Text stringlengths 1 42.7k ⌀ | Speaker stringclasses 528 values | Text_10_word_context stringlengths 44 42.8k | Text_20_word_context stringlengths 74 42.8k | Text_100_word_context stringlengths 291 43.2k | Text_200_word_context stringlengths 562 43.7k | Text_400_word_context stringlengths 1.08k 44.7k | Text_800_word_context stringlengths 2.14k 46.9k | Text_1600_word_context stringlengths 4.17k 51.3k | Text_variable_400_to_1200_word_context stringlengths 1.36k 47.7k | Book stringclasses 47 values |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
said the officer. | No speaker | up, but it is useless,"<|quote|>said the officer.</|quote|>Jem crept close up to | made." "I'm sorry to give up, but it is useless,"<|quote|>said the officer.</|quote|>Jem crept close up to his companion. "I say, Mas' | pine, which flared up fiercely, and after about a quarter of an hour's effort Gordon protested against further toil. "It's of no use, sir," he said. "All labour in vain. I've not lost much, for my furniture was only home made." "I'm sorry to give up, but it is useless,"<|quote|>said the officer.</|quote|>Jem crept close up to his companion. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought it was some of our chaps from the sloop at first, but they're from the _Vixen_ frigate. Think they'll find us out?" "I hope not, Jem," replied Don; "surely they will not press us again." "Let's be | the shouting, and saw the glow of your burning house." No time was lost in trying to extinguish the fire after a guard had been set over the prisoners, the men under the officers' orders working hard with the few buckets at command; but the place was built of inflammable pine, which flared up fiercely, and after about a quarter of an hour's effort Gordon protested against further toil. "It's of no use, sir," he said. "All labour in vain. I've not lost much, for my furniture was only home made." "I'm sorry to give up, but it is useless,"<|quote|>said the officer.</|quote|>Jem crept close up to his companion. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought it was some of our chaps from the sloop at first, but they're from the _Vixen_ frigate. Think they'll find us out?" "I hope not, Jem," replied Don; "surely they will not press us again." "Let's be off into the bush till they're gone." "No," said Don; "I'm sorry I left the ship as I did. We will not run away again." Meanwhile preparations were made for bivouacking, the officer determining to rest where they were that night; and after seeing his men stored in two of | blue-jackets were in among the Maoris, who fled, leaving half their number wounded and prisoners on the ground, while Don and his friends helped the women out into the open, away from the signs of bloodshed, which looked horrible in the light from the blazing house. "A little too late," said the officer in command of the detachment. "Too late to save my house, sir, but in time to save our lives," said Gordon, grasping his hand. "I wish I had been sooner; but it's rough work travelling through the bush, and we should not have come, only we heard the shouting, and saw the glow of your burning house." No time was lost in trying to extinguish the fire after a guard had been set over the prisoners, the men under the officers' orders working hard with the few buckets at command; but the place was built of inflammable pine, which flared up fiercely, and after about a quarter of an hour's effort Gordon protested against further toil. "It's of no use, sir," he said. "All labour in vain. I've not lost much, for my furniture was only home made." "I'm sorry to give up, but it is useless,"<|quote|>said the officer.</|quote|>Jem crept close up to his companion. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought it was some of our chaps from the sloop at first, but they're from the _Vixen_ frigate. Think they'll find us out?" "I hope not, Jem," replied Don; "surely they will not press us again." "Let's be off into the bush till they're gone." "No," said Don; "I'm sorry I left the ship as I did. We will not run away again." Meanwhile preparations were made for bivouacking, the officer determining to rest where they were that night; and after seeing his men stored in two of the barns, and sentries placed over the prisoners in another, at one of the settlers' places, one log-house being given up to the wounded, he joined the little English gathering, where the settlers' wives, as soon as the danger was past, had prepared a comfortable meal. After an uneventful night, the morning broke cheerily over the tiny settlement, where the only trace of the attack was at Gordon's, whose rough log-house was now a heap of smoking ashes. The sailors had breakfasted well, thanks to the settlers' wives, and were now drawn up, all but the prisoners' guard, while the | to remain in the big kitchen. "It won't last five minutes, my lads," said Gordon. "Be ready, women. I'll throw open the door. We men will rush out and form up. You women run down to the right and make for Smith's. We shall give them a volley to check them, and run after you." "Ready?" "Ay." "All loaded?" "Ay," came in a deep despairing growl. "Down with these boxes and tubs then. You, Don, you are young and weak; go with the women." "No," said Don; "I shall go with you men." "Brayvo, Mas' Don!" whispered Jem. "What a while they are opening that door! We shall be roasted, my lad, after all, and these wretches 'll pick our bones." The door was flung open, and the enemy uttered a yell of delight as the little party of whites ran out of the burning house. "Now, women!" cried Gordon. "No: stop!" roared Don. _Crash_! A heavy volley from the right, and the besiegers made a rush for the left. _Crash_! A heavy volley met them on the left, fired diagonally from half behind the blazing house. Then there was a cheer, echoed by a second, and two parties of blue-jackets were in among the Maoris, who fled, leaving half their number wounded and prisoners on the ground, while Don and his friends helped the women out into the open, away from the signs of bloodshed, which looked horrible in the light from the blazing house. "A little too late," said the officer in command of the detachment. "Too late to save my house, sir, but in time to save our lives," said Gordon, grasping his hand. "I wish I had been sooner; but it's rough work travelling through the bush, and we should not have come, only we heard the shouting, and saw the glow of your burning house." No time was lost in trying to extinguish the fire after a guard had been set over the prisoners, the men under the officers' orders working hard with the few buckets at command; but the place was built of inflammable pine, which flared up fiercely, and after about a quarter of an hour's effort Gordon protested against further toil. "It's of no use, sir," he said. "All labour in vain. I've not lost much, for my furniture was only home made." "I'm sorry to give up, but it is useless,"<|quote|>said the officer.</|quote|>Jem crept close up to his companion. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought it was some of our chaps from the sloop at first, but they're from the _Vixen_ frigate. Think they'll find us out?" "I hope not, Jem," replied Don; "surely they will not press us again." "Let's be off into the bush till they're gone." "No," said Don; "I'm sorry I left the ship as I did. We will not run away again." Meanwhile preparations were made for bivouacking, the officer determining to rest where they were that night; and after seeing his men stored in two of the barns, and sentries placed over the prisoners in another, at one of the settlers' places, one log-house being given up to the wounded, he joined the little English gathering, where the settlers' wives, as soon as the danger was past, had prepared a comfortable meal. After an uneventful night, the morning broke cheerily over the tiny settlement, where the only trace of the attack was at Gordon's, whose rough log-house was now a heap of smoking ashes. The sailors had breakfasted well, thanks to the settlers' wives, and were now drawn up, all but the prisoners' guard, while the officer stood talking to Gordon and his neighbours with Don and Jem standing close by; for in spite of Jem's reiterated appeals, his companion refused to take to the bush. "No, Jem," Don said stubbornly; "it would be cowardly, and we're cowards enough." "But s'pose they find us out? That there officer's sure