesture. “My dear man, I only ask to profit by it!” With which there might well have been in Lord John’s face a light of comment on the pretension in such a quarter to allow freedom. Yet it was a pretension that Lord Theign sustained--as to show himself far from all bourgeois narrowness. “She has her friends by the score--at this time of day.” There was clearly a claim here also--to _know_ the time of day. “But in the matter of friends where, by the way, is your own--of whom I’ve but just heard?” “Oh, off there among the pictures too; so they’ll have met and taken care of each other.” Accounting for this inquirer would be clearly the least of Lord John’s difficulties. “I mustn’t appear to Bender to have failed him; but I must at once let you know, before I join him, that, seizing my opportunity, I have just very definitely, in fact very pressingly, spoken to Lady Grace. It hasn’t been perhaps,” he continued, “quite the pick of a chance; but that seemed never to come, and if I’m not too fondly mistaken, at any rate, she listened to me without abhorrence. Only I’ve led her to | see what _that_ does to me.” As to attentuate a little the freedom of which he went on: “May I fondly hope that if Lady Imber too should wish to put in another word for me----?” “Will I listen to her?” --it brought Lady Grace straight down. “No, Lord John, let me tell you at once that I’ll do nothing of the sort Kitty’s quite another affair, and I never listen to her a bit more than I can help.” Lord John appeared to feel, on this, that he mustn’t too easily, in honour, abandon a person who had presented herself to him as an ally. “Ah, you strike me as a little hard on her. Your father himself--in his looser moments!--takes pleasure in what she says.” Our young woman’s eyes, as they rested on him after this remark, had no mercy for its extreme feebleness. “If you mean that she’s the most reckless rattle one knows, and that she never looks so beautiful as when she’s at her worst, and that, always clever for where she makes out her interest, she has learnt to ‘get round’ him till he only sees through her eyes--if you mean _that_ I understand you perfectly. But even if you think me horrid for reflecting so on my nearest and dearest, it’s not on the side on which he has most confidence in his elder daughter that his youngest is moved to have most confidence in _him_.” Lord John stared as if she had shaken some odd bright fluttering object in his face; but then recovering himself: “He hasn’t perhaps an absolutely boundless confidence--” “In any one in the world but himself?” --she had taken him straight up. “He hasn’t indeed, and that’s what we must come to; so that even if he likes you as much as you doubtless very justly feel, it won’t be because you are right about your being nice, but because _he_ is!” “You mean that if I were wrong about it he would still insist that he isn’t?” Lady Grace was indeed sure. “Absolutely--if he had begun so! He began so with Kitty--that is with allowing her everything.” Lord John appeared struck. “Yes--and he still allows her two thousand.” “I’m glad to hear it--she has never told me how much!” the girl undisguisedly smiled. “Then perhaps I oughtn’t!” --he glowed with the light of contrition. “Well, you can’t help it now,” his companion remarked with amusement. “You mean that he ought to allow _you_ as much?” Lord John inquired. “I’m sure you’re right, and that he will,” he continued quite as in good faith; “but I want you to understand that I don’t care in the least what it may be!” The subject of his suit took the longest look at him she had taken yet. “You’re very good to say so!” If this was ironic the touch fell short, thanks to his perception that they had practically just ceased to be alone. They were in presence of a third figure, who had arrived from the terrace, but whose approach to them was not so immediate as to deprive Lord John of time for another question. “Will you let _him_ tell you, at all events, how good he thinks me?--and then let me come back and have it from you again?” Lady Grace’s answer to this was to turn, as he drew nearer, to the person by whom they were now joined. “Lord John desires you should tell me, father, how good you think him.” “‘Good,’ my dear?--good for what?” said Lord Theign a trifle absurdly, but looking from one of them to the other. “I feel I must ask _him_ to tell you.” “Then I shall give him a chance--as I should particularly like you to go back and deal with those overwhelming children.” “Ah, they don’t overwhelm _you_, father!” --the girl put it with some point. “If you mean to say I overwhelmed _them_, I dare say I did,” he replied-- “from my view of that vast collective gape of six hundred painfully plain and perfectly expressionless faces. But that was only for the time: I pumped advice--oh _such_ advice!--and they held the large bucket as still as my pet pointer, when I scratch him, holds his back. The bucket, under the stream--” “Was bound to overflow?” Lady Grace suggested. “Well, the strong recoil of the wave of intelligence has been not unnaturally followed by the formidable break. You must really,” Lord Theign insisted, “go and deal with it.” His daughter’s smile, for all this, was perceptibly cold. “You work people up, father, and then leave others to let them down.” “The two things,” he promptly replied, “require different natures.” To which he simply added, as with the habit of authority, though not of harshness, “Go!”<|quote|>It was absolute and she yielded; only pausing an instant to look as with a certain gathered meaning from one of the men to the other. Faintly and resignedly sighing she passed away to the terrace and disappeared.</|quote|>“The nature that _can_ let you down--I rather like it, you know!” Lord John threw off. Which, for an airy elegance in them, were perhaps just slightly rash words--his companion gave him so sharp a look as the two were left together. VI Face to face with his visitor the master of Dedborough betrayed the impression his daughter appeared to have given him. “She didn’t want to go?” And then before Lord John could reply: “What the deuce is the matter with her?” Lord John took his time. “I think perhaps a little Mr. Crimble.” “And who the deuce is a little Mr. Crimble?” “A young man who was just with her--and whom she appears to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded. “Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.” “Oh!” --it made his lordship easier. “Then he’s all right--on such a day.” His companion could none the less just wonder. “Hadn’t Lady Grace told you?” “That he was coming? Not that I remember.” But Lord Theign, perceptibly preoccupied, made nothing of this. “We’ve had other fish to fry, and you know the freedom I allow her.” His friend had a vivid gesture. “My dear man, I only ask to profit by it!” With which there might well have been in Lord John’s face a light of comment on the pretension in such a quarter to allow freedom. Yet it was a pretension that Lord Theign sustained--as to show himself far from all bourgeois narrowness. “She has her friends by the score--at this time of day.” There was clearly a claim here also--to _know_ the time of day. “But in the matter of friends where, by the way, is your own--of whom I’ve but just heard?” “Oh, off there among the pictures too; so they’ll have met and taken care of each other.” Accounting for this inquirer would be clearly the least of Lord John’s difficulties. “I mustn’t appear to Bender to have failed him; but I must at once let you know, before I join him, that, seizing my opportunity, I have just very definitely, in fact very pressingly, spoken to Lady Grace. It hasn’t been perhaps,” he continued, “quite the pick of a chance; but that seemed never to come, and if I’m not too fondly mistaken, at any rate, she listened to me without abhorrence. Only I’ve led her to expect--for our case--that you’ll be so good, without loss of time, as to say the clinching word to her yourself.” “Without loss, you mean, of--a--my daughter’s time?” Lord Theign, confessedly and amiably interested, had accepted these intimations--yet with the very blandness that was not accessible to hustling and was never forgetful of its standing privilege of criticism. He had come in from his public duty, a few minutes before, somewhat flushed and blown; but that had presently dropped--to the effect, we should have guessed, of his appearing to Lord John at least as cool as the occasion required. His appearance, we ourselves certainly should have felt, was in all respects charming--with the great note of it the beautiful restless, almost suspicious, challenge to you, on the part of deep and mixed things in him, his pride and his shyness, his conscience, his taste and his temper, to deny that he was admirably simple. Obviously, at this rate, he had a passion for simplicity--simplicity, above all, of relation with you, and would show you, with the last subtlety of displeasure, his impatience of your attempting anything more with himself. With such an ideal of decent ease he would, confound you, “sink” a hundred other attributes--or the recognition at least and the formulation of them--that you might abjectly have taken for granted in him: just to show you that in a beastly vulgar age you had, and small wonder, a beastly vulgar imagination. He sank thus, surely, in defiance of insistent vulgarity, half his consciousness of his advantages, flattering himself that mere facility and amiability, a true effective, a positively ideal suppression of reference in any one to anything that might complicate, alone floated above. This would be quite his religion, you might infer--to cause his hands to ignore in whatever contact any opportunity, however convenient, for an unfair pull. Which habit it was that must have produced in him a sort of ripe and radiant fairness; if it be allowed us, that is, to figure in so shining an air a nobleman of fifty-three, of an undecided rather than a certified frame or outline, of a head thinly though neatly covered and not measureably massive, of an almost trivial freshness, of a face marked but by a fine inwrought line or two and lighted by a merely charming expression. You might somehow have traced back the whole character so presented to | of time for another question. “Will you let _him_ tell you, at all events, how good he thinks me?--and then let me come back and have it from you again?” Lady Grace’s answer to this was to turn, as he drew nearer, to the person by whom they were now joined. “Lord John desires you should tell me, father, how good you think him.” “‘Good,’ my dear?--good for what?” said Lord Theign a trifle absurdly, but looking from one of them to the other. “I feel I must ask _him_ to tell you.” “Then I shall give him a chance--as I should particularly like you to go back and deal with those overwhelming children.” “Ah, they don’t overwhelm _you_, father!” --the girl put it with some point. “If you mean to say I overwhelmed _them_, I dare say I did,” he replied-- “from my view of that vast collective gape of six hundred painfully plain and perfectly expressionless faces. But that was only for the time: I pumped advice--oh _such_ advice!--and they held the large bucket as still as my pet pointer, when I scratch him, holds his back. The bucket, under the stream--” “Was bound to overflow?” Lady Grace suggested. “Well, the strong recoil of the wave of intelligence has been not unnaturally followed by the formidable break. You must really,” Lord Theign insisted, “go and deal with it.” His daughter’s smile, for all this, was perceptibly cold. “You work people up, father, and then leave others to let them down.” “The two things,” he promptly replied, “require different natures.” To which he simply added, as with the habit of authority, though not of harshness, “Go!”<|quote|>It was absolute and she yielded; only pausing an instant to look as with a certain gathered meaning from one of the men to the other. Faintly and resignedly sighing she passed away to the terrace and disappeared.</|quote|>“The nature that _can_ let you down--I rather like it, you know!” Lord John threw off. Which, for an airy elegance in them, were perhaps just slightly rash words--his companion gave him so sharp a look as the two were left together. VI Face to face with his visitor the master of Dedborough betrayed the impression his daughter appeared to have given him. “She didn’t want to go?” And then before Lord John could reply: “What the deuce is the matter with her?” Lord John took his time. “I think perhaps a little Mr. Crimble.” “And who the deuce is a little Mr. Crimble?” “A young man who was just with her--and whom she appears to have invited.” “Where is he then?” Lord Theign demanded. “Off there among the pictures--which he seems partly to have come for.” “Oh!” --it made his lordship easier. “Then he’s all right--on such a day.” His companion could none the less just wonder. “Hadn’t Lady Grace told you?” “That he was coming? Not that I remember.” But Lord Theign, perceptibly preoccupied, made nothing of this. “We’ve had other fish to fry, and you know the freedom I allow her.” His friend had a vivid gesture. “My dear man, I only ask to profit by it!” With which there might well have been in Lord John’s face a light of comment on the pretension in such a quarter to allow freedom. Yet it was a pretension that Lord Theign sustained--as to show himself far from all bourgeois narrowness. “She has her friends by the score--at this time of day.” There was clearly a claim here also--to _know_ the time of day. “But in the matter of friends where, by the way, is your own--of whom I’ve but just heard?” “Oh, off there among the pictures too; so they’ll have met and taken care of each other.” Accounting for this inquirer would be clearly the least of Lord John’s difficulties. “I mustn’t appear to Bender to have failed him; but I must at once let you know, before I join him, that, seizing my opportunity, I have just very definitely, in fact very pressingly, spoken to Lady Grace. It hasn’t been perhaps,” he continued, “quite the pick of a chance; but that seemed never to come, and if I’m not too fondly mistaken, at any rate, she listened to me without abhorrence. Only I’ve led her to expect--for our case--that you’ll be so good, without loss of time, as to say the clinching word to her yourself.” “Without loss, you mean, of--a--my daughter’s time?” Lord Theign, confessedly and amiably interested, had accepted these intimations--yet with the very blandness that was not accessible to hustling and was never forgetful of its standing privilege of criticism. He had come in from his public duty, a | The Outcry |
Anne could do no more; but her heart prophesied some mischance to damp the perfection of her felicity. It could not be very lasting, however. Even if he did not come to Camden Place himself, it would be in her power to send an intelligible sentence by Captain Harville. Another momentary vexation occurred. Charles, in his real concern and good nature, would go home with her; there was no preventing him. This was almost cruel. But she could not be long ungrateful; he was sacrificing an engagement at a gunsmith's, to be of use to her; and she set off with him, with no feeling but gratitude apparent. They were on Union Street, when a quicker step behind, a something of familiar sound, gave her two moments' preparation for the sight of Captain Wentworth. He joined them; but, as if irresolute whether to join or to pass on, said nothing, only looked. Anne could command herself enough to receive that look, and not repulsively. The cheeks which had been pale now glowed, and the movements which had hesitated were decided. He walked by her side. Presently, struck by a sudden thought, Charles said-- | No speaker | the same, I dare say."<|quote|>Anne could do no more; but her heart prophesied some mischance to damp the perfection of her felicity. It could not be very lasting, however. Even if he did not come to Camden Place himself, it would be in her power to send an intelligible sentence by Captain Harville. Another momentary vexation occurred. Charles, in his real concern and good nature, would go home with her; there was no preventing him. This was almost cruel. But she could not be long ungrateful; he was sacrificing an engagement at a gunsmith's, to be of use to her; and she set off with him, with no feeling but gratitude apparent. They were on Union Street, when a quicker step behind, a something of familiar sound, gave her two moments' preparation for the sight of Captain Wentworth. He joined them; but, as if irresolute whether to join or to pass on, said nothing, only looked. Anne could command herself enough to receive that look, and not repulsively. The cheeks which had been pale now glowed, and the movements which had hesitated were decided. He walked by her side. Presently, struck by a sudden thought, Charles said--</|quote|>"Captain Wentworth, which way are | for it; and Captain Wentworth the same, I dare say."<|quote|>Anne could do no more; but her heart prophesied some mischance to damp the perfection of her felicity. It could not be very lasting, however. Even if he did not come to Camden Place himself, it would be in her power to send an intelligible sentence by Captain Harville. Another momentary vexation occurred. Charles, in his real concern and good nature, would go home with her; there was no preventing him. This was almost cruel. But she could not be long ungrateful; he was sacrificing an engagement at a gunsmith's, to be of use to her; and she set off with him, with no feeling but gratitude apparent. They were on Union Street, when a quicker step behind, a something of familiar sound, gave her two moments' preparation for the sight of Captain Wentworth. He joined them; but, as if irresolute whether to join or to pass on, said nothing, only looked. Anne could command herself enough to receive that look, and not repulsively. The cheeks which had been pale now glowed, and the movements which had hesitated were decided. He walked by her side. Presently, struck by a sudden thought, Charles said--</|quote|>"Captain Wentworth, which way are you going? Only to Gay | me." "To be sure I will, if you wish it. Charles, if you see Captain Harville anywhere, remember to give Miss Anne's message. But indeed, my dear, you need not be uneasy. Captain Harville holds himself quite engaged, I'll answer for it; and Captain Wentworth the same, I dare say."<|quote|>Anne could do no more; but her heart prophesied some mischance to damp the perfection of her felicity. It could not be very lasting, however. Even if he did not come to Camden Place himself, it would be in her power to send an intelligible sentence by Captain Harville. Another momentary vexation occurred. Charles, in his real concern and good nature, would go home with her; there was no preventing him. This was almost cruel. But she could not be long ungrateful; he was sacrificing an engagement at a gunsmith's, to be of use to her; and she set off with him, with no feeling but gratitude apparent. They were on Union Street, when a quicker step behind, a something of familiar sound, gave her two moments' preparation for the sight of Captain Wentworth. He joined them; but, as if irresolute whether to join or to pass on, said nothing, only looked. Anne could command herself enough to receive that look, and not repulsively. The cheeks which had been pale now glowed, and the movements which had hesitated were decided. He walked by her side. Presently, struck by a sudden thought, Charles said--</|quote|>"Captain Wentworth, which way are you going? Only to Gay Street, or farther up the town?" "I hardly know," replied Captain Wentworth, surprised. "Are you going as high as Belmont? Are you going near Camden Place? Because, if you are, I shall have no scruple in asking you to take | you my word. Captain Harville has no thought but of going." "Do you think so? But I am afraid; and I should be so very sorry. Will you promise me to mention it, when you see them again? You will see them both this morning, I dare say. Do promise me." "To be sure I will, if you wish it. Charles, if you see Captain Harville anywhere, remember to give Miss Anne's message. But indeed, my dear, you need not be uneasy. Captain Harville holds himself quite engaged, I'll answer for it; and Captain Wentworth the same, I dare say."<|quote|>Anne could do no more; but her heart prophesied some mischance to damp the perfection of her felicity. It could not be very lasting, however. Even if he did not come to Camden Place himself, it would be in her power to send an intelligible sentence by Captain Harville. Another momentary vexation occurred. Charles, in his real concern and good nature, would go home with her; there was no preventing him. This was almost cruel. But she could not be long ungrateful; he was sacrificing an engagement at a gunsmith's, to be of use to her; and she set off with him, with no feeling but gratitude apparent. They were on Union Street, when a quicker step behind, a something of familiar sound, gave her two moments' preparation for the sight of Captain Wentworth. He joined them; but, as if irresolute whether to join or to pass on, said nothing, only looked. Anne could command herself enough to receive that look, and not repulsively. The cheeks which had been pale now glowed, and the movements which had hesitated were decided. He walked by her side. Presently, struck by a sudden thought, Charles said--</|quote|>"Captain Wentworth, which way are you going? Only to Gay Street, or farther up the town?" "I hardly know," replied Captain Wentworth, surprised. "Are you going as high as Belmont? Are you going near Camden Place? Because, if you are, I shall have no scruple in asking you to take my place, and give Anne your arm to her father's door. She is rather done for this morning, and must not go so far without help, and I ought to be at that fellow's in the Market Place. He promised me the sight of a capital gun he is just | that she was perfectly convinced of having had no fall; could part with her cheerfully, and depend on finding her better at night. Anxious to omit no possible precaution, Anne struggled, and said-- "I am afraid, ma'am, that it is not perfectly understood. Pray be so good as to mention to the other gentlemen that we hope to see your whole party this evening. I am afraid there had been some mistake; and I wish you particularly to assure Captain Harville and Captain Wentworth, that we hope to see them both." "Oh! my dear, it is quite understood, I give you my word. Captain Harville has no thought but of going." "Do you think so? But I am afraid; and I should be so very sorry. Will you promise me to mention it, when you see them again? You will see them both this morning, I dare say. Do promise me." "To be sure I will, if you wish it. Charles, if you see Captain Harville anywhere, remember to give Miss Anne's message. But indeed, my dear, you need not be uneasy. Captain Harville holds himself quite engaged, I'll answer for it; and Captain Wentworth the same, I dare say."<|quote|>Anne could do no more; but her heart prophesied some mischance to damp the perfection of her felicity. It could not be very lasting, however. Even if he did not come to Camden Place himself, it would be in her power to send an intelligible sentence by Captain Harville. Another momentary vexation occurred. Charles, in his real concern and good nature, would go home with her; there was no preventing him. This was almost cruel. But she could not be long ungrateful; he was sacrificing an engagement at a gunsmith's, to be of use to her; and she set off with him, with no feeling but gratitude apparent. They were on Union Street, when a quicker step behind, a something of familiar sound, gave her two moments' preparation for the sight of Captain Wentworth. He joined them; but, as if irresolute whether to join or to pass on, said nothing, only looked. Anne could command herself enough to receive that look, and not repulsively. The cheeks which had been pale now glowed, and the movements which had hesitated were decided. He walked by her side. Presently, struck by a sudden thought, Charles said--</|quote|>"Captain Wentworth, which way are you going? Only to Gay Street, or farther up the town?" "I hardly know," replied Captain Wentworth, surprised. "Are you going as high as Belmont? Are you going near Camden Place? Because, if you are, I shall have no scruple in asking you to take my place, and give Anne your arm to her father's door. She is rather done for this morning, and must not go so far without help, and I ought to be at that fellow's in the Market Place. He promised me the sight of a capital gun he is just going to send off; said he would keep it unpacked to the last possible moment, that I might see it; and if I do not turn back now, I have no chance. By his description, a good deal like the second size double-barrel of mine, which you shot with one day round Winthrop." There could not be an objection. There could be only the most proper alacrity, a most obliging compliance for public view; and smiles reined in and spirits dancing in private rapture. In half a minute Charles was at the bottom of Union Street again, and the other | ill, were shocked and concerned, and would not stir without her for the world. This was dreadful. Would they only have gone away, and left her in the quiet possession of that room it would have been her cure; but to have them all standing or waiting around her was distracting, and in desperation, she said she would go home. "By all means, my dear," cried Mrs Musgrove, "go home directly, and take care of yourself, that you may be fit for the evening. I wish Sarah was here to doctor you, but I am no doctor myself. Charles, ring and order a chair. She must not walk." But the chair would never do. Worse than all! To lose the possibility of speaking two words to Captain Wentworth in the course of her quiet, solitary progress up the town (and she felt almost certain of meeting him) could not be borne. The chair was earnestly protested against, and Mrs Musgrove, who thought only of one sort of illness, having assured herself with some anxiety, that there had been no fall in the case; that Anne had not at any time lately slipped down, and got a blow on her head; that she was perfectly convinced of having had no fall; could part with her cheerfully, and depend on finding her better at night. Anxious to omit no possible precaution, Anne struggled, and said-- "I am afraid, ma'am, that it is not perfectly understood. Pray be so good as to mention to the other gentlemen that we hope to see your whole party this evening. I am afraid there had been some mistake; and I wish you particularly to assure Captain Harville and Captain Wentworth, that we hope to see them both." "Oh! my dear, it is quite understood, I give you my word. Captain Harville has no thought but of going." "Do you think so? But I am afraid; and I should be so very sorry. Will you promise me to mention it, when you see them again? You will see them both this morning, I dare say. Do promise me." "To be sure I will, if you wish it. Charles, if you see Captain Harville anywhere, remember to give Miss Anne's message. But indeed, my dear, you need not be uneasy. Captain Harville holds himself quite engaged, I'll answer for it; and Captain Wentworth the same, I dare say."<|quote|>Anne could do no more; but her heart prophesied some mischance to damp the perfection of her felicity. It could not be very lasting, however. Even if he did not come to Camden Place himself, it would be in her power to send an intelligible sentence by Captain Harville. Another momentary vexation occurred. Charles, in his real concern and good nature, would go home with her; there was no preventing him. This was almost cruel. But she could not be long ungrateful; he was sacrificing an engagement at a gunsmith's, to be of use to her; and she set off with him, with no feeling but gratitude apparent. They were on Union Street, when a quicker step behind, a something of familiar sound, gave her two moments' preparation for the sight of Captain Wentworth. He joined them; but, as if irresolute whether to join or to pass on, said nothing, only looked. Anne could command herself enough to receive that look, and not repulsively. The cheeks which had been pale now glowed, and the movements which had hesitated were decided. He walked by her side. Presently, struck by a sudden thought, Charles said--</|quote|>"Captain Wentworth, which way are you going? Only to Gay Street, or farther up the town?" "I hardly know," replied Captain Wentworth, surprised. "Are you going as high as Belmont? Are you going near Camden Place? Because, if you are, I shall have no scruple in asking you to take my place, and give Anne your arm to her father's door. She is rather done for this morning, and must not go so far without help, and I ought to be at that fellow's in the Market Place. He promised me the sight of a capital gun he is just going to send off; said he would keep it unpacked to the last possible moment, that I might see it; and if I do not turn back now, I have no chance. By his description, a good deal like the second size double-barrel of mine, which you shot with one day round Winthrop." There could not be an objection. There could be only the most proper alacrity, a most obliging compliance for public view; and smiles reined in and spirits dancing in private rapture. In half a minute Charles was at the bottom of Union Street again, and the other two proceeding together: and soon words enough had passed between them to decide their direction towards the comparatively quiet and retired gravel walk, where the power of conversation would make the present hour a blessing indeed, and prepare it for all the immortality which the happiest recollections of their own future lives could bestow. There they exchanged again those feelings and those promises which had once before seemed to secure everything, but which had been followed by so many, many years of division and estrangement. There they returned again into the past, more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their re-union, than when it had been first projected; more tender, more tried, more fixed in a knowledge of each other's character, truth, and attachment; more equal to act, more justified in acting. And there, as they slowly paced the gradual ascent, heedless of every group around them, seeing neither sauntering politicians, bustling housekeepers, flirting girls, nor nursery-maids and children, they could indulge in those retrospections and acknowledgements, and especially in those explanations of what had directly preceded the present moment, which were so poignant and so ceaseless in interest. All the little variations of the last week were gone through; and of | he had occupied, succeeding to the very spot where he had leaned and written, her eyes devoured the following words: "I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F. W." "I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never." Such a letter was not to be soon recovered from. Half an hour's solitude and reflection might have tranquillized her; but the ten minutes only which now passed before she was interrupted, with all the restraints of her situation, could do nothing towards tranquillity. Every moment rather brought fresh agitation. It was overpowering happiness. And before she was beyond the first stage of full sensation, Charles, Mary, and Henrietta all came in. The absolute necessity of seeming like herself produced then an immediate struggle; but after a while she could do no more. She began not to understand a word they said, and was obliged to plead indisposition and excuse herself. They could then see that she looked very ill, were shocked and concerned, and would not stir without her for the world. This was dreadful. Would they only have gone away, and left her in the quiet possession of that room it would have been her cure; but to have them all standing or waiting around her was distracting, and in desperation, she said she would go home. "By all means, my dear," cried Mrs Musgrove, "go home directly, and take care of yourself, that you may be fit for the evening. I wish Sarah was here to doctor you, but I am no doctor myself. Charles, ring and order a chair. She must not walk." But the chair would never do. Worse than all! To lose the possibility of speaking two words to Captain Wentworth in the course of her quiet, solitary progress up the town (and she felt almost certain of meeting him) could not be borne. The chair was earnestly protested against, and Mrs Musgrove, who thought only of one sort of illness, having assured herself with some anxiety, that there had been no fall in the case; that Anne had not at any time lately slipped down, and got a blow on her head; that she was perfectly convinced of having had no fall; could part with her cheerfully, and depend on finding her better at night. Anxious to omit no possible precaution, Anne struggled, and said-- "I am afraid, ma'am, that it is not perfectly understood. Pray be so good as to mention to the other gentlemen that we hope to see your whole party this evening. I am afraid there had been some mistake; and I wish you particularly to assure Captain Harville and Captain Wentworth, that we hope to see them both." "Oh! my dear, it is quite understood, I give you my word. Captain Harville has no thought but of going." "Do you think so? But I am afraid; and I should be so very sorry. Will you promise me to mention it, when you see them again? You will see them both this morning, I dare say. Do promise me." "To be sure I will, if you wish it. Charles, if you see Captain Harville anywhere, remember to give Miss Anne's message. But indeed, my dear, you need not be uneasy. Captain Harville holds himself quite engaged, I'll answer for it; and Captain Wentworth the same, I dare say."<|quote|>Anne could do no more; but her heart prophesied some mischance to damp the perfection of her felicity. It could not be very lasting, however. Even if he did not come to Camden Place himself, it would be in her power to send an intelligible sentence by Captain Harville. Another momentary vexation occurred. Charles, in his real concern and good nature, would go home with her; there was no preventing him. This was almost cruel. But she could not be long ungrateful; he was sacrificing an engagement at a gunsmith's, to be of use to her; and she set off with him, with no feeling but gratitude apparent. They were on Union Street, when a quicker step behind, a something of familiar sound, gave her two moments' preparation for the sight of Captain Wentworth. He joined them; but, as if irresolute whether to join or to pass on, said nothing, only looked. Anne could command herself enough to receive that look, and not repulsively. The cheeks which had been pale now glowed, and the movements which had hesitated were decided. He walked by her side. Presently, struck by a sudden thought, Charles said--</|quote|>"Captain Wentworth, which way are you going? Only to Gay Street, or farther up the town?" "I hardly know," replied Captain Wentworth, surprised. "Are you going as high as Belmont? Are you going near Camden Place? Because, if you are, I shall have no scruple in asking you to take my place, and give Anne your arm to her father's door. She is rather done for this morning, and must not go so far without help, and I ought to be at that fellow's in the Market Place. He promised me the sight of a capital gun he is just going to send off; said he would keep it unpacked to the last possible moment, that I might see it; and if I do not turn back now, I have no chance. By his description, a good deal like the second size double-barrel of mine, which you shot with one day round Winthrop." There could not be an objection. There could be only the most proper alacrity, a most obliging compliance for public view; and smiles reined in and spirits dancing in private rapture. In half a minute Charles was at the bottom of Union Street again, and the other two proceeding together: and soon words enough had passed between them to decide their direction towards the comparatively quiet and retired gravel walk, where the power of conversation would make the present hour a blessing indeed, and prepare it for all the immortality which the happiest recollections of their own future lives could bestow. There they exchanged again those feelings and those promises which had once before seemed to secure everything, but which had been followed by so many, many years of division and estrangement. There they returned again into the past, more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their re-union, than when it had been first projected; more tender, more tried, more fixed in a knowledge of each other's character, truth, and attachment; more equal to act, more justified in acting. And there, as they slowly paced the gradual ascent, heedless of every group around them, seeing neither sauntering politicians, bustling housekeepers, flirting girls, nor nursery-maids and children, they could indulge in those retrospections and acknowledgements, and especially in those explanations of what had directly preceded the present moment, which were so poignant and so ceaseless in interest. All the little variations of the last week were gone through; and of yesterday and today there could scarcely be an end. She had not mistaken him. Jealousy of Mr Elliot had been the retarding weight, the doubt, the torment. That had begun to operate in the very hour of first meeting her in Bath; that had returned, after a short suspension, to ruin the concert; and that had influenced him in everything he had said and done, or omitted to say and do, in the last four-and-twenty hours. It had been gradually yielding to the better hopes which her looks, or words, or actions occasionally encouraged; it had been vanquished at last by those sentiments and those tones which had reached him while she talked with Captain Harville; and under the irresistible governance of which he had seized a sheet of paper, and poured out his feelings. Of what he had then written, nothing was to be retracted or qualified. He persisted in having loved none but her. She had never been supplanted. He never even believed himself to see her equal. Thus much indeed he was obliged to acknowledge: that he had been constant unconsciously, nay unintentionally; that he had meant to forget her, and believed it to be done. He had imagined himself indifferent, when he had only been angry; and he had been unjust to her merits, because he had been a sufferer from them. Her character was now fixed on his mind as perfection itself, maintaining the loveliest medium of fortitude and gentleness; but he was obliged to acknowledge that only at Uppercross had he learnt to do her justice, and only at Lyme had he begun to understand himself. At Lyme, he had received lessons of more than one sort. The passing admiration of Mr Elliot had at least roused him, and the scenes on the Cobb and at Captain Harville's had fixed her superiority. In his preceding attempts to attach himself to Louisa Musgrove (the attempts of angry pride), he protested that he had for ever felt it to be impossible; that he had not cared, could not care, for Louisa; though till that day, till the leisure for reflection which followed it, he had not understood the perfect excellence of the mind with which Louisa's could so ill bear a comparison, or the perfect unrivalled hold it possessed over his own. There, he had learnt to distinguish between the steadiness of principle and the obstinacy | around her was distracting, and in desperation, she said she would go home. "By all means, my dear," cried Mrs Musgrove, "go home directly, and take care of yourself, that you may be fit for the evening. I wish Sarah was here to doctor you, but I am no doctor myself. Charles, ring and order a chair. She must not walk." But the chair would never do. Worse than all! To lose the possibility of speaking two words to Captain Wentworth in the course of her quiet, solitary progress up the town (and she felt almost certain of meeting him) could not be borne. The chair was earnestly protested against, and Mrs Musgrove, who thought only of one sort of illness, having assured herself with some anxiety, that there had been no fall in the case; that Anne had not at any time lately slipped down, and got a blow on her head; that she was perfectly convinced of having had no fall; could part with her cheerfully, and depend on finding her better at night. Anxious to omit no possible precaution, Anne struggled, and said-- "I am afraid, ma'am, that it is not perfectly understood. Pray be so good as to mention to the other gentlemen that we hope to see your whole party this evening. I am afraid there had been some mistake; and I wish you particularly to assure Captain Harville and Captain Wentworth, that we hope to see them both." "Oh! my dear, it is quite understood, I give you my word. Captain Harville has no thought but of going." "Do you think so? But I am afraid; and I should be so very sorry. Will you promise me to mention it, when you see them again? You will see them both this morning, I dare say. Do promise me." "To be sure I will, if you wish it. Charles, if you see Captain Harville anywhere, remember to give Miss Anne's message. But indeed, my dear, you need not be uneasy. Captain Harville holds himself quite engaged, I'll answer for it; and Captain Wentworth the same, I dare say."<|quote|>Anne could do no more; but her heart prophesied some mischance to damp the perfection of her felicity. It could not be very lasting, however. Even if he did not come to Camden Place himself, it would be in her power to send an intelligible sentence by Captain Harville. Another momentary vexation occurred. Charles, in his real concern and good nature, would go home with her; there was no preventing him. This was almost cruel. But she could not be long ungrateful; he was sacrificing an engagement at a gunsmith's, to be of use to her; and she set off with him, with no feeling but gratitude apparent. They were on Union Street, when a quicker step behind, a something of familiar sound, gave her two moments' preparation for the sight of Captain Wentworth. He joined them; but, as if irresolute whether to join or to pass on, said nothing, only looked. Anne could command herself enough to receive that look, and not repulsively. The cheeks which had been pale now glowed, and the movements which had hesitated were decided. He walked by her side. Presently, struck by a sudden thought, Charles said--</|quote|>"Captain Wentworth, which way are you going? Only to Gay Street, or farther up the town?" "I hardly know," replied Captain Wentworth, surprised. "Are you going as high as Belmont? Are you going near Camden Place? Because, if you are, I shall have no scruple in asking you to take my place, and give Anne your arm to her father's door. She is rather done for this morning, and must not go so far without help, and I ought to be at that fellow's in the Market Place. He promised me the sight of a capital gun he is just going to send off; said he would keep it unpacked to the last possible moment, that I might see it; and if I do not turn back now, I have no chance. By his description, a good deal like the second size double-barrel of mine, which you shot with one day round Winthrop." There could not be an objection. There could be only the most proper alacrity, a most obliging compliance for public view; and smiles reined in and spirits dancing in private rapture. In half a minute Charles was at the bottom of Union Street again, and the other two proceeding together: and soon words enough had passed between them to decide their direction towards the comparatively quiet and retired gravel walk, where the power of conversation would | Persuasion |