to smell as we're salts." "Smell? Nonsense!" "He will, Mas' Don. I'm that soaked with Stockholm tar that I can smell myself like a tub." "Nonsense!" "But if they find out as we deserted, they'll hang us." "I don't believe it, Jem." "Well, you'll see, Mas' Don; so if they hang you, don't you blame me." "Well, Mr Gordon, we must be off," said the officer. "Thank you once more for all your hospitality." "God bless you, sir, and all your men, for saving our lives," said the settler warmly; and there was a chorus of thanks from the other settlers and their wives. "Nonsense, my dear sir; only our duty!" said the officer heartily. "And now about our prisoners. I don't know what to do about the Maoris. I don't want to shoot them, and I certainly don't want to march them with us down to | the lithe, active fellows would, soon have forced their way in. Directly after, the fight began at the front, the firing growing hot, and not without effect, for one of the settlers went down with a musket bullet in his shoulder, and soon after Gordon stood back, holding his arm for Don to bind it up with a strip off a towel. "Only a spear prick," he said coolly, as he took aim with his gun directly after; and for about an hour the fight raged fiercely, with wounds given and taken, but no material advantage on either side. "Be careful and make every shot tell," said Gordon, as it was rapidly growing dark; then backing to the inner door as he reloaded, he spoke for a few seconds to Don. "We shall beat them off, sir," said Don cheerily. "Yes, I hope so, my lad," said the settler calmly. "You see you are of great use." "No, sir; it's all my fault," replied Don. "Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as Don returned, "look out of the window; mind the spears; then tell me what you see." "Fire!" said Don after a momentary examination. He was quite right. A fire had been lit in the forest at the back, and ten minutes after, as Mike Bannock's voice could be heard cheering them, the Maoris came on, hurling burning branches on to the roof of the little log-house. For a few minutes there was no result. Then there arose a yell, for the roof had caught, the resinous pine burned strongly, the smoke began to curl in between the rafters, and the women were helped down. To extinguish the flames was impossible, and would even have been as vain a task had they been outside ready with water. "How long will she last before she comes down?" said one of the settlers. "We can stop in here for a quarter, perhaps half an hour longer," said Gordon; "and then we must make a dash for your place." "Yes," said the settler, "and they know it. Look!" By the increasing light from the burning house, the savages could be seen with their white leaders preparing for a rush. Just then Don and his two companions were forced to leave the little lean-to, whose roof was burning furiously, and it was only by closing the rough door of communication that the besieged were able to remain in the big kitchen. "It won't last five minutes, my lads," said Gordon. "Be ready, women. I'll throw open the door. We men will rush out and form up. You women run down to the right and make for Smith's. We shall give them a volley to check them, and run after you." "Ready?" "Ay." "All loaded?" "Ay," came in a deep despairing growl. "Down with these boxes and tubs then. You, Don, you are young and weak; go with the women." "No," said Don; "I shall go with you men." "Brayvo, Mas' Don!" whispered Jem. "What a while they are opening that door! We shall be roasted, my lad, after all, and these wretches 'll pick our bones." The door was flung open, and the enemy uttered a yell of delight as the little party of whites ran out of the burning house. "Now, women!" cried Gordon. "No: stop!" roared Don. _Crash_! A heavy volley from the right, and the besiegers made a rush for the left. _Crash_! A heavy volley met them on the left, fired diagonally from half behind the blazing house. Then there was a cheer, echoed by a second, and two parties of blue-jackets were in among the Maoris, who fled, leaving half their number wounded and prisoners on the ground, while Don and his friends helped the women out into the open, away from the signs of bloodshed, which looked horrible in the light from the blazing house. "A little too late," said the officer in command of the detachment. "Too late to save my house, sir, but in time to save our lives," said Gordon, grasping his hand. "I wish I had been sooner; but it's rough work travelling through the bush, and we should not have come, only we heard the shouting, and saw the glow of your burning house." No time was lost in trying to extinguish the fire after a guard had been set over the prisoners, the men under the officers' orders working hard with the few buckets at command; but the place was built of inflammable pine, which flared up fiercely, and after about a quarter of an hour's effort Gordon protested against further toil. "It's of no use, sir," he said. "All labour in vain. I've not lost much, for my furniture was only home made." "I'm sorry to give up, but it is useless,"<|quote|>said the officer.</|quote|>Jem crept close up to his companion. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought it was some of our chaps from the sloop at first, but they're from the _Vixen_ frigate. Think they'll find us out?" "I hope not, Jem," replied Don; "surely they will not press us again." "Let's be off into the bush till they're gone." "No," said Don; "I'm sorry I left the ship as I did. We will not run away again." Meanwhile preparations were made for bivouacking, the officer determining to rest where they were that night; and after seeing his men stored in two of the barns, and sentries placed over the prisoners in another, at one of the settlers' places, one log-house being given up to the wounded, he joined the little English gathering, where the settlers' wives, as soon as the danger was past, had prepared a comfortable meal. After an uneventful night, the morning broke cheerily over the tiny settlement, where the only trace of the attack was at Gordon's, whose rough log-house was now a heap of smoking ashes. The sailors had breakfasted well, thanks to the settlers' wives, and were now drawn up, all but the prisoners' guard, while the officer stood talking to Gordon and his neighbours with Don and Jem standing close by; for in spite of Jem's reiterated appeals, his companion refused to take to the bush. "No, Jem," Don said stubbornly; "it would be cowardly, and we're cowards enough." "But s'pose they find us out? That there officer's sure to smell as we're salts." "Smell? Nonsense!" "He will, Mas' Don. I'm that soaked with Stockholm tar that I can smell myself like a tub." "Nonsense!" "But if they find out as we deserted, they'll hang us." "I don't believe it, Jem." "Well, you'll see, Mas' Don; so if they hang you, don't you blame me." "Well, Mr Gordon, we must be off," said the officer. "Thank you once more for all your hospitality." "God bless you, sir, and all your men, for saving our lives," said the settler warmly; and there was a chorus of thanks from the other settlers and their wives. "Nonsense, my dear sir; only our duty!" said the officer heartily. "And now about our prisoners. I don't know what to do about the Maoris. I don't want to shoot them, and I certainly don't want to march them with us down to where the ship lies. What would you do, Mr Gordon?" "I should give them a knife apiece, shake hands with them, and let them go." "What, to come back with the said knives, and kill you all when we're gone!" "They will not come back if you take away the scoundrels who led them on," said Don sharply. "How do you know?" said the officer good-humouredly. "Because," said Don, colouring, "I have been living a good deal with them, both with a friendly tribe and as a prisoner." "And they did not eat you?" said the officer laughing. "There, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, "hear that?" "I think you are right, youngster," continued the officer, "and I shall do so. Mr Dillon, bring up the prisoners." This was to a master's mate, who led off a guard, and returned with the captives bound hands behind, and the Maoris looking sullen and haughty, while the three whites appeared at their very worst--a trio of the most vile, unkempt scoundrels possible to see. They were led to the front, scowling at every one in turn, and halted in front of the