"Well I do!" | Mrs. Miller | want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed.<|quote|>"Well I do!"</|quote|>her mother answered with a | shouldn t think you d want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed.<|quote|>"Well I do!"</|quote|>her mother answered with a little laugh. "Did you get | "What are you doing, poking round here?" this young lady inquired, but by no means with that harshness of accent which her choice of words may imply. "I don t know," said her mother, turning toward the lake again. "I shouldn t think you d want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed.<|quote|>"Well I do!"</|quote|>her mother answered with a little laugh. "Did you get Randolph to go to bed?" asked the young girl. "No; I couldn t induce him," said Mrs. Miller very gently. "He wants to talk to the waiter. He likes to talk to that waiter." "I was telling Mr. Winterbourne," the | a certain amount of thin, much frizzled hair. Like her daughter, Mrs. Miller was dressed with extreme elegance; she had enormous diamonds in her ears. So far as Winterbourne could observe, she gave him no greeting--she certainly was not looking at him. Daisy was near her, pulling her shawl straight. "What are you doing, poking round here?" this young lady inquired, but by no means with that harshness of accent which her choice of words may imply. "I don t know," said her mother, turning toward the lake again. "I shouldn t think you d want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed.<|quote|>"Well I do!"</|quote|>her mother answered with a little laugh. "Did you get Randolph to go to bed?" asked the young girl. "No; I couldn t induce him," said Mrs. Miller very gently. "He wants to talk to the waiter. He likes to talk to that waiter." "I was telling Mr. Winterbourne," the young girl went on; and to the young man s ear her tone might have indicated that she had been uttering his name all her life. "Oh, yes!" said Winterbourne; "I have the pleasure of knowing your son." Randolph s mamma was silent; she turned her attention to the lake. | to the parapet of the garden and leaned upon it, looking intently at the lake and turning her back to them. "Mother!" said the young girl in a tone of decision. Upon this the elder lady turned round. "Mr. Winterbourne," said Miss Daisy Miller, introducing the young man very frankly and prettily. "Common," she was, as Mrs. Costello had pronounced her; yet it was a wonder to Winterbourne that, with her commonness, she had a singularly delicate grace. Her mother was a small, spare, light person, with a wandering eye, a very exiguous nose, and a large forehead, decorated with a certain amount of thin, much frizzled hair. Like her daughter, Mrs. Miller was dressed with extreme elegance; she had enormous diamonds in her ears. So far as Winterbourne could observe, she gave him no greeting--she certainly was not looking at him. Daisy was near her, pulling her shawl straight. "What are you doing, poking round here?" this young lady inquired, but by no means with that harshness of accent which her choice of words may imply. "I don t know," said her mother, turning toward the lake again. "I shouldn t think you d want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed.<|quote|>"Well I do!"</|quote|>her mother answered with a little laugh. "Did you get Randolph to go to bed?" asked the young girl. "No; I couldn t induce him," said Mrs. Miller very gently. "He wants to talk to the waiter. He likes to talk to that waiter." "I was telling Mr. Winterbourne," the young girl went on; and to the young man s ear her tone might have indicated that she had been uttering his name all her life. "Oh, yes!" said Winterbourne; "I have the pleasure of knowing your son." Randolph s mamma was silent; she turned her attention to the lake. But at last she spoke. "Well, I don t see how he lives!" "Anyhow, it isn t so bad as it was at Dover," said Daisy Miller. "And what occurred at Dover?" Winterbourne asked. "He wouldn t go to bed at all. I guess he sat up all night in the public parlor. He wasn t in bed at twelve o clock: I know that." "It was half-past twelve," declared Mrs. Miller with mild emphasis. "Does he sleep much during the day?" Winterbourne demanded. "I guess he doesn t sleep much," Daisy rejoined. "I wish he would!" said her mother. | "perhaps she feels guilty about your shawl." "Oh, it s a fearful old thing!" the young girl replied serenely. "I told her she could wear it. She won t come here because she sees you." "Ah, then," said Winterbourne, "I had better leave you." "Oh, no; come on!" urged Miss Daisy Miller. "I m afraid your mother doesn t approve of my walking with you." Miss Miller gave him a serious glance. "It isn t for me; it s for you--that is, it s for HER. Well, I don t know who it s for! But mother doesn t like any of my gentlemen friends. She s right down timid. She always makes a fuss if I introduce a gentleman. But I DO introduce them--almost always. If I didn t introduce my gentlemen friends to Mother," the young girl added in her little soft, flat monotone, "I shouldn t think I was natural." "To introduce me," said Winterbourne, "you must know my name." And he proceeded to pronounce it. "Oh, dear, I can t say all that!" said his companion with a laugh. But by this time they had come up to Mrs. Miller, who, as they drew near, walked to the parapet of the garden and leaned upon it, looking intently at the lake and turning her back to them. "Mother!" said the young girl in a tone of decision. Upon this the elder lady turned round. "Mr. Winterbourne," said Miss Daisy Miller, introducing the young man very frankly and prettily. "Common," she was, as Mrs. Costello had pronounced her; yet it was a wonder to Winterbourne that, with her commonness, she had a singularly delicate grace. Her mother was a small, spare, light person, with a wandering eye, a very exiguous nose, and a large forehead, decorated with a certain amount of thin, much frizzled hair. Like her daughter, Mrs. Miller was dressed with extreme elegance; she had enormous diamonds in her ears. So far as Winterbourne could observe, she gave him no greeting--she certainly was not looking at him. Daisy was near her, pulling her shawl straight. "What are you doing, poking round here?" this young lady inquired, but by no means with that harshness of accent which her choice of words may imply. "I don t know," said her mother, turning toward the lake again. "I shouldn t think you d want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed.<|quote|>"Well I do!"</|quote|>her mother answered with a little laugh. "Did you get Randolph to go to bed?" asked the young girl. "No; I couldn t induce him," said Mrs. Miller very gently. "He wants to talk to the waiter. He likes to talk to that waiter." "I was telling Mr. Winterbourne," the young girl went on; and to the young man s ear her tone might have indicated that she had been uttering his name all her life. "Oh, yes!" said Winterbourne; "I have the pleasure of knowing your son." Randolph s mamma was silent; she turned her attention to the lake. But at last she spoke. "Well, I don t see how he lives!" "Anyhow, it isn t so bad as it was at Dover," said Daisy Miller. "And what occurred at Dover?" Winterbourne asked. "He wouldn t go to bed at all. I guess he sat up all night in the public parlor. He wasn t in bed at twelve o clock: I know that." "It was half-past twelve," declared Mrs. Miller with mild emphasis. "Does he sleep much during the day?" Winterbourne demanded. "I guess he doesn t sleep much," Daisy rejoined. "I wish he would!" said her mother. "It seems as if he couldn t." "I think he s real tiresome," Daisy pursued. Then, for some moments, there was silence. "Well, Daisy Miller," said the elder lady, presently, "I shouldn t think you d want to talk against your own brother!" "Well, he IS tiresome, Mother," said Daisy, quite without the asperity of a retort. "He s only nine," urged Mrs. Miller. "Well, he wouldn t go to that castle," said the young girl. "I m going there with Mr. Winterbourne." To this announcement, very placidly made, Daisy s mamma offered no response. Winterbourne took for granted that she deeply disapproved of the projected excursion; but he said to himself that she was a simple, easily managed person, and that a few deferential protestations would take the edge from her displeasure. "Yes," he began; "your daughter has kindly allowed me the honor of being her guide." Mrs. Miller s wandering eyes attached themselves, with a sort of appealing air, to Daisy, who, however, strolled a few steps farther, gently humming to herself. "I presume you will go in the cars," said her mother. "Yes, or in the boat," said Winterbourne. "Well, of course, I don t know," Mrs. | prettiness was still visible in the darkness; she was opening and closing her enormous fan. "She doesn t want to know me!" she said suddenly. "Why don t you say so? You needn t be afraid. I m not afraid!" And she gave a little laugh. Winterbourne fancied there was a tremor in her voice; he was touched, shocked, mortified by it. "My dear young lady," he protested, "she knows no one. It s her wretched health." The young girl walked on a few steps, laughing still. "You needn t be afraid," she repeated. "Why should she want to know me?" Then she paused again; she was close to the parapet of the garden, and in front of her was the starlit lake. There was a vague sheen upon its surface, and in the distance were dimly seen mountain forms. Daisy Miller looked out upon the mysterious prospect and then she gave another little laugh. "Gracious! she IS exclusive!" she said. Winterbourne wondered whether she was seriously wounded, and for a moment almost wished that her sense of injury might be such as to make it becoming in him to attempt to reassure and comfort her. He had a pleasant sense that she would be very approachable for consolatory purposes. He felt then, for the instant, quite ready to sacrifice his aunt, conversationally; to admit that she was a proud, rude woman, and to declare that they needn t mind her. But before he had time to commit himself to this perilous mixture of gallantry and impiety, the young lady, resuming her walk, gave an exclamation in quite another tone. "Well, here s Mother! I guess she hasn t got Randolph to go to bed." The figure of a lady appeared at a distance, very indistinct in the darkness, and advancing with a slow and wavering movement. Suddenly it seemed to pause. "Are you sure it is your mother? Can you distinguish her in this thick dusk?" Winterbourne asked. "Well!" cried Miss Daisy Miller with a laugh; "I guess I know my own mother. And when she has got on my shawl, too! She is always wearing my things." The lady in question, ceasing to advance, hovered vaguely about the spot at which she had checked her steps. "I am afraid your mother doesn t see you," said Winterbourne. "Or perhaps," he added, thinking, with Miss Miller, the joke permissible--" "perhaps she feels guilty about your shawl." "Oh, it s a fearful old thing!" the young girl replied serenely. "I told her she could wear it. She won t come here because she sees you." "Ah, then," said Winterbourne, "I had better leave you." "Oh, no; come on!" urged Miss Daisy Miller. "I m afraid your mother doesn t approve of my walking with you." Miss Miller gave him a serious glance. "It isn t for me; it s for you--that is, it s for HER. Well, I don t know who it s for! But mother doesn t like any of my gentlemen friends. She s right down timid. She always makes a fuss if I introduce a gentleman. But I DO introduce them--almost always. If I didn t introduce my gentlemen friends to Mother," the young girl added in her little soft, flat monotone, "I shouldn t think I was natural." "To introduce me," said Winterbourne, "you must know my name." And he proceeded to pronounce it. "Oh, dear, I can t say all that!" said his companion with a laugh. But by this time they had come up to Mrs. Miller, who, as they drew near, walked to the parapet of the garden and leaned upon it, looking intently at the lake and turning her back to them. "Mother!" said the young girl in a tone of decision. Upon this the elder lady turned round. "Mr. Winterbourne," said Miss Daisy Miller, introducing the young man very frankly and prettily. "Common," she was, as Mrs. Costello had pronounced her; yet it was a wonder to Winterbourne that, with her commonness, she had a singularly delicate grace. Her mother was a small, spare, light person, with a wandering eye, a very exiguous nose, and a large forehead, decorated with a certain amount of thin, much frizzled hair. Like her daughter, Mrs. Miller was dressed with extreme elegance; she had enormous diamonds in her ears. So far as Winterbourne could observe, she gave him no greeting--she certainly was not looking at him. Daisy was near her, pulling her shawl straight. "What are you doing, poking round here?" this young lady inquired, but by no means with that harshness of accent which her choice of words may imply. "I don t know," said her mother, turning toward the lake again. "I shouldn t think you d want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed.<|quote|>"Well I do!"</|quote|>her mother answered with a little laugh. "Did you get Randolph to go to bed?" asked the young girl. "No; I couldn t induce him," said Mrs. Miller very gently. "He wants to talk to the waiter. He likes to talk to that waiter." "I was telling Mr. Winterbourne," the young girl went on; and to the young man s ear her tone might have indicated that she had been uttering his name all her life. "Oh, yes!" said Winterbourne; "I have the pleasure of knowing your son." Randolph s mamma was silent; she turned her attention to the lake. But at last she spoke. "Well, I don t see how he lives!" "Anyhow, it isn t so bad as it was at Dover," said Daisy Miller. "And what occurred at Dover?" Winterbourne asked. "He wouldn t go to bed at all. I guess he sat up all night in the public parlor. He wasn t in bed at twelve o clock: I know that." "It was half-past twelve," declared Mrs. Miller with mild emphasis. "Does he sleep much during the day?" Winterbourne demanded. "I guess he doesn t sleep much," Daisy rejoined. "I wish he would!" said her mother. "It seems as if he couldn t." "I think he s real tiresome," Daisy pursued. Then, for some moments, there was silence. "Well, Daisy Miller," said the elder lady, presently, "I shouldn t think you d want to talk against your own brother!" "Well, he IS tiresome, Mother," said Daisy, quite without the asperity of a retort. "He s only nine," urged Mrs. Miller. "Well, he wouldn t go to that castle," said the young girl. "I m going there with Mr. Winterbourne." To this announcement, very placidly made, Daisy s mamma offered no response. Winterbourne took for granted that she deeply disapproved of the projected excursion; but he said to himself that she was a simple, easily managed person, and that a few deferential protestations would take the edge from her displeasure. "Yes," he began; "your daughter has kindly allowed me the honor of being her guide." Mrs. Miller s wandering eyes attached themselves, with a sort of appealing air, to Daisy, who, however, strolled a few steps farther, gently humming to herself. "I presume you will go in the cars," said her mother. "Yes, or in the boat," said Winterbourne. "Well, of course, I don t know," Mrs. Miller rejoined. "I have never been to that castle." "It is a pity you shouldn t go," said Winterbourne, beginning to feel reassured as to her opposition. And yet he was quite prepared to find that, as a matter of course, she meant to accompany her daughter. "We ve been thinking ever so much about going," she pursued; "but it seems as if we couldn t. Of course Daisy--she wants to go round. But there s a lady here--I don t know her name--she says she shouldn t think we d want to go to see castles HERE; she should think we d want to wait till we got to Italy. It seems as if there would be so many there," continued Mrs. Miller with an air of increasing confidence. "Of course we only want to see the principal ones. We visited several in England," she presently added. "Ah yes! in England there are beautiful castles," said Winterbourne. "But Chillon here, is very well worth seeing." "Well, if Daisy feels up to it--" said Mrs. Miller, in a tone impregnated with a sense of the magnitude of the enterprise. "It seems as if there was nothing she wouldn t undertake." "Oh, I think she ll enjoy it!" Winterbourne declared. And he desired more and more to make it a certainty that he was to have the privilege of a tete-a-tete with the young lady, who was still strolling along in front of them, softly vocalizing. "You are not disposed, madam," he inquired, "to undertake it yourself?" Daisy s mother looked at him an instant askance, and then walked forward in silence. Then--" "I guess she had better go alone," she said simply. Winterbourne observed to himself that this was a very different type of maternity from that of the vigilant matrons who massed themselves in the forefront of social intercourse in the dark old city at the other end of the lake. But his meditations were interrupted by hearing his name very distinctly pronounced by Mrs. Miller s unprotected daughter. "Mr. Winterbourne!" murmured Daisy. "Mademoiselle!" said the young man. "Don t you want to take me out in a boat?" "At present?" he asked. "Of course!" said Daisy. "Well, Annie Miller!" exclaimed her mother. "I beg you, madam, to let her go," said Winterbourne ardently; for he had never yet enjoyed the sensation of guiding through the summer starlight a | to declare that they needn t mind her. But before he had time to commit himself to this perilous mixture of gallantry and impiety, the young lady, resuming her walk, gave an exclamation in quite another tone. "Well, here s Mother! I guess she hasn t got Randolph to go to bed." The figure of a lady appeared at a distance, very indistinct in the darkness, and advancing with a slow and wavering movement. Suddenly it seemed to pause. "Are you sure it is your mother? Can you distinguish her in this thick dusk?" Winterbourne asked. "Well!" cried Miss Daisy Miller with a laugh; "I guess I know my own mother. And when she has got on my shawl, too! She is always wearing my things." The lady in question, ceasing to advance, hovered vaguely about the spot at which she had checked her steps. "I am afraid your mother doesn t see you," said Winterbourne. "Or perhaps," he added, thinking, with Miss Miller, the joke permissible--" "perhaps she feels guilty about your shawl." "Oh, it s a fearful old thing!" the young girl replied serenely. "I told her she could wear it. She won t come here because she sees you." "Ah, then," said Winterbourne, "I had better leave you." "Oh, no; come on!" urged Miss Daisy Miller. "I m afraid your mother doesn t approve of my walking with you." Miss Miller gave him a serious glance. "It isn t for me; it s for you--that is, it s for HER. Well, I don t know who it s for! But mother doesn t like any of my gentlemen friends. She s right down timid. She always makes a fuss if I introduce a gentleman. But I DO introduce them--almost always. If I didn t introduce my gentlemen friends to Mother," the young girl added in her little soft, flat monotone, "I shouldn t think I was natural." "To introduce me," said Winterbourne, "you must know my name." And he proceeded to pronounce it. "Oh, dear, I can t say all that!" said his companion with a laugh. But by this time they had come up to Mrs. Miller, who, as they drew near, walked to the parapet of the garden and leaned upon it, looking intently at the lake and turning her back to them. "Mother!" said the young girl in a tone of decision. Upon this the elder lady turned round. "Mr. Winterbourne," said Miss Daisy Miller, introducing the young man very frankly and prettily. "Common," she was, as Mrs. Costello had pronounced her; yet it was a wonder to Winterbourne that, with her commonness, she had a singularly delicate grace. Her mother was a small, spare, light person, with a wandering eye, a very exiguous nose, and a large forehead, decorated with a certain amount of thin, much frizzled hair. Like her daughter, Mrs. Miller was dressed with extreme elegance; she had enormous diamonds in her ears. So far as Winterbourne could observe, she gave him no greeting--she certainly was not looking at him. Daisy was near her, pulling her shawl straight. "What are you doing, poking round here?" this young lady inquired, but by no means with that harshness of accent which her choice of words may imply. "I don t know," said her mother, turning toward the lake again. "I shouldn t think you d want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed.<|quote|>"Well I do!"</|quote|>her mother answered with a little laugh. "Did you get Randolph to go to bed?" asked the young girl. "No; I couldn t induce him," said Mrs. Miller very gently. "He wants to talk to the waiter. He likes to talk to that waiter." "I was telling Mr. Winterbourne," the young girl went on; and to the young man s ear her tone might have indicated that she had been uttering his name all her life. "Oh, yes!" said Winterbourne; "I have the pleasure of knowing your son." Randolph s mamma was silent; she turned her attention to the lake. But at last she spoke. "Well, I don t see how he lives!" "Anyhow, it isn t so bad as it was at Dover," said Daisy Miller. "And what occurred at Dover?" Winterbourne asked. "He wouldn t go to bed at all. I guess he sat up all night in the public parlor. He wasn t in bed at twelve o clock: I know that." "It was half-past twelve," declared Mrs. Miller with mild emphasis. "Does he sleep much during the day?" Winterbourne demanded. "I guess he doesn t sleep much," Daisy rejoined. "I wish he would!" said her mother. "It seems as if he couldn t." "I think he s real tiresome," Daisy pursued. Then, for some moments, there was silence. "Well, Daisy Miller," said the elder lady, presently, "I shouldn t think you d want to talk against your own brother!" "Well, he IS tiresome, Mother," said Daisy, quite without the asperity of a retort. "He s only nine," urged Mrs. Miller. "Well, he wouldn t go to that castle," said the young girl. "I m going there with Mr. Winterbourne." To this announcement, very placidly made, Daisy s mamma offered no response. Winterbourne took for granted that she deeply disapproved of the projected excursion; but he said to himself that she was a simple, easily managed person, and that a few deferential protestations would take the edge from her displeasure. "Yes," he began; "your daughter has kindly allowed me the honor of being her guide." Mrs. Miller s wandering eyes attached themselves, with a sort of appealing air, to Daisy, who, however, strolled a few steps farther, gently humming to herself. "I presume you will go in the cars," said her mother. "Yes, or in the boat," said Winterbourne. "Well, of course, I don t know," Mrs. Miller rejoined. "I have never been to that castle." "It is a pity you shouldn t go," said Winterbourne, beginning to feel reassured as to her opposition. And yet he was quite prepared to find that, as a matter of course, she meant to accompany her daughter. "We ve been thinking ever so much about going," she | Daisy Miller |
"Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." | Mike Bannock | as prisoners!" said the officer.<|quote|>"Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging."</|quote|>"Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the | have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer.<|quote|>"Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging."</|quote|>"Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." | 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.<|quote|>"Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging."</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging."</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging."</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging."</|quote|>"Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." | one in turn, and halted in front of the officer, who, after whispering to the master's mate, gave orders to one of the seamen. This man pulled out his great jack knife, opened it, and being a bit of a joker, advanced toward the Maoris, grinding his teeth and rolling his eyes. The savages saw his every act, and there was a slight tremor that seemed to run through them all; but the next instant they had drawn themselves up stern and defiant, ready to meet their fate at the seaman's knife. "No, no. No, pakeha. No kill," said a deep angry voice; and as every one turned, Ngati stalked forward as if to defend his enemies. But at the same moment the man had cut the first Maori's bands, and then went on behind the rank, cutting the line that bound seven, who stood staring wildly. The next minute a seaman came along bearing a sheaf of spears, which he handed, one by one, to the astonished savages, while their wonder reached its height, as the master's mate presented to each a knife, such as were brought for presents to the natives. "Now," said the officer, addressing them, "I don't understand you, and I don't suppose you understand my words; but you do my deeds. Then, in the king's name, you are free; and if you ever take any English prisoners, I hope you will behave as well to them as we have behaved to you. There, go." He finished by pointing away to the north; but instead of going they stood staring till Ngati came forward, and said a few words in their own tongue. The effect was electric; they all shouted, brandished their spears, danced wildly, and ended by throwing down their weapons before the officer, seizing him by the arms, and rubbing noses with him. He submitted laughingly till the Maoris picked up their spears, and stood looking on, apparently quite satisfied that they were safe. "Here, hi, Jack!" cried a hoarse brutal voice. "Look sharp, we want to get rid of these cords; where's your knife?" "Wait a little while, my friends," said the officer sarcastically; "as soon as we get to the ship, you shall have them changed for irons." "Whorrt!" cried Mike. "We were out in search of three convicts who murdered a couple of the guard, and escaped from Norfolk Island in a boat. I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe." "Norfolk Island! Where's Norfolk Island, mate?" said Mike coolly. "Never heard o' no such place," said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?" "Yes, that's it," said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "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.<|quote|>"Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging."</|quote|>"Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've | shouted, brandished their spears, danced wildly, and ended by throwing down their weapons before the officer, seizing him by the arms, and rubbing noses with him. He submitted laughingly till the Maoris picked up their spears, and stood looking on, apparently quite satisfied that they were safe. "Here, hi, Jack!" cried a hoarse brutal voice. "Look sharp, we want to get rid of these cords; where's your knife?" "Wait a little while, my friends," said the officer sarcastically; "as soon as we get to the ship, you shall have them changed for irons." "Whorrt!" cried Mike. "We were out in search of three convicts who murdered a couple of the guard, and escaped from Norfolk Island in a boat. I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe." "Norfolk Island! Where's Norfolk Island, mate?" said Mike coolly. "Never heard o' no such place," said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?" "Yes, that's it," said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "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.<|quote|>"Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging."</|quote|>"Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go | Don Lavington |
"In such a case," | Mrs. Walker | with the throng of carriages.<|quote|>"In such a case,"</|quote|>his companion answered, "I don | while the vehicle mingled again with the throng of carriages.<|quote|>"In such a case,"</|quote|>his companion answered, "I don t wish to be clever; | Mr. Giovanelli bade him farewell with a too emphatic flourish of the hat. Winterbourne was not in the best possible humor as he took his seat in Mrs. Walker s victoria. "That was not clever of you," he said candidly, while the vehicle mingled again with the throng of carriages.<|quote|>"In such a case,"</|quote|>his companion answered, "I don t wish to be clever; I wish to be EARNEST!" "Well, your earnestness has only offended her and put her off." "It has happened very well," said Mrs. Walker. "If she is so perfectly determined to compromise herself, the sooner one knows it the better; | had made an imperious claim upon his society. He expected that in answer she would say something rather free, something to commit herself still further to that "recklessness" from which Mrs. Walker had so charitably endeavored to dissuade her. But she only shook his hand, hardly looking at him, while Mr. Giovanelli bade him farewell with a too emphatic flourish of the hat. Winterbourne was not in the best possible humor as he took his seat in Mrs. Walker s victoria. "That was not clever of you," he said candidly, while the vehicle mingled again with the throng of carriages.<|quote|>"In such a case,"</|quote|>his companion answered, "I don t wish to be clever; I wish to be EARNEST!" "Well, your earnestness has only offended her and put her off." "It has happened very well," said Mrs. Walker. "If she is so perfectly determined to compromise herself, the sooner one knows it the better; one can act accordingly." "I suspect she meant no harm," Winterbourne rejoined. "So I thought a month ago. But she has been going too far." "What has she been doing?" "Everything that is not done here. Flirting with any man she could pick up; sitting in corners with mysterious Italians; | you ll have a lovely ride!" and, with Mr. Giovanelli, who made a triumphantly obsequious salute, she turned away. Mrs. Walker sat looking after her, and there were tears in Mrs. Walker s eyes. "Get in here, sir," she said to Winterbourne, indicating the place beside her. The young man answered that he felt bound to accompany Miss Miller, whereupon Mrs. Walker declared that if he refused her this favor she would never speak to him again. She was evidently in earnest. Winterbourne overtook Daisy and her companion, and, offering the young girl his hand, told her that Mrs. Walker had made an imperious claim upon his society. He expected that in answer she would say something rather free, something to commit herself still further to that "recklessness" from which Mrs. Walker had so charitably endeavored to dissuade her. But she only shook his hand, hardly looking at him, while Mr. Giovanelli bade him farewell with a too emphatic flourish of the hat. Winterbourne was not in the best possible humor as he took his seat in Mrs. Walker s victoria. "That was not clever of you," he said candidly, while the vehicle mingled again with the throng of carriages.<|quote|>"In such a case,"</|quote|>his companion answered, "I don t wish to be clever; I wish to be EARNEST!" "Well, your earnestness has only offended her and put her off." "It has happened very well," said Mrs. Walker. "If she is so perfectly determined to compromise herself, the sooner one knows it the better; one can act accordingly." "I suspect she meant no harm," Winterbourne rejoined. "So I thought a month ago. But she has been going too far." "What has she been doing?" "Everything that is not done here. Flirting with any man she could pick up; sitting in corners with mysterious Italians; dancing all the evening with the same partners; receiving visits at eleven o clock at night. Her mother goes away when visitors come." "But her brother," said Winterbourne, laughing, "sits up till midnight." "He must be edified by what he sees. I m told that at their hotel everyone is talking about her, and that a smile goes round among all the servants when a gentleman comes and asks for Miss Miller." "The servants be hanged!" said Winterbourne angrily. "The poor girl s only fault," he presently added, "is that she is very uncultivated." "She is naturally indelicate," Mrs. Walker | told him. "Should you prefer being thought a very reckless girl?" she demanded. "Gracious!" exclaimed Daisy. She looked again at Mr. Giovanelli, then she turned to Winterbourne. There was a little pink flush in her cheek; she was tremendously pretty. "Does Mr. Winterbourne think," she asked slowly, smiling, throwing back her head, and glancing at him from head to foot, "that, to save my reputation, I ought to get into the carriage?" Winterbourne colored; for an instant he hesitated greatly. It seemed so strange to hear her speak that way of her "reputation." But he himself, in fact, must speak in accordance with gallantry. The finest gallantry, here, was simply to tell her the truth; and the truth, for Winterbourne, as the few indications I have been able to give have made him known to the reader, was that Daisy Miller should take Mrs. Walker s advice. He looked at her exquisite prettiness, and then he said, very gently, "I think you should get into the carriage." Daisy gave a violent laugh. "I never heard anything so stiff! If this is improper, Mrs. Walker," she pursued, "then I am all improper, and you must give me up. Goodbye; I hope you ll have a lovely ride!" and, with Mr. Giovanelli, who made a triumphantly obsequious salute, she turned away. Mrs. Walker sat looking after her, and there were tears in Mrs. Walker s eyes. "Get in here, sir," she said to Winterbourne, indicating the place beside her. The young man answered that he felt bound to accompany Miss Miller, whereupon Mrs. Walker declared that if he refused her this favor she would never speak to him again. She was evidently in earnest. Winterbourne overtook Daisy and her companion, and, offering the young girl his hand, told her that Mrs. Walker had made an imperious claim upon his society. He expected that in answer she would say something rather free, something to commit herself still further to that "recklessness" from which Mrs. Walker had so charitably endeavored to dissuade her. But she only shook his hand, hardly looking at him, while Mr. Giovanelli bade him farewell with a too emphatic flourish of the hat. Winterbourne was not in the best possible humor as he took his seat in Mrs. Walker s victoria. "That was not clever of you," he said candidly, while the vehicle mingled again with the throng of carriages.<|quote|>"In such a case,"</|quote|>his companion answered, "I don t wish to be clever; I wish to be EARNEST!" "Well, your earnestness has only offended her and put her off." "It has happened very well," said Mrs. Walker. "If she is so perfectly determined to compromise herself, the sooner one knows it the better; one can act accordingly." "I suspect she meant no harm," Winterbourne rejoined. "So I thought a month ago. But she has been going too far." "What has she been doing?" "Everything that is not done here. Flirting with any man she could pick up; sitting in corners with mysterious Italians; dancing all the evening with the same partners; receiving visits at eleven o clock at night. Her mother goes away when visitors come." "But her brother," said Winterbourne, laughing, "sits up till midnight." "He must be edified by what he sees. I m told that at their hotel everyone is talking about her, and that a smile goes round among all the servants when a gentleman comes and asks for Miss Miller." "The servants be hanged!" said Winterbourne angrily. "The poor girl s only fault," he presently added, "is that she is very uncultivated." "She is naturally indelicate," Mrs. Walker declared. "Take that example this morning. How long had you known her at Vevey?" "A couple of days." "Fancy, then, her making it a personal matter that you should have left the place!" Winterbourne was silent for some moments; then he said, "I suspect, Mrs. Walker, that you and I have lived too long at Geneva!" And he added a request that she should inform him with what particular design she had made him enter her carriage. "I wished to beg you to cease your relations with Miss Miller--not to flirt with her--to give her no further opportunity to expose herself--to let her alone, in short." "I m afraid I can t do that," said Winterbourne. "I like her extremely." "All the more reason that you shouldn t help her to make a scandal." "There shall be nothing scandalous in my attentions to her." "There certainly will be in the way she takes them. But I have said what I had on my conscience," Mrs. Walker pursued. "If you wish to rejoin the young lady I will put you down. Here, by the way, you have a chance." The carriage was traversing that part of the Pincian Garden that overhangs | try." Mrs. Walker tried. The young man went in pursuit of Miss Miller, who had simply nodded and smiled at his interlocutor in the carriage and had gone her way with her companion. Daisy, on learning that Mrs. Walker wished to speak to her, retraced her steps with a perfect good grace and with Mr. Giovanelli at her side. She declared that she was delighted to have a chance to present this gentleman to Mrs. Walker. She immediately achieved the introduction, and declared that she had never in her life seen anything so lovely as Mrs. Walker s carriage rug. "I am glad you admire it," said this lady, smiling sweetly. "Will you get in and let me put it over you?" "Oh, no, thank you," said Daisy. "I shall admire it much more as I see you driving round with it." "Do get in and drive with me!" said Mrs. Walker. "That would be charming, but it s so enchanting just as I am!" and Daisy gave a brilliant glance at the gentlemen on either side of her. "It may be enchanting, dear child, but it is not the custom here," urged Mrs. Walker, leaning forward in her victoria, with her hands devoutly clasped. "Well, it ought to be, then!" said Daisy. "If I didn t walk I should expire." "You should walk with your mother, dear," cried the lady from Geneva, losing patience. "With my mother dear!" exclaimed the young girl. Winterbourne saw that she scented interference. "My mother never walked ten steps in her life. And then, you know," she added with a laugh, "I am more than five years old." "You are old enough to be more reasonable. You are old enough, dear Miss Miller, to be talked about." Daisy looked at Mrs. Walker, smiling intensely. "Talked about? What do you mean?" "Come into my carriage, and I will tell you." Daisy turned her quickened glance again from one of the gentlemen beside her to the other. Mr. Giovanelli was bowing to and fro, rubbing down his gloves and laughing very agreeably; Winterbourne thought it a most unpleasant scene. "I don t think I want to know what you mean," said Daisy presently. "I don t think I should like it." Winterbourne wished that Mrs. Walker would tuck in her carriage rug and drive away, but this lady did not enjoy being defied, as she afterward told him. "Should you prefer being thought a very reckless girl?" she demanded. "Gracious!" exclaimed Daisy. She looked again at Mr. Giovanelli, then she turned to Winterbourne. There was a little pink flush in her cheek; she was tremendously pretty. "Does Mr. Winterbourne think," she asked slowly, smiling, throwing back her head, and glancing at him from head to foot, "that, to save my reputation, I ought to get into the carriage?" Winterbourne colored; for an instant he hesitated greatly. It seemed so strange to hear her speak that way of her "reputation." But he himself, in fact, must speak in accordance with gallantry. The finest gallantry, here, was simply to tell her the truth; and the truth, for Winterbourne, as the few indications I have been able to give have made him known to the reader, was that Daisy Miller should take Mrs. Walker s advice. He looked at her exquisite prettiness, and then he said, very gently, "I think you should get into the carriage." Daisy gave a violent laugh. "I never heard anything so stiff! If this is improper, Mrs. Walker," she pursued, "then I am all improper, and you must give me up. Goodbye; I hope you ll have a lovely ride!" and, with Mr. Giovanelli, who made a triumphantly obsequious salute, she turned away. Mrs. Walker sat looking after her, and there were tears in Mrs. Walker s eyes. "Get in here, sir," she said to Winterbourne, indicating the place beside her. The young man answered that he felt bound to accompany Miss Miller, whereupon Mrs. Walker declared that if he refused her this favor she would never speak to him again. She was evidently in earnest. Winterbourne overtook Daisy and her companion, and, offering the young girl his hand, told her that Mrs. Walker had made an imperious claim upon his society. He expected that in answer she would say something rather free, something to commit herself still further to that "recklessness" from which Mrs. Walker had so charitably endeavored to dissuade her. But she only shook his hand, hardly looking at him, while Mr. Giovanelli bade him farewell with a too emphatic flourish of the hat. Winterbourne was not in the best possible humor as he took his seat in Mrs. Walker s victoria. "That was not clever of you," he said candidly, while the vehicle mingled again with the throng of carriages.<|quote|>"In such a case,"</|quote|>his companion answered, "I don t wish to be clever; I wish to be EARNEST!" "Well, your earnestness has only offended her and put her off." "It has happened very well," said Mrs. Walker. "If she is so perfectly determined to compromise herself, the sooner one knows it the better; one can act accordingly." "I suspect she meant no harm," Winterbourne rejoined. "So I thought a month ago. But she has been going too far." "What has she been doing?" "Everything that is not done here. Flirting with any man she could pick up; sitting in corners with mysterious Italians; dancing all the evening with the same partners; receiving visits at eleven o clock at night. Her mother goes away when visitors come." "But her brother," said Winterbourne, laughing, "sits up till midnight." "He must be edified by what he sees. I m told that at their hotel everyone is talking about her, and that a smile goes round among all the servants when a gentleman comes and asks for Miss Miller." "The servants be hanged!" said Winterbourne angrily. "The poor girl s only fault," he presently added, "is that she is very uncultivated." "She is naturally indelicate," Mrs. Walker declared. "Take that example this morning. How long had you known her at Vevey?" "A couple of days." "Fancy, then, her making it a personal matter that you should have left the place!" Winterbourne was silent for some moments; then he said, "I suspect, Mrs. Walker, that you and I have lived too long at Geneva!" And he added a request that she should inform him with what particular design she had made him enter her carriage. "I wished to beg you to cease your relations with Miss Miller--not to flirt with her--to give her no further opportunity to expose herself--to let her alone, in short." "I m afraid I can t do that," said Winterbourne. "I like her extremely." "All the more reason that you shouldn t help her to make a scandal." "There shall be nothing scandalous in my attentions to her." "There certainly will be in the way she takes them. But I have said what I had on my conscience," Mrs. Walker pursued. "If you wish to rejoin the young lady I will put you down. Here, by the way, you have a chance." The carriage was traversing that part of the Pincian Garden that overhangs the wall of Rome and overlooks the beautiful Villa Borghese. It is bordered by a large parapet, near which there are several seats. One of the seats at a distance was occupied by a gentleman and a lady, toward whom Mrs. Walker gave a toss of her head. At the same moment these persons rose and walked toward the parapet. Winterbourne had asked the coachman to stop; he now descended from the carriage. His companion looked at him a moment in silence; then, while he raised his hat, she drove majestically away. Winterbourne stood there; he had turned his eyes toward Daisy and her cavalier. They evidently saw no one; they were too deeply occupied with each other. When they reached the low garden wall, they stood a moment looking off at the great flat-topped pine clusters of the Villa Borghese; then Giovanelli seated himself, familiarly, upon the broad ledge of the wall. The western sun in the opposite sky sent out a brilliant shaft through a couple of cloud bars, whereupon Daisy s companion took her parasol out of her hands and opened it. She came a little nearer, and he held the parasol over her; then, still holding it, he let it rest upon her shoulder, so that both of their heads were hidden from Winterbourne. This young man lingered a moment, then he began to walk. But he walked--not toward the couple with the parasol; toward the residence of his aunt, Mrs. Costello. He flattered himself on the following day that there was no smiling among the servants when he, at least, asked for Mrs. Miller at her hotel. This lady and her daughter, however, were not at home; and on the next day after, repeating his visit, Winterbourne again had the misfortune not to find them. Mrs. Walker s party took place on the evening of the third day, and, in spite of the frigidity of his last interview with the hostess, Winterbourne was among the guests. Mrs. Walker was one of those American ladies who, while residing abroad, make a point, in their own phrase, of studying European society, and she had on this occasion collected several specimens of her diversely born fellow mortals to serve, as it were, as textbooks. When Winterbourne arrived, Daisy Miller was not there, but in a few moments he saw her mother come in alone, very shyly and ruefully. | her hands devoutly clasped. "Well, it ought to be, then!" said Daisy. "If I didn t walk I should expire." "You should walk with your mother, dear," cried the lady from Geneva, losing patience. "With my mother dear!" exclaimed the young girl. Winterbourne saw that she scented interference. "My mother never walked ten steps in her life. And then, you know," she added with a laugh, "I am more than five years old." "You are old enough to be more reasonable. You are old enough, dear Miss Miller, to be talked about." Daisy looked at Mrs. Walker, smiling intensely. "Talked about? What do you mean?" "Come into my carriage, and I will tell you." Daisy turned her quickened glance again from one of the gentlemen beside her to the other. Mr. Giovanelli was bowing to and fro, rubbing down his gloves and laughing very agreeably; Winterbourne thought it a most unpleasant scene. "I don t think I want to know what you mean," said Daisy presently. "I don t think I should like it." Winterbourne wished that Mrs. Walker would tuck in her carriage rug and drive away, but this lady did not enjoy being defied, as she afterward told him. "Should you prefer being thought a very reckless girl?" she demanded. "Gracious!" exclaimed Daisy. She looked again at Mr. Giovanelli, then she turned to Winterbourne. There was a little pink flush in her cheek; she was tremendously pretty. "Does Mr. Winterbourne think," she asked slowly, smiling, throwing back her head, and glancing at him from head to foot, "that, to save my reputation, I ought to get into the carriage?" Winterbourne colored; for an instant he hesitated greatly. It seemed so strange to hear her speak that way of her "reputation." But he himself, in fact, must speak in accordance with gallantry. The finest gallantry, here, was simply to tell her the truth; and the truth, for Winterbourne, as the few indications I have been able to give have made him known to the reader, was that Daisy Miller should take Mrs. Walker s advice. He looked at her exquisite prettiness, and then he said, very gently, "I think you should get into the carriage." Daisy gave a violent laugh. "I never heard anything so stiff! If this is improper, Mrs. Walker," she pursued, "then I am all improper, and you must give me up. Goodbye; I hope you ll have a lovely ride!" and, with Mr. Giovanelli, who made a triumphantly obsequious salute, she turned away. Mrs. Walker sat looking after her, and there were tears in Mrs. Walker s eyes. "Get in here, sir," she said to Winterbourne, indicating the place beside her. The young man answered that he felt bound to accompany Miss Miller, whereupon Mrs. Walker declared that if he refused her this favor she would never speak to him again. She was evidently in earnest. Winterbourne overtook Daisy and her companion, and, offering the young girl his hand, told her that Mrs. Walker had made an imperious claim upon his society. He expected that in answer she would say something rather free, something to commit herself still further to that "recklessness" from which Mrs. Walker had so charitably endeavored to dissuade her. But she only shook his hand, hardly looking at him, while Mr. Giovanelli bade him farewell with a too emphatic flourish of the hat. Winterbourne was not in the best possible humor as he took his seat in Mrs. Walker s victoria. "That was not clever of you," he said candidly, while the vehicle mingled again with the throng of carriages.<|quote|>"In such a case,"</|quote|>his companion answered, "I don t wish to be clever; I wish to be EARNEST!" "Well, your earnestness has only offended her and put her off." "It has happened very well," said Mrs. Walker. "If she is so perfectly determined to compromise herself, the sooner one knows it the better; one can act accordingly." "I suspect she meant no harm," Winterbourne rejoined. "So I thought a month ago. But she has been going too far." "What has she been doing?" "Everything that is not done here. Flirting with any man she could pick up; sitting in corners with mysterious Italians; dancing all the evening with the same partners; receiving visits at eleven o clock at night. Her mother goes away when visitors come." "But her brother," said Winterbourne, laughing, "sits up till midnight." "He must be edified by what he sees. I m told that at their hotel everyone is talking about her, and that a smile goes round among all the servants when a gentleman comes and asks for Miss Miller." "The servants be hanged!" said Winterbourne angrily. "The poor girl s only fault," he presently added, "is that she is very uncultivated." "She is naturally indelicate," Mrs. Walker declared. "Take that example this morning. How long had you known her at Vevey?" "A couple of days." "Fancy, then, her making it a personal matter that you should | Daisy Miller |