officer, who, after whispering to the master's mate, gave orders to one of the seamen. This man pulled out his great jack knife, opened it, and being a bit of a joker, advanced toward the Maoris, grinding his teeth and rolling his eyes. The savages saw his every act, and there was a slight tremor that seemed to run through them all; but the next instant they had drawn themselves up stern and defiant, ready to meet their fate at the seaman's knife. "No, no. No, pakeha. No kill," said a deep angry voice; and as every one turned, Ngati stalked forward as if to defend his enemies. But at the same moment the man had cut the first Maori's bands, and then went on behind the rank, cutting the line that bound seven, who stood staring wildly. The next minute a seaman came along bearing a sheaf of spears, which he handed, one by one, to the astonished savages, while their wonder reached its height, as the master's mate presented to each a knife, such as were brought for presents to the natives. "Now," said the officer, addressing them, "I don't understand you, and I don't suppose you understand my words; but you do my deeds. Then, in the king's name, | for Smith's. We shall give them a volley to check them, and run after you." "Ready?" "Ay." "All loaded?" "Ay," came in a deep despairing growl. "Down with these boxes and tubs then. You, Don, you are young and weak; go with the women." "No," said Don; "I shall go with you men." "Brayvo, Mas' Don!" whispered Jem. "What a while they are opening that door! We shall be roasted, my lad, after all, and these wretches 'll pick our bones." The door was flung open, and the enemy uttered a yell of delight as the little party of whites ran out of the burning house. "Now, women!" cried Gordon. "No: stop!" roared Don. _Crash_! A heavy volley from the right, and the besiegers made a rush for the left. _Crash_! A heavy volley met them on the left, fired diagonally from half behind the blazing house. Then there was a cheer, echoed by a second, and two parties of blue-jackets were in among the Maoris, who fled, leaving half their number wounded and prisoners on the ground, while Don and his friends helped the women out into the open, away from the signs of bloodshed, which looked horrible in the light from the blazing house. "A little too late," said the officer in command of the detachment. "Too late to save my house, sir, but in time to save our lives," said Gordon, grasping his hand. "I wish I had been sooner; but it's rough work travelling through the bush, and we should not have come, only we heard the shouting, and saw the glow of your burning house." No time was lost in trying to extinguish the fire after a guard had been set over the prisoners, the men under the officers' orders working hard with the few buckets at command; but the place was built of inflammable pine, which flared up fiercely, and after about a quarter of an hour's effort Gordon protested against further toil. "It's of no use, sir," he said. "All labour in vain. I've not lost much, for my furniture was only home made." "I'm sorry to give up, but it is useless,"<|quote|>said the officer.</|quote|>Jem crept close up to his companion. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought it was some of our chaps from the sloop at first, but they're from the _Vixen_ frigate. Think they'll find us out?" "I hope not, Jem," replied Don; "surely they will not press us again." "Let's be off into the bush till they're gone." "No," said Don; "I'm sorry I left the ship as I did. We will not run away again." Meanwhile preparations were made for bivouacking, the officer determining to rest where they were that night; and after seeing his men stored in two of the barns, and sentries placed over the prisoners in another, at one of the settlers' places, one log-house being given up to the wounded, he joined the little English gathering, where the settlers' wives, as soon as the danger was past, had prepared a comfortable meal. After an uneventful night, the morning broke cheerily over the tiny settlement, where the only trace of the attack was at Gordon's, whose rough log-house was now a heap of smoking ashes. The sailors had breakfasted well, thanks to the settlers' wives, and were now drawn up, all but the prisoners' guard, while the officer stood talking to Gordon and his neighbours with Don and Jem standing close by; for in spite of Jem's reiterated appeals, his companion refused to take to the bush. "No, Jem," Don said stubbornly; "it would be cowardly, and we're cowards enough." "But s'pose they find us out? That there officer's sure to smell as we're salts." "Smell? Nonsense!" "He will, Mas' Don. I'm that soaked with Stockholm tar that I can smell myself like a tub." "Nonsense!" "But if they find out as we deserted, they'll hang us." "I don't believe it, Jem." "Well, you'll see, Mas' Don; so if they hang you, don't you blame me." "Well, Mr Gordon, we must be off," said the officer. "Thank you once more | Don Lavington |
Katharine replied briefly. | No speaker | who that was? "Mary Datchet,"<|quote|>Katharine replied briefly.</|quote|>"Ah I half wish I | a second to ask Katharine who that was? "Mary Datchet,"<|quote|>Katharine replied briefly.</|quote|>"Ah I half wish I d called you Mary, but | the midst of which process the telephone-bell rang, and she left the room to answer it. When she returned, Mrs. Hilbery had found not the passage she wanted, but another of exquisite beauty as she justly observed, looking up for a second to ask Katharine who that was? "Mary Datchet,"<|quote|>Katharine replied briefly.</|quote|>"Ah I half wish I d called you Mary, but it wouldn t have gone with Hilbery, and it wouldn t have gone with Rodney. Now this isn t the passage I wanted. (I never can find what I want.) But it s spring; it s the daffodils; it s | for words not too direct, her mother had recourse to Shakespeare, and turned page after page, set upon finding some quotation which said all this about love far, far better than she could. Accordingly, Katharine did nothing but scrub one of her circles an intense black with her pencil, in the midst of which process the telephone-bell rang, and she left the room to answer it. When she returned, Mrs. Hilbery had found not the passage she wanted, but another of exquisite beauty as she justly observed, looking up for a second to ask Katharine who that was? "Mary Datchet,"<|quote|>Katharine replied briefly.</|quote|>"Ah I half wish I d called you Mary, but it wouldn t have gone with Hilbery, and it wouldn t have gone with Rodney. Now this isn t the passage I wanted. (I never can find what I want.) But it s spring; it s the daffodils; it s the green fields; it s the birds." She was cut short in her quotation by another imperative telephone-bell. Once more Katharine left the room. "My dear child, how odious the triumphs of science are!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed on her return. "They ll be linking us with the moon next but | time," said Mrs. Hilbery. "Believe me, Katharine, you ll look back on these days afterwards; you ll remember all the silly things you ve said; and you ll find that your life has been built on them. The best of life is built on what we say when we re in love. It isn t nonsense, Katharine," she urged, "it s the truth, it s the only truth." Katharine was on the point of interrupting her mother, and then she was on the point of confiding in her. They came strangely close together sometimes. But, while she hesitated and sought for words not too direct, her mother had recourse to Shakespeare, and turned page after page, set upon finding some quotation which said all this about love far, far better than she could. Accordingly, Katharine did nothing but scrub one of her circles an intense black with her pencil, in the midst of which process the telephone-bell rang, and she left the room to answer it. When she returned, Mrs. Hilbery had found not the passage she wanted, but another of exquisite beauty as she justly observed, looking up for a second to ask Katharine who that was? "Mary Datchet,"<|quote|>Katharine replied briefly.</|quote|>"Ah I half wish I d called you Mary, but it wouldn t have gone with Hilbery, and it wouldn t have gone with Rodney. Now this isn t the passage I wanted. (I never can find what I want.) But it s spring; it s the daffodils; it s the green fields; it s the birds." She was cut short in her quotation by another imperative telephone-bell. Once more Katharine left the room. "My dear child, how odious the triumphs of science are!