Medora rippled; and at that moment they reached the tent and Mrs. Beaufort met them in a girlish cloud of mauve muslin and floating veils. May Welland was just coming out of the tent. In her white dress, with a pale green ribbon about the waist and a wreath of ivy on her hat, she had the same Diana-like aloofness as when she had entered the Beaufort ball-room on the night of her engagement. In the interval not a thought seemed to have passed behind her eyes or a feeling through her heart; and though her husband knew that she had the capacity for both he marvelled afresh at the way in which experience dropped away from her. She had her bow and arrow in her hand, and placing herself on the chalk-mark traced on the turf she lifted the bow to her shoulder and took aim. The attitude was so full of a classic grace that a murmur of appreciation followed her appearance, and Archer felt the glow of proprietorship that so often cheated him into momentary well-being. Her rivals--Mrs. Reggie Chivers, the Merry girls, and divers rosy Thorleys, Dagonets and Mingotts, stood behind her in a lovely anxious group, brown heads and golden bent above the scores, and pale muslins and flower-wreathed hats mingled in a tender rainbow. All were young and pretty, and bathed in summer bloom; but not one had the nymph-like ease of his wife, when, with tense muscles and happy frown, she bent her soul upon some feat of strength. | No speaker | it remains in the family,"<|quote|>Medora rippled; and at that moment they reached the tent and Mrs. Beaufort met them in a girlish cloud of mauve muslin and floating veils. May Welland was just coming out of the tent. In her white dress, with a pale green ribbon about the waist and a wreath of ivy on her hat, she had the same Diana-like aloofness as when she had entered the Beaufort ball-room on the night of her engagement. In the interval not a thought seemed to have passed behind her eyes or a feeling through her heart; and though her husband knew that she had the capacity for both he marvelled afresh at the way in which experience dropped away from her. She had her bow and arrow in her hand, and placing herself on the chalk-mark traced on the turf she lifted the bow to her shoulder and took aim. The attitude was so full of a classic grace that a murmur of appreciation followed her appearance, and Archer felt the glow of proprietorship that so often cheated him into momentary well-being. Her rivals--Mrs. Reggie Chivers, the Merry girls, and divers rosy Thorleys, Dagonets and Mingotts, stood behind her in a lovely anxious group, brown heads and golden bent above the scores, and pale muslins and flower-wreathed hats mingled in a tender rainbow. All were young and pretty, and bathed in summer bloom; but not one had the nymph-like ease of his wife, when, with tense muscles and happy frown, she bent her soul upon some feat of strength.</|quote|>"Gad," Archer heard Lawrence Lefferts | the first prize." "Ah, then it remains in the family,"<|quote|>Medora rippled; and at that moment they reached the tent and Mrs. Beaufort met them in a girlish cloud of mauve muslin and floating veils. May Welland was just coming out of the tent. In her white dress, with a pale green ribbon about the waist and a wreath of ivy on her hat, she had the same Diana-like aloofness as when she had entered the Beaufort ball-room on the night of her engagement. In the interval not a thought seemed to have passed behind her eyes or a feeling through her heart; and though her husband knew that she had the capacity for both he marvelled afresh at the way in which experience dropped away from her. She had her bow and arrow in her hand, and placing herself on the chalk-mark traced on the turf she lifted the bow to her shoulder and took aim. The attitude was so full of a classic grace that a murmur of appreciation followed her appearance, and Archer felt the glow of proprietorship that so often cheated him into momentary well-being. Her rivals--Mrs. Reggie Chivers, the Merry girls, and divers rosy Thorleys, Dagonets and Mingotts, stood behind her in a lovely anxious group, brown heads and golden bent above the scores, and pale muslins and flower-wreathed hats mingled in a tender rainbow. All were young and pretty, and bathed in summer bloom; but not one had the nymph-like ease of his wife, when, with tense muscles and happy frown, she bent her soul upon some feat of strength.</|quote|>"Gad," Archer heard Lawrence Lefferts say, "not one of the | replied by one of her queer foreign jerks, and a "Que voulez-vous?" which deepened Beaufort's frown; but he produced a good semblance of a congratulatory smile as he glanced at Archer to say: "You know May's going to carry off the first prize." "Ah, then it remains in the family,"<|quote|>Medora rippled; and at that moment they reached the tent and Mrs. Beaufort met them in a girlish cloud of mauve muslin and floating veils. May Welland was just coming out of the tent. In her white dress, with a pale green ribbon about the waist and a wreath of ivy on her hat, she had the same Diana-like aloofness as when she had entered the Beaufort ball-room on the night of her engagement. In the interval not a thought seemed to have passed behind her eyes or a feeling through her heart; and though her husband knew that she had the capacity for both he marvelled afresh at the way in which experience dropped away from her. She had her bow and arrow in her hand, and placing herself on the chalk-mark traced on the turf she lifted the bow to her shoulder and took aim. The attitude was so full of a classic grace that a murmur of appreciation followed her appearance, and Archer felt the glow of proprietorship that so often cheated him into momentary well-being. Her rivals--Mrs. Reggie Chivers, the Merry girls, and divers rosy Thorleys, Dagonets and Mingotts, stood behind her in a lovely anxious group, brown heads and golden bent above the scores, and pale muslins and flower-wreathed hats mingled in a tender rainbow. All were young and pretty, and bathed in summer bloom; but not one had the nymph-like ease of his wife, when, with tense muscles and happy frown, she bent her soul upon some feat of strength.</|quote|>"Gad," Archer heard Lawrence Lefferts say, "not one of the lot holds the bow as she does" "; and Beaufort retorted: "Yes; but that's the only kind of target she'll ever hit." Archer felt irrationally angry. His host's contemptuous tribute to May's "niceness" was just what a husband should have | minutes, eh? ... Well, that's not so bad, considering your nerves had to be spared." He shook hands with Archer, and then, turning back with them, placed himself on Mrs. Manson's other side, and said, in a low voice, a few words which their companion did not catch. The Marchioness replied by one of her queer foreign jerks, and a "Que voulez-vous?" which deepened Beaufort's frown; but he produced a good semblance of a congratulatory smile as he glanced at Archer to say: "You know May's going to carry off the first prize." "Ah, then it remains in the family,"<|quote|>Medora rippled; and at that moment they reached the tent and Mrs. Beaufort met them in a girlish cloud of mauve muslin and floating veils. May Welland was just coming out of the tent. In her white dress, with a pale green ribbon about the waist and a wreath of ivy on her hat, she had the same Diana-like aloofness as when she had entered the Beaufort ball-room on the night of her engagement. In the interval not a thought seemed to have passed behind her eyes or a feeling through her heart; and though her husband knew that she had the capacity for both he marvelled afresh at the way in which experience dropped away from her. She had her bow and arrow in her hand, and placing herself on the chalk-mark traced on the turf she lifted the bow to her shoulder and took aim. The attitude was so full of a classic grace that a murmur of appreciation followed her appearance, and Archer felt the glow of proprietorship that so often cheated him into momentary well-being. Her rivals--Mrs. Reggie Chivers, the Merry girls, and divers rosy Thorleys, Dagonets and Mingotts, stood behind her in a lovely anxious group, brown heads and golden bent above the scores, and pale muslins and flower-wreathed hats mingled in a tender rainbow. All were young and pretty, and bathed in summer bloom; but not one had the nymph-like ease of his wife, when, with tense muscles and happy frown, she bent her soul upon some feat of strength.</|quote|>"Gad," Archer heard Lawrence Lefferts say, "not one of the lot holds the bow as she does" "; and Beaufort retorted: "Yes; but that's the only kind of target she'll ever hit." Archer felt irrationally angry. His host's contemptuous tribute to May's "niceness" was just what a husband should have wished to hear said of his wife. The fact that a coarseminded man found her lacking in attraction was simply another proof of her quality; yet the words sent a faint shiver through his heart. What if "niceness" carried to that supreme degree were only a negation, the curtain dropped | the disquieting rumours persisted, not only in Fifth Avenue but in Wall Street. Some people said he had speculated unfortunately in railways, others that he was being bled by one of the most insatiable members of her profession; and to every report of threatened insolvency Beaufort replied by a fresh extravagance: the building of a new row of orchid-houses, the purchase of a new string of race-horses, or the addition of a new Meissonnier or Cabanel to his picture-gallery. He advanced toward the Marchioness and Newland with his usual half-sneering smile. "Hullo, Medora! Did the trotters do their business? Forty minutes, eh? ... Well, that's not so bad, considering your nerves had to be spared." He shook hands with Archer, and then, turning back with them, placed himself on Mrs. Manson's other side, and said, in a low voice, a few words which their companion did not catch. The Marchioness replied by one of her queer foreign jerks, and a "Que voulez-vous?" which deepened Beaufort's frown; but he produced a good semblance of a congratulatory smile as he glanced at Archer to say: "You know May's going to carry off the first prize." "Ah, then it remains in the family,"<|quote|>Medora rippled; and at that moment they reached the tent and Mrs. Beaufort met them in a girlish cloud of mauve muslin and floating veils. May Welland was just coming out of the tent. In her white dress, with a pale green ribbon about the waist and a wreath of ivy on her hat, she had the same Diana-like aloofness as when she had entered the Beaufort ball-room on the night of her engagement. In the interval not a thought seemed to have passed behind her eyes or a feeling through her heart; and though her husband knew that she had the capacity for both he marvelled afresh at the way in which experience dropped away from her. She had her bow and arrow in her hand, and placing herself on the chalk-mark traced on the turf she lifted the bow to her shoulder and took aim. The attitude was so full of a classic grace that a murmur of appreciation followed her appearance, and Archer felt the glow of proprietorship that so often cheated him into momentary well-being. Her rivals--Mrs. Reggie Chivers, the Merry girls, and divers rosy Thorleys, Dagonets and Mingotts, stood behind her in a lovely anxious group, brown heads and golden bent above the scores, and pale muslins and flower-wreathed hats mingled in a tender rainbow. All were young and pretty, and bathed in summer bloom; but not one had the nymph-like ease of his wife, when, with tense muscles and happy frown, she bent her soul upon some feat of strength.</|quote|>"Gad," Archer heard Lawrence Lefferts say, "not one of the lot holds the bow as she does" "; and Beaufort retorted: "Yes; but that's the only kind of target she'll ever hit." Archer felt irrationally angry. His host's contemptuous tribute to May's "niceness" was just what a husband should have wished to hear said of his wife. The fact that a coarseminded man found her lacking in attraction was simply another proof of her quality; yet the words sent a faint shiver through his heart. What if "niceness" carried to that supreme degree were only a negation, the curtain dropped before an emptiness? As he looked at May, returning flushed and calm from her final bull's-eye, he had the feeling that he had never yet lifted that curtain. She took the congratulations of her rivals and of the rest of the company with the simplicity that was her crowning grace. No one could ever be jealous of her triumphs because she managed to give the feeling that she would have been just as serene if she had missed them. But when her eyes met her husband's her face glowed with the pleasure she saw in his. Mrs. Welland's basket-work pony-carriage | absorbing match? I hear your May is one of the competitors." Strolling toward them from the tent Beaufort advanced over the lawn, tall, heavy, too tightly buttoned into a London frock-coat, with one of his own orchids in its buttonhole. Archer, who had not seen him for two or three months, was struck by the change in his appearance. In the hot summer light his floridness seemed heavy and bloated, and but for his erect square-shouldered walk he would have looked like an over-fed and over-dressed old man. There were all sorts of rumours afloat about Beaufort. In the spring he had gone off on a long cruise to the West Indies in his new steam-yacht, and it was reported that, at various points where he had touched, a lady resembling Miss Fanny Ring had been seen in his company. The steam-yacht, built in the Clyde, and fitted with tiled bath-rooms and other unheard-of luxuries, was said to have cost him half a million; and the pearl necklace which he had presented to his wife on his return was as magnificent as such expiatory offerings are apt to be. Beaufort's fortune was substantial enough to stand the strain; and yet the disquieting rumours persisted, not only in Fifth Avenue but in Wall Street. Some people said he had speculated unfortunately in railways, others that he was being bled by one of the most insatiable members of her profession; and to every report of threatened insolvency Beaufort replied by a fresh extravagance: the building of a new row of orchid-houses, the purchase of a new string of race-horses, or the addition of a new Meissonnier or Cabanel to his picture-gallery. He advanced toward the Marchioness and Newland with his usual half-sneering smile. "Hullo, Medora! Did the trotters do their business? Forty minutes, eh? ... Well, that's not so bad, considering your nerves had to be spared." He shook hands with Archer, and then, turning back with them, placed himself on Mrs. Manson's other side, and said, in a low voice, a few words which their companion did not catch. The Marchioness replied by one of her queer foreign jerks, and a "Que voulez-vous?" which deepened Beaufort's frown; but he produced a good semblance of a congratulatory smile as he glanced at Archer to say: "You know May's going to carry off the first prize." "Ah, then it remains in the family,"<|quote|>Medora rippled; and at that moment they reached the tent and Mrs. Beaufort met them in a girlish cloud of mauve muslin and floating veils. May Welland was just coming out of the tent. In her white dress, with a pale green ribbon about the waist and a wreath of ivy on her hat, she had the same Diana-like aloofness as when she had entered the Beaufort ball-room on the night of her engagement. In the interval not a thought seemed to have passed behind her eyes or a feeling through her heart; and though her husband knew that she had the capacity for both he marvelled afresh at the way in which experience dropped away from her. She had her bow and arrow in her hand, and placing herself on the chalk-mark traced on the turf she lifted the bow to her shoulder and took aim. The attitude was so full of a classic grace that a murmur of appreciation followed her appearance, and Archer felt the glow of proprietorship that so often cheated him into momentary well-being. Her rivals--Mrs. Reggie Chivers, the Merry girls, and divers rosy Thorleys, Dagonets and Mingotts, stood behind her in a lovely anxious group, brown heads and golden bent above the scores, and pale muslins and flower-wreathed hats mingled in a tender rainbow. All were young and pretty, and bathed in summer bloom; but not one had the nymph-like ease of his wife, when, with tense muscles and happy frown, she bent her soul upon some feat of strength.</|quote|>"Gad," Archer heard Lawrence Lefferts say, "not one of the lot holds the bow as she does" "; and Beaufort retorted: "Yes; but that's the only kind of target she'll ever hit." Archer felt irrationally angry. His host's contemptuous tribute to May's "niceness" was just what a husband should have wished to hear said of his wife. The fact that a coarseminded man found her lacking in attraction was simply another proof of her quality; yet the words sent a faint shiver through his heart. What if "niceness" carried to that supreme degree were only a negation, the curtain dropped before an emptiness? As he looked at May, returning flushed and calm from her final bull's-eye, he had the feeling that he had never yet lifted that curtain. She took the congratulations of her rivals and of the rest of the company with the simplicity that was her crowning grace. No one could ever be jealous of her triumphs because she managed to give the feeling that she would have been just as serene if she had missed them. But when her eyes met her husband's her face glowed with the pleasure she saw in his. Mrs. Welland's basket-work pony-carriage was waiting for them, and they drove off among the dispersing carriages, May handling the reins and Archer sitting at her side. The afternoon sunlight still lingered upon the bright lawns and shrubberies, and up and down Bellevue Avenue rolled a double line of victorias, dog-carts, landaus and "vis-a-vis," carrying well-dressed ladies and gentlemen away from the Beaufort garden-party, or homeward from their daily afternoon turn along the Ocean Drive. "Shall we go to see Granny?" May suddenly proposed. "I should like to tell her myself that I've won the prize. There's lots of time before dinner." Archer acquiesced, and she turned the ponies down Narragansett Avenue, crossed Spring Street and drove out toward the rocky moorland beyond. In this unfashionable region Catherine the Great, always indifferent to precedent and thrifty of purse, had built herself in her youth a many-peaked and cross-beamed cottage-orne on a bit of cheap land overlooking the bay. Here, in a thicket of stunted oaks, her verandahs spread themselves above the island-dotted waters. A winding drive led up between iron stags and blue glass balls embedded in mounds of geraniums to a front door of highly-varnished walnut under a striped verandah-roof; and behind it ran | Marchioness Manson fluttered out of the drawing-room window. As usual, she was extraordinarily festooned and bedizened, with a limp Leghorn hat anchored to her head by many windings of faded gauze, and a little black velvet parasol on a carved ivory handle absurdly balanced over her much larger hatbrim. "My dear Newland, I had no idea that you and May had arrived! You yourself came only yesterday, you say? Ah, business--business--professional duties ... I understand. Many husbands, I know, find it impossible to join their wives here except for the week-end." She cocked her head on one side and languished at him through screwed-up eyes. "But marriage is one long sacrifice, as I used often to remind my Ellen--" Archer's heart stopped with the queer jerk which it had given once before, and which seemed suddenly to slam a door between himself and the outer world; but this break of continuity must have been of the briefest, for he presently heard Medora answering a question he had apparently found voice to put. "No, I am not staying here, but with the Blenkers, in their delicious solitude at Portsmouth. Beaufort was kind enough to send his famous trotters for me this morning, so that I might have at least a glimpse of one of Regina's garden-parties; but this evening I go back to rural life. The Blenkers, dear original beings, have hired a primitive old farm-house at Portsmouth where they gather about them representative people ..." She drooped slightly beneath her protecting brim, and added with a faint blush: "This week Dr. Agathon Carver is holding a series of Inner Thought meetings there. A contrast indeed to this gay scene of worldly pleasure--but then I have always lived on contrasts! To me the only death is monotony. I always say to Ellen: Beware of monotony; it's the mother of all the deadly sins. But my poor child is going through a phase of exaltation, of abhorrence of the world. You know, I suppose, that she has declined all invitations to stay at Newport, even with her grandmother Mingott? I could hardly persuade her to come with me to the Blenkers', if you will believe it! The life she leads is morbid, unnatural. Ah, if she had only listened to me when it was still possible ... When the door was still open ... But shall we go down and watch this absorbing match? I hear your May is one of the competitors." Strolling toward them from the tent Beaufort advanced over the lawn, tall, heavy, too tightly buttoned into a London frock-coat, with one of his own orchids in its buttonhole. Archer, who had not seen him for two or three months, was struck by the change in his appearance. In the hot summer light his floridness seemed heavy and bloated, and but for his erect square-shouldered walk he would have looked like an over-fed and over-dressed old man. There were all sorts of rumours afloat about Beaufort. In the spring he had gone off on a long cruise to the West Indies in his new steam-yacht, and it was reported that, at various points where he had touched, a lady resembling Miss Fanny Ring had been seen in his company. The steam-yacht, built in the Clyde, and fitted with tiled bath-rooms and other unheard-of luxuries, was said to have cost him half a million; and the pearl necklace which he had presented to his wife on his return was as magnificent as such expiatory offerings are apt to be. Beaufort's fortune was substantial enough to stand the strain; and yet the disquieting rumours persisted, not only in Fifth Avenue but in Wall Street. Some people said he had speculated unfortunately in railways, others that he was being bled by one of the most insatiable members of her profession; and to every report of threatened insolvency Beaufort replied by a fresh extravagance: the building of a new row of orchid-houses, the purchase of a new string of race-horses, or the addition of a new Meissonnier or Cabanel to his picture-gallery. He advanced toward the Marchioness and Newland with his usual half-sneering smile. "Hullo, Medora! Did the trotters do their business? Forty minutes, eh? ... Well, that's not so bad, considering your nerves had to be spared." He shook hands with Archer, and then, turning back with them, placed himself on Mrs. Manson's other side, and said, in a low voice, a few words which their companion did not catch. The Marchioness replied by one of her queer foreign jerks, and a "Que voulez-vous?" which deepened Beaufort's frown; but he produced a good semblance of a congratulatory smile as he glanced at Archer to say: "You know May's going to carry off the first prize." "Ah, then it remains in the family,"<|quote|>Medora rippled; and at that moment they reached the tent and Mrs. Beaufort met them in a girlish cloud of mauve muslin and floating veils. May Welland was just coming out of the tent. In her white dress, with a pale green ribbon about the waist and a wreath of ivy on her hat, she had the same Diana-like aloofness as when she had entered the Beaufort ball-room on the night of her engagement. In the interval not a thought seemed to have passed behind her eyes or a feeling through her heart; and though her husband knew that she had the capacity for both he marvelled afresh at the way in which experience dropped away from her. She had her bow and arrow in her hand, and placing herself on the chalk-mark traced on the turf she lifted the bow to her shoulder and took aim. The attitude was so full of a classic grace that a murmur of appreciation followed her appearance, and Archer felt the glow of proprietorship that so often cheated him into momentary well-being. Her rivals--Mrs. Reggie Chivers, the Merry girls, and divers rosy Thorleys, Dagonets and Mingotts, stood behind her in a lovely anxious group, brown heads and golden bent above the scores, and pale muslins and flower-wreathed hats mingled in a tender rainbow. All were young and pretty, and bathed in summer bloom; but not one had the nymph-like ease of his wife, when, with tense muscles and happy frown, she bent her soul upon some feat of strength.</|quote|>"Gad," Archer heard Lawrence Lefferts say, "not one of the lot holds the bow as she does" "; and Beaufort retorted: "Yes; but that's the only kind of target she'll ever hit." Archer felt irrationally angry. His host's contemptuous tribute to May's "niceness" was just what a husband should have wished to hear said of his wife. The fact that a coarseminded man found her lacking in attraction was simply another proof of her quality; yet the words sent a faint shiver through his heart. What if "niceness" carried to that supreme degree were only a negation, the curtain dropped before an emptiness? As he looked at May, returning flushed and calm from her final bull's-eye, he had the feeling that he had never yet lifted that curtain. She took the congratulations of her rivals and of the rest of the company with the simplicity that was her crowning grace. No one could ever be jealous of her triumphs because she managed to give the feeling that she would have been just as serene if she had missed them. But when her eyes met her husband's her face glowed with the pleasure she saw in his. Mrs. Welland's basket-work pony-carriage was waiting for them, and they drove off among the dispersing carriages, May handling the reins and Archer sitting at her side. The afternoon sunlight still lingered upon the bright lawns and shrubberies, and up and down Bellevue Avenue rolled a double line of victorias, dog-carts, landaus and "vis-a-vis," carrying well-dressed ladies and gentlemen away from the Beaufort garden-party, or homeward from their daily afternoon turn along the Ocean Drive. "Shall we go to see Granny?" May suddenly proposed. "I should like to tell her myself that I've won the prize. There's lots of time before dinner." Archer acquiesced, and she turned the ponies down Narragansett Avenue, crossed Spring Street and drove out toward the rocky moorland beyond. In this unfashionable region Catherine the Great, always indifferent to precedent and thrifty of purse, had built herself in her youth a many-peaked and cross-beamed cottage-orne on a bit of cheap land overlooking the bay. Here, in a thicket of stunted oaks, her verandahs spread themselves above the island-dotted waters. A winding drive led up between iron stags and blue glass balls embedded in mounds of geraniums to a front door of highly-varnished walnut under a striped verandah-roof; and behind it ran a narrow hall with a black and yellow star-patterned parquet floor, upon which opened four small square rooms with heavy flock-papers under ceilings on which an Italian house-painter had lavished all the divinities of Olympus. One of these rooms had been turned into a bedroom by Mrs. Mingott when the burden of flesh descended on her, and in the adjoining one she spent her days, enthroned in a large armchair between the open door and window, and perpetually waving a palm-leaf fan which the prodigious projection of her bosom kept so far from the rest of her person that the air it set in motion stirred only the fringe of the anti-macassars on the chair-arms. Since she had been the means of hastening his marriage old Catherine had shown to Archer the cordiality which a service rendered excites toward the person served. She was persuaded that irrepressible passion was the cause of his impatience; and being an ardent admirer of impulsiveness (when it did not lead to the spending of money) she always received him with a genial twinkle of complicity and a play of allusion to which May seemed fortunately impervious. She examined and appraised with much interest the diamond-tipped arrow which had been pinned on May's bosom at the conclusion of the match, remarking that in her day a filigree brooch would have been thought enough, but that there was no denying that Beaufort did things handsomely. "Quite an heirloom, in fact, my dear," the old lady chuckled. "You must leave it in fee to your eldest girl." She pinched May's white arm and watched the colour flood her face. "Well, well, what have I said to make you shake out the red flag? Ain't there going to be any daughters--only boys, eh? Good gracious, look at her blushing again all over her blushes! What--can't I say that either? Mercy me--when my children beg me to have all those gods and goddesses painted out overhead I always say I'm too thankful to have somebody about me that NOTHING can shock!" Archer burst into a laugh, and May echoed it, crimson to the eyes. "Well, now tell me all about the party, please, my dears, for I shall never get a straight word about it out of that silly Medora," the ancestress continued; and, as May exclaimed: "Cousin Medora? But I thought she was going back to Portsmouth?" she | with one of his own orchids in its buttonhole. Archer, who had not seen him for two or three months, was struck by the change in his appearance. In the hot summer light his floridness seemed heavy and bloated, and but for his erect square-shouldered walk he would have looked like an over-fed and over-dressed old man. There were all sorts of rumours afloat about Beaufort. In the spring he had gone off on a long cruise to the West Indies in his new steam-yacht, and it was reported that, at various points where he had touched, a lady resembling Miss Fanny Ring had been seen in his company. The steam-yacht, built in the Clyde, and fitted with tiled bath-rooms and other unheard-of luxuries, was said to have cost him half a million; and the pearl necklace which he had presented to his wife on his return was as magnificent as such expiatory offerings are apt to be. Beaufort's fortune was substantial enough to stand the strain; and yet the disquieting rumours persisted, not only in Fifth Avenue but in Wall Street. Some people said he had speculated unfortunately in railways, others that he was being bled by one of the most insatiable members of her profession; and to every report of threatened insolvency Beaufort replied by a fresh extravagance: the building of a new row of orchid-houses, the purchase of a new string of race-horses, or the addition of a new Meissonnier or Cabanel to his picture-gallery. He advanced toward the Marchioness and Newland with his usual half-sneering smile. "Hullo, Medora! Did the trotters do their business? Forty minutes, eh? ... Well, that's not so bad, considering your nerves had to be spared." He shook hands with Archer, and then, turning back with them, placed himself on Mrs. Manson's other side, and said, in a low voice, a few words which their companion did not catch. The Marchioness replied by one of her queer foreign jerks, and a "Que voulez-vous?" which deepened Beaufort's frown; but he produced a good semblance of a congratulatory smile as he glanced at Archer to say: "You know May's going to carry off the first prize." "Ah, then it remains in the family,"<|quote|>Medora rippled; and at that moment they reached the tent and Mrs. Beaufort met them in a girlish cloud of mauve muslin and floating veils. May Welland was just coming out of the tent. In her white dress, with a pale green ribbon about the waist and a wreath of ivy on her hat, she had the same Diana-like aloofness as when she had entered the Beaufort ball-room on the night of her engagement. In the interval not a thought seemed to have passed behind her eyes or a feeling through her heart; and though her husband knew that she had the capacity for both he marvelled afresh at the way in which experience dropped away from her. She had her bow and arrow in her hand, and placing herself on the chalk-mark traced on the turf she lifted the bow to her shoulder and took aim. The attitude was so full of a classic grace that a murmur of appreciation followed her appearance, and Archer felt the glow of proprietorship that so often cheated him into momentary well-being. Her rivals--Mrs. Reggie Chivers, the Merry girls, and divers rosy Thorleys, Dagonets and Mingotts, stood behind her in a lovely anxious group, brown heads and golden bent above the scores, and pale muslins and flower-wreathed hats mingled in a tender rainbow. All were young and pretty, and bathed in summer bloom; but not one had the nymph-like ease of his wife, when, with tense muscles and happy frown, she bent her soul upon some feat of strength.</|quote|>"Gad," Archer heard Lawrence Lefferts say, "not one of the lot holds the bow as she does" "; and Beaufort retorted: "Yes; but that's the only kind of target she'll ever hit." Archer felt irrationally angry. His host's contemptuous tribute to May's "niceness" was just what a husband should have wished to hear said of his wife. The fact that a coarseminded man found her lacking in attraction was simply another proof of her quality; yet the words sent a faint shiver through his heart. What if "niceness" carried to that supreme degree were only a negation, the curtain dropped before an emptiness? As he looked at May, returning flushed and calm from her final bull's-eye, he had the feeling that he had never yet lifted that curtain. She took the congratulations of her rivals and of the rest of the company with the simplicity that was her crowning grace. No one could ever be jealous of her triumphs because she managed to give the feeling that she would have been just as serene if she had missed them. But when her eyes met her husband's her face glowed with the pleasure she saw in his. Mrs. Welland's basket-work pony-carriage was waiting for them, and they drove off among the dispersing carriages, May handling the reins and Archer sitting at her side. The afternoon sunlight still lingered upon the bright lawns and shrubberies, and up and down Bellevue Avenue rolled a double line of victorias, dog-carts, landaus and "vis-a-vis," carrying well-dressed ladies and gentlemen away from the Beaufort garden-party, or homeward from their daily afternoon turn along the Ocean Drive. "Shall we go to see Granny?" May suddenly proposed. "I should like to tell her | The Age Of Innocence |
"It s a very pretty excursion," | Winterbourne | having seen that old castle."<|quote|>"It s a very pretty excursion,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne, "and very easy | go away from here without having seen that old castle."<|quote|>"It s a very pretty excursion,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne, "and very easy to make. You can drive, | the Chateau de Chillon. "Yes, formerly, more than once," said Winterbourne. "You too, I suppose, have seen it?" "No; we haven t been there. I want to go there dreadfully. Of course I mean to go there. I wouldn t go away from here without having seen that old castle."<|quote|>"It s a very pretty excursion,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne, "and very easy to make. You can drive, you know, or you can go by the little steamer." "You can go in the cars," said Miss Miller. "Yes; you can go in the cars," Winterbourne assented. "Our courier says they take you right up to the castle," the | he wondered what were the regular conditions and limitations of one s intercourse with a pretty American flirt. It presently became apparent that he was on the way to learn. "Have you been to that old castle?" asked the young girl, pointing with her parasol to the far-gleaming walls of the Chateau de Chillon. "Yes, formerly, more than once," said Winterbourne. "You too, I suppose, have seen it?" "No; we haven t been there. I want to go there dreadfully. Of course I mean to go there. I wouldn t go away from here without having seen that old castle."<|quote|>"It s a very pretty excursion,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne, "and very easy to make. You can drive, you know, or you can go by the little steamer." "You can go in the cars," said Miss Miller. "Yes; you can go in the cars," Winterbourne assented. "Our courier says they take you right up to the castle," the young girl continued. "We were going last week, but my mother gave out. She suffers dreadfully from dyspepsia. She said she couldn t go. Randolph wouldn t go either; he says he doesn t think much of old castles. But I guess we ll go this week, if we can | this category. He had known, here in Europe, two or three women--persons older than Miss Daisy Miller, and provided, for respectability s sake, with husbands--who were great coquettes--dangerous, terrible women, with whom one s relations were liable to take a serious turn. But this young girl was not a coquette in that sense; she was very unsophisticated; she was only a pretty American flirt. Winterbourne was almost grateful for having found the formula that applied to Miss Daisy Miller. He leaned back in his seat; he remarked to himself that she had the most charming nose he had ever seen; he wondered what were the regular conditions and limitations of one s intercourse with a pretty American flirt. It presently became apparent that he was on the way to learn. "Have you been to that old castle?" asked the young girl, pointing with her parasol to the far-gleaming walls of the Chateau de Chillon. "Yes, formerly, more than once," said Winterbourne. "You too, I suppose, have seen it?" "No; we haven t been there. I want to go there dreadfully. Of course I mean to go there. I wouldn t go away from here without having seen that old castle."<|quote|>"It s a very pretty excursion,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne, "and very easy to make. You can drive, you know, or you can go by the little steamer." "You can go in the cars," said Miss Miller. "Yes; you can go in the cars," Winterbourne assented. "Our courier says they take you right up to the castle," the young girl continued. "We were going last week, but my mother gave out. She suffers dreadfully from dyspepsia. She said she couldn t go. Randolph wouldn t go either; he says he doesn t think much of old castles. But I guess we ll go this week, if we can get Randolph." "Your brother is not interested in ancient monuments?" Winterbourne inquired, smiling. "He says he don t care much about old castles. He s only nine. He wants to stay at the hotel. Mother s afraid to leave him alone, and the courier won t stay with him; so we haven t been to many places. But it will be too bad if we don t go up there." And Miss Miller pointed again at the Chateau de Chillon. "I should think it might be arranged," said Winterbourne. "Couldn t you get some one to stay for the afternoon | seemed a kind of demonstrative evidence of a certain laxity of deportment. And yet was he to accuse Miss Daisy Miller of actual or potential inconduite, as they said at Geneva? He felt that he had lived at Geneva so long that he had lost a good deal; he had become dishabituated to the American tone. Never, indeed, since he had grown old enough to appreciate things, had he encountered a young American girl of so pronounced a type as this. Certainly she was very charming, but how deucedly sociable! Was she simply a pretty girl from New York State? Were they all like that, the pretty girls who had a good deal of gentlemen s society? Or was she also a designing, an audacious, an unscrupulous young person? Winterbourne had lost his instinct in this matter, and his reason could not help him. Miss Daisy Miller looked extremely innocent. Some people had told him that, after all, American girls were exceedingly innocent; and others had told him that, after all, they were not. He was inclined to think Miss Daisy Miller was a flirt--a pretty American flirt. He had never, as yet, had any relations with young ladies of this category. He had known, here in Europe, two or three women--persons older than Miss Daisy Miller, and provided, for respectability s sake, with husbands--who were great coquettes--dangerous, terrible women, with whom one s relations were liable to take a serious turn. But this young girl was not a coquette in that sense; she was very unsophisticated; she was only a pretty American flirt. Winterbourne was almost grateful for having found the formula that applied to Miss Daisy Miller. He leaned back in his seat; he remarked to himself that she had the most charming nose he had ever seen; he wondered what were the regular conditions and limitations of one s intercourse with a pretty American flirt. It presently became apparent that he was on the way to learn. "Have you been to that old castle?" asked the young girl, pointing with her parasol to the far-gleaming walls of the Chateau de Chillon. "Yes, formerly, more than once," said Winterbourne. "You too, I suppose, have seen it?" "No; we haven t been there. I want to go there dreadfully. Of course I mean to go there. I wouldn t go away from here without having seen that old castle."<|quote|>"It s a very pretty excursion,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne, "and very easy to make. You can drive, you know, or you can go by the little steamer." "You can go in the cars," said Miss Miller. "Yes; you can go in the cars," Winterbourne assented. "Our courier says they take you right up to the castle," the young girl continued. "We were going last week, but my mother gave out. She suffers dreadfully from dyspepsia. She said she couldn t go. Randolph wouldn t go either; he says he doesn t think much of old castles. But I guess we ll go this week, if we can get Randolph." "Your brother is not interested in ancient monuments?" Winterbourne inquired, smiling. "He says he don t care much about old castles. He s only nine. He wants to stay at the hotel. Mother s afraid to leave him alone, and the courier won t stay with him; so we haven t been to many places. But it will be too bad if we don t go up there." And Miss Miller pointed again at the Chateau de Chillon. "I should think it might be arranged," said Winterbourne. "Couldn t you get some one to stay for the afternoon with Randolph?" Miss Miller looked at him a moment, and then, very placidly, "I wish YOU would stay with him!" she said. Winterbourne hesitated a moment. "I should much rather go to Chillon with you." "With me?" asked the young girl with the same placidity. She didn t rise, blushing, as a young girl at Geneva would have done; and yet Winterbourne, conscious that he had been very bold, thought it possible she was offended. "With your mother," he answered very respectfully. But it seemed that both his audacity and his respect were lost upon Miss Daisy Miller. "I guess my mother won t go, after all," she said. "She don t like to ride round in the afternoon. But did you really mean what you said just now--that you would like to go up there?" "Most earnestly," Winterbourne declared. "Then we may arrange it. If mother will stay with Randolph, I guess Eugenio will." "Eugenio?" the young man inquired. "Eugenio s our courier. He doesn t like to stay with Randolph; he s the most fastidious man I ever saw. But he s a splendid courier. I guess he ll stay at home with Randolph if mother does, and | we didn t all live in hotels in America. I told her I had never been in so many hotels in my life as since I came to Europe. I have never seen so many--it s nothing but hotels." But Miss Miller did not make this remark with a querulous accent; she appeared to be in the best humor with everything. She declared that the hotels were very good, when once you got used to their ways, and that Europe was perfectly sweet. She was not disappointed--not a bit. Perhaps it was because she had heard so much about it before. She had ever so many intimate friends that had been there ever so many times. And then she had had ever so many dresses and things from Paris. Whenever she put on a Paris dress she felt as if she were in Europe. "It was a kind of a wishing cap," said Winterbourne. "Yes," said Miss Miller without examining this analogy; "it always made me wish I was here. But I needn t have done that for dresses. I am sure they send all the pretty ones to America; you see the most frightful things here. The only thing I don t like," she proceeded, "is the society. There isn t any society; or, if there is, I don t know where it keeps itself. Do you? I suppose there is some society somewhere, but I haven t seen anything of it. I m very fond of society, and I have always had a great deal of it. I don t mean only in Schenectady, but in New York. I used to go to New York every winter. In New York I had lots of society." "Last winter I had seventeen dinners given me; and three of them were by gentlemen," added Daisy Miller. "I have more friends in New York than in Schenectady--more gentleman friends; and more young lady friends too," she resumed in a moment. She paused again for an instant; she was looking at Winterbourne with all her prettiness in her lively eyes and in her light, slightly monotonous smile. "I have always had," she said, "a great deal of gentlemen s society." Poor Winterbourne was amused, perplexed, and decidedly charmed. He had never yet heard a young girl express herself in just this fashion; never, at least, save in cases where to say such things seemed a kind of demonstrative evidence of a certain laxity of deportment. And yet was he to accuse Miss Daisy Miller of actual or potential inconduite, as they said at Geneva? He felt that he had lived at Geneva so long that he had lost a good deal; he had become dishabituated to the American tone. Never, indeed, since he had grown old enough to appreciate things, had he encountered a young American girl of so pronounced a type as this. Certainly she was very charming, but how deucedly sociable! Was she simply a pretty girl from New York State? Were they all like that, the pretty girls who had a good deal of gentlemen s society? Or was she also a designing, an audacious, an unscrupulous young person? Winterbourne had lost his instinct in this matter, and his reason could not help him. Miss Daisy Miller looked extremely innocent. Some people had told him that, after all, American girls were exceedingly innocent; and others had told him that, after all, they were not. He was inclined to think Miss Daisy Miller was a flirt--a pretty American flirt. He had never, as yet, had any relations with young ladies of this category. He had known, here in Europe, two or three women--persons older than Miss Daisy Miller, and provided, for respectability s sake, with husbands--who were great coquettes--dangerous, terrible women, with whom one s relations were liable to take a serious turn. But this young girl was not a coquette in that sense; she was very unsophisticated; she was only a pretty American flirt. Winterbourne was almost grateful for having found the formula that applied to Miss Daisy Miller. He leaned back in his seat; he remarked to himself that she had the most charming nose he had ever seen; he wondered what were the regular conditions and limitations of one s intercourse with a pretty American flirt. It presently became apparent that he was on the way to learn. "Have you been to that old castle?" asked the young girl, pointing with her parasol to the far-gleaming walls of the Chateau de Chillon. "Yes, formerly, more than once," said Winterbourne. "You too, I suppose, have seen it?" "No; we haven t been there. I want to go there dreadfully. Of course I mean to go there. I wouldn t go away from here without having seen that old castle."<|quote|>"It s a very pretty excursion,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne, "and very easy to make. You can drive, you know, or you can go by the little steamer." "You can go in the cars," said Miss Miller. "Yes; you can go in the cars," Winterbourne assented. "Our courier says they take you right up to the castle," the young girl continued. "We were going last week, but my mother gave out. She suffers dreadfully from dyspepsia. She said she couldn t go. Randolph wouldn t go either; he says he doesn t think much of old castles. But I guess we ll go this week, if we can get Randolph." "Your brother is not interested in ancient monuments?" Winterbourne inquired, smiling. "He says he don t care much about old castles. He s only nine. He wants to stay at the hotel. Mother s afraid to leave him alone, and the courier won t stay with him; so we haven t been to many places. But it will be too bad if we don t go up there." And Miss Miller pointed again at the Chateau de Chillon. "I should think it might be arranged," said Winterbourne. "Couldn t you get some one to stay for the afternoon with Randolph?" Miss Miller looked at him a moment, and then, very placidly, "I wish YOU would stay with him!" she said. Winterbourne hesitated a moment. "I should much rather go to Chillon with you." "With me?" asked the young girl with the same placidity. She didn t rise, blushing, as a young girl at Geneva would have done; and yet Winterbourne, conscious that he had been very bold, thought it possible she was offended. "With your mother," he answered very respectfully. But it seemed that both his audacity and his respect were lost upon Miss Daisy Miller. "I guess my mother won t go, after all," she said. "She don t like to ride round in the afternoon. But did you really mean what you said just now--that you would like to go up there?" "Most earnestly," Winterbourne declared. "Then we may arrange it. If mother will stay with Randolph, I guess Eugenio will." "Eugenio?" the young man inquired. "Eugenio s our courier. He doesn t like to stay with Randolph; he s the most fastidious man I ever saw. But he s a splendid courier. I guess he ll stay at home with Randolph if mother does, and then we can go to the castle." Winterbourne reflected for an instant as lucidly as possible--"we" could only mean Miss Daisy Miller and himself. This program seemed almost too agreeable for credence; he felt as if he ought to kiss the young lady s hand. Possibly he would have done so and quite spoiled the project, but at this moment another person, presumably Eugenio, appeared. A tall, handsome man, with superb whiskers, wearing a velvet morning coat and a brilliant watch chain, approached Miss Miller, looking sharply at her companion. "Oh, Eugenio!" said Miss Miller with the friendliest accent. Eugenio had looked at Winterbourne from head to foot; he now bowed gravely to the young lady. "I have the honor to inform mademoiselle that luncheon is upon the table." Miss Miller slowly rose. "See here, Eugenio!" she said; "I m going to that old castle, anyway." "To the Chateau de Chillon, mademoiselle?" the courier inquired. "Mademoiselle has made arrangements?" he added in a tone which struck Winterbourne as very impertinent. Eugenio s tone apparently threw, even to Miss Miller s own apprehension, a slightly ironical light upon the young girl s situation. She turned to Winterbourne, blushing a little--a very little. "You won t back out?" she said. "I shall not be happy till we go!" he protested. "And you are staying in this hotel?" she went on. "And you are really an American?" The courier stood looking at Winterbourne offensively. The young man, at least, thought his manner of looking an offense to Miss Miller; it conveyed an imputation that she "picked up" acquaintances. "I shall have the honor of presenting to you a person who will tell you all about me," he said, smiling and referring to his aunt. "Oh, well, we ll go some day," said Miss Miller. And she gave him a smile and turned away. She put up her parasol and walked back to the inn beside Eugenio. Winterbourne stood looking after her; and as she moved away, drawing her muslin furbelows over the gravel, said to himself that she had the tournure of a princess. He had, however, engaged to do more than proved feasible, in promising to present his aunt, Mrs. Costello, to Miss Daisy Miller. As soon as the former lady had got better of her headache, he waited upon her in her apartment; and, after the proper inquiries in regard to | always had," she said, "a great deal of gentlemen s society." Poor Winterbourne was amused, perplexed, and decidedly charmed. He had never yet heard a young girl express herself in just this fashion; never, at least, save in cases where to say such things seemed a kind of demonstrative evidence of a certain laxity of deportment. And yet was he to accuse Miss Daisy Miller of actual or potential inconduite, as they said at Geneva? He felt that he had lived at Geneva so long that he had lost a good deal; he had become dishabituated to the American tone. Never, indeed, since he had grown old enough to appreciate things, had he encountered a young American girl of so pronounced a type as this. Certainly she was very charming, but how deucedly sociable! Was she simply a pretty girl from New York State? Were they all like that, the pretty girls who had a good deal of gentlemen s society? Or was she also a designing, an audacious, an unscrupulous young person? Winterbourne had lost his instinct in this matter, and his reason could not help him. Miss Daisy Miller looked extremely innocent. Some people had told him that, after all, American girls were exceedingly innocent; and others had told him that, after all, they were not. He was inclined to think Miss Daisy Miller was a flirt--a pretty American flirt. He had never, as yet, had any relations with young ladies of this category. He had known, here in Europe, two or three women--persons older than Miss Daisy Miller, and provided, for respectability s sake, with husbands--who were great coquettes--dangerous, terrible women, with whom one s relations were liable to take a serious turn. But this young girl was not a coquette in that sense; she was very unsophisticated; she was only a pretty American flirt. Winterbourne was almost grateful for having found the formula that applied to Miss Daisy Miller. He leaned back in his seat; he remarked to himself that she had the most charming nose he had ever seen; he wondered what were the regular conditions and limitations of one s intercourse with a pretty American flirt. It presently became apparent that he was on the way to learn. "Have you been to that old castle?" asked the young girl, pointing with her parasol to the far-gleaming walls of the Chateau de Chillon. "Yes, formerly, more than once," said Winterbourne. "You too, I suppose, have seen it?" "No; we haven t been there. I want to go there dreadfully. Of course I mean to go there. I wouldn t go away from here without having seen that old castle."<|quote|>"It s a very pretty excursion,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne, "and very easy to make. You can drive, you know, or you can go by the little steamer." "You can go in the cars," said Miss Miller. "Yes; you can go in the cars," Winterbourne assented. "Our courier says they take you right up to the castle," the young girl continued. "We were going last week, but my mother gave out. She suffers dreadfully from dyspepsia. She said she couldn t go. Randolph wouldn t go either; he says he doesn t think much of old castles. But I guess we ll go this week, if we can get Randolph." "Your brother is not interested in ancient monuments?" Winterbourne inquired, smiling. "He says he don t care much about old castles. He s only nine. He wants to stay at the hotel. Mother s afraid to leave him alone, and the courier won t stay with him; so we haven t been to many places. But it will be too bad if we don t go up there." And Miss Miller pointed again at the Chateau de Chillon. "I should think it might be arranged," said Winterbourne. "Couldn t you get some one to stay for the afternoon with Randolph?" Miss Miller looked at him a moment, and then, very placidly, "I wish | Daisy Miller |
she murmured, | No speaker | had been framed. "How dreadful!"<|quote|>she murmured,</|quote|>"how more than dreadful, if | of St. John ascending, which had been framed. "How dreadful!"<|quote|>she murmured,</|quote|>"how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to | one," she remarked, when she returned. "I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now." Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. John ascending, which had been framed. "How dreadful!"<|quote|>she murmured,</|quote|>"how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source." "Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the battle. "George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?" Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the | into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul. "No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she remarked, when she returned. "I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now." Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. John ascending, which had been framed. "How dreadful!"<|quote|>she murmured,</|quote|>"how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source." "Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the battle. "George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?" Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth." Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?" "We must think of every possibility." "Oh, it's all right." "Or perhaps | rising with decision. "Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the beginning." "Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?" "No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let me see--a sovereign's worth of silver." She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul. "No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she remarked, when she returned. "I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now." Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. John ascending, which had been framed. "How dreadful!"<|quote|>she murmured,</|quote|>"how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source." "Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the battle. "George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?" Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth." Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?" "We must think of every possibility." "Oh, it's all right." "Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know." "I don't care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it." "To contradict it?" "No, to laugh at it." But she knew in her heart that she could not trust him, for he desired her untouched. "Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different." "Now, Charlotte!" She struck at her playfully. "You kind, anxious | Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle. "But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid." "Because of the fifteen shillings and the five," they said solemnly. "Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see." "But I don't see--" They tried to stifle her with cake. "No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver." "I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?" "I'll get it," said the young hostess, rising with decision. "Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the beginning." "Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?" "No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let me see--a sovereign's worth of silver." She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul. "No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she remarked, when she returned. "I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now." Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. John ascending, which had been framed. "How dreadful!"<|quote|>she murmured,</|quote|>"how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source." "Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the battle. "George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?" Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth." Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?" "We must think of every possibility." "Oh, it's all right." "Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know." "I don't care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it." "To contradict it?" "No, to laugh at it." But she knew in her heart that she could not trust him, for he desired her untouched. "Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different." "Now, Charlotte!" She struck at her playfully. "You kind, anxious thing. What WOULD you have me do? First you say 'Don't tell'; and then you say, 'Tell'. Which is it to be? Quick!" Miss Bartlett sighed "I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You will never forgive me." "Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don't." For the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with a teaspoon. "Dear, one moment--we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young one yet?" "Yes, I have." "What happened?" "We met at the Rectory." "What line is he taking up?" "No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won't be any nuisance, Charlotte." "Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion." Lucy paused. "Cecil said one day--and I thought it | the London and Brighton station, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy and his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o'clock, and these, with little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper lawn for tea. "I shall never forgive myself," said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain. "I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate." "Our visitors never do such dreadful things," said Lucy, while her brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: "Just what I've been trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour." "I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor," said Miss Bartlett, and looked at her frayed glove. "All right, if you'd really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to the driver." Miss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: "But who am I to give the sovereign to?" "Let's leave it all till mother comes back," suggested Lucy. "No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts." Here Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett's quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance, and turned round. But this did not do, either. "Please--please--I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost." "Freddy owes me fifteen shillings," interposed Cecil. "So it will work out right if you give the pound to me." "Fifteen shillings," said Miss Bartlett dubiously. "How is that, Mr. Vyse?" "Because, don't you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling." Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle. "But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid." "Because of the fifteen shillings and the five," they said solemnly. "Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see." "But I don't see--" They tried to stifle her with cake. "No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver." "I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?" "I'll get it," said the young hostess, rising with decision. "Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the beginning." "Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?" "No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let me see--a sovereign's worth of silver." She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul. "No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she remarked, when she returned. "I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now." Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. John ascending, which had been framed. "How dreadful!"<|quote|>she murmured,</|quote|>"how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source." "Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the battle. "George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?" Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth." Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?" "We must think of every possibility." "Oh, it's all right." "Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know." "I don't care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it." "To contradict it?" "No, to laugh at it." But she knew in her heart that she could not trust him, for he desired her untouched. "Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different." "Now, Charlotte!" She struck at her playfully. "You kind, anxious thing. What WOULD you have me do? First you say 'Don't tell'; and then you say, 'Tell'. Which is it to be? Quick!" Miss Bartlett sighed "I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You will never forgive me." "Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don't." For the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with a teaspoon. "Dear, one moment--we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young one yet?" "Yes, I have." "What happened?" "We met at the Rectory." "What line is he taking up?" "No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won't be any nuisance, Charlotte." "Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion." Lucy paused. "Cecil said one day--and I thought it so profound--that there are two kinds of cads--the conscious and the subconscious." She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil's profundity. Through the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It was a new one from Smith's library. Her mother must have returned from the station. "Once a cad, always a cad," droned Miss Bartlett. "What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don't think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does; it makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn't admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him, and has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn't always look as if he's going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager's office at one of the big railways--not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There! Now for the garden." She took hold of her guest by the arm. "Suppose we don't talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting." Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain. Chapter XV: The Disaster Within The Sunday after Miss Bartlett's arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of | Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett's quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance, and turned round. But this did not do, either. "Please--please--I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost." "Freddy owes me fifteen shillings," interposed Cecil. "So it will work out right if you give the pound to me." "Fifteen shillings," said Miss Bartlett dubiously. "How is that, Mr. Vyse?" "Because, don't you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling." Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle. "But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid." "Because of the fifteen shillings and the five," they said solemnly. "Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see." "But I don't see--" They tried to stifle her with cake. "No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver." "I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?" "I'll get it," said the young hostess, rising with decision. "Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the beginning." "Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?" "No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let me see--a sovereign's worth of silver." She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul. "No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she remarked, when she returned. "I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now." Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. John ascending, which had been framed. "How dreadful!"<|quote|>she murmured,</|quote|>"how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source." "Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the battle. "George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?" Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth." Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?" "We must think of every possibility." "Oh, it's all right." "Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know." "I don't care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it." "To contradict it?" "No, to laugh at it." But she knew in her heart that she could not trust him, for he desired her untouched. "Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different." "Now, Charlotte!" She struck at her playfully. "You kind, anxious thing. What WOULD you have me do? First you say 'Don't tell'; and then you say, 'Tell'. Which is it to be? Quick!" Miss Bartlett sighed "I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able to look after yourself, and so | A Room With A View |
"I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can have noticed it." | Annie | racked her brains in vain.<|quote|>"I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can have noticed it."</|quote|>"It does not matter," said | remember." "Think," urged Poirot. Annie racked her brains in vain.<|quote|>"I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can have noticed it."</|quote|>"It does not matter," said Poirot, not betraying any sign | 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.<|quote|>"I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can have noticed it."</|quote|>"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, | 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.<|quote|>"I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can have noticed it."</|quote|>"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 | "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.<|quote|>"I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can have noticed it."</|quote|>"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?" | 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.<|quote|>"I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can have noticed it."</|quote|>"It does not matter," said Poirot, not betraying any sign of disappointment. "Now I want to ask you about something else. There is a saucepan in Mrs. Inglethorp's room with some cocoa in it. Did she have that every night?" "Yes, sir, it was put in her room every evening, and she warmed it up in the night whenever she fancied it." "What was it? Plain cocoa?" "Yes, sir, made with milk, with a teaspoonful of sugar, and two teaspoonfuls of rum in it." "Who took it to her room?" "I did, sir." "Always?" "Yes, sir." "At what time?" "When I went to draw the curtains, as a rule, sir." "Did you bring it straight up from the kitchen then?" "No, sir, you see there's not much room on the gas stove, so cook used to make it early, before putting the vegetables on for supper. Then I used to bring it up, and put it on the table by the swing door, and take it into her room later." "The swing door is in the left wing, is it not?" "Yes, sir." "And the table, is it on this side of the door, or on the farther servants' side?" "It's this side, sir." "What time did you bring it up last night?" "About quarter-past seven, I should say, sir." "And when did you take it into Mrs. Inglethorp's room?" "When I went to shut up, sir. About eight o'clock. Mrs. Inglethorp came up to bed before I'd finished." "Then, between seven-fifteen and eight o'clock, the cocoa was standing on the table in the left wing?" "Yes, sir." Annie had been growing redder and redder in the face, and now she blurted out unexpectedly: "And if there _was_ salt in it, sir, it wasn't me. I never took the salt near it." "What makes you think there was salt in it?" asked Poirot. "Seeing it on the tray, sir." "You saw some salt on the tray?" "Yes. Coarse kitchen salt, it looked. I never noticed it when I took the tray up, but when I came to take it into the mistress's room I saw it at once, and I suppose I ought to have taken it down again, and asked cook to make some fresh. But I was in a hurry, because Dorcas was out, and I thought maybe the cocoa itself was all right, and the salt had | you find it? I looked everywhere for it." "Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?" Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question. "No, sir." "Are you quite sure?" "Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?" "Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't." "Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir." "What time did you go out last evening?" "About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!" "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.<|quote|>"I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can have noticed it."</|quote|>"It does not matter," said Poirot, not betraying any sign of disappointment. "Now I want to ask you about something else. There is a saucepan in Mrs. Inglethorp's room with some cocoa in it. Did she have that every night?" "Yes, sir, it was put in her room every evening, and she warmed it up in the night whenever she fancied it." "What was it? Plain cocoa?" "Yes, sir, made with milk, with a teaspoonful of sugar, and two teaspoonfuls of rum in it." "Who took it to her room?" "I did, sir." "Always?" "Yes, sir." "At what time?" "When I went to draw the curtains, as a rule, sir." "Did you bring it straight up from the kitchen then?" "No, sir, you see there's not much room on the gas stove, so cook used to make it early, before putting the vegetables on for supper. Then I used to bring it up, and put it on the table by the swing door, and take it into her room later." "The swing door is in the left wing, is it not?" "Yes, sir." "And the table, is it on this side of the door, or on the farther servants' side?" "It's this side, sir." "What time did you bring it up last night?" "About quarter-past seven, I should say, sir." "And when did you take it into Mrs. Inglethorp's room?" "When I went to shut up, sir. About eight o'clock. Mrs. Inglethorp came up to bed before I'd finished." "Then, between seven-fifteen and eight o'clock, the cocoa was standing on the table in the left wing?" "Yes, sir." Annie had been growing redder and redder in the face, and now she blurted out unexpectedly: "And if there _was_ salt in it, sir, it wasn't me. I never took the salt near it." "What makes you think there was salt in it?" asked Poirot. "Seeing it on the tray, sir." "You saw some salt on the tray?" "Yes. Coarse kitchen salt, it looked. I never noticed it when I took the tray up, but when I came to take it into the mistress's room I saw it at once, and I suppose I ought to have taken it down again, and asked cook to make some fresh. But I was in a hurry, because Dorcas was out, and I thought maybe the cocoa itself was all right, and the salt had only gone on the tray. So I dusted it off with my apron, and took it in." I had the utmost difficulty in controlling my excitement. Unknown to herself, Annie had provided us with an important piece of evidence. How she would have gaped if she had realized that her "coarse kitchen salt" was strychnine, one of the most deadly poisons known to mankind. I marvelled at Poirot's calm. His self-control was astonishing. I awaited his next question with impatience, but it disappointed me. "When you went into Mrs. Inglethorp's room, was the door leading into Miss Cynthia's room bolted?" "Oh! Yes, sir; it always was. It had never been opened." "And the door into Mr. Inglethorp's room? Did you notice if that was bolted too?" Annie hesitated. "I couldn't rightly say, sir; it was shut but I couldn't say whether it was bolted or not." "When you finally left the room, did Mrs. Inglethorp bolt the door after you?" "No, sir, not then, but I expect she did later. She usually did lock it at night. The door into the passage, that is." "Did you notice any candle grease on the floor when you did the room yesterday?" "Candle grease? Oh, no, sir. Mrs. Inglethorp didn't have a candle, only a reading-lamp." "Then, if there had been a large patch of candle grease on the floor, you think you would have been sure to have seen it?" "Yes, sir, and I would have taken it out with a piece of blotting-paper and a hot iron." Then Poirot repeated the question he had put to Dorcas: "Did your mistress ever have a green dress?" "No, sir." "Nor a mantle, nor a cape, nor a how do you call it? a sports coat?" "Not green, sir." "Nor anyone else in the house?" Annie reflected. "No, sir." "You are sure of that?" "Quite sure." "_Bien!_ That is all I want to know. Thank you very much." With a nervous giggle, Annie took herself creakingly out of the room. My pent-up excitement burst forth. "Poirot," I cried, "I congratulate you! This is a great discovery." "What is a great discovery?" "Why, that it was the cocoa and not the coffee that was poisoned. That explains everything! Of course it did not take effect until the early morning, since the cocoa was only drunk in the middle of the night." "So you think that | Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir." "What time did you go out last evening?" "About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!" "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.<|quote|>"I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can have noticed it."</|quote|>"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 | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
In the old days an Englishwoman would not have had to appear, nor would any Indian have dared to discuss her private affairs. She would have made her deposition, and judgment would have followed. He apologized to her for the condition of the country, with the result that she gave one of her sudden little shoots of tears. Ronny wandered miserably about the room while she cried, treading upon the flowers of the Kashmir carpet that so inevitably covered it or drumming on the brass Benares bowls. | No speaker | them "the fruits of democracy."<|quote|>In the old days an Englishwoman would not have had to appear, nor would any Indian have dared to discuss her private affairs. She would have made her deposition, and judgment would have followed. He apologized to her for the condition of the country, with the result that she gave one of her sudden little shoots of tears. Ronny wandered miserably about the room while she cried, treading upon the flowers of the Kashmir carpet that so inevitably covered it or drumming on the brass Benares bowls.</|quote|>"I do this less every | over the arrangements, and called them "the fruits of democracy."<|quote|>In the old days an Englishwoman would not have had to appear, nor would any Indian have dared to discuss her private affairs. She would have made her deposition, and judgment would have followed. He apologized to her for the condition of the country, with the result that she gave one of her sudden little shoots of tears. Ronny wandered miserably about the room while she cried, treading upon the flowers of the Kashmir carpet that so inevitably covered it or drumming on the brass Benares bowls.</|quote|>"I do this less every day, I shall soon be | some of the women had sent a telegram about it to Lady Mellanby, the wife of the Lieutenant-Governor. "I must come before someone." "That's that's the way to face it. You have the pluck, Miss Quested." He grew very bitter over the arrangements, and called them "the fruits of democracy."<|quote|>In the old days an Englishwoman would not have had to appear, nor would any Indian have dared to discuss her private affairs. She would have made her deposition, and judgment would have followed. He apologized to her for the condition of the country, with the result that she gave one of her sudden little shoots of tears. Ronny wandered miserably about the room while she cried, treading upon the flowers of the Kashmir carpet that so inevitably covered it or drumming on the brass Benares bowls.</|quote|>"I do this less every day, I shall soon be quite well," she said, blowing her nose and feeling hideous. "What I need is something to do. That is why I keep on with this ridiculous crying." "It's not ridiculous, we think you wonderful," said the policeman very sincerely. "It | Ronny's assistant own brother to the Mrs. Bhattacharya whose carriage had played them false last month. He was courteous and intelligent, and with the evidence before him could only come to one conclusion; but that he should be judge over an English girl had convulsed the station with wrath, and some of the women had sent a telegram about it to Lady Mellanby, the wife of the Lieutenant-Governor. "I must come before someone." "That's that's the way to face it. You have the pluck, Miss Quested." He grew very bitter over the arrangements, and called them "the fruits of democracy."<|quote|>In the old days an Englishwoman would not have had to appear, nor would any Indian have dared to discuss her private affairs. She would have made her deposition, and judgment would have followed. He apologized to her for the condition of the country, with the result that she gave one of her sudden little shoots of tears. Ronny wandered miserably about the room while she cried, treading upon the flowers of the Kashmir carpet that so inevitably covered it or drumming on the brass Benares bowls.</|quote|>"I do this less every day, I shall soon be quite well," she said, blowing her nose and feeling hideous. "What I need is something to do. That is why I keep on with this ridiculous crying." "It's not ridiculous, we think you wonderful," said the policeman very sincerely. "It only bothers us that we can't help you more. Your stopping here at such a time is the greatest honour this house" He too was overcome with emotion. "By the way, a letter came here for you while you were ill," he continued. "I opened it, which is a strange | a fine piece of work. They passed on to another and very painful subject: the trial. She would have to appear in court, identify the prisoner, and submit to cross-examination by an Indian lawyer. "Can Mrs. Moore be with me?" was all she said. "Certainly, and I shall be there myself," Ronny replied. "The case won't come before me; they've objected to me on personal grounds. It will be at Chandrapore we thought at one time it would be transferred elsewhere." "Miss Quested realizes what all that means, though," said McBryde sadly. "The case will come before Das." Das was Ronny's assistant own brother to the Mrs. Bhattacharya whose carriage had played them false last month. He was courteous and intelligent, and with the evidence before him could only come to one conclusion; but that he should be judge over an English girl had convulsed the station with wrath, and some of the women had sent a telegram about it to Lady Mellanby, the wife of the Lieutenant-Governor. "I must come before someone." "That's that's the way to face it. You have the pluck, Miss Quested." He grew very bitter over the arrangements, and called them "the fruits of democracy."<|quote|>In the old days an Englishwoman would not have had to appear, nor would any Indian have dared to discuss her private affairs. She would have made her deposition, and judgment would have followed. He apologized to her for the condition of the country, with the result that she gave one of her sudden little shoots of tears. Ronny wandered miserably about the room while she cried, treading upon the flowers of the Kashmir carpet that so inevitably covered it or drumming on the brass Benares bowls.</|quote|>"I do this less every day, I shall soon be quite well," she said, blowing her nose and feeling hideous. "What I need is something to do. That is why I keep on with this ridiculous crying." "It's not ridiculous, we think you wonderful," said the policeman very sincerely. "It only bothers us that we can't help you more. Your stopping here at such a time is the greatest honour this house" He too was overcome with emotion. "By the way, a letter came here for you while you were ill," he continued. "I opened it, which is a strange confession to make. Will you forgive me? The circumstances are peculiar. It is from Fielding." "Why should he write to me?" "A most lamentable thing has happened. The defence got hold of him." "He's a crank, a crank," said Ronny lightly. "That's your way of putting it, but a man can be a crank without being a cad. Miss Quested had better know how he behaved to you. If you don't tell her, somebody else will." He told her. "He is now the mainstay of the defence, I needn't add. He is the one righteous Englishman in a horde of | seal the broken reservoir. Evil was loose . . . she could even hear it entering the lives of others. . . . And Adela spent days in this atmosphere of grief and depression. Her friends kept up their spirits by demanding holocausts of natives, but she was too worried and weak to do that. When the cactus thorns had all been extracted, and her temperature fallen to normal, Ronny came to fetch her away. He was worn with indignation and suffering, and she wished she could comfort him; but intimacy seemed to caricature itself, and the more they spoke the more wretched and self-conscious they became. Practical talk was the least painful, and he and McBryde now told her one or two things which they had concealed from her during the crisis, by the doctor's orders. She learnt for the first time of the Mohurram troubles. There had nearly been a riot. The last day of the festival, the great procession left its official route, and tried to enter the civil station, and a telephone had been cut because it interrupted the advance of one of the larger paper towers. McBryde and his police had pulled the thing straight a fine piece of work. They passed on to another and very painful subject: the trial. She would have to appear in court, identify the prisoner, and submit to cross-examination by an Indian lawyer. "Can Mrs. Moore be with me?" was all she said. "Certainly, and I shall be there myself," Ronny replied. "The case won't come before me; they've objected to me on personal grounds. It will be at Chandrapore we thought at one time it would be transferred elsewhere." "Miss Quested realizes what all that means, though," said McBryde sadly. "The case will come before Das." Das was Ronny's assistant own brother to the Mrs. Bhattacharya whose carriage had played them false last month. He was courteous and intelligent, and with the evidence before him could only come to one conclusion; but that he should be judge over an English girl had convulsed the station with wrath, and some of the women had sent a telegram about it to Lady Mellanby, the wife of the Lieutenant-Governor. "I must come before someone." "That's that's the way to face it. You have the pluck, Miss Quested." He grew very bitter over the arrangements, and called them "the fruits of democracy."<|quote|>In the old days an Englishwoman would not have had to appear, nor would any Indian have dared to discuss her private affairs. She would have made her deposition, and judgment would have followed. He apologized to her for the condition of the country, with the result that she gave one of her sudden little shoots of tears. Ronny wandered miserably about the room while she cried, treading upon the flowers of the Kashmir carpet that so inevitably covered it or drumming on the brass Benares bowls.</|quote|>"I do this less every day, I shall soon be quite well," she said, blowing her nose and feeling hideous. "What I need is something to do. That is why I keep on with this ridiculous crying." "It's not ridiculous, we think you wonderful," said the policeman very sincerely. "It only bothers us that we can't help you more. Your stopping here at such a time is the greatest honour this house" He too was overcome with emotion. "By the way, a letter came here for you while you were ill," he continued. "I opened it, which is a strange confession to make. Will you forgive me? The circumstances are peculiar. It is from Fielding." "Why should he write to me?" "A most lamentable thing has happened. The defence got hold of him." "He's a crank, a crank," said Ronny lightly. "That's your way of putting it, but a man can be a crank without being a cad. Miss Quested had better know how he behaved to you. If you don't tell her, somebody else will." He told her. "He is now the mainstay of the defence, I needn't add. He is the one righteous Englishman in a horde of tyrants. He receives deputations from the bazaar, and they all chew betel nut and smear one another's hands with scent. It is not easy to enter into the mind of such a man. His students are on strike out of enthusiasm for him they won't learn their lessons. If it weren't for Fielding one would never have had the Mohurram trouble. He has done a very grave disservice to the whole community. The letter lay here a day or two, waiting till you were well enough, then the situation got so grave that I decided to open it in case it was useful to us." "Is it?" she said feebly. "Not at all. He only has the impertinence to suggest you have made a mistake." "Would that I had!" She glanced through the letter, which was careful and formal in its wording. "Dr. Aziz is innocent," she read. Then her voice began to tremble again. "But think of his behaviour to you, Ronny. When you had already to bear so much for my sake! It was shocking of him. My dear, how can I repay you? How can one repay when one has nothing to give? What is the use | my finger-nail, to start the usual echo, and then as I was saying there was this shadow, or sort of shadow, down the entrance tunnel, bottling me up. It seemed like an age, but I suppose the whole thing can't have lasted thirty seconds really. I hit at him with the glasses, he pulled me round the cave by the strap, it broke, I escaped, that's all. He never actually touched me once. It all seems such nonsense." Then her eyes would fill with tears. "Naturally I'm upset, but I shall get over it." And then she would break down entirely, and the women would feel she was one of themselves and cry too, and men in the next room murmur: "Good God, good God!" No one realized that she thought tears vile, a degradation more subtle than anything endured in the Marabar, a negation of her advanced outlook and the natural honesty of her mind. Adela was always trying to "think the incident out," always reminding herself that no harm had been done. There was "the shock," but what is that? For a time her own logic would convince her, then she would hear the echo again, weep, declare she was unworthy of Ronny, and hope her assailant would get the maximum penalty. After one of these bouts, she longed to go out into the bazaars and ask pardon from everyone she met, for she felt in some vague way that she was leaving the world worse than she found it. She felt that it was her crime, until the intellect, reawakening, pointed out to her that she was inaccurate here, and set her again upon her sterile round. If only she could have seen Mrs. Moore! The old lady had not been well either, and was disinclined to come out, Ronny reported. And consequently the echo flourished, raging up and down like a nerve in the faculty of her hearing, and the noise in the cave, so unimportant intellectually, was prolonged over the surface of her life. She had struck the polished wall for no reason and before the comment had died away, he followed her, and the climax was the falling of her field-glasses. The sound had spouted after her when she escaped, and was going on still like a river that gradually floods the plain. Only Mrs. Moore could drive it back to its source and seal the broken reservoir. Evil was loose . . . she could even hear it entering the lives of others. . . . And Adela spent days in this atmosphere of grief and depression. Her friends kept up their spirits by demanding holocausts of natives, but she was too worried and weak to do that. When the cactus thorns had all been extracted, and her temperature fallen to normal, Ronny came to fetch her away. He was worn with indignation and suffering, and she wished she could comfort him; but intimacy seemed to caricature itself, and the more they spoke the more wretched and self-conscious they became. Practical talk was the least painful, and he and McBryde now told her one or two things which they had concealed from her during the crisis, by the doctor's orders. She learnt for the first time of the Mohurram troubles. There had nearly been a riot. The last day of the festival, the great procession left its official route, and tried to enter the civil station, and a telephone had been cut because it interrupted the advance of one of the larger paper towers. McBryde and his police had pulled the thing straight a fine piece of work. They passed on to another and very painful subject: the trial. She would have to appear in court, identify the prisoner, and submit to cross-examination by an Indian lawyer. "Can Mrs. Moore be with me?" was all she said. "Certainly, and I shall be there myself," Ronny replied. "The case won't come before me; they've objected to me on personal grounds. It will be at Chandrapore we thought at one time it would be transferred elsewhere." "Miss Quested realizes what all that means, though," said McBryde sadly. "The case will come before Das." Das was Ronny's assistant own brother to the Mrs. Bhattacharya whose carriage had played them false last month. He was courteous and intelligent, and with the evidence before him could only come to one conclusion; but that he should be judge over an English girl had convulsed the station with wrath, and some of the women had sent a telegram about it to Lady Mellanby, the wife of the Lieutenant-Governor. "I must come before someone." "That's that's the way to face it. You have the pluck, Miss Quested." He grew very bitter over the arrangements, and called them "the fruits of democracy."