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed on her return. "They ll be linking us with the moon next but who was that?" "William," Katharine replied yet more briefly. "I ll forgive William anything, for I m certain that there aren t any Williams in the moon. I hope he s coming to luncheon?" "He s coming to tea." "Well, that s better than nothing, and I promise to leave you alone." "There s no need for you to do that," said Katharine. She swept her hand over the faded sheet, and drew herself up squarely to the table as if she refused to waste time any longer. The gesture was not lost upon her mother. It hinted at the | pounds or so on copies of Shakespeare, and give them to working men. Some of your clever friends who get up meetings might help us, Katharine. And that might lead to a playhouse, where we could all take parts. You d be Rosalind but you ve a dash of the old nurse in you. Your father s Hamlet, come to years of discretion; and I m well, I m a bit of them all; I m quite a large bit of the fool, but the fools in Shakespeare say all the clever things. Now who shall William be? A hero? Hotspur? Henry the Fifth? No, William s got a touch of Hamlet in him, too. I can fancy that William talks to himself when he s alone. Ah, Katharine, you must say very beautiful things when you re together!" she added wistfully, with a glance at her daughter, who had told her nothing about the dinner the night before. "Oh, we talk a lot of nonsense," said Katharine, hiding her slip of paper as her mother stood by her, and spreading the old letter about Shelley in front of her. "It won t seem to you nonsense in ten years time," said Mrs. Hilbery. "Believe me, Katharine, you ll look back on these days afterwards; you ll remember all the silly things you ve said; and you ll find that your life has been built on them. The best of life is built on what we say when we re in love. It isn t nonsense, Katharine," she urged, "it s the truth, it s the only truth." Katharine was on the point of interrupting her mother, and then she was on the point of confiding in her. They came strangely close together sometimes. But, while she hesitated and sought for words not too direct, her mother had recourse to Shakespeare, and turned page after page, set upon finding some quotation which said all this about love far, far better than she could. Accordingly, Katharine did nothing but scrub one of her circles an intense black with her pencil, in the midst of which process the telephone-bell rang, and she left the room to answer it. When she returned, Mrs. Hilbery had found not the passage she wanted, but another of exquisite beauty as she justly observed, looking up for a second to ask Katharine who that was? "Mary Datchet,"<|quote|>Katharine replied briefly.</|quote|>"Ah I half wish I d called you Mary, but it wouldn t have gone with Hilbery, and it wouldn t have gone with Rodney. Now this isn t the passage I wanted. (I never can find what I want.) But it s spring; it s the daffodils; it s the green fields; it s the birds." She was cut short in her quotation by another imperative telephone-bell. Once more Katharine left the room. "My dear child, how odious the triumphs of science are!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed on her return. "They ll be linking us with the moon next but who was that?" "William," Katharine replied yet more briefly. "I ll forgive William anything, for I m certain that there aren t any Williams in the moon. I hope he s coming to luncheon?" "He s coming to tea." "Well, that s better than nothing, and I promise to leave you alone." "There s no need for you to do that," said Katharine. She swept her hand over the faded sheet, and drew herself up squarely to the table as if she refused to waste time any longer. The gesture was not lost upon her mother. It hinted at the existence of something stern and unapproachable in her daughter s character, which struck chill upon her, as the sight of poverty, or drunkenness, or the logic with which Mr. Hilbery sometimes thought good to demolish her certainty of an approaching millennium struck chill upon her. She went back to her own table, and putting on her spectacles with a curious expression of quiet humility, addressed herself for the first time that morning to the task before her. The shock with an unsympathetic world had a sobering effect on her. For once, her industry surpassed her daughter s. Katharine could not reduce the world to that particular perspective in which Harriet Martineau, for instance, was a figure of solid importance, and possessed of a genuine relationship to this figure or to that date. Singularly enough, the sharp call of the telephone-bell still echoed in her ear, and her body and mind were in a state of tension, as if, at any moment, she might hear another summons of greater interest to her than the whole of the nineteenth century. She did not clearly realize what this call was to be; but when the ears have got into the habit of listening, | undoubtedly stood, where his very bones lay directly beneath one s feet, was so absorbing to her on this particular occasion that she greeted her daughter with the exclamation: "D you think he ever passed this house?" The question, for the moment, seemed to Katharine to have reference to Ralph Denham. "On his way to Blackfriars, I mean," Mrs. Hilbery continued, "for you know the latest discovery is that he owned a house there." Katharine still looked about her in perplexity, and Mrs. Hilbery added: "Which is a proof that he wasn t as poor as they ve sometimes said. I should like to think that he had enough, though I don t in the least want him to be rich." Then, perceiving her daughter s expression of perplexity, Mrs. Hilbery burst out laughing. "My dear, I m not talking about _your_ William, though that s another reason for liking him. I m talking, I m thinking, I m dreaming of _my_ William William Shakespeare, of course. Isn t it odd," she mused, standing at the window and tapping gently upon the pane, "that for all one can see, that dear old thing in the blue bonnet, crossing the road with her basket on her arm, has never heard that there was such a person? Yet it all goes on: lawyers hurrying to their work, cabmen squabbling for their fares, little boys rolling their hoops, little girls throwing bread to the gulls, as if there weren t a Shakespeare in the world. I should like to stand at that crossing all day long and say: People, read Shakespeare!" Katharine sat down at her table and opened a long dusty envelope. As Shelley was mentioned in the course of the letter as if he were alive, it had, of course, considerable value. Her immediate task was to decide whether the whole letter should be printed, or only the paragraph which mentioned Shelley s name, and she reached out for a pen and held it in readiness to do justice upon the sheet. Her pen, however, remained in the air. Almost surreptitiously she slipped a clean sheet in front of her, and her hand, descending, began drawing square boxes halved and quartered by straight lines, and then circles which underwent the same process of dissection. "Katharine! I ve hit upon a brilliant idea!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed "to lay out, say, a hundred pounds or so on copies of Shakespeare, and give them to working men. Some of your clever friends who get up meetings might help us, Katharine. And that might lead to a playhouse, where we could all take parts. You d be Rosalind but you ve a dash of the old nurse in you. Your father s Hamlet, come to years of discretion; and I m well, I m a bit of them all; I m quite a large bit of the fool, but the fools in Shakespeare say all the clever things. Now who shall William be? A hero? Hotspur? Henry the Fifth? No, William s got a touch of Hamlet in him, too. I can fancy that William talks to himself when he s alone. Ah, Katharine, you must say very beautiful things when you re together!" she added wistfully, with a glance at her daughter, who had told her nothing about the dinner the night before. "Oh, we talk a lot of nonsense," said Katharine, hiding her slip of paper as her mother stood by her, and spreading the old letter about Shelley in front of her. "It won t seem to you nonsense in ten years time," said Mrs. Hilbery. "Believe me, Katharine, you ll look back on these days afterwards; you ll remember all the silly things you ve said; and you ll find that your life has been built on them. The best of life is built on what we say when we re in love. It isn t nonsense, Katharine," she urged, "it s the truth, it s the only truth." Katharine was on the point of interrupting her mother, and then she was on the point of confiding in her. They came strangely close together sometimes. But, while she hesitated and sought for words not too direct, her mother had recourse to Shakespeare, and turned page after page, set upon finding some quotation which said all this about love far, far better than she could. Accordingly, Katharine did nothing but scrub one of her circles an intense black with her pencil, in the midst of which process the telephone-bell rang, and she left the room to answer it. When she returned, Mrs. Hilbery had found not the passage she wanted, but another of exquisite beauty as she justly observed, looking up for a second to ask Katharine who that was? "Mary Datchet,"<|quote|>Katharine replied briefly.</|quote|>"Ah I half wish I d called you Mary, but it wouldn t have gone with Hilbery, and it wouldn t have gone with Rodney. Now this isn t the passage I wanted. (I never can find what I want.) But it s spring; it s the daffodils; it s the green fields; it s the birds." She was cut short in her quotation by another imperative telephone-bell. Once more Katharine left the room. "My dear child, how odious the triumphs of science are!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed on her return. "They ll be linking us with the moon next but who was that?" "William," Katharine replied yet more briefly. "I ll forgive William anything, for I m certain that there aren t any Williams in the moon. I hope he s coming to luncheon?" "He s coming to tea." "Well, that s better than nothing, and I promise to leave you alone." "There s no need for you to do that," said Katharine. She swept her hand over the faded sheet, and drew herself up squarely to the table as if she refused to waste time any longer. The gesture was not lost upon her mother. It hinted at the existence of something stern and unapproachable in her daughter s character, which struck chill upon her, as the sight of poverty, or drunkenness, or the logic with which Mr. Hilbery sometimes thought good to demolish her certainty of an approaching millennium struck chill upon her. She went back to her own table, and putting on her spectacles with a curious expression of quiet humility, addressed herself for the first time that morning to the task before her. The shock with an unsympathetic world had a sobering effect on her. For once, her industry surpassed her daughter s. Katharine could not reduce the world to that particular perspective in which Harriet Martineau, for instance, was a figure of solid importance, and possessed of a genuine relationship to this figure or to that date. Singularly enough, the sharp call of the telephone-bell still echoed in her ear, and her body and mind were in a state of tension, as if, at any moment, she might hear another summons of greater interest to her than the whole of the nineteenth century. She did not clearly realize what this call was to be; but when the ears have got into the habit of listening, they go on listening involuntarily, and thus Katharine spent the greater part of the morning in listening to a variety of sounds in the back streets of Chelsea. For the first time in her life, probably, she wished that Mrs. Hilbery would not keep so closely to her work. A quotation from Shakespeare would not have come amiss. Now and again she heard a sigh from her mother s table, but that was the only proof she gave of her existence, and Katharine did not think of connecting it with the square aspect of her own position at the table, or, perhaps, she would have thrown her pen down and told her mother the reason of her restlessness. The only writing she managed to accomplish in the course of the morning was one letter, addressed to her cousin, Cassandra Otway a rambling letter, long, affectionate, playful and commanding all at once. She bade Cassandra put her creatures in the charge of a groom, and come to them for a week or so. They would go and hear some music together. Cassandra s dislike of rational society, she said, was an affectation fast hardening into a prejudice, which would, in the long run, isolate her from all interesting people and pursuits. She was finishing the sheet when the sound she was anticipating all the time actually struck upon her ears. She jumped up hastily, and slammed the door with a sharpness which made Mrs. Hilbery start. Where was Katharine off to? In her preoccupied state she had not heard the bell. The alcove on the stairs, in which the telephone was placed, was screened for privacy by a curtain of purple velvet. It was a pocket for superfluous possessions, such as exist in most houses which harbor the wreckage of three generations. Prints of great-uncles, famed for their prowess in the East, hung above Chinese teapots, whose sides were riveted by little gold stitches, and the precious teapots, again, stood upon bookcases containing the complete works of William Cowper and Sir Walter Scott. The thread of sound, issuing from the telephone, was always colored by the surroundings which received it, so it seemed to Katharine. Whose voice was now going to combine with them, or to strike a discord? "Whose voice?" she asked herself, hearing a man inquire, with great determination, for her number. The unfamiliar voice now asked for Miss | m a bit of them all; I m quite a large bit of the fool, but the fools in Shakespeare say all the clever things. Now who shall William be? A hero? Hotspur? Henry the Fifth? No, William s got a touch of Hamlet in him, too. I can fancy that William talks to himself when he s alone. Ah, Katharine, you must say very beautiful things when you re together!" she added wistfully, with a glance at her daughter, who had told her nothing about the dinner the night before. "Oh, we talk a lot of nonsense," said Katharine, hiding her slip of paper as her mother stood by her, and spreading the old letter about Shelley in front of her. "It won t seem to you nonsense in ten years time," said Mrs. Hilbery. "Believe me, Katharine, you ll look back on these days afterwards; you ll remember all the silly things you ve said; and you ll find that your life has been built on them. The best of life is built on what we say when we re in love. It isn t nonsense, Katharine," she urged, "it s the truth, it s the only truth." Katharine was on the point of interrupting her mother, and then she was on the point of confiding in her. They came strangely close together sometimes. But, while she hesitated and sought for words not too direct, her mother had recourse to Shakespeare, and turned page after page, set upon finding some quotation which said all this about love far, far better than she could. Accordingly, Katharine did nothing but scrub one of her circles an intense black with her pencil, in the midst of which process the telephone-bell rang, and she left the room to answer it. When she returned, Mrs. Hilbery had found not the passage she wanted, but another of exquisite beauty as she justly observed, looking up for a second to ask Katharine who that was? "Mary Datchet,"<|quote|>Katharine replied briefly.</|quote|>"Ah I half wish I d called you Mary, but it wouldn t have gone with Hilbery, and it wouldn t have gone with Rodney. Now this isn t the passage I wanted. (I never can find what I want.) But it s spring; it s the daffodils; it s the green fields; it s the birds." She was cut short in her quotation by another imperative telephone-bell. Once more Katharine left the room. "My dear child, how odious the triumphs of science are!