<|quote|>In the old days an Englishwoman would not have had to appear, nor would any Indian have dared to discuss her private affairs. She would have made her deposition, and judgment would have followed. He apologized to her for the condition of the country, with the result that she gave one of her sudden little shoots of tears. Ronny wandered miserably about the room while she cried, treading upon the flowers of the Kashmir carpet that so inevitably covered it or drumming on the brass Benares bowls.</|quote|>"I do this less every day, I shall soon be quite well," she said, blowing her nose and feeling hideous. "What I need is something to do. That is why I keep on with this ridiculous crying." "It's not ridiculous, we think you wonderful," said the policeman very sincerely. "It only bothers us that we can't help you more. Your stopping here at such a time is the greatest honour this house" He too was overcome with emotion. "By the way, a letter came here for you while you were ill," he continued. "I opened it, which is a strange confession to make. Will you forgive me? The circumstances are peculiar. It is from Fielding." "Why should he write to me?" "A most lamentable thing has happened. The defence got hold of him." "He's a crank, a crank," said Ronny lightly. "That's your way of putting it, but a man can be a crank without being a cad. Miss Quested had better know how he behaved to you. If you don't tell her, somebody else will." He told her. "He is now the mainstay of the defence, I needn't add. He is the one righteous Englishman in a horde of tyrants. He receives deputations from the bazaar, and they all chew betel nut and smear one another's hands with scent. It is not easy to enter into the mind of such a man. His students are on strike out of enthusiasm for him they won't learn their lessons. If it weren't for Fielding one would never have had the Mohurram trouble. He has done a very grave disservice to the whole community. The letter lay here a day or two, waiting till you were well enough, then the situation got so grave that I decided to open it in case it was useful to us." "Is it?" she said feebly. "Not at all. He only has the impertinence to suggest you have made a mistake." "Would that I had!" She glanced through the letter, which was careful and formal in its wording. "Dr. Aziz is innocent," she read. Then her voice began to tremble again. "But think of his behaviour to you, Ronny. When you had already to bear so much for my sake! It was shocking of him. My dear, how can I repay you? How can one repay when one has nothing to give? What is the use of personal relationships when everyone brings less and less to them? I feel we ought all to go back into the desert for centuries and try and get good. I want to begin at the beginning. All the things I thought I'd learnt are just a hindrance, they're not knowledge at all. I'm not fit for personal relationships. Well, let's go, let's go. Of course Mr. Fielding's letter doesn't count; he can think and write what he likes, only he shouldn't have been rude to you when you had so much to bear. That's what matters. . . . I don't want your arm, I'm a magnificent walker, so don't touch me, please." Mrs. McBryde wished her an affectionate good-bye a woman with whom she had nothing in common and whose intimacy oppressed her. They would have to meet now, year after year, until one of their husbands was superannuated. Truly Anglo-India had caught her with a vengeance, and perhaps it served her right for having tried to take up a line of her own. Humbled yet repelled, she gave thanks. "Oh, we must help one another, we must take the rough with the smooth," said Mrs. McBryde. Miss Derek was there too, still making jokes about her comic Maharajah and Rani. Required as a witness at the trial, she had refused to send back the Mudkul car; they would be frightfully sick. Both Mrs. McBryde and Miss Derek kissed her, and called her by her Christian name. Then Ronny drove her back. It was early in the morning, for the day, as the hot weather advanced, swelled like a monster at both ends, and left less and less room for the movements of mortals. As they neared his bungalow, he said: "Mother's looking forward to seeing you, but of course she's old, one mustn't forget that. Old people never take things as one expects, in my opinion." He seemed warning her against approaching disappointment, but she took no notice. Her friendship with Mrs. Moore was so deep and real that she felt sure it would last, whatever else happened. "What can I do to make things easier for you? it's you who matter," she sighed. "Dear old girl to say so." "Dear old boy." Then she cried: "Ronny, she isn't ill too?" He reassured her; Major Callendar was not dissatisfied. "But you'll find her irritable. We are an irritable | source and seal the broken reservoir. Evil was loose . . . she could even hear it entering the lives of others. . . . And Adela spent days in this atmosphere of grief and depression. Her friends kept up their spirits by demanding holocausts of natives, but she was too worried and weak to do that. When the cactus thorns had all been extracted, and her temperature fallen to normal, Ronny came to fetch her away. He was worn with indignation and suffering, and she wished she could comfort him; but intimacy seemed to caricature itself, and the more they spoke the more wretched and self-conscious they became. Practical talk was the least painful, and he and McBryde now told her one or two things which they had concealed from her during the crisis, by the doctor's orders. She learnt for the first time of the Mohurram troubles. There had nearly been a riot. The last day of the festival, the great procession left its official route, and tried to enter the civil station, and a telephone had been cut because it interrupted the advance of one of the larger paper towers. McBryde and his police had pulled the thing straight a fine piece of work. They passed on to another and very painful subject: the trial. She would have to appear in court, identify the prisoner, and submit to cross-examination by an Indian lawyer. "Can Mrs. Moore be with me?" was all she said. "Certainly, and I shall be there myself," Ronny replied. "The case won't come before me; they've objected to me on personal grounds. It will be at Chandrapore we thought at one time it would be transferred elsewhere." "Miss Quested realizes what all that means, though," said McBryde sadly. "The case will come before Das." Das was Ronny's assistant own brother to the Mrs. Bhattacharya whose carriage had played them false last month. He was courteous and intelligent, and with the evidence before him could only come to one conclusion; but that he should be judge over an English girl had convulsed the station with wrath, and some of the women had sent a telegram about it to Lady Mellanby, the wife of the Lieutenant-Governor. "I must come before someone." "That's that's the way to face it. You have the pluck, Miss Quested." He grew very bitter over the arrangements, and called them "the fruits of democracy."<|quote|>In the old days an Englishwoman would not have had to appear, nor would any Indian have dared to discuss her private affairs. She would have made her deposition, and judgment would have followed. He apologized to her for the condition of the country, with the result that she gave one of her sudden little shoots of tears. Ronny wandered miserably about the room while she cried, treading upon the flowers of the Kashmir carpet that so inevitably covered it or drumming on the brass Benares bowls.</|quote|>"I do this less every day, I shall soon be quite well," she said, blowing her nose and feeling hideous. "What I need is something to do. That is why I keep on with this ridiculous crying." "It's not ridiculous, we think you wonderful," said the policeman very sincerely. "It only bothers us that we can't help you more. Your stopping here at such a time is the greatest honour this house" He too was overcome with emotion. "By the way, a letter came here for you while you were ill," he continued. "I opened it, which is a strange confession to make. Will you forgive me? The circumstances are peculiar. It is from Fielding." "Why should he write to me?" "A most lamentable thing has happened. The defence got hold of him." "He's a crank, a crank," said Ronny lightly. "That's your way of putting it, but a man can be a crank without being a cad. Miss Quested had better know how he behaved to you. If you don't tell her, somebody else will." He told her. "He is now the mainstay of the defence, I needn't add. He is the one righteous Englishman in a horde of tyrants. He receives deputations from the bazaar, and they all chew betel nut and smear one another's hands with scent. It is not easy to enter into the mind of such a man. His students are on strike out of enthusiasm for him they won't learn their lessons. If it weren't for Fielding one would never have had the Mohurram trouble. He has done a very grave disservice to the whole community. The letter lay here a day or two, waiting till you were well enough, then the situation got | A Passage To India |
“We’re all white here,” | Jordan | the last barrier of civilization.<|quote|>“We’re all white here,”</|quote|>murmured Jordan. “I know I’m | saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization.<|quote|>“We’re all white here,”</|quote|>murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t | if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization.<|quote|>“We’re all white here,”</|quote|>murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his | Gatsby was content. “He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.” “Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization.<|quote|>“We’re all white here,”</|quote|>murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete. “I’ve got something to tell you, old sport—” began Gatsby. But Daisy guessed at his intention. “Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all go home. Why don’t we all go home?” “That’s a good idea,” I got up. “Come | get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.” “Go on,” Gatsby said politely. “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content. “He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.” “Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization.<|quote|>“We’re all white here,”</|quote|>murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete. “I’ve got something to tell you, old sport—” began Gatsby. But Daisy guessed at his intention. “Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all go home. Why don’t we all go home?” “That’s a good idea,” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.” “I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.” “Your wife doesn’t love you,” said Gatsby. “She’s never loved you. She loves me.” “You must be crazy!” exclaimed Tom automatically. Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement. “She never loved you, do you hear?” he cried. “She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved anyone except me!” At this point Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby insisted | your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.” A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting: “You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.” “Go on,” Gatsby said politely. “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content. “He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.” “Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization.<|quote|>“We’re all white here,”</|quote|>murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete. “I’ve got something to tell you, old sport—” began Gatsby. But Daisy guessed at his intention. “Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all go home. Why don’t we all go home?” “That’s a good idea,” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.” “I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.” “Your wife doesn’t love you,” said Gatsby. “She’s never loved you. She loves me.” “You must be crazy!” exclaimed Tom automatically. Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement. “She never loved you, do you hear?” he cried. “She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved anyone except me!” At this point Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby insisted with competitive firmness that we remain—as though neither of them had anything to conceal and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously of their emotions. “Sit down, Daisy,” Tom’s voice groped unsuccessfully for the paternal note. “What’s been going on? I want to hear all about it.” “I told you what’s been going on,” said Gatsby. “Going on for five years—and you didn’t know.” Tom turned to Daisy sharply. “You’ve been seeing this fellow for five years?” “Not seeing,” said Gatsby. “No, we couldn’t meet. But both of us loved each other all that time, old sport, and you didn’t know. I used to laugh sometimes” —but there was no laughter in his eyes— “to think that you didn’t know.” “Oh—that’s all.” Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a clergyman and leaned back in his chair. “You’re crazy!” he exploded. “I can’t speak about what happened five years ago, because I didn’t know Daisy then—and I’ll be damned if I see how you got within a mile of her unless you brought the groceries to the back door. But all the rest of that’s a God damned lie. Daisy loved me when she married me and she loves | floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair. “That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.” A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting: “You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.” “Go on,” Gatsby said politely. “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content. “He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.” “Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization.<|quote|>“We’re all white here,”</|quote|>murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete. “I’ve got something to tell you, old sport—” began Gatsby. But Daisy guessed at his intention. “Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all go home. Why don’t we all go home?” “That’s a good idea,” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.” “I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.” “Your wife doesn’t love you,” said Gatsby. “She’s never loved you. She loves me.” “You must be crazy!” exclaimed Tom automatically. Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement. “She never loved you, do you hear?” he cried. “She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved anyone except me!” At this point Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby insisted with competitive firmness that we remain—as though neither of them had anything to conceal and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously of their emotions. “Sit down, Daisy,” Tom’s voice groped unsuccessfully for the paternal note. “What’s been going on? I want to hear all about it.” “I told you what’s been going on,” said Gatsby. “Going on for five years—and you didn’t know.” Tom turned to Daisy sharply. “You’ve been seeing this fellow for five years?” “Not seeing,” said Gatsby. “No, we couldn’t meet. But both of us loved each other all that time, old sport, and you didn’t know. I used to laugh sometimes” —but there was no laughter in his eyes— “to think that you didn’t know.” “Oh—that’s all.” Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a clergyman and leaned back in his chair. “You’re crazy!” he exploded. “I can’t speak about what happened five years ago, because I didn’t know Daisy then—and I’ll be damned if I see how you got within a mile of her unless you brought the groceries to the back door. But all the rest of that’s a God damned lie. Daisy loved me when she married me and she loves me now.” “No,” said Gatsby, shaking his head. “She does, though. The trouble is that sometimes she gets foolish ideas in her head and doesn’t know what she’s doing.” He nodded sagely. “And what’s more, I love Daisy too. Once in a while I go off on a spree and make a fool of myself, but I always come back, and in my heart I love her all the time.” “You’re revolting,” said Daisy. She turned to me, and her voice, dropping an octave lower, filled the room with thrilling scorn: “Do you know why we left Chicago? I’m surprised that they didn’t treat you to the story of that little spree.” Gatsby walked over and stood beside her. “Daisy, that’s all over now,” he said earnestly. “It doesn’t matter any more. Just tell him the truth—that you never loved him—and it’s all wiped out forever.” She looked at him blindly. “Why—how could I love him—possibly?” “You never loved him.” She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal, as though she realized at last what she was doing—and as though she had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done now. It was too late. “I never loved him,” she said, with perceptible reluctance. “Not at Kapiolani?” demanded Tom suddenly. “No.” From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords were drifting up on hot waves of air. “Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone … “Daisy?” “Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancour was gone from it. She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said—but her hand as she tried to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet. “Oh, you want too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now—isn’t that enough? I can’t help what’s past.” She began to sob helplessly. “I did love him once—but I loved you too.” Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed. “You loved me too?” he repeated. “Even that’s a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn’t know you were alive. Why—there’s things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know, things that neither of us can ever forget.” The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby. “I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. | understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.” A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting: “You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.” “Go on,” Gatsby said politely. “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content. “He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.” “Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization.<|quote|>“We’re all white here,”</|quote|>murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete. “I’ve got something to tell you, old sport—” began Gatsby. But Daisy guessed at his intention. “Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all go home. Why don’t we all go home?” “That’s a good idea,” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.” “I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.” “Your wife doesn’t love you,” said Gatsby. “She’s never loved you. She loves me.” “You must be crazy!” exclaimed Tom automatically. Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement. “She never loved you, do you hear?” he cried. “She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved anyone except me!” At this point Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby insisted with competitive firmness that we remain—as though neither | The Great Gatsby |
she said. | No speaker | had a bad headache yesterday,"<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>"Matthew went to Bright River. | I'm quite well although I had a bad headache yesterday,"<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>"Matthew went to Bright River. We're getting a little boy | thought maybe he was going to the doctor's." Marilla's lips twitched understandingly. She had expected Mrs. Rachel up; she had known that the sight of Matthew jaunting off so unaccountably would be too much for her neighbor's curiosity. "Oh, no, I'm quite well although I had a bad headache yesterday,"<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>"Matthew went to Bright River. We're getting a little boy from an orphan asylum in Nova Scotia and he's coming on the train tonight." If Marilla had said that Matthew had gone to Bright River to meet a kangaroo from Australia Mrs. Rachel could not have been more astonished. She | there was a saving something about her mouth which, if it had been ever so slightly developed, might have been considered indicative of a sense of humor. "We're all pretty well," said Mrs. Rachel. "I was kind of afraid _you_ weren't, though, when I saw Matthew starting off today. I thought maybe he was going to the doctor's." Marilla's lips twitched understandingly. She had expected Mrs. Rachel up; she had known that the sight of Matthew jaunting off so unaccountably would be too much for her neighbor's curiosity. "Oh, no, I'm quite well although I had a bad headache yesterday,"<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>"Matthew went to Bright River. We're getting a little boy from an orphan asylum in Nova Scotia and he's coming on the train tonight." If Marilla had said that Matthew had gone to Bright River to meet a kangaroo from Australia Mrs. Rachel could not have been more astonished. She was actually stricken dumb for five seconds. It was unsupposable that Marilla was making fun of her, but Mrs. Rachel was almost forced to suppose it. "Are you in earnest, Marilla?" she demanded when voice returned to her. "Yes, of course," said Marilla, as if getting boys from orphan asylums | briskly. "This is a real fine evening, isn't it? Won't you sit down? How are all your folks?" Something that for lack of any other name might be called friendship existed and always had existed between Marilla Cuthbert and Mrs. Rachel, in spite of--or perhaps because of--their dissimilarity. Marilla was a tall, thin woman, with angles and without curves; her dark hair showed some gray streaks and was always twisted up in a hard little knot behind with two wire hairpins stuck aggressively through it. She looked like a woman of narrow experience and rigid conscience, which she was; but there was a saving something about her mouth which, if it had been ever so slightly developed, might have been considered indicative of a sense of humor. "We're all pretty well," said Mrs. Rachel. "I was kind of afraid _you_ weren't, though, when I saw Matthew starting off today. I thought maybe he was going to the doctor's." Marilla's lips twitched understandingly. She had expected Mrs. Rachel up; she had known that the sight of Matthew jaunting off so unaccountably would be too much for her neighbor's curiosity. "Oh, no, I'm quite well although I had a bad headache yesterday,"<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>"Matthew went to Bright River. We're getting a little boy from an orphan asylum in Nova Scotia and he's coming on the train tonight." If Marilla had said that Matthew had gone to Bright River to meet a kangaroo from Australia Mrs. Rachel could not have been more astonished. She was actually stricken dumb for five seconds. It was unsupposable that Marilla was making fun of her, but Mrs. Rachel was almost forced to suppose it. "Are you in earnest, Marilla?" she demanded when voice returned to her. "Yes, of course," said Marilla, as if getting boys from orphan asylums in Nova Scotia were part of the usual spring work on any well-regulated Avonlea farm instead of being an unheard of innovation. Mrs. Rachel felt that she had received a severe mental jolt. She thought in exclamation points. A boy! Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert of all people adopting a boy! From an orphan asylum! Well, the world was certainly turning upside down! She would be surprised at nothing after this! Nothing! "What on earth put such a notion into your head?" she demanded disapprovingly. This had been done without her advice being asked, and must perforce be disapproved. "Well, we've | through the west one, looking out on the back yard, came a flood of mellow June sunlight; but the east one, whence you got a glimpse of the bloom white cherry-trees in the left orchard and nodding, slender birches down in the hollow by the brook, was greened over by a tangle of vines. Here sat Marilla Cuthbert, when she sat at all, always slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously; and here she sat now, knitting, and the table behind her was laid for supper. Mrs. Rachel, before she had fairly closed the door, had taken a mental note of everything that was on that table. There were three plates laid, so that Marilla must be expecting some one home with Matthew to tea; but the dishes were everyday dishes and there was only crab-apple preserves and one kind of cake, so that the expected company could not be any particular company. Yet what of Matthew's white collar and the sorrel mare? Mrs. Rachel was getting fairly dizzy with this unusual mystery about quiet, unmysterious Green Gables. "Good evening, Rachel," Marilla said briskly. "This is a real fine evening, isn't it? Won't you sit down? How are all your folks?" Something that for lack of any other name might be called friendship existed and always had existed between Marilla Cuthbert and Mrs. Rachel, in spite of--or perhaps because of--their dissimilarity. Marilla was a tall, thin woman, with angles and without curves; her dark hair showed some gray streaks and was always twisted up in a hard little knot behind with two wire hairpins stuck aggressively through it. She looked like a woman of narrow experience and rigid conscience, which she was; but there was a saving something about her mouth which, if it had been ever so slightly developed, might have been considered indicative of a sense of humor. "We're all pretty well," said Mrs. Rachel. "I was kind of afraid _you_ weren't, though, when I saw Matthew starting off today. I thought maybe he was going to the doctor's." Marilla's lips twitched understandingly. She had expected Mrs. Rachel up; she had known that the sight of Matthew jaunting off so unaccountably would be too much for her neighbor's curiosity. "Oh, no, I'm quite well although I had a bad headache yesterday,"<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>"Matthew went to Bright River. We're getting a little boy from an orphan asylum in Nova Scotia and he's coming on the train tonight." If Marilla had said that Matthew had gone to Bright River to meet a kangaroo from Australia Mrs. Rachel could not have been more astonished. She was actually stricken dumb for five seconds. It was unsupposable that Marilla was making fun of her, but Mrs. Rachel was almost forced to suppose it. "Are you in earnest, Marilla?" she demanded when voice returned to her. "Yes, of course," said Marilla, as if getting boys from orphan asylums in Nova Scotia were part of the usual spring work on any well-regulated Avonlea farm instead of being an unheard of innovation. Mrs. Rachel felt that she had received a severe mental jolt. She thought in exclamation points. A boy! Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert of all people adopting a boy! From an orphan asylum! Well, the world was certainly turning upside down! She would be surprised at nothing after this! Nothing! "What on earth put such a notion into your head?" she demanded disapprovingly. This had been done without her advice being asked, and must perforce be disapproved. "Well, we've been thinking about it for some time--all winter in fact," returned Marilla. "Mrs. Alexander Spencer was up here one day before Christmas and she said she was going to get a little girl from the asylum over in Hopeton in the spring. Her cousin lives there and Mrs. Spencer has visited here and knows all about it. So Matthew and I have talked it over off and on ever since. We thought we'd get a boy. Matthew is getting up in years, you know--he's sixty--and he isn't so spry as he once was. His heart troubles him a good deal. And you know how desperate hard it's got to be to get hired help. There's never anybody to be had but those stupid, half-grown little French boys; and as soon as you do get one broke into your ways and taught something he's up and off to the lobster canneries or the States. At first Matthew suggested getting a Home boy. But I said" ?no' "flat to that." ?They may be all right--I'm not saying they're not--but no London street Arabs for me,' "I said." ?Give me a native born at least. There'll be a risk, no matter who we | off. I'm clean puzzled, that's what, and I won't know a minute's peace of mind or conscience until I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea today." Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she had not far to go; the big, rambling, orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile up the road from Lynde's Hollow. To be sure, the long lane made it a good deal further. Matthew Cuthbert's father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far away as he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods when he founded his homestead. Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land and there it was to this day, barely visible from the main road along which all the other Avonlea houses were so sociably situated. Mrs. Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a place _living_ at all. "It's just _staying_, that's what," she said as she stepped along the deep-rutted, grassy lane bordered with wild rose bushes. "It's no wonder Matthew and Marilla are both a little odd, living away back here by themselves. Trees aren't much company, though dear knows if they were there'd be enough of them. I'd ruther look at people. To be sure, they seem contented enough; but then, I suppose, they're used to it. A body can get used to anything, even to being hanged, as the Irishman said." With this Mrs. Rachel stepped out of the lane into the backyard of Green Gables. Very green and neat and precise was that yard, set about on one side with great patriarchal willows and the other with prim Lombardies. Not a stray stick nor stone was to be seen, for Mrs. Rachel would have seen it if there had been. Privately she was of the opinion that Marilla Cuthbert swept that yard over as often as she swept her house. One could have eaten a meal off the ground without over-brimming the proverbial peck of dirt. Mrs. Rachel rapped smartly at the kitchen door and stepped in when bidden to do so. The kitchen at Green Gables was a cheerful apartment--or would have been cheerful if it had not been so painfully clean as to give it something of the appearance of an unused parlor. Its windows looked east and west; through the west one, looking out on the back yard, came a flood of mellow June sunlight; but the east one, whence you got a glimpse of the bloom white cherry-trees in the left orchard and nodding, slender birches down in the hollow by the brook, was greened over by a tangle of vines. Here sat Marilla Cuthbert, when she sat at all, always slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously; and here she sat now, knitting, and the table behind her was laid for supper. Mrs. Rachel, before she had fairly closed the door, had taken a mental note of everything that was on that table. There were three plates laid, so that Marilla must be expecting some one home with Matthew to tea; but the dishes were everyday dishes and there was only crab-apple preserves and one kind of cake, so that the expected company could not be any particular company. Yet what of Matthew's white collar and the sorrel mare? Mrs. Rachel was getting fairly dizzy with this unusual mystery about quiet, unmysterious Green Gables. "Good evening, Rachel," Marilla said briskly. "This is a real fine evening, isn't it? Won't you sit down? How are all your folks?" Something that for lack of any other name might be called friendship existed and always had existed between Marilla Cuthbert and Mrs. Rachel, in spite of--or perhaps because of--their dissimilarity. Marilla was a tall, thin woman, with angles and without curves; her dark hair showed some gray streaks and was always twisted up in a hard little knot behind with two wire hairpins stuck aggressively through it. She looked like a woman of narrow experience and rigid conscience, which she was; but there was a saving something about her mouth which, if it had been ever so slightly developed, might have been considered indicative of a sense of humor. "We're all pretty well," said Mrs. Rachel. "I was kind of afraid _you_ weren't, though, when I saw Matthew starting off today. I thought maybe he was going to the doctor's." Marilla's lips twitched understandingly. She had expected Mrs. Rachel up; she had known that the sight of Matthew jaunting off so unaccountably would be too much for her neighbor's curiosity. "Oh, no, I'm quite well although I had a bad headache yesterday,"<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>"Matthew went to Bright River. We're getting a little boy from an orphan asylum in Nova Scotia and he's coming on the train tonight." If Marilla had said that Matthew had gone to Bright River to meet a kangaroo from Australia Mrs. Rachel could not have been more astonished. She was actually stricken dumb for five seconds. It was unsupposable that Marilla was making fun of her, but Mrs. Rachel was almost forced to suppose it. "Are you in earnest, Marilla?" she demanded when voice returned to her. "Yes, of course," said Marilla, as if getting boys from orphan asylums in Nova Scotia were part of the usual spring work on any well-regulated Avonlea farm instead of being an unheard of innovation. Mrs. Rachel felt that she had received a severe mental jolt. She thought in exclamation points. A boy! Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert of all people adopting a boy! From an orphan asylum! Well, the world was certainly turning upside down! She would be surprised at nothing after this! Nothing! "What on earth put such a notion into your head?" she demanded disapprovingly. This had been done without her advice being asked, and must perforce be disapproved. "Well, we've been thinking about it for some time--all winter in fact," returned Marilla. "Mrs. Alexander Spencer was up here one day before Christmas and she said she was going to get a little girl from the asylum over in Hopeton in the spring. Her cousin lives there and Mrs. Spencer has visited here and knows all about it. So Matthew and I have talked it over off and on ever since. We thought we'd get a boy. Matthew is getting up in years, you know--he's sixty--and he isn't so spry as he once was. His heart troubles him a good deal. And you know how desperate hard it's got to be to get hired help. There's never anybody to be had but those stupid, half-grown little French boys; and as soon as you do get one broke into your ways and taught something he's up and off to the lobster canneries or the States. At first Matthew suggested getting a Home boy. But I said" ?no' "flat to that." ?They may be all right--I'm not saying they're not--but no London street Arabs for me,' "I said." ?Give me a native born at least. There'll be a risk, no matter who we get. But I'll feel easier in my mind and sleep sounder at nights if we get a born Canadian.' "So in the end we decided to ask Mrs. Spencer to pick us out one when she went over to get her little girl. We heard last week she was going, so we sent her word by Richard Spencer's folks at Carmody to bring us a smart, likely boy of about ten or eleven. We decided that would be the best age--old enough to be of some use in doing chores right off and young enough to be trained up proper. We mean to give him a good home and schooling. We had a telegram from Mrs. Alexander Spencer today--the mail-man brought it from the station--saying they were coming on the five-thirty train tonight. So Matthew went to Bright River to meet him. Mrs. Spencer will drop him off there. Of course she goes on to White Sands station herself." Mrs. Rachel prided herself on always speaking her mind; she proceeded to speak it now, having adjusted her mental attitude to this amazing piece of news. "Well, Marilla, I'll just tell you plain that I think you're doing a mighty foolish thing--a risky thing, that's what. You don't know what you're getting. You're bringing a strange child into your house and home and you don't know a single thing about him nor what his disposition is like nor what sort of parents he had nor how he's likely to turn out. Why, it was only last week I read in the paper how a man and his wife up west of the Island took a boy out of an orphan asylum and he set fire to the house at night--set it _on purpose_, Marilla--and nearly burnt them to a crisp in their beds. And I know another case where an adopted boy used to suck the eggs--they couldn't break him of it. If you had asked my advice in the matter--which you didn't do, Marilla--I'd have said for mercy's sake not to think of such a thing, that's what." This Job's comforting seemed neither to offend nor to alarm Marilla. She knitted steadily on. "I don't deny there's something in what you say, Rachel. I've had some qualms myself. But Matthew was terrible set on it. I could see that, so I gave in. It's so seldom Matthew sets his mind | have seen it if there had been. Privately she was of the opinion that Marilla Cuthbert swept that yard over as often as she swept her house. One could have eaten a meal off the ground without over-brimming the proverbial peck of dirt. Mrs. Rachel rapped smartly at the kitchen door and stepped in when bidden to do so. The kitchen at Green Gables was a cheerful apartment--or would have been cheerful if it had not been so painfully clean as to give it something of the appearance of an unused parlor. Its windows looked east and west; through the west one, looking out on the back yard, came a flood of mellow June sunlight; but the east one, whence you got a glimpse of the bloom white cherry-trees in the left orchard and nodding, slender birches down in the hollow by the brook, was greened over by a tangle of vines. Here sat Marilla Cuthbert, when she sat at all, always slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously; and here she sat now, knitting, and the table behind her was laid for supper. Mrs. Rachel, before she had fairly closed the door, had taken a mental note of everything that was on that table. There were three plates laid, so that Marilla must be expecting some one home with Matthew to tea; but the dishes were everyday dishes and there was only crab-apple preserves and one kind of cake, so that the expected company could not be any particular company. Yet what of Matthew's white collar and the sorrel mare? Mrs. Rachel was getting fairly dizzy with this unusual mystery about quiet, unmysterious Green Gables. "Good evening, Rachel," Marilla said briskly. "This is a real fine evening, isn't it? Won't you sit down? How are all your folks?" Something that for lack of any other name might be called friendship existed and always had existed between Marilla Cuthbert and Mrs. Rachel, in spite of--or perhaps because of--their dissimilarity. Marilla was a tall, thin woman, with angles and without curves; her dark hair showed some gray streaks and was always twisted up in a hard little knot behind with two wire hairpins stuck aggressively through it. She looked like a woman of narrow experience and rigid conscience, which she was; but there was a saving something about her mouth which, if it had been ever so slightly developed, might have been considered indicative of a sense of humor. "We're all pretty well," said Mrs. Rachel. "I was kind of afraid _you_ weren't, though, when I saw Matthew starting off today. I thought maybe he was going to the doctor's." Marilla's lips twitched understandingly. She had expected Mrs. Rachel up; she had known that the sight of Matthew jaunting off so unaccountably would be too much for her neighbor's curiosity. "Oh, no, I'm quite well although I had a bad headache yesterday,"<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>"Matthew went to Bright River. We're getting a little boy from an orphan asylum in Nova Scotia and he's coming on the train tonight." If Marilla had said that Matthew had gone to Bright River to meet a kangaroo from Australia Mrs. Rachel could not have been more astonished. She was actually stricken dumb for five seconds. It was unsupposable that Marilla was making fun of her, but Mrs. Rachel was almost forced to suppose it. "Are you in earnest, Marilla?" she demanded when voice returned to her. "Yes, of course," said Marilla, as if getting boys from orphan asylums in Nova Scotia were part of the usual spring work on any well-regulated Avonlea farm instead of being an unheard of innovation. Mrs. Rachel felt that she had received a severe mental jolt. She thought in exclamation points. A boy! Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert of all people adopting a boy! From an orphan asylum! Well, the world was certainly turning upside down! She would be surprised at nothing after this! Nothing! "What on earth put such a notion into your head?" she demanded disapprovingly. This had been done without her advice being asked, and must perforce be disapproved. "Well, we've been thinking about it for some time--all winter in fact," returned Marilla. "Mrs. Alexander Spencer was up here one day before Christmas and she said she was going to get a little girl from the asylum over in Hopeton in the spring. Her cousin lives there and Mrs. Spencer has visited here and knows all about it. So Matthew and I have talked it over off and on ever since. We thought we'd get a boy. Matthew is getting up in years, you know--he's sixty--and he isn't so spry as he once was. His heart troubles him a good deal. And you know how desperate hard it's got to be to get hired help. There's never anybody to be had but those stupid, half-grown little French boys; and as soon as you do get one broke into your ways and taught something he's up and off to the lobster canneries or the States. At first Matthew suggested getting a Home boy. But I said" ?no' "flat to that." ?They may be all right--I'm not saying they're not--but no London street Arabs for me,' "I said." ?Give me a native born at least. There'll be a risk, no matter who we get. But I'll feel easier in my mind and sleep sounder at nights if we get a born Canadian.' "So in the end we decided to ask Mrs. Spencer to pick us out one when she went over to get her little girl. We heard | Anne Of Green Gables |
"I do not know which it ought to be called." | Mr. Knightley | looking up in his face.<|quote|>"I do not know which it ought to be called."</|quote|>"Oh! good I am sure.--I | or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face.<|quote|>"I do not know which it ought to be called."</|quote|>"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. | grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face.<|quote|>"I do not know which it ought to be called."</|quote|>"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any | obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face.<|quote|>"I do not know which it ought to be called."</|quote|>"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you | at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face.<|quote|>"I do not know which it ought to be called."</|quote|>"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it | more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!" "--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--" "Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him." "--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face.<|quote|>"I do not know which it ought to be called."</|quote|>"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--" "Well!" "--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, | of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--" "Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!" "--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--" "Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him." "--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face.<|quote|>"I do not know which it ought to be called."</|quote|>"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--" "Well!" "--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what | supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!" "--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--" "Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him." "--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face.<|quote|>"I do not know which it ought to be called."</|quote|>"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the | Emma |