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed on her return. "They ll be linking us with the moon next but who was that?" "William," Katharine replied yet more briefly. "I ll forgive William anything, for I m certain that there aren t any Williams in the moon. I hope he s coming to luncheon?" "He s coming to tea." "Well, that s better than nothing, and I promise to leave you alone." "There s no need for you to do that," said Katharine. She swept her hand over the faded sheet, and drew herself up squarely to the table as if she refused to waste time any longer. The gesture was not lost upon her mother. It hinted at the existence of something stern and unapproachable in her daughter s character, which struck chill upon her, as the sight of poverty, or drunkenness, or the logic with which Mr. Hilbery sometimes thought good to demolish her certainty of an approaching millennium struck chill upon her. She went back to her own table, and putting on her spectacles with a curious expression of quiet humility, addressed herself for the first time that morning to the task before her. The shock with an unsympathetic world had a sobering effect on her. For once, her industry surpassed her daughter s. Katharine could not reduce the world to that particular perspective in which Harriet Martineau, for instance, was a figure of solid importance, and possessed of a genuine relationship to this figure or to that date. Singularly enough, the sharp call of the telephone-bell still echoed in her ear, and her body and mind were in a state of tension, as if, at any moment, she might hear another summons of greater interest to her than the whole of the nineteenth century. She did not clearly realize what this call was to be; but when the ears have got into the habit of listening, they go on listening involuntarily, and thus Katharine spent the greater part of the morning in listening to a variety of sounds in the back streets of Chelsea. For the first time in her life, probably, she wished that Mrs. Hilbery would not keep so closely to her work. A quotation from Shakespeare would not have come amiss. Now and again she heard a sigh from her | Night And Day |
the young man inquired. | No speaker | I guess Eugenio will." "Eugenio?"<|quote|>the young man inquired.</|quote|>"Eugenio s our courier. He | mother will stay with Randolph, I guess Eugenio will." "Eugenio?"<|quote|>the young man inquired.</|quote|>"Eugenio s our courier. He doesn t like to stay | 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?"<|quote|>the young man inquired.</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>the young man inquired.</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>the young man inquired.</|quote|>"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 | 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." "It s a very pretty excursion," 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?"<|quote|>the young man inquired.</|quote|>"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 | 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." "It s a very pretty excursion," 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?"<|quote|>the young man inquired.</|quote|>"Eugenio s our courier. He doesn t like to stay with Randolph; he s the most fastidious man I ever saw. But he s a splendid courier. I guess he ll stay at home with Randolph if mother does, and then we can go to the castle." Winterbourne reflected for an instant as lucidly as possible--"we" could only mean Miss Daisy Miller and himself. This program seemed almost too agreeable for credence; he felt as if he ought to kiss the young lady s hand. Possibly he would have done so and quite spoiled the project, but at this moment another person, presumably Eugenio, appeared. A tall, handsome man, with superb whiskers, wearing a velvet morning coat and a brilliant watch chain, approached Miss Miller, looking sharply at her companion. "Oh, Eugenio!" said Miss Miller with the friendliest accent. Eugenio had looked at Winterbourne from head to foot; he now bowed gravely to the young lady. "I have the honor to inform mademoiselle that luncheon is upon the table." Miss Miller slowly rose. "See here, Eugenio!" she said; "I m going to that old castle, anyway." "To the Chateau de Chillon, mademoiselle?" the courier inquired. "Mademoiselle has made arrangements?" he added in a tone which struck Winterbourne as very impertinent. Eugenio s tone apparently threw, even to Miss Miller s own apprehension, a slightly ironical light upon the young girl s situation. She turned to Winterbourne, blushing a little--a very little. "You won t back out?" she said. "I shall not be happy till we go!" he protested. "And you are staying in this hotel?" she went on. "And you are really an American?" The courier stood looking at Winterbourne offensively. The young man, at least, thought his manner of looking an offense to Miss Miller; it conveyed an imputation that she "picked up" acquaintances. "I shall have the honor of presenting to you a person who will tell you all about me," he said, smiling and referring to his aunt. "Oh, well, we ll go some day," said Miss Miller. And she gave him a smile and turned away. She put up her parasol and walked back to the inn beside Eugenio. Winterbourne stood looking after her; and as she moved away, drawing her muslin furbelows over the gravel, said to himself that she had the tournure of a princess. He had, however, engaged to do more than proved feasible, in promising to present his aunt, Mrs. Costello, to Miss Daisy Miller. As soon as the former lady had got better of her headache, he waited upon her in her apartment; and, after the proper inquiries in regard to her health, he asked her if she had observed in the hotel an American family--a mamma, a daughter, and a little boy. "And a courier?" said Mrs. Costello. "Oh yes, I have observed them. Seen them--heard them--and kept out of their way." Mrs. Costello was a widow with a fortune; a person of much distinction, who frequently intimated that, if she were not so dreadfully liable to sick headaches, she would probably have left a deeper impress upon her time. She had a long, pale face, a high nose, and a great deal of very striking white hair, which she wore in large puffs and rouleaux over the top of her head. She had two sons married in New York and another who was now in Europe. This young man was amusing himself at Hamburg, and, though he was on his travels, was rarely perceived to visit any particular city at the moment selected by his mother for her own appearance there. Her nephew, who had come up to Vevey expressly to see her, was therefore more attentive than those who, as she said, were nearer to her. He had imbibed at Geneva the idea that one must always be attentive to one s aunt. Mrs. Costello had not seen him for many years, and she was greatly pleased with him, manifesting her approbation by initiating him into many of the secrets of that social sway which, as she gave him to understand, she exerted in the American capital. She admitted that she was very exclusive; but, if he were acquainted with New York, he would see that one had to be. And her picture of the minutely hierarchical constitution of the society of that city, which she presented to him in many different lights, was, to Winterbourne s imagination, almost oppressively striking. He immediately perceived, from her tone, that Miss Daisy Miller s place in the social scale was low. "I am afraid you don t approve of them," he said. "They are very common," Mrs. Costello declared. "They are the sort of Americans that one does one s duty by not--not accepting." "Ah, you don t accept them?" | 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?"<|quote|>the young man inquired.</|quote|>"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 | Daisy Miller |
replied Elizabeth. | No speaker | possible." "I suspected as much,"<|quote|>replied Elizabeth.</|quote|>"But how did he account | I had not believed it possible." "I suspected as much,"<|quote|>replied Elizabeth.</|quote|>"But how did he account for it?" "It must have | 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,"<|quote|>replied Elizabeth.</|quote|>"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 in many respects. But when they see, as I trust they will, | 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,"<|quote|>replied Elizabeth.</|quote|>"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 in many respects. But when they see, as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we can never be what we once were to each other." "That is the most unforgiving speech," said Elizabeth, "that I ever heard you utter. Good girl! It | 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,"<|quote|>replied Elizabeth.</|quote|>"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 in many respects. But when they see, as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we can never be what we once were to each other." "That is the most unforgiving speech," said Elizabeth, "that I ever heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again the dupe of Miss Bingley's pretended regard." "Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November, he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of _my_ being indifferent, would have prevented his coming down again!" "He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of his modesty." This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence, and the little value he put on his own good qualities. Elizabeth was pleased to find, that he had not betrayed the interference of his | 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,"<|quote|>replied Elizabeth.</|quote|>"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 in many respects. But when they see, as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we can never be what we once were to each other." "That is the most unforgiving speech," said Elizabeth, "that I ever heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again the dupe of Miss Bingley's pretended regard." "Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November, he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of _my_ being indifferent, would have prevented his coming down again!" "He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of his modesty." This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence, and the little value he put on his own good qualities. Elizabeth was pleased to find, that he had not betrayed the interference of his friend, for, though Jane had the most generous and forgiving heart in the world, she knew it was a circumstance which must prejudice her against him. "I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!" cried Jane. "Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed above them all! If I could but see _you_ as happy! If there _were_ but such another man for you!" "If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very good luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time." The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Philips, and _she_ ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her neighbours in Meryton. The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away, they had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune. | 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. "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,"<|quote|>replied Elizabeth.</|quote|>"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 in many respects. But when they see, as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we can never be what we once were to each other." "That is the most unforgiving speech," said Elizabeth, "that I ever heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again the dupe of Miss Bingley's pretended regard." "Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November, he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of _my_ being indifferent, would have prevented his coming down again!" "He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of his modesty." This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence, and the little value he put on his own good qualities. Elizabeth was pleased to find, that he had not betrayed the interference of his friend, for, though Jane had the most generous and forgiving heart in the world, she knew it was a circumstance which must prejudice her against him. "I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!" cried Jane. "Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed above them all! If I could but see _you_ as happy! If there _were_ but such another man for you!" "If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very good luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time." The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Philips, and _she_ ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her neighbours in Meryton. The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away, they had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune. CHAPTER XIV. One morning, about a week after Bingley's engagement with Jane had been formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window, by the sound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up the lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the equipage did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses were post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who preceded it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the shrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of the remaining three continued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown open, and their visitor entered. It was lady Catherine de Bourgh. They were of course all intending to be surprised; but their astonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of Mrs. Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them, even inferior to what Elizabeth felt. She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no other reply to Elizabeth's salutation, than a slight inclination of the head, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her name to her mother, on her ladyship's entrance, though no request of introduction had been made. Mrs. Bennet all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such high importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting for a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to Elizabeth, "I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady I suppose is your mother." Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was. "And _that_ I suppose is one of your sisters." "Yes, madam," said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to a lady Catherine. "She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all, is lately married, and my eldest is somewhere about the grounds, walking with a young man, who I believe will soon become a part of the family." "You have a very small park here," returned Lady Catherine after a short silence. "It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say; but I assure you it is much larger than Sir | 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,"<|quote|>replied Elizabeth.</|quote|>"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 in many respects. But when they see, as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we can never be what we once were to each other." "That is the most unforgiving speech," said Elizabeth, "that I ever heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again the dupe of Miss Bingley's pretended regard." "Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November, he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of _my_ being indifferent, would have prevented his coming down again!" "He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of his modesty." This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence, and the little value he put on his own good qualities. Elizabeth was pleased to find, that he had not betrayed the interference of his friend, for, though Jane had the most generous and forgiving heart in the world, she knew it was a circumstance which must prejudice her against him. "I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!" cried Jane. "Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed above them all! If I could but see _you_ as happy! If there _were_ but such another man for you!" "If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very good luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time." The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Philips, and _she_ ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her neighbours in Meryton. The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away, they had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune. CHAPTER XIV. One morning, about a week after Bingley's engagement with Jane had been formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window, by the sound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up the lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the equipage did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses were post; and neither the | Pride And Prejudice |