"Why don't one think more of other people?" | Miss Derek | had passed beyond their invitation.<|quote|>"Why don't one think more of other people?"</|quote|>sighed pleasure-loving Miss Derek. These | never do that now, she had passed beyond their invitation.<|quote|>"Why don't one think more of other people?"</|quote|>sighed pleasure-loving Miss Derek. These regrets only lasted in their | Callendar implied), well, all is over, and nothing can be done, but they retained some responsibility in her grievous wrong that they couldn't define. If she wasn't one of them, they ought to have made her one, and they could never do that now, she had passed beyond their invitation.<|quote|>"Why don't one think more of other people?"</|quote|>sighed pleasure-loving Miss Derek. These regrets only lasted in their pure form for a few hours. Before sunset, other considerations adulterated them, and the sense of guilt (so strangely connected with our first sight of any suffering) had begun to wear away. People drove into the club with studious calm | come. Ah, why had they not all been kinder to the stranger, more patient, given her not only hospitality but their hearts? The tender core of the heart that is so seldom used they employed it for a little, under the stimulus of remorse. If all is over (as Major Callendar implied), well, all is over, and nothing can be done, but they retained some responsibility in her grievous wrong that they couldn't define. If she wasn't one of them, they ought to have made her one, and they could never do that now, she had passed beyond their invitation.<|quote|>"Why don't one think more of other people?"</|quote|>sighed pleasure-loving Miss Derek. These regrets only lasted in their pure form for a few hours. Before sunset, other considerations adulterated them, and the sense of guilt (so strangely connected with our first sight of any suffering) had begun to wear away. People drove into the club with studious calm the jog-trot of country gentlefolk between green hedgerows, for the natives must not suspect that they were agitated. They exchanged the usual drinks, but everything tasted different, and then they looked out at the palisade of cactuses stabbing the purple throat of the sky; they realized that they were thousands | "What can we do for our sister?" was the only thought of Mesdames Callendar and Lesley, as they drove through the pelting heat to enquire. Mrs. Turton was the only visitor admitted to the sick-room. She came out ennobled by an unselfish sorrow. "She is my own darling girl," were the words she spoke, and then, remembering that she had called her "not pukka" and resented her engagement to young Heaslop, she began to cry. No one had ever seen the Collector's wife cry. Capable of tears yes, but always reserving them for some adequate occasion, and now it had come. Ah, why had they not all been kinder to the stranger, more patient, given her not only hospitality but their hearts? The tender core of the heart that is so seldom used they employed it for a little, under the stimulus of remorse. If all is over (as Major Callendar implied), well, all is over, and nothing can be done, but they retained some responsibility in her grievous wrong that they couldn't define. If she wasn't one of them, they ought to have made her one, and they could never do that now, she had passed beyond their invitation.<|quote|>"Why don't one think more of other people?"</|quote|>sighed pleasure-loving Miss Derek. These regrets only lasted in their pure form for a few hours. Before sunset, other considerations adulterated them, and the sense of guilt (so strangely connected with our first sight of any suffering) had begun to wear away. People drove into the club with studious calm the jog-trot of country gentlefolk between green hedgerows, for the natives must not suspect that they were agitated. They exchanged the usual drinks, but everything tasted different, and then they looked out at the palisade of cactuses stabbing the purple throat of the sky; they realized that they were thousands of miles from any scenery that they understood. The club was fuller than usual, and several parents had brought their children into the rooms reserved for adults, which gave the air of the Residency at Lucknow. One young mother a brainless but most beautiful girl sat on a low ottoman in the smoking-room with her baby in her arms; her husband was away in the district, and she dared not return to her bungalow in case the "niggers attacked." The wife of a small railway official, she was generally snubbed; but this evening, with her abundant figure and masses of | he performed the deed remained clamped to his hand until in the course of years he came to the Marabar Hills, where he was thirsty and wanted to drink but saw a thirsty cow and ordered the water to be offered to her first, which, when done, "dagger fell from his hand, and to commemorate miracle he built Tank." Professor Godbole's conversations frequently culminated in a cow. Fielding received this one in gloomy silence. In the afternoon he obtained a permit and saw Aziz, but found him unapproachable through misery. "You deserted me," was the only coherent remark. He went away to write his letter to Miss Quested. Even if it reached her, it would do no good, and probably the McBrydes would withhold it. Miss Quested did pull him up short. She was such a dry, sensible girl, and quite without malice: the last person in Chandrapore wrongfully to accuse an Indian. CHAPTER XX Although Miss Quested had not made herself popular with the English, she brought out all that was fine in their character. For a few hours an exalted emotion gushed forth, which the women felt even more keenly than the men, if not for so long. "What can we do for our sister?" was the only thought of Mesdames Callendar and Lesley, as they drove through the pelting heat to enquire. Mrs. Turton was the only visitor admitted to the sick-room. She came out ennobled by an unselfish sorrow. "She is my own darling girl," were the words she spoke, and then, remembering that she had called her "not pukka" and resented her engagement to young Heaslop, she began to cry. No one had ever seen the Collector's wife cry. Capable of tears yes, but always reserving them for some adequate occasion, and now it had come. Ah, why had they not all been kinder to the stranger, more patient, given her not only hospitality but their hearts? The tender core of the heart that is so seldom used they employed it for a little, under the stimulus of remorse. If all is over (as Major Callendar implied), well, all is over, and nothing can be done, but they retained some responsibility in her grievous wrong that they couldn't define. If she wasn't one of them, they ought to have made her one, and they could never do that now, she had passed beyond their invitation.<|quote|>"Why don't one think more of other people?"</|quote|>sighed pleasure-loving Miss Derek. These regrets only lasted in their pure form for a few hours. Before sunset, other considerations adulterated them, and the sense of guilt (so strangely connected with our first sight of any suffering) had begun to wear away. People drove into the club with studious calm the jog-trot of country gentlefolk between green hedgerows, for the natives must not suspect that they were agitated. They exchanged the usual drinks, but everything tasted different, and then they looked out at the palisade of cactuses stabbing the purple throat of the sky; they realized that they were thousands of miles from any scenery that they understood. The club was fuller than usual, and several parents had brought their children into the rooms reserved for adults, which gave the air of the Residency at Lucknow. One young mother a brainless but most beautiful girl sat on a low ottoman in the smoking-room with her baby in her arms; her husband was away in the district, and she dared not return to her bungalow in case the "niggers attacked." The wife of a small railway official, she was generally snubbed; but this evening, with her abundant figure and masses of corn-gold hair, she symbolized all that is worth fighting and dying for; more permanent a symbol, perhaps, than poor Adela. "Don't worry, Mrs. Blakiston, those drums are only Mohurram," the men would tell her. "Then they've started," she moaned, clasping the infant and rather wishing he would not blow bubbles down his chin at such a moment as this. "No, of course not, and anyhow, they're not coming to the club." "And they're not coming to the Burra Sahib's bungalow either, my dear, and that's where you and your baby'll sleep tonight," answered Mrs. Turton, towering by her side like Pallas Athene, and determining in the future not to be such a snob. The Collector clapped his hands for silence. He was much calmer than when he had flown out at Fielding. He was indeed always calmer when he addressed several people than in a _t te- -t te._ "I want to talk specially to the ladies," he said. "Not the least cause for alarm. Keep cool, keep cool. Don't go out more than you can help, don't go into the city, don't talk before your servants. That's all." "Harry, is there any news from the city?" asked his wife, | stopped again. "It was performed by you." Now he had an air of daring and of coyness. "It was performed by me." He looked shyly down the sleeve of his own coat. "And by my students. It was even performed by the lady herself. When evil occurs, it expresses the whole of the universe. Similarly when good occurs." "And similarly when suffering occurs, and so on and so forth, and everything is anything and nothing something," he muttered in his irritation, for he needed the solid ground. "Excuse me, you are now again changing the basis of our discussion. We were discussing good and evil. Suffering is merely a matter for the individual. If a young lady has sunstroke, that is a matter of no significance to the universe. Oh no, not at all. Oh no, not the least. It is an isolated matter, it only concerns herself. If she thought her head did not ache, she would not be ill, and that would end it. But it is far otherwise in the case of good and evil. They are not what we think them, they are what they are, and each of us has contributed to both." "You're preaching that evil and good are the same." "Oh no, excuse me once again. Good and evil are different, as their names imply. But, in my own humble opinion, they are both of them aspects of my Lord. He is present in the one, absent in the other, and the difference between presence and absence is great, as great as my feeble mind can grasp. Yet absence implies presence, absence is not non-existence, and we are therefore entitled to repeat, Come, come, come, come.'" And in the same breath, as if to cancel any beauty his words might have contained, he added, "But did you have time to visit any of the interesting Marabar antiquities?" Fielding was silent, trying to meditate and rest his brain. "Did you not even see the tank by the usual camping ground?" he nagged. "Yes, yes," he answered distractedly, wandering over half a dozen things at once. "That is good, then you saw the Tank of the Dagger." And he related a legend which might have been acceptable if he had told it at the tea-party a fortnight ago. It concerned a Hindu Rajah who had slain his own sister's son, and the dagger with which he performed the deed remained clamped to his hand until in the course of years he came to the Marabar Hills, where he was thirsty and wanted to drink but saw a thirsty cow and ordered the water to be offered to her first, which, when done, "dagger fell from his hand, and to commemorate miracle he built Tank." Professor Godbole's conversations frequently culminated in a cow. Fielding received this one in gloomy silence. In the afternoon he obtained a permit and saw Aziz, but found him unapproachable through misery. "You deserted me," was the only coherent remark. He went away to write his letter to Miss Quested. Even if it reached her, it would do no good, and probably the McBrydes would withhold it. Miss Quested did pull him up short. She was such a dry, sensible girl, and quite without malice: the last person in Chandrapore wrongfully to accuse an Indian. CHAPTER XX Although Miss Quested had not made herself popular with the English, she brought out all that was fine in their character. For a few hours an exalted emotion gushed forth, which the women felt even more keenly than the men, if not for so long. "What can we do for our sister?" was the only thought of Mesdames Callendar and Lesley, as they drove through the pelting heat to enquire. Mrs. Turton was the only visitor admitted to the sick-room. She came out ennobled by an unselfish sorrow. "She is my own darling girl," were the words she spoke, and then, remembering that she had called her "not pukka" and resented her engagement to young Heaslop, she began to cry. No one had ever seen the Collector's wife cry. Capable of tears yes, but always reserving them for some adequate occasion, and now it had come. Ah, why had they not all been kinder to the stranger, more patient, given her not only hospitality but their hearts? The tender core of the heart that is so seldom used they employed it for a little, under the stimulus of remorse. If all is over (as Major Callendar implied), well, all is over, and nothing can be done, but they retained some responsibility in her grievous wrong that they couldn't define. If she wasn't one of them, they ought to have made her one, and they could never do that now, she had passed beyond their invitation.<|quote|>"Why don't one think more of other people?"</|quote|>sighed pleasure-loving Miss Derek. These regrets only lasted in their pure form for a few hours. Before sunset, other considerations adulterated them, and the sense of guilt (so strangely connected with our first sight of any suffering) had begun to wear away. People drove into the club with studious calm the jog-trot of country gentlefolk between green hedgerows, for the natives must not suspect that they were agitated. They exchanged the usual drinks, but everything tasted different, and then they looked out at the palisade of cactuses stabbing the purple throat of the sky; they realized that they were thousands of miles from any scenery that they understood. The club was fuller than usual, and several parents had brought their children into the rooms reserved for adults, which gave the air of the Residency at Lucknow. One young mother a brainless but most beautiful girl sat on a low ottoman in the smoking-room with her baby in her arms; her husband was away in the district, and she dared not return to her bungalow in case the "niggers attacked." The wife of a small railway official, she was generally snubbed; but this evening, with her abundant figure and masses of corn-gold hair, she symbolized all that is worth fighting and dying for; more permanent a symbol, perhaps, than poor Adela. "Don't worry, Mrs. Blakiston, those drums are only Mohurram," the men would tell her. "Then they've started," she moaned, clasping the infant and rather wishing he would not blow bubbles down his chin at such a moment as this. "No, of course not, and anyhow, they're not coming to the club." "And they're not coming to the Burra Sahib's bungalow either, my dear, and that's where you and your baby'll sleep tonight," answered Mrs. Turton, towering by her side like Pallas Athene, and determining in the future not to be such a snob. The Collector clapped his hands for silence. He was much calmer than when he had flown out at Fielding. He was indeed always calmer when he addressed several people than in a _t te- -t te._ "I want to talk specially to the ladies," he said. "Not the least cause for alarm. Keep cool, keep cool. Don't go out more than you can help, don't go into the city, don't talk before your servants. That's all." "Harry, is there any news from the city?" asked his wife, standing at some distance from him, and also assuming her public-safety voice. The rest were silent during the august colloquy. "Everything absolutely normal." "I had gathered as much. Those drums are merely Mohurram, of course." "Merely the preparations for it the Procession is not till next week." "Quite so, not till Monday." "Mr. McBryde's down there disguised as a Holy Man," said Mrs. Callendar. "That's exactly the sort of thing that must not be said," he remarked, pointing at her. "Mrs. Callendar, be more careful than that, please, in these times." "I . . . well, I . . ." She was not offended, his severity made her feel safe. "Any more questions? Necessary questions." "Is the where is he" Mrs. Lesley quavered. "Jail. Bail has been refused." Fielding spoke next. He wanted to know whether there was an official bulletin about Miss Quested's health, or whether the grave reports were due to gossip. His question produced a bad effect, partly because he had pronounced her name; she, like Aziz, was always referred to by a periphrasis. "I hope Callendar may be able to let us know how things are going before long." "I fail to see how that last question can be termed a necessary question," said Mrs. Turton. "Will all ladies leave the smoking-room now, please?" he cried, clapping his hands again. "And remember what I have said. We look to you to help us through a difficult time, and you can help us by behaving as if everything is normal. It is all I ask. Can I rely on you?" "Yes, indeed, Burra Sahib," they chorused out of peaked, anxious faces. They moved out, subdued yet elated, Mrs. Blakiston in their midst like a sacred flame. His simple words had reminded them that they were an outpost of Empire. By the side of their compassionate love for Adela another sentiment sprang up which was to strangle it in the long run. Its first signs were prosaic and small. Mrs. Turton made her loud, hard jokes at bridge, Mrs. Lesley began to knit a comforter. When the smoking-room was clear, the Collector sat on the edge of a table, so that he could dominate without formality. His mind whirled with contradictory impulses. He wanted to avenge Miss Quested and punish Fielding, while remaining scrupulously fair. He wanted to flog every native that he saw, but to do nothing | person in Chandrapore wrongfully to accuse an Indian. CHAPTER XX Although Miss Quested had not made herself popular with the English, she brought out all that was fine in their character. For a few hours an exalted emotion gushed forth, which the women felt even more keenly than the men, if not for so long. "What can we do for our sister?" was the only thought of Mesdames Callendar and Lesley, as they drove through the pelting heat to enquire. Mrs. Turton was the only visitor admitted to the sick-room. She came out ennobled by an unselfish sorrow. "She is my own darling girl," were the words she spoke, and then, remembering that she had called her "not pukka" and resented her engagement to young Heaslop, she began to cry. No one had ever seen the Collector's wife cry. Capable of tears yes, but always reserving them for some adequate occasion, and now it had come. Ah, why had they not all been kinder to the stranger, more patient, given her not only hospitality but their hearts? The tender core of the heart that is so seldom used they employed it for a little, under the stimulus of remorse. If all is over (as Major Callendar implied), well, all is over, and nothing can be done, but they retained some responsibility in her grievous wrong that they couldn't define. If she wasn't one of them, they ought to have made her one, and they could never do that now, she had passed beyond their invitation.<|quote|>"Why don't one think more of other people?"</|quote|>sighed pleasure-loving Miss Derek. These regrets only lasted in their pure form for a few hours. Before sunset, other considerations adulterated them, and the sense of guilt (so strangely connected with our first sight of any suffering) had begun to wear away. People drove into the club with studious calm the jog-trot of country gentlefolk between green hedgerows, for the natives must not suspect that they were agitated. They exchanged the usual drinks, but everything tasted different, and then they looked out at the palisade of cactuses stabbing the purple throat of the sky; they realized that they were thousands of miles from any scenery that they understood. The club was fuller than usual, and several parents had brought their children into the rooms reserved for adults, which gave the air of the Residency at Lucknow. One young mother a brainless but most beautiful girl sat on a low ottoman in the smoking-room with her baby in her arms; her husband was away in the district, and she dared not return to her bungalow in case the "niggers attacked." The wife of a small railway official, she was generally snubbed; but this evening, with her abundant figure and masses of corn-gold hair, she symbolized all that is worth fighting and dying for; more permanent a symbol, perhaps, than poor Adela. "Don't worry, Mrs. Blakiston, those drums are only Mohurram," the men would tell her. "Then they've started," she moaned, clasping the infant and rather wishing he would not blow bubbles down his chin at such a moment as this. "No, of course not, and anyhow, they're not coming to the club." "And they're not coming to the Burra Sahib's bungalow either, my dear, and that's where you and your baby'll sleep tonight," answered Mrs. Turton, towering by her | A Passage To India |
Tony remarked. | No speaker | seem in wonderful spirits to-day,"<|quote|>Tony remarked.</|quote|>"I feel big. I think | had avoided Christian names. "You seem in wonderful spirits to-day,"<|quote|>Tony remarked.</|quote|>"I feel big. I think it's Mr Cruttwell. He puts | about bed, because I can't move." * * * * * Next day a telegram came from Beaver. _Have got out of dinner 16th. Are you still free._ She replied: _Delighted. Second thoughts always best. Brenda._ Up till then they had avoided Christian names. "You seem in wonderful spirits to-day,"<|quote|>Tony remarked.</|quote|>"I feel big. I think it's Mr Cruttwell. He puts all one's nerves right and one's circulation and everything." [III] "Where's mummy gone?" "London." "Why?" "Someone called Lady Cockpurse is giving a party." "Is she nice?" "Mummy thinks so. I don't." "Why?" "Because she looks like a monkey." "I should | her filthy dog. Bought some things. Lunched at Daisy's new joint. Bone-setter. That's all." "You know I wish you'd give up these day-trips to London. They're far too much for you." "Me? Oh, I'm all right. Wish I was dead, that's all... and please, please, darling Tony, don't say anything about bed, because I can't move." * * * * * Next day a telegram came from Beaver. _Have got out of dinner 16th. Are you still free._ She replied: _Delighted. Second thoughts always best. Brenda._ Up till then they had avoided Christian names. "You seem in wonderful spirits to-day,"<|quote|>Tony remarked.</|quote|>"I feel big. I think it's Mr Cruttwell. He puts all one's nerves right and one's circulation and everything." [III] "Where's mummy gone?" "London." "Why?" "Someone called Lady Cockpurse is giving a party." "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 | Beaver said, "Well, I think perhaps I'll leave you now." "Yes, run along. Thank you for coming." He went off down the platform. There were still eight minutes to go. The carriage suddenly filled up and Brenda felt tired out. "Why _should_ he want to take me, poor boy?" she thought. "Only he might have done it better." * * * * * "Barnardo case?" Brenda nodded. "Down and out," she said, "sunk, right under." She sat nursing her bread and milk, stirring it listlessly. Every bit of her felt good for nothing. "Good day?" She nodded. "Saw Marjorie and her filthy dog. Bought some things. Lunched at Daisy's new joint. Bone-setter. That's all." "You know I wish you'd give up these day-trips to London. They're far too much for you." "Me? Oh, I'm all right. Wish I was dead, that's all... and please, please, darling Tony, don't say anything about bed, because I can't move." * * * * * Next day a telegram came from Beaver. _Have got out of dinner 16th. Are you still free._ She replied: _Delighted. Second thoughts always best. Brenda._ Up till then they had avoided Christian names. "You seem in wonderful spirits to-day,"<|quote|>Tony remarked.</|quote|>"I feel big. I think it's Mr Cruttwell. He puts all one's nerves right and one's circulation and everything." [III] "Where's mummy gone?" "London." "Why?" "Someone called Lady Cockpurse is giving a party." "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 | got lots to read." "I _want_ to stay." "It's very sweet of you." Presently she said, rather timidly, for she was not used to asking for that sort of thing, "I suppose you wouldn't like to take me to Polly's party, would you?" Beaver hesitated. There would be several dinner parties that evening and he was almost certain to be invited to one or other of them... if he took Brenda out it would mean the Embassy or some smart restaurant... three pounds at least... and he would be responsible for her and have to see her home... and if, as she said, she really did not know many people nowadays (why indeed should she have asked him if that were not true?) it might mean tying himself up for the whole evening... "I wish I could," he said, "but I've promised to dine out for it." Brenda had observed his hesitation. "I was afraid you would have." "But we'll meet there." "Yes, if I go." "I wish I could have taken you." "It's quite all right... I just wondered." The gaiety with which they had bought the buns was all gone now. They were silent for a minute. Then Beaver said, "Well, I think perhaps I'll leave you now." "Yes, run along. Thank you for coming." He went off down the platform. There were still eight minutes to go. The carriage suddenly filled up and Brenda felt tired out. "Why _should_ he want to take me, poor boy?" she thought. "Only he might have done it better." * * * * * "Barnardo case?" Brenda nodded. "Down and out," she said, "sunk, right under." She sat nursing her bread and milk, stirring it listlessly. Every bit of her felt good for nothing. "Good day?" She nodded. "Saw Marjorie and her filthy dog. Bought some things. Lunched at Daisy's new joint. Bone-setter. That's all." "You know I wish you'd give up these day-trips to London. They're far too much for you." "Me? Oh, I'm all right. Wish I was dead, that's all... and please, please, darling Tony, don't say anything about bed, because I can't move." * * * * * Next day a telegram came from Beaver. _Have got out of dinner 16th. Are you still free._ She replied: _Delighted. Second thoughts always best. Brenda._ Up till then they had avoided Christian names. "You seem in wonderful spirits to-day,"<|quote|>Tony remarked.</|quote|>"I feel big. I think it's Mr Cruttwell. He puts all one's nerves right and one's circulation and everything." [III] "Where's mummy gone?" "London." "Why?" "Someone called Lady Cockpurse is giving a party." "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 | Mrs Beaver came across to their table. "I _must_ come and speak to you, though I'm in a great hurry. It's _so_ long since we met and John has been telling me about a _delightful_ week-end he had with you." "It was very quiet." "That's just what he _loves_. Poor boy, he gets rushed off his feet in London. Tell me, Lady Brenda, is it true you are looking for a flat?--because I think I've got just the place for you. It's being done up now and will be ready well before Christmas." She looked at her watch. "Oh dear, I must fly. You couldn't possibly come in for a cocktail, this evening? Then you could hear all about it." "I _could_..." said Brenda doubtfully. "Then _do_. I'll expect you about six. I daresay you don't know where I live?" She told her and left the table. "What's all this about a flat?" Marjorie asked. "Oh, just something I thought of..." * * * * * That afternoon, as she lay luxuriously on the osteopath's table, and her vertebrae, under his strong fingers, snapped like patent fasteners, Brenda wondered whether Beaver would be at home that evening. "Probably not, if he's so keen on going about," she thought, "and, anyhow, what's the sense?..." But he was there, in spite of two other invitations. She heard all about the maisonette. Mrs Beaver knew her job. What people wanted, she said, was somewhere to dress and telephone. She was subdividing a small house in Belgravia into six flats at three pounds a week, of one room each and a bath; the bathrooms were going to be slap-up, with limitless hot water and every transatlantic refinement; the other room would have a large built-in wardrobe with electric light inside, and space for a bed. It would fill a long-felt need, Mrs Beaver said. "I'll ask my husband and let you know." "You _will_ let me know soon, won't you, because _everyone_ will be wanting one." "I'll let you know very soon." When she had to go, Beaver came with her to the station. She usually ate some chocolate and buns in her carriage; they bought them together at the buffet. There was plenty of time before the train left and the carriage was not yet full. Beaver came in and sat with her. "I'm sure you want to go away." "No, really." "I've got lots to read." "I _want_ to stay." "It's very sweet of you." Presently she said, rather timidly, for she was not used to asking for that sort of thing, "I suppose you wouldn't like to take me to Polly's party, would you?" Beaver hesitated. There would be several dinner parties that evening and he was almost certain to be invited to one or other of them... if he took Brenda out it would mean the Embassy or some smart restaurant... three pounds at least... and he would be responsible for her and have to see her home... and if, as she said, she really did not know many people nowadays (why indeed should she have asked him if that were not true?) it might mean tying himself up for the whole evening... "I wish I could," he said, "but I've promised to dine out for it." Brenda had observed his hesitation. "I was afraid you would have." "But we'll meet there." "Yes, if I go." "I wish I could have taken you." "It's quite all right... I just wondered." The gaiety with which they had bought the buns was all gone now. They were silent for a minute. Then Beaver said, "Well, I think perhaps I'll leave you now." "Yes, run along. Thank you for coming." He went off down the platform. There were still eight minutes to go. The carriage suddenly filled up and Brenda felt tired out. "Why _should_ he want to take me, poor boy?" she thought. "Only he might have done it better." * * * * * "Barnardo case?" Brenda nodded. "Down and out," she said, "sunk, right under." She sat nursing her bread and milk, stirring it listlessly. Every bit of her felt good for nothing. "Good day?" She nodded. "Saw Marjorie and her filthy dog. Bought some things. Lunched at Daisy's new joint. Bone-setter. That's all." "You know I wish you'd give up these day-trips to London. They're far too much for you." "Me? Oh, I'm all right. Wish I was dead, that's all... and please, please, darling Tony, don't say anything about bed, because I can't move." * * * * * Next day a telegram came from Beaver. _Have got out of dinner 16th. Are you still free._ She replied: _Delighted. Second thoughts always best. Brenda._ Up till then they had avoided Christian names. "You seem in wonderful spirits to-day,"<|quote|>Tony remarked.</|quote|>"I feel big. I think it's Mr Cruttwell. He puts all one's nerves right and one's circulation and everything." [III] "Where's mummy gone?" "London." "Why?" "Someone called Lady Cockpurse is giving a party." "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 | maisonette. Mrs Beaver knew her job. What people wanted, she said, was somewhere to dress and telephone. She was subdividing a small house in Belgravia into six flats at three pounds a week, of one room each and a bath; the bathrooms were going to be slap-up, with limitless hot water and every transatlantic refinement; the other room would have a large built-in wardrobe with electric light inside, and space for a bed. It would fill a long-felt need, Mrs Beaver said. "I'll ask my husband and let you know." "You _will_ let me know soon, won't you, because _everyone_ will be wanting one." "I'll let you know very soon." When she had to go, Beaver came with her to the station. She usually ate some chocolate and buns in her carriage; they bought them together at the buffet. There was plenty of time before the train left and the carriage was not yet full. Beaver came in and sat with her. "I'm sure you want to go away." "No, really." "I've got lots to read." "I _want_ to stay." "It's very sweet of you." Presently she said, rather timidly, for she was not used to asking for that sort of thing, "I suppose you wouldn't like to take me to Polly's party, would you?" Beaver hesitated. There would be several dinner parties that evening and he was almost certain to be invited to one or other of them... if he took Brenda out it would mean the Embassy or some smart restaurant... three pounds at least... and he would be responsible for her and have to see her home... and if, as she said, she really did not know many people nowadays (why indeed should she have asked him if that were not true?) it might mean tying himself up for the whole evening... "I wish I could," he said, "but I've promised to dine out for it." Brenda had observed his hesitation. "I was afraid you would have." "But we'll meet there." "Yes, if I go." "I wish I could have taken you." "It's quite all right... I just wondered." The gaiety with which they had bought the buns was all gone now. They were silent for a minute. Then Beaver said, "Well, I think perhaps I'll leave you now." "Yes, run along. Thank you for coming." He went off down the platform. There were still eight minutes to go. The carriage suddenly filled up and Brenda felt tired out. "Why _should_ he want to take me, poor boy?" she thought. "Only he might have done it better." * * * * * "Barnardo case?" Brenda nodded. "Down and out," she said, "sunk, right under." She sat nursing her bread and milk, stirring it listlessly. Every bit of her felt good for nothing. "Good day?" She nodded. "Saw Marjorie and her filthy dog. Bought some things. Lunched at Daisy's new joint. Bone-setter. That's all." "You know I wish you'd give up these day-trips to London. They're far too much for you." "Me? Oh, I'm all right. Wish I was dead, that's all... and please, please, darling Tony, don't say anything about bed, because I can't move." * * * * * Next day a telegram came from Beaver. _Have got out of dinner 16th. Are you still free._ She replied: _Delighted. Second thoughts always best. Brenda._ Up till then they had avoided Christian names. "You seem in wonderful spirits to-day,"<|quote|>Tony remarked.</|quote|>"I feel big. I think it's Mr Cruttwell. He puts all one's nerves right and one's circulation and everything." [III] "Where's mummy gone?" "London." "Why?" "Someone called Lady Cockpurse is giving a party." "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?" | A Handful Of Dust |
he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace. She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented. | No speaker | find you here, shan’t I?”<|quote|>he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace. She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented.</|quote|>“I’ll wait for you.” “Then | he leaves. But I shall find you here, shan’t I?”<|quote|>he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace. She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented.</|quote|>“I’ll wait for you.” “Then _à tantôt!_” It made him | have provoked in Lord John a rise of spirits and a flush of humour. “Don’t you let him stick it on.” His host, however, bethinking himself, checked him. “Go _you_ to Mr. Bender straight!” Lord John saw the point. “Yes--till he leaves. But I shall find you here, shan’t I?”<|quote|>he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace. She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented.</|quote|>“I’ll wait for you.” “Then _à tantôt!_” It made him show for happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite--to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own. IX Lord Theign, when | she returned, “as he’s certainly not a wretch it must be true. And fancy,” she exclaimed further, though as more particularly for herself, “our having suddenly incurred this immense debt to him!” “Oh, I shall pay Mr. Crimble!” said her father, who had turned round. The whole question appeared to have provoked in Lord John a rise of spirits and a flush of humour. “Don’t you let him stick it on.” His host, however, bethinking himself, checked him. “Go _you_ to Mr. Bender straight!” Lord John saw the point. “Yes--till he leaves. But I shall find you here, shan’t I?”<|quote|>he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace. She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented.</|quote|>“I’ll wait for you.” “Then _à tantôt!_” It made him show for happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite--to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own. IX Lord Theign, when he had gone, revolved--it might have been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the | him?” Lord Theign put it as if so many other people were guilty for this. His daughter was the first to plead for the vague body. “Why, I suppose in order that you should have exactly this pleasure, father.” “Oh, pleasures not desired are like acquaintances not sought--they rather bore one!” Lord Theign sighed. With which he moved away from her. Her eyes followed him an instant--then she smiled at their guest. “Is he bored at having the higher prize--if you’re sure it _is_ the higher?” “Mr. Crimble is sure--because if he isn’t,” Lord John added, “he’s a wretch.” “Well,” she returned, “as he’s certainly not a wretch it must be true. And fancy,” she exclaimed further, though as more particularly for herself, “our having suddenly incurred this immense debt to him!” “Oh, I shall pay Mr. Crimble!” said her father, who had turned round. The whole question appeared to have provoked in Lord John a rise of spirits and a flush of humour. “Don’t you let him stick it on.” His host, however, bethinking himself, checked him. “Go _you_ to Mr. Bender straight!” Lord John saw the point. “Yes--till he leaves. But I shall find you here, shan’t I?”<|quote|>he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace. She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented.</|quote|>“I’ll wait for you.” “Then _à tantôt!_” It made him show for happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite--to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own. IX Lord Theign, when he had gone, revolved--it might have been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.” “Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.” “Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He | “Well, the infant horde?” he immediately put to her. Lady Grace came in, dutifully accounting for them. “They’ve marched off--in a huge procession.” “Thank goodness! And our friends?” “All playing tennis,” she said-- “save those who are sitting it out.” To which she added, as to explain her return: “Mr. Crimble has gone?” Lord John took upon him to say. “He’s in the library, to which you addressed him--making discoveries.” “Not then, I hope,” she smiled, “to our disadvantage!” “To your very great honour and glory.” Lord John clearly valued the effect he might produce. “Your Moretto of Brescia--do you know what it really and spendidly is?” And then as the girl, in her surprise, but wondered: “A Mantovano, neither more nor less. Ever so much more swagger.” “A Mantovano?” Lady Grace echoed. “Why, how tremendously jolly!” Her father was struck. “Do you know the artist--of whom I had never heard?” “Yes, something of the little that _is_ known.” And she rejoiced as her knowledge came to her. “He’s a tremendous swell, because, great as he was, there are but seven proved examples----” “With this of yours,” Lord John broke in, “there are eight.” “Then why haven’t I known about him?” Lord Theign put it as if so many other people were guilty for this. His daughter was the first to plead for the vague body. “Why, I suppose in order that you should have exactly this pleasure, father.” “Oh, pleasures not desired are like acquaintances not sought--they rather bore one!” Lord Theign sighed. With which he moved away from her. Her eyes followed him an instant--then she smiled at their guest. “Is he bored at having the higher prize--if you’re sure it _is_ the higher?” “Mr. Crimble is sure--because if he isn’t,” Lord John added, “he’s a wretch.” “Well,” she returned, “as he’s certainly not a wretch it must be true. And fancy,” she exclaimed further, though as more particularly for herself, “our having suddenly incurred this immense debt to him!” “Oh, I shall pay Mr. Crimble!” said her father, who had turned round. The whole question appeared to have provoked in Lord John a rise of spirits and a flush of humour. “Don’t you let him stick it on.” His host, however, bethinking himself, checked him. “Go _you_ to Mr. Bender straight!” Lord John saw the point. “Yes--till he leaves. But I shall find you here, shan’t I?”<|quote|>he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace. She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented.</|quote|>“I’ll wait for you.” “Then _à tantôt!_” It made him show for happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite--to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own. IX Lord Theign, when he had gone, revolved--it might have been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.” “Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.” “Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the character under discussion could after all be summed up without searching analysis. “I consider nevertheless that there’s plenty in him.” It was a moderate claim, to which Lady Grace might assent. “He strikes me as naturally quick and--well, nice. But I agree with you than he hasn’t had a chance.” “Then if you can see your way by sympathy and confidence to help him to one I dare say you’ll find your reward.” For a third time she considered, as if a certain curtness in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too much, you would have felt her ask, and wasn’t his visible wish for brevity of debate a sign of his uncomfortable and indeed rather irritated sense of his not making a figure in it? “Do you desire it very particularly?” was, however, all she at last brought out. “I should like it exceedingly--if you act from conviction. Then of course only; but of one thing I’m myself convinced--of what he thinks of yourself and feels for you.” “Then would you mind my | me of things in the library.” “You’ll find it _that_ way” --Lord Theign gave the indication. “Thanks,” said Hugh elatedly, and hastened away. Lord John, when he had gone, found relief in a quick comment. “Very sharp, no doubt--but he wants taking down.” The master of Dedborough wouldn’t have put it so crudely, but the young expert did bring certain things home. “The people my daughters, in the exercise of a wild freedom, do pick up----!” “Well, don’t you see that all you’ve got to do--on the question we’re dealing with--is to claim your very own wild freedom? Surely I’m right in feeling you,” Lord John further remarked, “to have jumped at once to my idea that Bender is heaven-sent--and at what they call the psychologic moment, don’t they?--to point that moral. Why look anywhere else for a sum of money that--smaller or greater--you can find with perfect ease in that extraordinarily bulging pocket?” Lord Theign, slowly pacing the hall again, threw up his hands. “Ah, with ‘perfect ease’ can scarcely be said!” “Why not?--when he absolutely thrusts his dirty dollars down your throat.” “Oh, I’m not talking of ease to _him_,” Lord Theign returned-- “I’m talking of ease to myself. I shall have to make a sacrifice.” “Why not then--for so great a convenience--gallantly make it?” “Ah, my dear chap, if you want me to sell my Sir Joshua----!” But the horror in the words said enough, and Lord John felt its chill. “I don’t make a point of that--God forbid! But there are other things to which the objection wouldn’t apply.” “You see how it applies--in the case of the Moret-to--for _him_. A mere Moretto,” said Lord Theign, “is too cheap--for a Yankee ‘on the spend.’” “Then the Mantovano wouldn’t be.” “It remains to be proved that it _is_ a Mantovano.” “Well,” said Lord John, “go into it.” “Hanged if I won’t!” his friend broke out after a moment. “It _would_ suit me. I mean” --the explanation came after a brief intensity of thought-- “the possible size of his cheque would.” “Oh,” said Lord John gaily, “I guess there’s no limit to the possible size of his cheque!” “Yes, it would suit me, it would suit me!” the elder man, standing there, audibly mused. But his air changed and a lighter question came up to him as he saw his daughter reappear at the door from the terrace. “Well, the infant horde?” he immediately put to her. Lady Grace came in, dutifully accounting for them. “They’ve marched off--in a huge procession.” “Thank goodness! And our friends?” “All playing tennis,” she said-- “save those who are sitting it out.” To which she added, as to explain her return: “Mr. Crimble has gone?” Lord John took upon him to say. “He’s in the library, to which you addressed him--making discoveries.” “Not then, I hope,” she smiled, “to our disadvantage!” “To your very great honour and glory.” Lord John clearly valued the effect he might produce. “Your Moretto of Brescia--do you know what it really and spendidly is?” And then as the girl, in her surprise, but wondered: “A Mantovano, neither more nor less. Ever so much more swagger.” “A Mantovano?” Lady Grace echoed. “Why, how tremendously jolly!” Her father was struck. “Do you know the artist--of whom I had never heard?” “Yes, something of the little that _is_ known.” And she rejoiced as her knowledge came to her. “He’s a tremendous swell, because, great as he was, there are but seven proved examples----” “With this of yours,” Lord John broke in, “there are eight.” “Then why haven’t I known about him?” Lord Theign put it as if so many other people were guilty for this. His daughter was the first to plead for the vague body. “Why, I suppose in order that you should have exactly this pleasure, father.” “Oh, pleasures not desired are like acquaintances not sought--they rather bore one!” Lord Theign sighed. With which he moved away from her. Her eyes followed him an instant--then she smiled at their guest. “Is he bored at having the higher prize--if you’re sure it _is_ the higher?” “Mr. Crimble is sure--because if he isn’t,” Lord John added, “he’s a wretch.” “Well,” she returned, “as he’s certainly not a wretch it must be true. And fancy,” she exclaimed further, though as more particularly for herself, “our having suddenly incurred this immense debt to him!” “Oh, I shall pay Mr. Crimble!” said her father, who had turned round. The whole question appeared to have provoked in Lord John a rise of spirits and a flush of humour. “Don’t you let him stick it on.” His host, however, bethinking himself, checked him. “Go _you_ to Mr. Bender straight!” Lord John saw the point. “Yes--till he leaves. But I shall find you here, shan’t I?”<|quote|>he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace. She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented.</|quote|>“I’ll wait for you.” “Then _à tantôt!_” It made him show for happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite--to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own. IX Lord Theign, when he had gone, revolved--it might have been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.” “Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.” “Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the character under discussion could after all be summed up without searching analysis. “I consider nevertheless that there’s plenty in him.” It was a moderate claim, to which Lady Grace might assent. “He strikes me as naturally quick and--well, nice. But I agree with you than he hasn’t had a chance.” “Then if you can see your way by sympathy and confidence to help him to one I dare say you’ll find your reward.” For a third time she considered, as if a certain curtness in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too much, you would have felt her ask, and wasn’t his visible wish for brevity of debate a sign of his uncomfortable and indeed rather irritated sense of his not making a figure in it? “Do you desire it very particularly?” was, however, all she at last brought out. “I should like it exceedingly--if you act from conviction. Then of course only; but of one thing I’m myself convinced--of what he thinks of yourself and feels for you.” “Then would you mind my waiting a little?” she asked. “I mean to be absolutely sure of myself.” After which, on his delaying to agree, she added frankly, as to help her case: “Upon my word, father, I should like to do what would please you.” But it determined in him a sharper impatience. “Ah, what would please _me!_ Don’t put it off on ‘me’! Judge absolutely for yourself” --he slightly took himself up-- “in the light of my having consented to do for him what I always _hate_ to do: deviate from my normal practice of never intermeddling. If I’ve deviated now you can judge. But to do so all round, of course, take--in reason!--your time.” “May I ask then,” she said, “for still a little more?” He looked for this, verily, as if it was not in reason. “You know,” he then returned, “what he’ll feel that a sign of.” “Well, I’ll tell him what I mean.” “Then I’ll send him to you.” He glanced at his watch and was going, but after a “Thanks, father,” she had stopped him. “There’s one thing more.” An embarrassment showed in her manner, but at the cost of some effect of earnest abruptness she surmounted it. “What does your American--Mr. Bender--want?” Lord Theign plainly felt the challenge. “‘My’ American? He’s none of mine!” “Well then Lord John’s.” “He’s none of his either--more, I mean, than any one else’s. He’s every one’s American, literally--to all appearance; and I’ve not to tell _you_, surely, with the freedom of your own visitors, how people stalk in and out here.” “No, father--certainly,” she said. “You’re splendidly generous.” His eyes seemed rather sharply to ask her then how he could improve on that; but he added as if it were enough: “What the man must by this time want more than anything else is his car.” “Not then anything of ours?” she still insisted. “Of ‘ours’?” he echoed with a frown. “Are you afraid he has an eye to something of _yours?_” “Why, if we’ve a new treasure--which we certainly have if we possess a Mantovano--haven’t we all, even I, an immense interest in it?” And before he could answer, “Is _that_ exposed?” she asked. Lord Theign, a little unready, cast about at his storied halls; any illusion to the “exposure” of the objects they so solidly sheltered was obviously unpleasant to him. But then it was as if he found | those who are sitting it out.” To which she added, as to explain her return: “Mr. Crimble has gone?” Lord John took upon him to say. “He’s in the library, to which you addressed him--making discoveries.” “Not then, I hope,” she smiled, “to our disadvantage!” “To your very great honour and glory.” Lord John clearly valued the effect he might produce. “Your Moretto of Brescia--do you know what it really and spendidly is?” And then as the girl, in her surprise, but wondered: “A Mantovano, neither more nor less. Ever so much more swagger.” “A Mantovano?” Lady Grace echoed. “Why, how tremendously jolly!” Her father was struck. “Do you know the artist--of whom I had never heard?” “Yes, something of the little that _is_ known.” And she rejoiced as her knowledge came to her. “He’s a tremendous swell, because, great as he was, there are but seven proved examples----” “With this of yours,” Lord John broke in, “there are eight.” “Then why haven’t I known about him?” Lord Theign put it as if so many other people were guilty for this. His daughter was the first to plead for the vague body. “Why, I suppose in order that you should have exactly this pleasure, father.” “Oh, pleasures not desired are like acquaintances not sought--they rather bore one!” Lord Theign sighed. With which he moved away from her. Her eyes followed him an instant--then she smiled at their guest. “Is he bored at having the higher prize--if you’re sure it _is_ the higher?” “Mr. Crimble is sure--because if he isn’t,” Lord John added, “he’s a wretch.” “Well,” she returned, “as he’s certainly not a wretch it must be true. And fancy,” she exclaimed further, though as more particularly for herself, “our having suddenly incurred this immense debt to him!” “Oh, I shall pay Mr. Crimble!” said her father, who had turned round. The whole question appeared to have provoked in Lord John a rise of spirits and a flush of humour. “Don’t you let him stick it on.” His host, however, bethinking himself, checked him. “Go _you_ to Mr. Bender straight!” Lord John saw the point. “Yes--till he leaves. But I shall find you here, shan’t I?”<|quote|>he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace. She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented.</|quote|>“I’ll wait for you.” “Then _à tantôt!_” It made him show for happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite--to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own. IX Lord Theign, when he had gone, revolved--it might have been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.” “Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.” “Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the character under discussion could after all be summed up without searching analysis. “I consider nevertheless that there’s plenty in him.” It was a moderate claim, to which Lady Grace might assent. “He strikes me as naturally quick and--well, nice. But I agree with you than he hasn’t had a chance.” “Then if you can see your way by sympathy and confidence to help him to one I dare say you’ll find your reward.” For a third time she considered, as if a certain curtness in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too much, you would have felt her ask, and wasn’t his visible wish for brevity of debate a sign of his uncomfortable and indeed rather irritated sense of his not making a figure in it? “Do you desire it very particularly?” was, however, all she at last brought out. “I should like it exceedingly--if you act from conviction. Then of course only; but of one thing I’m myself convinced--of what he thinks of yourself and feels for you.” “Then would you mind my waiting a little?” she asked. “I mean to be absolutely sure of myself.” After which, on his delaying to agree, she added frankly, as to help her case: “Upon my word, father, I should like to do what would please you.” But it determined in him a sharper impatience. “Ah, what would please _me!_ Don’t put it off on ‘me’! Judge absolutely for yourself” --he slightly took himself up-- “in the light of my having consented to do for him what I always _hate_ to do: deviate from my normal practice of never intermeddling. If I’ve deviated now you can judge. But to do so all round, of course, take--in reason!--your time.” “May I ask then,” she said, | The Outcry |
"This stror, sir, if I might make so bold as to remark" | Mrs. Hall | good idea," said the stranger.<|quote|>"This stror, sir, if I might make so bold as to remark"</|quote|>"Don t. If the straw | know. Any time." "A very good idea," said the stranger.<|quote|>"This stror, sir, if I might make so bold as to remark"</|quote|>"Don t. If the straw makes trouble put it down | seemingly" "Perhaps you did. But in my investigations my really very urgent and necessary investigations the slightest disturbance, the jar of a door I must ask you" "Certainly, sir. You can turn the lock if you re like that, you know. Any time." "A very good idea," said the stranger.<|quote|>"This stror, sir, if I might make so bold as to remark"</|quote|>"Don t. If the straw makes trouble put it down in the bill." And he mumbled at her words suspiciously like curses. He was so odd, standing there, so aggressive and explosive, bottle in one hand and test-tube in the other, that Mrs. Hall was quite alarmed. But she was | his spectacles again, and then turned and faced her. She was about to complain of the straw on the floor when he anticipated her. "I wish you wouldn t come in without knocking," he said in the tone of abnormal exasperation that seemed so characteristic of him. "I knocked, but seemingly" "Perhaps you did. But in my investigations my really very urgent and necessary investigations the slightest disturbance, the jar of a door I must ask you" "Certainly, sir. You can turn the lock if you re like that, you know. Any time." "A very good idea," said the stranger.<|quote|>"This stror, sir, if I might make so bold as to remark"</|quote|>"Don t. If the straw makes trouble put it down in the bill." And he mumbled at her words suspiciously like curses. He was so odd, standing there, so aggressive and explosive, bottle in one hand and test-tube in the other, that Mrs. Hall was quite alarmed. But she was a resolute woman. "In which case, I should like to know, sir, what you consider" "A shilling put down a shilling. Surely a shilling s enough?" "So be it," said Mrs. Hall, taking up the table-cloth and beginning to spread it over the table. "If you re satisfied, of course" | his dinner in to him, he was already so absorbed in his work, pouring little drops out of the bottles into test-tubes, that he did not hear her until she had swept away the bulk of the straw and put the tray on the table, with some little emphasis perhaps, seeing the state that the floor was in. Then he half turned his head and immediately turned it away again. But she saw he had removed his glasses; they were beside him on the table, and it seemed to her that his eye sockets were extraordinarily hollow. He put on his spectacles again, and then turned and faced her. She was about to complain of the straw on the floor when he anticipated her. "I wish you wouldn t come in without knocking," he said in the tone of abnormal exasperation that seemed so characteristic of him. "I knocked, but seemingly" "Perhaps you did. But in my investigations my really very urgent and necessary investigations the slightest disturbance, the jar of a door I must ask you" "Certainly, sir. You can turn the lock if you re like that, you know. Any time." "A very good idea," said the stranger.<|quote|>"This stror, sir, if I might make so bold as to remark"</|quote|>"Don t. If the straw makes trouble put it down in the bill." And he mumbled at her words suspiciously like curses. He was so odd, standing there, so aggressive and explosive, bottle in one hand and test-tube in the other, that Mrs. Hall was quite alarmed. But she was a resolute woman. "In which case, I should like to know, sir, what you consider" "A shilling put down a shilling. Surely a shilling s enough?" "So be it," said Mrs. Hall, taking up the table-cloth and beginning to spread it over the table. "If you re satisfied, of course" He turned and sat down, with his coat-collar toward her. All the afternoon he worked with the door locked and, as Mrs. Hall testifies, for the most part in silence. But once there was a concussion and a sound of bottles ringing together as though the table had been hit, and the smash of a bottle flung violently down, and then a rapid pacing athwart the room. Fearing "something was the matter," she went to the door and listened, not caring to knock. "I can t go on," he was raving. "I _can t_ go on. Three hundred thousand, four | an utter disregard of Mrs. Hall s carpet. And from it he began to produce bottles little fat bottles containing powders, small and slender bottles containing coloured and white fluids, fluted blue bottles labeled Poison, bottles with round bodies and slender necks, large green-glass bottles, large white-glass bottles, bottles with glass stoppers and frosted labels, bottles with fine corks, bottles with bungs, bottles with wooden caps, wine bottles, salad-oil bottles putting them in rows on the chiffonnier, on the mantel, on the table under the window, round the floor, on the bookshelf everywhere. The chemist s shop in Bramblehurst could not boast half so many. Quite a sight it was. Crate after crate yielded bottles, until all six were empty and the table high with straw; the only things that came out of these crates besides the bottles were a number of test-tubes and a carefully packed balance. And directly the crates were unpacked, the stranger went to the window and set to work, not troubling in the least about the litter of straw, the fire which had gone out, the box of books outside, nor for the trunks and other luggage that had gone upstairs. When Mrs. Hall took his dinner in to him, he was already so absorbed in his work, pouring little drops out of the bottles into test-tubes, that he did not hear her until she had swept away the bulk of the straw and put the tray on the table, with some little emphasis perhaps, seeing the state that the floor was in. Then he half turned his head and immediately turned it away again. But she saw he had removed his glasses; they were beside him on the table, and it seemed to her that his eye sockets were extraordinarily hollow. He put on his spectacles again, and then turned and faced her. She was about to complain of the straw on the floor when he anticipated her. "I wish you wouldn t come in without knocking," he said in the tone of abnormal exasperation that seemed so characteristic of him. "I knocked, but seemingly" "Perhaps you did. But in my investigations my really very urgent and necessary investigations the slightest disturbance, the jar of a door I must ask you" "Certainly, sir. You can turn the lock if you re like that, you know. Any time." "A very good idea," said the stranger.<|quote|>"This stror, sir, if I might make so bold as to remark"</|quote|>"Don t. If the straw makes trouble put it down in the bill." And he mumbled at her words suspiciously like curses. He was so odd, standing there, so aggressive and explosive, bottle in one hand and test-tube in the other, that Mrs. Hall was quite alarmed. But she was a resolute woman. "In which case, I should like to know, sir, what you consider" "A shilling put down a shilling. Surely a shilling s enough?" "So be it," said Mrs. Hall, taking up the table-cloth and beginning to spread it over the table. "If you re satisfied, of course" He turned and sat down, with his coat-collar toward her. All the afternoon he worked with the door locked and, as Mrs. Hall testifies, for the most part in silence. But once there was a concussion and a sound of bottles ringing together as though the table had been hit, and the smash of a bottle flung violently down, and then a rapid pacing athwart the room. Fearing "something was the matter," she went to the door and listened, not caring to knock. "I can t go on," he was raving. "I _can t_ go on. Three hundred thousand, four hundred thousand! The huge multitude! Cheated! All my life it may take me! ... Patience! Patience indeed! ... Fool! fool!" There was a noise of hobnails on the bricks in the bar, and Mrs. Hall had very reluctantly to leave the rest of his soliloquy. When she returned the room was silent again, save for the faint crepitation of his chair and the occasional clink of a bottle. It was all over; the stranger had resumed work. When she took in his tea she saw broken glass in the corner of the room under the concave mirror, and a golden stain that had been carelessly wiped. She called attention to it. "Put it down in the bill," snapped her visitor. "For God s sake don t worry me. If there s damage done, put it down in the bill," and he went on ticking a list in the exercise book before him. "I ll tell you something," said Fearenside, mysteriously. It was late in the afternoon, and they were in the little beer-shop of Iping Hanger. "Well?" said Teddy Henfrey. "This chap you re speaking of, what my dog bit. Well he s black. Leastways, his legs are. I seed | handless arm waving towards him, and a face of three huge indeterminate spots on white, very like the face of a pale pansy. Then he was struck violently in the chest, hurled back, and the door slammed in his face and locked. It was so rapid that it gave him no time to observe. A waving of indecipherable shapes, a blow, and a concussion. There he stood on the dark little landing, wondering what it might be that he had seen. A couple of minutes after, he rejoined the little group that had formed outside the "Coach and Horses." There was Fearenside telling about it all over again for the second time; there was Mrs. Hall saying his dog didn t have no business to bite her guests; there was Huxter, the general dealer from over the road, interrogative; and Sandy Wadgers from the forge, judicial; besides women and children, all of them saying fatuities: "Wouldn t let en bite _me_, I knows"; " Tasn t right _have_ such dargs"; "Whad _e_ bite n for, then?" and so forth. Mr. Hall, staring at them from the steps and listening, found it incredible that he had seen anything so very remarkable happen upstairs. Besides, his vocabulary was altogether too limited to express his impressions. "He don t want no help, he says," he said in answer to his wife s inquiry. "We d better be a-takin of his luggage in." "He ought to have it cauterised at once," said Mr. Huxter; "especially if it s at all inflamed." "I d shoot en, that s what I d do," said a lady in the group. Suddenly the dog began growling again. "Come along," cried an angry voice in the doorway, and there stood the muffled stranger with his collar turned up, and his hat-brim bent down. "The sooner you get those things in the better I ll be pleased." It is stated by an anonymous bystander that his trousers and gloves had been changed. "Was you hurt, sir?" said Fearenside. "I m rare sorry the darg" "Not a bit," said the stranger. "Never broke the skin. Hurry up with those things." He then swore to himself, so Mr. Hall asserts. Directly the first crate was, in accordance with his directions, carried into the parlour, the stranger flung himself upon it with extraordinary eagerness, and began to unpack it, scattering the straw with an utter disregard of Mrs. Hall s carpet. And from it he began to produce bottles little fat bottles containing powders, small and slender bottles containing coloured and white fluids, fluted blue bottles labeled Poison, bottles with round bodies and slender necks, large green-glass bottles, large white-glass bottles, bottles with glass stoppers and frosted labels, bottles with fine corks, bottles with bungs, bottles with wooden caps, wine bottles, salad-oil bottles putting them in rows on the chiffonnier, on the mantel, on the table under the window, round the floor, on the bookshelf everywhere. The chemist s shop in Bramblehurst could not boast half so many. Quite a sight it was. Crate after crate yielded bottles, until all six were empty and the table high with straw; the only things that came out of these crates besides the bottles were a number of test-tubes and a carefully packed balance. And directly the crates were unpacked, the stranger went to the window and set to work, not troubling in the least about the litter of straw, the fire which had gone out, the box of books outside, nor for the trunks and other luggage that had gone upstairs. When Mrs. Hall took his dinner in to him, he was already so absorbed in his work, pouring little drops out of the bottles into test-tubes, that he did not hear her until she had swept away the bulk of the straw and put the tray on the table, with some little emphasis perhaps, seeing the state that the floor was in. Then he half turned his head and immediately turned it away again. But she saw he had removed his glasses; they were beside him on the table, and it seemed to her that his eye sockets were extraordinarily hollow. He put on his spectacles again, and then turned and faced her. She was about to complain of the straw on the floor when he anticipated her. "I wish you wouldn t come in without knocking," he said in the tone of abnormal exasperation that seemed so characteristic of him. "I knocked, but seemingly" "Perhaps you did. But in my investigations my really very urgent and necessary investigations the slightest disturbance, the jar of a door I must ask you" "Certainly, sir. You can turn the lock if you re like that, you know. Any time." "A very good idea," said the stranger.<|quote|>"This stror, sir, if I might make so bold as to remark"</|quote|>"Don t. If the straw makes trouble put it down in the bill." And he mumbled at her words suspiciously like curses. He was so odd, standing there, so aggressive and explosive, bottle in one hand and test-tube in the other, that Mrs. Hall was quite alarmed. But she was a resolute woman. "In which case, I should like to know, sir, what you consider" "A shilling put down a shilling. Surely a shilling s enough?" "So be it," said Mrs. Hall, taking up the table-cloth and beginning to spread it over the table. "If you re satisfied, of course" He turned and sat down, with his coat-collar toward her. All the afternoon he worked with the door locked and, as Mrs. Hall testifies, for the most part in silence. But once there was a concussion and a sound of bottles ringing together as though the table had been hit, and the smash of a bottle flung violently down, and then a rapid pacing athwart the room. Fearing "something was the matter," she went to the door and listened, not caring to knock. "I can t go on," he was raving. "I _can t_ go on. Three hundred thousand, four hundred thousand! The huge multitude! Cheated! All my life it may take me! ... Patience! Patience indeed! ... Fool! fool!" There was a noise of hobnails on the bricks in the bar, and Mrs. Hall had very reluctantly to leave the rest of his soliloquy. When she returned the room was silent again, save for the faint crepitation of his chair and the occasional clink of a bottle. It was all over; the stranger had resumed work. When she took in his tea she saw broken glass in the corner of the room under the concave mirror, and a golden stain that had been carelessly wiped. She called attention to it. "Put it down in the bill," snapped her visitor. "For God s sake don t worry me. If there s damage done, put it down in the bill," and he went on ticking a list in the exercise book before him. "I ll tell you something," said Fearenside, mysteriously. It was late in the afternoon, and they were in the little beer-shop of Iping Hanger. "Well?" said Teddy Henfrey. "This chap you re speaking of, what my dog bit. Well he s black. Leastways, his legs are. I seed through the tear of his trousers and the tear of his glove. You d have expected a sort of pinky to show, wouldn t you? Well there wasn t none. Just blackness. I tell you, he s as black as my hat." "My sakes!" said Henfrey. "It s a rummy case altogether. Why, his nose is as pink as paint!" "That s true," said Fearenside. "I knows that. And I tell ee what I m thinking. That marn s a piebald, Teddy. Black here and white there in patches. And he s ashamed of it. He s a kind of half-breed, and the colour s come off patchy instead of mixing. I ve heard of such things before. And it s the common way with horses, as any one can see." CHAPTER IV. >MR. CUSS INTERVIEWS THE STRANGER I have told the circumstances of the stranger s arrival in Iping with a certain fulness of detail, in order that the curious impression he created may be understood by the reader. But excepting two odd incidents, the circumstances of his stay until the extraordinary day of the club festival may be passed over very cursorily. There were a number of skirmishes with Mrs. Hall on matters of domestic discipline, but in every case until late April, when the first signs of penury began, he over-rode her by the easy expedient of an extra payment. Hall did not like him, and whenever he dared he talked of the advisability of getting rid of him; but he showed his dislike chiefly by concealing it ostentatiously, and avoiding his visitor as much as possible. "Wait till the summer," said Mrs. Hall sagely, "when the artisks are beginning to come. Then we ll see. He may be a bit overbearing, but bills settled punctual is bills settled punctual, whatever you d like to say." The stranger did not go to church, and indeed made no difference between Sunday and the irreligious days, even in costume. He worked, as Mrs. Hall thought, very fitfully. Some days he would come down early and be continuously busy. On others he would rise late, pace his room, fretting audibly for hours together, smoke, sleep in the armchair by the fire. Communication with the world beyond the village he had none. His temper continued very uncertain; for the most part his manner was that of a man suffering under almost | the stranger flung himself upon it with extraordinary eagerness, and began to unpack it, scattering the straw with an utter disregard of Mrs. Hall s carpet. And from it he began to produce bottles little fat bottles containing powders, small and slender bottles containing coloured and white fluids, fluted blue bottles labeled Poison, bottles with round bodies and slender necks, large green-glass bottles, large white-glass bottles, bottles with glass stoppers and frosted labels, bottles with fine corks, bottles with bungs, bottles with wooden caps, wine bottles, salad-oil bottles putting them in rows on the chiffonnier, on the mantel, on the table under the window, round the floor, on the bookshelf everywhere. The chemist s shop in Bramblehurst could not boast half so many. Quite a sight it was. Crate after crate yielded bottles, until all six were empty and the table high with straw; the only things that came out of these crates besides the bottles were a number of test-tubes and a carefully packed balance. And directly the crates were unpacked, the stranger went to the window and set to work, not troubling in the least about the litter of straw, the fire which had gone out, the box of books outside, nor for the trunks and other luggage that had gone upstairs. When Mrs. Hall took his dinner in to him, he was already so absorbed in his work, pouring little drops out of the bottles into test-tubes, that he did not hear her until she had swept away the bulk of the straw and put the tray on the table, with some little emphasis perhaps, seeing the state that the floor was in. Then he half turned his head and immediately turned it away again. But she saw he had removed his glasses; they were beside him on the table, and it seemed to her that his eye sockets were extraordinarily hollow. He put on his spectacles again, and then turned and faced her. She was about to complain of the straw on the floor when he anticipated her. "I wish you wouldn t come in without knocking," he said in the tone of abnormal exasperation that seemed so characteristic of him. "I knocked, but seemingly" "Perhaps you did. But in my investigations my really very urgent and necessary investigations the slightest disturbance, the jar of a door I must ask you" "Certainly, sir. You can turn the lock if you re like that, you know. Any time." "A very good idea," said the stranger.<|quote|>"This stror, sir, if I might make so bold as to remark"</|quote|>"Don t. If the straw makes trouble put it down in the bill." And he mumbled at her words suspiciously like curses. He was so odd, standing there, so aggressive and explosive, bottle in one hand and test-tube in the other, that Mrs. Hall was quite alarmed. But she was a resolute woman. "In which case, I should like to know, sir, what you consider" "A shilling put down a shilling. Surely a shilling s enough?" "So be it," said Mrs. Hall, taking up the table-cloth and beginning to spread it over the table. "If you re satisfied, of course" He turned and sat down, with his coat-collar toward her. All the afternoon he worked with the door locked and, as Mrs. Hall testifies, for the most part in silence. But once there was a concussion and a sound of bottles ringing together as though the table had been hit, and the smash of a bottle flung violently down, and then a rapid pacing athwart the room. Fearing "something was the matter," she went to the door and listened, not caring to knock. "I can t go on," he was raving. "I _can t_ go on. Three hundred thousand, four hundred thousand! The huge multitude! Cheated! All my life it may take me! ... Patience! Patience indeed! ... Fool! fool!" There was a noise of hobnails on the bricks in the bar, and Mrs. Hall had very reluctantly to leave the rest of his soliloquy. When she returned the room was silent again, save for the faint crepitation of his chair and the occasional clink of a bottle. It was all over; the stranger had resumed work. When she took in his tea she saw broken glass in the corner of the room under the concave mirror, and a golden stain that had been carelessly wiped. She called attention to it. "Put it down in the bill," snapped her visitor. "For God s sake don | The Invisible Man |
“Well, I guess he won’t struggle too hard for me to hold on to him if I _want_ to!” | Bender | his high calculation of impunity.<|quote|>“Well, I guess he won’t struggle too hard for me to hold on to him if I _want_ to!”</|quote|>“In the thick of the | quite gaily away as to his high calculation of impunity.<|quote|>“Well, I guess he won’t struggle too hard for me to hold on to him if I _want_ to!”</|quote|>“In the thick of the conflict then, however that may | express what this must be; reduced to the mere synthetic interjection “My!” “That’s it, Mr. Bender,” Hugh said for the consecration of such a moral; “he won’t quit it without a hard struggle.” Mr. Bender hereupon at last gave himself quite gaily away as to his high calculation of impunity.<|quote|>“Well, I guess he won’t struggle too hard for me to hold on to him if I _want_ to!”</|quote|>“In the thick of the conflict then, however that may be,” Hugh returned, “don’t forget what I’ve urged on you--the claim of our desolate country.” But his friend had an answer to this. “My natural interest, Mr. Crimble--considering what I do for it--is in the claim of ours. But I | perceptive ease in the exposed aristocratic illusion. “Yes, I guess he has always lived as he likes, the way those of you who have got things fixed for them _do_, over here; and to have to quit it on account of unpleasant remark--” But he gave up thoughtfully trying to express what this must be; reduced to the mere synthetic interjection “My!” “That’s it, Mr. Bender,” Hugh said for the consecration of such a moral; “he won’t quit it without a hard struggle.” Mr. Bender hereupon at last gave himself quite gaily away as to his high calculation of impunity.<|quote|>“Well, I guess he won’t struggle too hard for me to hold on to him if I _want_ to!”</|quote|>“In the thick of the conflict then, however that may be,” Hugh returned, “don’t forget what I’ve urged on you--the claim of our desolate country.” But his friend had an answer to this. “My natural interest, Mr. Crimble--considering what I do for it--is in the claim of ours. But I wish you were on my side!” “Not so much,” Hugh hungrily and truthfully laughed, “as I wish you were on mine!” Decidedly, none the less, he had to go. “Good-bye--for another look here!” He reached the doorway of the second room, where, however, his companion, freshly alert at this, stayed | something of the effect he had hoped. “You entertain the fond vision of lashing them up to that mistake, oh fisher in troubled waters?” And then with a finer art, as his companion, expansively bright but crudely acute, eyed him in turn as if to sound _him_: “The strongest thing in such a type--one does make out--is his resentment of a liberty taken; and the most natural furthermore is quite that he should feel almost anything you do take uninvited from the groaning board of his banquet of life to _be_ such a liberty.” Mr. Bender participated thus at his perceptive ease in the exposed aristocratic illusion. “Yes, I guess he has always lived as he likes, the way those of you who have got things fixed for them _do_, over here; and to have to quit it on account of unpleasant remark--” But he gave up thoughtfully trying to express what this must be; reduced to the mere synthetic interjection “My!” “That’s it, Mr. Bender,” Hugh said for the consecration of such a moral; “he won’t quit it without a hard struggle.” Mr. Bender hereupon at last gave himself quite gaily away as to his high calculation of impunity.<|quote|>“Well, I guess he won’t struggle too hard for me to hold on to him if I _want_ to!”</|quote|>“In the thick of the conflict then, however that may be,” Hugh returned, “don’t forget what I’ve urged on you--the claim of our desolate country.” But his friend had an answer to this. “My natural interest, Mr. Crimble--considering what I do for it--is in the claim of ours. But I wish you were on my side!” “Not so much,” Hugh hungrily and truthfully laughed, “as I wish you were on mine!” Decidedly, none the less, he had to go. “Good-bye--for another look here!” He reached the doorway of the second room, where, however, his companion, freshly alert at this, stayed him by a gesture. “How much is she really worth?” “‘She’?” Hugh, staring a moment, was miles at sea. “Lady Sandgate?” “Her great-grandmother.” A responsible answer was prevented--the butler was again with them; he had opened wide the other door and he named to Mr. Bender the personage under his convoy. “Lord John!” Hugh caught this from the inner threshold, and it gave him his escape. “Oh, ask _that_ friend!” With which he sought the further passage to the staircase and street, while Lord John arrived in charge of Mr. Gotch, who, having remarked to the two occupants of the | never budge an inch. But at least again what I appeal to you for will have taken place--the picture will have been seen by a lot of people who’ll care.” “It will have been seen,” Mr. Bender amended-- “on the mere contingency of my acquisition of it--only if its present owner consents.” “‘Consents’?” Hugh almost derisively echoed; “why, he’ll propose it himself, he’ll insist on it, he’ll put it through, once he’s angry enough--as angry, I mean, as almost any public criticism of a personal act of his will be sure to make him; and I’m afraid the striking criticism, or at least animadversion, of this morning, will have blown on his flame of bravado.” Inevitably a student of character, Mr. Bender rose to the occasion. “Yes, I guess he’s pretty mad.” “They’ve imputed to him” --Hugh but wanted to abound in that sense-- “an intention of which after all he isn’t guilty.” “So that” --his listener glowed with interested optimism-- “if they don’t look out, if they impute it to him again, I guess he’ll just go and be guilty!” Hugh might at this moment have shown to an initiated eye as fairly elated by the sense of producing something of the effect he had hoped. “You entertain the fond vision of lashing them up to that mistake, oh fisher in troubled waters?” And then with a finer art, as his companion, expansively bright but crudely acute, eyed him in turn as if to sound _him_: “The strongest thing in such a type--one does make out--is his resentment of a liberty taken; and the most natural furthermore is quite that he should feel almost anything you do take uninvited from the groaning board of his banquet of life to _be_ such a liberty.” Mr. Bender participated thus at his perceptive ease in the exposed aristocratic illusion. “Yes, I guess he has always lived as he likes, the way those of you who have got things fixed for them _do_, over here; and to have to quit it on account of unpleasant remark--” But he gave up thoughtfully trying to express what this must be; reduced to the mere synthetic interjection “My!” “That’s it, Mr. Bender,” Hugh said for the consecration of such a moral; “he won’t quit it without a hard struggle.” Mr. Bender hereupon at last gave himself quite gaily away as to his high calculation of impunity.<|quote|>“Well, I guess he won’t struggle too hard for me to hold on to him if I _want_ to!”</|quote|>“In the thick of the conflict then, however that may be,” Hugh returned, “don’t forget what I’ve urged on you--the claim of our desolate country.” But his friend had an answer to this. “My natural interest, Mr. Crimble--considering what I do for it--is in the claim of ours. But I wish you were on my side!” “Not so much,” Hugh hungrily and truthfully laughed, “as I wish you were on mine!” Decidedly, none the less, he had to go. “Good-bye--for another look here!” He reached the doorway of the second room, where, however, his companion, freshly alert at this, stayed him by a gesture. “How much is she really worth?” “‘She’?” Hugh, staring a moment, was miles at sea. “Lady Sandgate?” “Her great-grandmother.” A responsible answer was prevented--the butler was again with them; he had opened wide the other door and he named to Mr. Bender the personage under his convoy. “Lord John!” Hugh caught this from the inner threshold, and it gave him his escape. “Oh, ask _that_ friend!” With which he sought the further passage to the staircase and street, while Lord John arrived in charge of Mr. Gotch, who, having remarked to the two occupants of the front drawing-room that her ladyship would come, left them together. IV “Then Theign’s not yet here!” Lord John had to resign himself as he greeted his American ally. “But he told me I should find you.” “He has kept me waiting,” that gentleman returned-- “but what’s the matter with him anyway?” “The matter with him” --Lord John treated such ignorance as irritating-- “must of course be this beastly thing in the ‘Journal.’” Mr. Bender proclaimed, on the other hand, his incapacity to seize such connections. “What’s the matter with the beastly thing?” “Why, aren’t you aware that the stiffest bit of it is a regular dig at you?” “If you call _that_ a regular dig you can’t have had much experience of the Papers. I’ve known them to dig much deeper.” “I’ve had _no_ experience of such horrid attacks, thank goodness; but do you mean to say,” asked Lord John with the surprise of his own delicacy, “that you don’t unpleasantly feel it?” “Feel it where, my dear sir?” “Why, God bless me, such impertinence, everywhere!” “All over me at once?” --Mr. Bender took refuge in easy humour. “Well, I’m a large man--so when I want to feel so much | kept, during a moment’s thought, his eyes on his companion, and then resumed with all intensity and candour: “You may easily, Mr. Bender, be too much for me--as you appear too much for far greater people. But may I ask you, very earnestly, for your word on _this_, as to any case in which that happens--that when precious things, things we are to lose here, _are_ knocked down to you, you’ll let us at least take leave of them, let us have a sight of them in London, before they’re borne off?” Mr. Bender’s big face fell almost with a crash. “Hand them over, you mean, to the sandwich men on Bond Street?” “To one or other of the placard and poster men--I don’t insist on the inserted human slice! Let the great values, as a compensation to us, be on view for three or four weeks.” “You ask me,” Mr. Bender returned, “for a _general_ assurance to that effect?” “Well, a particular one--so it be particular enough,” Hugh said-- “will do just for now. Let me put in my plea for the issue--well, of the value that’s actually in the scales.” “The Mantovano-Moretto?” “The Moretto-Mantovano!” Mr. Bender carnivorously smiled. “Hadn’t we better know which it is first?” Hugh had a motion of practical indifference for this. “The public interest--playing so straight on the question--may help to settle it. By which I mean that it will profit enormously--the question of probability, of identity itself will--by the discussion it will create. The discussion will promote certainty----” “And certainty,” Mr. Bender massively mused, “will kick up a row.” “_Of course_ it will kick up a row!” --Hugh thoroughly guaranteed that. “You’ll be, for the month, the best-abused man in England--if you venture to remain here at all; except, naturally, poor Lord Theign.” “Whom it won’t be my interest, at the same time, to worry into backing down.” “But whom it will be exceedingly _mine_ to practise on” --and Hugh laughed as at the fun before them-- “if I may entertain the sweet hope of success. The only thing is--from my point of view,” he went on-- “that backing down before what he will call vulgar clamour isn’t in the least in his traditions, nothing less so; and that if there should be really too much of it for his taste or his nerves he’ll set his handsome face as a stone and never budge an inch. But at least again what I appeal to you for will have taken place--the picture will have been seen by a lot of people who’ll care.” “It will have been seen,” Mr. Bender amended-- “on the mere contingency of my acquisition of it--only if its present owner consents.” “‘Consents’?” Hugh almost derisively echoed; “why, he’ll propose it himself, he’ll insist on it, he’ll put it through, once he’s angry enough--as angry, I mean, as almost any public criticism of a personal act of his will be sure to make him; and I’m afraid the striking criticism, or at least animadversion, of this morning, will have blown on his flame of bravado.” Inevitably a student of character, Mr. Bender rose to the occasion. “Yes, I guess he’s pretty mad.” “They’ve imputed to him” --Hugh but wanted to abound in that sense-- “an intention of which after all he isn’t guilty.” “So that” --his listener glowed with interested optimism-- “if they don’t look out, if they impute it to him again, I guess he’ll just go and be guilty!” Hugh might at this moment have shown to an initiated eye as fairly elated by the sense of producing something of the effect he had hoped. “You entertain the fond vision of lashing them up to that mistake, oh fisher in troubled waters?” And then with a finer art, as his companion, expansively bright but crudely acute, eyed him in turn as if to sound _him_: “The strongest thing in such a type--one does make out--is his resentment of a liberty taken; and the most natural furthermore is quite that he should feel almost anything you do take uninvited from the groaning board of his banquet of life to _be_ such a liberty.” Mr. Bender participated thus at his perceptive ease in the exposed aristocratic illusion. “Yes, I guess he has always lived as he likes, the way those of you who have got things fixed for them _do_, over here; and to have to quit it on account of unpleasant remark--” But he gave up thoughtfully trying to express what this must be; reduced to the mere synthetic interjection “My!” “That’s it, Mr. Bender,” Hugh said for the consecration of such a moral; “he won’t quit it without a hard struggle.” Mr. Bender hereupon at last gave himself quite gaily away as to his high calculation of impunity.<|quote|>“Well, I guess he won’t struggle too hard for me to hold on to him if I _want_ to!”</|quote|>“In the thick of the conflict then, however that may be,” Hugh returned, “don’t forget what I’ve urged on you--the claim of our desolate country.” But his friend had an answer to this. “My natural interest, Mr. Crimble--considering what I do for it--is in the claim of ours. But I wish you were on my side!” “Not so much,” Hugh hungrily and truthfully laughed, “as I wish you were on mine!” Decidedly, none the less, he had to go. “Good-bye--for another look here!” He reached the doorway of the second room, where, however, his companion, freshly alert at this, stayed him by a gesture. “How much is she really worth?” “‘She’?” Hugh, staring a moment, was miles at sea. “Lady Sandgate?” “Her great-grandmother.” A responsible answer was prevented--the butler was again with them; he had opened wide the other door and he named to Mr. Bender the personage under his convoy. “Lord John!” Hugh caught this from the inner threshold, and it gave him his escape. “Oh, ask _that_ friend!” With which he sought the further passage to the staircase and street, while Lord John arrived in charge of Mr. Gotch, who, having remarked to the two occupants of the front drawing-room that her ladyship would come, left them together. IV “Then Theign’s not yet here!” Lord John had to resign himself as he greeted his American ally. “But he told me I should find you.” “He has kept me waiting,” that gentleman returned-- “but what’s the matter with him anyway?” “The matter with him” --Lord John treated such ignorance as irritating-- “must of course be this beastly thing in the ‘Journal.’” Mr. Bender proclaimed, on the other hand, his incapacity to seize such connections. “What’s the matter with the beastly thing?” “Why, aren’t you aware that the stiffest bit of it is a regular dig at you?” “If you call _that_ a regular dig you can’t have had much experience of the Papers. I’ve known them to dig much deeper.” “I’ve had _no_ experience of such horrid attacks, thank goodness; but do you mean to say,” asked Lord John with the surprise of his own delicacy, “that you don’t unpleasantly feel it?” “Feel it where, my dear sir?” “Why, God bless me, such impertinence, everywhere!” “All over me at once?” --Mr. Bender took refuge in easy humour. “Well, I’m a large man--so when I want to feel so much I look out for something good. But what, if he suffers from the blot on his ermine--ain’t that what you wear?--does our friend propose to do about it?” Lord John had a demur, which was immediately followed by the apprehension of support in his uncertainty. Lady Sandgate was before them, having reached them through the other room, and to her he at once referred the question. “What _will_ Theign propose, do you think, Lady Sandgate, to do about it?” She breathed both her hospitality and her vagueness. “To ‘do’----?” “Don’t you know about the thing in the ‘Journal’--awfully offensive all round?” “There’d be even a little pinch for _you_ in it,” Mr. Bender said to her-- “if you were bent on fitting the shoe!” Well, she met it all as gaily as was compatible with a firm look at her elder guest while she took her place with them. “Oh, the shoes of such monsters as that are much too big for poor _me!_” But she was more specific for Lord John. “I know only what Grace has just told me; but since it’s a question of footgear dear Theign will certainly--what you may call--take his stand!” Lord John welcomed this assurance. “If I know him he’ll take it splendidly!” Mr. Bender’s attention was genial, though rather more detached. “And what--while he’s about it--will he take it particularly _on?_” “Oh, we’ve plenty of things, thank heaven,” said Lady Sandgate, “for a man in Theign’s position to hold fast by!” Lord John freely confirmed it. “Scores and scores--rather! And I will say for us that, with the rotten way things seem going, the fact may soon become a real convenience.” Mr. Bender seemed struck--and not unsympathetic. “I see that your system would be rather a fraud if you hadn’t pretty well fixed _that!_” Lady Sandgate spoke as one at present none the less substantially warned and convinced. “It doesn’t, however, alter the fact that we’ve thus in our ears the first growl of an outcry.” “Ah,” Lord John concurred, “we’ve unmistakably the first growl of an outcry!” Mr. Bender’s judgment on the matter paused at sight of Lord Theign, introduced and announced, as Lord John spoke, by Gotch; but with the result of his addressing directly the person so presenting himself. “Why, they tell me that what this means, Lord Theign, is the first growl of an outcry!” The appearance of | contingency of my acquisition of it--only if its present owner consents.” “‘Consents’?” Hugh almost derisively echoed; “why, he’ll propose it himself, he’ll insist on it, he’ll put it through, once he’s angry enough--as angry, I mean, as almost any public criticism of a personal act of his will be sure to make him; and I’m afraid the striking criticism, or at least animadversion, of this morning, will have blown on his flame of bravado.” Inevitably a student of character, Mr. Bender rose to the occasion. “Yes, I guess he’s pretty mad.” “They’ve imputed to him” --Hugh but wanted to abound in that sense-- “an intention of which after all he isn’t guilty.” “So that” --his listener glowed with interested optimism-- “if they don’t look out, if they impute it to him again, I guess he’ll just go and be guilty!” Hugh might at this moment have shown to an initiated eye as fairly elated by the sense of producing something of the effect he had hoped. “You entertain the fond vision of lashing them up to that mistake, oh fisher in troubled waters?” And then with a finer art, as his companion, expansively bright but crudely acute, eyed him in turn as if to sound _him_: “The strongest thing in such a type--one does make out--is his resentment of a liberty taken; and the most natural furthermore is quite that he should feel almost anything you do take uninvited from the groaning board of his banquet of life to _be_ such a liberty.” Mr. Bender participated thus at his perceptive ease in the exposed aristocratic illusion. “Yes, I guess he has always lived as he likes, the way those of you who have got things fixed for them _do_, over here; and to have to quit it on account of unpleasant remark--” But he gave up thoughtfully trying to express what this must be; reduced to the mere synthetic interjection “My!” “That’s it, Mr. Bender,” Hugh said for the consecration of such a moral; “he won’t quit it without a hard struggle.” Mr. Bender hereupon at last gave himself quite gaily away as to his high calculation of impunity.<|quote|>“Well, I guess he won’t struggle too hard for me to hold on to him if I _want_ to!”</|quote|>“In the thick of the conflict then, however that may be,” Hugh returned, “don’t forget what I’ve urged on you--the claim of our desolate country.” But his friend had an answer to this. “My natural interest, Mr. Crimble--considering what I do for it--is in the claim of ours. But I wish you were on my side!” “Not so much,” Hugh hungrily and truthfully laughed, “as I wish you were on mine!” Decidedly, none the less, he had to go. “Good-bye--for another look here!” He reached the doorway of the second room, where, however, his companion, freshly alert at this, stayed him by a gesture. “How much is she really worth?” “‘She’?” Hugh, staring a moment, was miles at sea. “Lady Sandgate?” “Her great-grandmother.” A responsible answer was prevented--the butler was again with them; he had opened wide the other door and he named to Mr. Bender the personage under his convoy. “Lord John!” Hugh caught this from the inner threshold, and it gave him his escape. “Oh, ask _that_ friend!” With which he sought the further passage to the staircase and street, while Lord John arrived in charge of Mr. Gotch, who, having remarked to the two occupants of the front drawing-room that her ladyship would come, left them together. IV “Then Theign’s not yet here!” Lord John had to resign himself as he greeted his American ally. “But he told me I should find you.” “He has kept me waiting,” that gentleman returned-- “but what’s the matter with him anyway?” “The matter with him” --Lord John treated such ignorance as irritating-- “must of course be this beastly thing in the ‘Journal.’” Mr. Bender proclaimed, on the other hand, his incapacity to seize such connections. “What’s the matter with the beastly thing?” “Why, aren’t you aware that the stiffest bit of it is a regular dig at you?” “If you call _that_ a regular dig you can’t have had much experience of the Papers. I’ve known them to dig much deeper.” “I’ve had _no_ experience of such horrid attacks, thank goodness; but do you mean to say,” asked Lord John with the surprise of his own delicacy, “that you don’t unpleasantly feel it?” “Feel it where, my dear sir?” “Why, God bless me, such impertinence, everywhere!” “All over me at once?” --Mr. Bender took refuge in easy humour. “Well, I’m a large man--so when I want to feel so much I look out for something good. But what, if he suffers from the blot on his ermine--ain’t that what you wear?--does our friend propose to do about it?” Lord John had a demur, which was immediately followed by the apprehension of support in his uncertainty. Lady Sandgate was before them, having reached them through the other room, and to her he at once referred the question. “What _will_ Theign propose, do you think, Lady Sandgate, to do about it?” She breathed both her hospitality and her vagueness. “To ‘do’----?” “Don’t you know about the thing in the ‘Journal’--awfully offensive all round?” “There’d be even a little pinch for _you_ in it,” Mr. Bender said to her-- “if you were bent on fitting the shoe!” Well, she met it all as gaily as was compatible with a firm look at her elder guest while she took her place with them. “Oh, the shoes of such monsters as that are much too big for poor _me!_” But she was more specific for Lord John. “I know only what Grace has just told me; but since it’s a question of footgear dear Theign will certainly--what you may | The Outcry |
she continued, turning to Ralph. | No speaker | are you staying with Mary?"<|quote|>she continued, turning to Ralph.</|quote|>"What a pity we didn | we could have met? And are you staying with Mary?"<|quote|>she continued, turning to Ralph.</|quote|>"What a pity we didn t meet before." Thus confronted | surprise meeting in the country, or whether she was really glad to see them both, at any rate she exclaimed with unusual pleasure as she shook hands: "I never knew you lived here. Why didn t you say so, and we could have met? And are you staying with Mary?"<|quote|>she continued, turning to Ralph.</|quote|>"What a pity we didn t meet before." Thus confronted at a distance of only a few feet by the real body of the woman about whom he had dreamt so many million dreams, Ralph stammered; he made a clutch at his self-control; the color either came to his cheeks | if her mother might have got herself concealed among mowing-machines and garden-shears, turned sharply on hearing her voice, and came towards them. She was a great deal surprised to see Denham and Mary Datchet. Whether the cordiality with which she greeted them was merely that which is natural to a surprise meeting in the country, or whether she was really glad to see them both, at any rate she exclaimed with unusual pleasure as she shook hands: "I never knew you lived here. Why didn t you say so, and we could have met? And are you staying with Mary?"<|quote|>she continued, turning to Ralph.</|quote|>"What a pity we didn t meet before." Thus confronted at a distance of only a few feet by the real body of the woman about whom he had dreamt so many million dreams, Ralph stammered; he made a clutch at his self-control; the color either came to his cheeks or left them, he knew not which; but he was determined to face her and track down in the cold light of day whatever vestige of truth there might be in his persistent imaginations. He did not succeed in saying anything. It was Mary who spoke for both of them. | standing like sentinels facing up and down the road so as to intercept her if, as they expected, she had got lodged in some shop. "I ve found something much better than ruins!" she exclaimed. "I ve found two friends who told me how to find you, which I could never have done without them. They must come and have tea with us. What a pity that we ve just had luncheon." Could they not somehow revoke that meal? Katharine, who had gone a few steps by herself down the road, and was investigating the window of an ironmonger, as if her mother might have got herself concealed among mowing-machines and garden-shears, turned sharply on hearing her voice, and came towards them. She was a great deal surprised to see Denham and Mary Datchet. Whether the cordiality with which she greeted them was merely that which is natural to a surprise meeting in the country, or whether she was really glad to see them both, at any rate she exclaimed with unusual pleasure as she shook hands: "I never knew you lived here. Why didn t you say so, and we could have met? And are you staying with Mary?"<|quote|>she continued, turning to Ralph.</|quote|>"What a pity we didn t meet before." Thus confronted at a distance of only a few feet by the real body of the woman about whom he had dreamt so many million dreams, Ralph stammered; he made a clutch at his self-control; the color either came to his cheeks or left them, he knew not which; but he was determined to face her and track down in the cold light of day whatever vestige of truth there might be in his persistent imaginations. He did not succeed in saying anything. It was Mary who spoke for both of them. He was struck dumb by finding that Katharine was quite different, in some strange way, from his memory, so that he had to dismiss his old view in order to accept the new one. The wind was blowing her crimson scarf across her face; the wind had already loosened her hair, which looped across the corner of one of the large, dark eyes which, so he used to think, looked sad; now they looked bright with the brightness of the sea struck by an unclouded ray; everything about her seemed rapid, fragmentary, and full of a kind of racing speed. | Please give me one of those little pots, and tell me how I shall find my way to the ruins." "And now," she continued, having received the information and the pot of honey, having been introduced to Mary, and having insisted that they should accompany her back to the ruins, since in a town with so many turnings, such prospects, such delightful little half-naked boys dabbling in pools, such Venetian canals, such old blue china in the curiosity shops, it was impossible for one person all alone to find her way to the ruins. "Now," she exclaimed, "please tell me what you re doing here, Mr. Denham for you _are_ Mr. Denham, aren t you?" she inquired, gazing at him with a sudden suspicion of her own accuracy. "The brilliant young man who writes for the Review, I mean? Only yesterday my husband was telling me he thought you one of the cleverest young men he knew. Certainly, you ve been the messenger of Providence to me, for unless I d seen you I m sure I should never have found the ruins at all." They had reached the Roman arch when Mrs. Hilbery caught sight of her own party, standing like sentinels facing up and down the road so as to intercept her if, as they expected, she had got lodged in some shop. "I ve found something much better than ruins!" she exclaimed. "I ve found two friends who told me how to find you, which I could never have done without them. They must come and have tea with us. What a pity that we ve just had luncheon." Could they not somehow revoke that meal? Katharine, who had gone a few steps by herself down the road, and was investigating the window of an ironmonger, as if her mother might have got herself concealed among mowing-machines and garden-shears, turned sharply on hearing her voice, and came towards them. She was a great deal surprised to see Denham and Mary Datchet. Whether the cordiality with which she greeted them was merely that which is natural to a surprise meeting in the country, or whether she was really glad to see them both, at any rate she exclaimed with unusual pleasure as she shook hands: "I never knew you lived here. Why didn t you say so, and we could have met? And are you staying with Mary?"<|quote|>she continued, turning to Ralph.</|quote|>"What a pity we didn t meet before." Thus confronted at a distance of only a few feet by the real body of the woman about whom he had dreamt so many million dreams, Ralph stammered; he made a clutch at his self-control; the color either came to his cheeks or left them, he knew not which; but he was determined to face her and track down in the cold light of day whatever vestige of truth there might be in his persistent imaginations. He did not succeed in saying anything. It was Mary who spoke for both of them. He was struck dumb by finding that Katharine was quite different, in some strange way, from his memory, so that he had to dismiss his old view in order to accept the new one. The wind was blowing her crimson scarf across her face; the wind had already loosened her hair, which looped across the corner of one of the large, dark eyes which, so he used to think, looked sad; now they looked bright with the brightness of the sea struck by an unclouded ray; everything about her seemed rapid, fragmentary, and full of a kind of racing speed. He realized suddenly that he had never seen her in the daylight before. Meanwhile, it was decided that it was too late to go in search of ruins as they had intended; and the whole party began to walk towards the stables where the carriage had been put up. "Do you know," said Katharine, keeping slightly in advance of the rest with Ralph, "I thought I saw you this morning, standing at a window. But I decided that it couldn t be you. And it must have been you all the same." "Yes, I thought I saw you but it wasn t you," he replied. This remark, and the rough strain in his voice, recalled to her memory so many difficult speeches and abortive meetings that she was jerked directly back to the London drawing-room, the family relics, and the tea-table; and at the same time recalled some half-finished or interrupted remark which she had wanted to make herself or to hear from him she could not remember what it was. "I expect it was me," she said. "I was looking for my mother. It happens every time we come to Lincoln. In fact, there never was a family so | even as she looked at his face, that the light of truth was shining far away beyond him; the light of truth, she seemed to frame the words as she rose to go, shines on a world not to be shaken by our personal calamities. Ralph handed her her coat and her stick. She took them, fastened the coat securely, grasped the stick firmly. The ivy spray was still twisted about the handle; this one sacrifice, she thought, she might make to sentimentality and personality, and she picked two leaves from the ivy and put them in her pocket before she disencumbered her stick of the rest of it. She grasped the stick in the middle, and settled her fur cap closely upon her head, as if she must be in trim for a long and stormy walk. Next, standing in the middle of the road, she took a slip of paper from her purse, and read out loud a list of commissions entrusted to her fruit, butter, string, and so on; and all the time she never spoke directly to Ralph or looked at him. Ralph heard her giving orders to attentive, rosy-checked men in white aprons, and in spite of his own preoccupation, he commented upon the determination with which she made her wishes known. Once more he began, automatically, to take stock of her characteristics. Standing thus, superficially observant and stirring the sawdust on the floor meditatively with the toe of his boot, he was roused by a musical and familiar voice behind him, accompanied by a light touch upon his shoulder. "I m not mistaken? Surely Mr. Denham? I caught a glimpse of your coat through the window, and I felt sure that I knew your coat. Have you seen Katharine or William? I m wandering about Lincoln looking for the ruins." It was Mrs. Hilbery; her entrance created some stir in the shop; many people looked at her. "First of all, tell me where I am," she demanded, but, catching sight of the attentive shopman, she appealed to him. "The ruins my party is waiting for me at the ruins. The Roman ruins or Greek, Mr. Denham? Your town has a great many beautiful things in it, but I wish it hadn t so many ruins. I never saw such delightful little pots of honey in my life are they made by your own bees? Please give me one of those little pots, and tell me how I shall find my way to the ruins." "And now," she continued, having received the information and the pot of honey, having been introduced to Mary, and having insisted that they should accompany her back to the ruins, since in a town with so many turnings, such prospects, such delightful little half-naked boys dabbling in pools, such Venetian canals, such old blue china in the curiosity shops, it was impossible for one person all alone to find her way to the ruins. "Now," she exclaimed, "please tell me what you re doing here, Mr. Denham for you _are_ Mr. Denham, aren t you?" she inquired, gazing at him with a sudden suspicion of her own accuracy. "The brilliant young man who writes for the Review, I mean? Only yesterday my husband was telling me he thought you one of the cleverest young men he knew. Certainly, you ve been the messenger of Providence to me, for unless I d seen you I m sure I should never have found the ruins at all." They had reached the Roman arch when Mrs. Hilbery caught sight of her own party, standing like sentinels facing up and down the road so as to intercept her if, as they expected, she had got lodged in some shop. "I ve found something much better than ruins!" she exclaimed. "I ve found two friends who told me how to find you, which I could never have done without them. They must come and have tea with us. What a pity that we ve just had luncheon." Could they not somehow revoke that meal? Katharine, who had gone a few steps by herself down the road, and was investigating the window of an ironmonger, as if her mother might have got herself concealed among mowing-machines and garden-shears, turned sharply on hearing her voice, and came towards them. She was a great deal surprised to see Denham and Mary Datchet. Whether the cordiality with which she greeted them was merely that which is natural to a surprise meeting in the country, or whether she was really glad to see them both, at any rate she exclaimed with unusual pleasure as she shook hands: "I never knew you lived here. Why didn t you say so, and we could have met? And are you staying with Mary?"<|quote|>she continued, turning to Ralph.</|quote|>"What a pity we didn t meet before." Thus confronted at a distance of only a few feet by the real body of the woman about whom he had dreamt so many million dreams, Ralph stammered; he made a clutch at his self-control; the color either came to his cheeks or left them, he knew not which; but he was determined to face her and track down in the cold light of day whatever vestige of truth there might be in his persistent imaginations. He did not succeed in saying anything. It was Mary who spoke for both of them. He was struck dumb by finding that Katharine was quite different, in some strange way, from his memory, so that he had to dismiss his old view in order to accept the new one. The wind was blowing her crimson scarf across her face; the wind had already loosened her hair, which looped across the corner of one of the large, dark eyes which, so he used to think, looked sad; now they looked bright with the brightness of the sea struck by an unclouded ray; everything about her seemed rapid, fragmentary, and full of a kind of racing speed. He realized suddenly that he had never seen her in the daylight before. Meanwhile, it was decided that it was too late to go in search of ruins as they had intended; and the whole party began to walk towards the stables where the carriage had been put up. "Do you know," said Katharine, keeping slightly in advance of the rest with Ralph, "I thought I saw you this morning, standing at a window. But I decided that it couldn t be you. And it must have been you all the same." "Yes, I thought I saw you but it wasn t you," he replied. This remark, and the rough strain in his voice, recalled to her memory so many difficult speeches and abortive meetings that she was jerked directly back to the London drawing-room, the family relics, and the tea-table; and at the same time recalled some half-finished or interrupted remark which she had wanted to make herself or to hear from him she could not remember what it was. "I expect it was me," she said. "I was looking for my mother. It happens every time we come to Lincoln. In fact, there never was a family so unable to take care of itself as ours is. Not that it very much matters, because some one always turns up in the nick of time to help us out of our scrapes. Once I was left in a field with a bull when I was a baby but where did we leave the carriage? Down that street or the next? The next, I think." She glanced back and saw that the others were following obediently, listening to certain memories of Lincoln upon which Mrs. Hilbery had started. "But what are you doing here?" she asked. "I m buying a cottage. I m going to live here as soon as I can find a cottage, and Mary tells me there ll be no difficulty about that." "But," she exclaimed, almost standing still in her surprise, "you will give up the Bar, then?" It flashed across her mind that he must already be engaged to Mary. "The solicitor s office? Yes. I m giving that up." "But why?" she asked. She answered herself at once, with a curious change from rapid speech to an almost melancholy tone. "I think you re very wise to give it up. You will be much happier." At this very moment, when her words seemed to be striking a path into the future for him, they stepped into the yard of an inn, and there beheld the family coach of the Otways, to which one sleek horse was already attached, while the second was being led out of the stable door by the hostler. "I don t know what one means by happiness," he said briefly, having to step aside in order to avoid a groom with a bucket. "Why do you think I shall be happy? I don t expect to be anything of the kind. I expect to be rather less unhappy. I shall write a book and curse my charwoman if happiness consists in that. What do you think?" She could not answer because they were immediately surrounded by other members of the party by Mrs. Hilbery, and Mary, Henry Otway, and William. Rodney went up to Katharine immediately and said to her: "Henry is going to drive home with your mother, and I suggest that they should put us down half-way and let us walk back." Katharine nodded her head. She glanced at him with an oddly furtive expression. "Unfortunately we go | Greek, Mr. Denham? Your town has a great many beautiful things in it, but I wish it hadn t so many ruins. I never saw such delightful little pots of honey in my life are they made by your own bees? Please give me one of those little pots, and tell me how I shall find my way to the ruins." "And now," she continued, having received the information and the pot of honey, having been introduced to Mary, and having insisted that they should accompany her back to the ruins, since in a town with so many turnings, such prospects, such delightful little half-naked boys dabbling in pools, such Venetian canals, such old blue china in the curiosity shops, it was impossible for one person all alone to find her way to the ruins. "Now," she exclaimed, "please tell me what you re doing here, Mr. Denham for you _are_ Mr. Denham, aren t you?" she inquired, gazing at him with a sudden suspicion of her own accuracy. "The brilliant young man who writes for the Review, I mean? Only yesterday my husband was telling me he thought you one of the cleverest young men he knew. Certainly, you ve been the messenger of Providence to me, for unless I d seen you I m sure I should never have found the ruins at all." They had reached the Roman arch when Mrs. Hilbery caught sight of her own party, standing like sentinels facing up and down the road so as to intercept her if, as they expected, she had got lodged in some shop. "I ve found something much better than ruins!" she exclaimed. "I ve found two friends who told me how to find you, which I could never have done without them. They must come and have tea with us. What a pity that we ve just had luncheon." Could they not somehow revoke that meal? Katharine, who had gone a few steps by herself down the road, and was investigating the window of an ironmonger, as if her mother might have got herself concealed among mowing-machines and garden-shears, turned sharply on hearing her voice, and came towards them. She was a great deal surprised to see Denham and Mary Datchet. Whether the cordiality with which she greeted them was merely that which is natural to a surprise meeting in the country, or whether she was really glad to see them both, at any rate she exclaimed with unusual pleasure as she shook hands: "I never knew you lived here. Why didn t you say so, and we could have met? And are you staying with Mary?"<|quote|>she continued, turning to Ralph.</|quote|>"What a pity we didn t meet before." Thus confronted at a distance of only a few feet by the real body of the woman about whom he had dreamt so many million dreams, Ralph stammered; he made a clutch at his self-control; the color either came to his cheeks or left them, he knew not which; but he was determined to face her and track down in the cold light of day whatever vestige of truth there might be in his persistent imaginations. He did not succeed in saying anything. It was Mary who spoke for both of them. He was struck dumb by finding that Katharine was quite different, in some strange way, from his memory, so that he had to dismiss his old view in order to accept the new one. The wind was blowing her crimson scarf across her face; the wind had already loosened her hair, which looped across the corner of one of the large, dark eyes which, so he used to think, looked sad; now they looked bright with the brightness of the sea struck by an unclouded ray; everything about her seemed rapid, fragmentary, and full of a kind of racing speed. He realized suddenly that he had never seen her in the daylight before. Meanwhile, it was decided that it was too late to go in search of ruins as they had intended; and the whole party began to walk towards the stables where the carriage | Night And Day |
"And have you really, Ma am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister s being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married." | Elinor | therefore, trying to smile, replied,<|quote|>"And have you really, Ma am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister s being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married."</|quote|>"For shame, for shame, Miss | an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied,<|quote|>"And have you really, Ma am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister s being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married."</|quote|>"For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk | her waiting much longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. Pray, when are they to be married?" Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied,<|quote|>"And have you really, Ma am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister s being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married."</|quote|>"For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don t we all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in love with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see them together in Devonshire every day, | I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my life! _My_ girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature. I hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won t keep her waiting much longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. Pray, when are they to be married?" Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied,<|quote|>"And have you really, Ma am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister s being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married."</|quote|>"For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don t we all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in love with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see them together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding clothes? Come, come, this won t do. Because you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such thing, | up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings s notice. That good lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking. Of Elinor s distress, she was too busily employed in measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said, "Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my life! _My_ girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature. I hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won t keep her waiting much longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. Pray, when are they to be married?" Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied,<|quote|>"And have you really, Ma am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister s being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married."</|quote|>"For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don t we all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in love with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see them together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding clothes? Come, come, this won t do. Because you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such thing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so long. I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte." "Indeed, Ma am," said Elinor, very seriously, "you are mistaken. Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and you will find that you have though you will not believe me now." Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more, and eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne stretched on | to her for the world. In such circumstances, it was better for both that they should not be long together; and the restless state of Marianne s mind not only prevented her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her wander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every body. At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and Elinor s attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs. Jennings s notice entirely to herself. As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a considerable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it, round the common working table, when a letter was delivered to Marianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as plainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings s notice. That good lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking. Of Elinor s distress, she was too busily employed in measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said, "Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my life! _My_ girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature. I hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won t keep her waiting much longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. Pray, when are they to be married?" Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied,<|quote|>"And have you really, Ma am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister s being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married."</|quote|>"For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don t we all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in love with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see them together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding clothes? Come, come, this won t do. Because you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such thing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so long. I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte." "Indeed, Ma am," said Elinor, very seriously, "you are mistaken. Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and you will find that you have though you will not believe me now." Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more, and eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand, and two or three others lying by her. Elinor drew near, but without saying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed her affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of tears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne s. The latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of this behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she put all the letters into Elinor s hands; and then covering her face with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who knew that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its course, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent itself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby s letter, read as follows: "Bond Street, January. MY DEAR MADAM, "I have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for which I beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much concerned to find there was anything in my behaviour last night that did not meet your approbation; and though I am quite at a loss to discover | which seemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the affections of her sister from the first, without any design that would bear investigation. Absence might have weakened his regard, and convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt. As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern. Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she could _esteem_ Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might be always supported. But every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby in an immediate and irreconcilable rupture with him. CHAPTER XXIX. Before the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne, only half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake of all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation, Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness, "Marianne, may I ask ?" "No, Elinor," she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all." The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return of the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the last time to Willoughby. Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had not Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous irritability, not to speak to her for the world. In such circumstances, it was better for both that they should not be long together; and the restless state of Marianne s mind not only prevented her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her wander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every body. At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and Elinor s attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs. Jennings s notice entirely to herself. As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a considerable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it, round the common working table, when a letter was delivered to Marianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as plainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings s notice. That good lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking. Of Elinor s distress, she was too busily employed in measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said, "Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my life! _My_ girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature. I hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won t keep her waiting much longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. Pray, when are they to be married?" Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied,<|quote|>"And have you really, Ma am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister s being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married."</|quote|>"For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don t we all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in love with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see them together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding clothes? Come, come, this won t do. Because you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such thing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so long. I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte." "Indeed, Ma am," said Elinor, very seriously, "you are mistaken. Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and you will find that you have though you will not believe me now." Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more, and eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand, and two or three others lying by her. Elinor drew near, but without saying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed her affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of tears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne s. The latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of this behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she put all the letters into Elinor s hands; and then covering her face with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who knew that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its course, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent itself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby s letter, read as follows: "Bond Street, January. MY DEAR MADAM, "I have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for which I beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much concerned to find there was anything in my behaviour last night that did not meet your approbation; and though I am quite at a loss to discover in what point I could be so unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your forgiveness of what I can assure you to have been perfectly unintentional. I shall never reflect on my former acquaintance with your family in Devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, and flatter myself it will not be broken by any mistake or misapprehension of my actions. My esteem for your whole family is very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach myself for not having been more guarded in my professions of that esteem. That I should ever have meant more you will allow to be impossible, when you understand that my affections have been long engaged elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before this engagement is fulfilled. It is with great regret that I obey your commands in returning the letters with which I have been honoured from you, and the lock of hair, which you so obligingly bestowed on me. "I am, dear Madam, "Your most obedient "humble servant, "JOHN WILLOUGHBY." With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss Dashwood, may be imagined. Though aware, before she began it, that it must bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their separation for ever, she was not aware that such language could be suffered to announce it; nor could she have supposed Willoughby capable of departing so far from the appearance of every honourable and delicate feeling so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to send a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of bringing with his desire of a release any professions of regret, acknowledged no breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever a letter of which every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be deep in hardened villainy. She paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then read it again and again; but every perusal only served to increase her abhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against him, that she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound Marianne still deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss to her of any possible good but as an escape from the worst and most | had seen the direction, that it must come from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings s notice. That good lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking. Of Elinor s distress, she was too busily employed in measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said, "Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my life! _My_ girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature. I hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won t keep her waiting much longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. Pray, when are they to be married?" Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied,<|quote|>"And have you really, Ma am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister s being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married."</|quote|>"For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don t we all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in love with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see them together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding clothes? Come, come, this won t do. Because you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such thing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so long. I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte." "Indeed, Ma am," said Elinor, very seriously, "you are mistaken. Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and you will find that you have though you will not believe me now." Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more, and eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand, and two or three others lying by her. Elinor drew near, but without saying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed her affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of tears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne s. The latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of this behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she put all the letters into Elinor s hands; and then covering her face with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who knew that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its course, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent itself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby s letter, read as follows: "Bond Street, January. MY DEAR MADAM, "I have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for which I beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much concerned to find there was anything in my behaviour last night that did not meet your approbation; and though I am quite at a loss to discover in what point I could be so unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your forgiveness of what I can assure you to have been perfectly unintentional. I shall never reflect on my former acquaintance with your family in Devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, and flatter myself it will not be broken by any mistake or misapprehension of my actions. My esteem for your whole family is very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach myself for not having been more guarded in my professions of that esteem. That I should ever have meant more you will allow to be impossible, when you understand that my affections have been long engaged elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before this engagement is fulfilled. It is with great regret that I obey your commands in returning the letters with which | Sense And Sensibility |
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