said Anne, shutting her eyes ecstatically. | No speaker | and pouring out the tea,"<|quote|>said Anne, shutting her eyes ecstatically.</|quote|>"And asking Diana if she | the head of the table and pouring out the tea,"<|quote|>said Anne, shutting her eyes ecstatically.</|quote|>"And asking Diana if she takes sugar! I know she | yellow crock of cherry preserves. It's time it was being used anyhow--I believe it's beginning to work. And you can cut some fruit cake and have some of the cookies and snaps." "I can just imagine myself sitting down at the head of the table and pouring out the tea,"<|quote|>said Anne, shutting her eyes ecstatically.</|quote|>"And asking Diana if she takes sugar! I know she doesn't but of course I'll ask her just as if I didn't know. And then pressing her to take another piece of fruit cake and another helping of preserves. Oh, Marilla, it's a wonderful sensation just to think of it. | when I have company. Oh, Marilla, can I use the rosebud spray tea set?" "No, indeed! The rosebud tea set! Well, what next? You know I never use that except for the minister or the Aids. You'll put down the old brown tea set. But you can open the little yellow crock of cherry preserves. It's time it was being used anyhow--I believe it's beginning to work. And you can cut some fruit cake and have some of the cookies and snaps." "I can just imagine myself sitting down at the head of the table and pouring out the tea,"<|quote|>said Anne, shutting her eyes ecstatically.</|quote|>"And asking Diana if she takes sugar! I know she doesn't but of course I'll ask her just as if I didn't know. And then pressing her to take another piece of fruit cake and another helping of preserves. Oh, Marilla, it's a wonderful sensation just to think of it. Can I take her into the spare room to lay off her hat when she comes? And then into the parlor to sit?" "No. The sitting room will do for you and your company. But there's a bottle half full of raspberry cordial that was left over from the church | get up and have dinner in the middle of the night. But you keep your wits about you this time. And--I don't really know if I'm doing right--it may make you more addlepated than ever--but you can ask Diana to come over and spend the afternoon with you and have tea here." "Oh, Marilla!" Anne clasped her hands. "How perfectly lovely! You _are_ able to imagine things after all or else you'd never have understood how I've longed for that very thing. It will seem so nice and grown-uppish. No fear of my forgetting to put the tea to draw when I have company. Oh, Marilla, can I use the rosebud spray tea set?" "No, indeed! The rosebud tea set! Well, what next? You know I never use that except for the minister or the Aids. You'll put down the old brown tea set. But you can open the little yellow crock of cherry preserves. It's time it was being used anyhow--I believe it's beginning to work. And you can cut some fruit cake and have some of the cookies and snaps." "I can just imagine myself sitting down at the head of the table and pouring out the tea,"<|quote|>said Anne, shutting her eyes ecstatically.</|quote|>"And asking Diana if she takes sugar! I know she doesn't but of course I'll ask her just as if I didn't know. And then pressing her to take another piece of fruit cake and another helping of preserves. Oh, Marilla, it's a wonderful sensation just to think of it. Can I take her into the spare room to lay off her hat when she comes? And then into the parlor to sit?" "No. The sitting room will do for you and your company. But there's a bottle half full of raspberry cordial that was left over from the church social the other night. It's on the second shelf of the sitting-room closet and you and Diana can have it if you like, and a cooky to eat with it along in the afternoon, for I daresay Matthew ?ll be late coming in to tea since he's hauling potatoes to the vessel." Anne flew down to the hollow, past the Dryad's Bubble and up the spruce path to Orchard Slope, to ask Diana to tea. As a result just after Marilla had driven off to Carmody, Diana came over, dressed in _her_ second-best dress and looking exactly as it is | boughs in the old blue jug and set them on my table." "Mind you don't drop leaves all over the stairs then. I'm going on a meeting of the Aid Society at Carmody this afternoon, Anne, and I won't likely be home before dark. You'll have to get Matthew and Jerry their supper, so mind you don't forget to put the tea to draw until you sit down at the table as you did last time." "It was dreadful of me to forget," said Anne apologetically, "but that was the afternoon I was trying to think of a name for Violet Vale and it crowded other things out. Matthew was so good. He never scolded a bit. He put the tea down himself and said we could wait awhile as well as not. And I told him a lovely fairy story while we were waiting, so he didn't find the time long at all. It was a beautiful fairy story, Marilla. I forgot the end of it, so I made up an end for it myself and Matthew said he couldn't tell where the join came in." "Matthew would think it all right, Anne, if you took a notion to get up and have dinner in the middle of the night. But you keep your wits about you this time. And--I don't really know if I'm doing right--it may make you more addlepated than ever--but you can ask Diana to come over and spend the afternoon with you and have tea here." "Oh, Marilla!" Anne clasped her hands. "How perfectly lovely! You _are_ able to imagine things after all or else you'd never have understood how I've longed for that very thing. It will seem so nice and grown-uppish. No fear of my forgetting to put the tea to draw when I have company. Oh, Marilla, can I use the rosebud spray tea set?" "No, indeed! The rosebud tea set! Well, what next? You know I never use that except for the minister or the Aids. You'll put down the old brown tea set. But you can open the little yellow crock of cherry preserves. It's time it was being used anyhow--I believe it's beginning to work. And you can cut some fruit cake and have some of the cookies and snaps." "I can just imagine myself sitting down at the head of the table and pouring out the tea,"<|quote|>said Anne, shutting her eyes ecstatically.</|quote|>"And asking Diana if she takes sugar! I know she doesn't but of course I'll ask her just as if I didn't know. And then pressing her to take another piece of fruit cake and another helping of preserves. Oh, Marilla, it's a wonderful sensation just to think of it. Can I take her into the spare room to lay off her hat when she comes? And then into the parlor to sit?" "No. The sitting room will do for you and your company. But there's a bottle half full of raspberry cordial that was left over from the church social the other night. It's on the second shelf of the sitting-room closet and you and Diana can have it if you like, and a cooky to eat with it along in the afternoon, for I daresay Matthew ?ll be late coming in to tea since he's hauling potatoes to the vessel." Anne flew down to the hollow, past the Dryad's Bubble and up the spruce path to Orchard Slope, to ask Diana to tea. As a result just after Marilla had driven off to Carmody, Diana came over, dressed in _her_ second-best dress and looking exactly as it is proper to look when asked out to tea. At other times she was wont to run into the kitchen without knocking; but now she knocked primly at the front door. And when Anne, dressed in her second best, as primly opened it, both little girls shook hands as gravely as if they had never met before. This unnatural solemnity lasted until after Diana had been taken to the east gable to lay off her hat and then had sat for ten minutes in the sitting room, toes in position. "How is your mother?" inquired Anne politely, just as if she had not seen Mrs. Barry picking apples that morning in excellent health and spirits. "She is very well, thank you. I suppose Mr. Cuthbert is hauling potatoes to the _lily sands_ this afternoon, is he?" said Diana, who had ridden down to Mr. Harmon Andrews's that morning in Matthew's cart. "Yes. Our potato crop is very good this year. I hope your father's crop is good too." "It is fairly good, thank you. Have you picked many of your apples yet?" "Oh, ever so many," said Anne forgetting to be dignified and jumping up quickly. "Let's go out to the | window in the twilight, crying bitterly. "Whatever's the matter now, Anne?" she asked. "It's about Diana," sobbed Anne luxuriously. "I love Diana so, Marilla. I cannot ever live without her. But I know very well when we grow up that Diana will get married and go away and leave me. And oh, what shall I do? I hate her husband--I just hate him furiously. I've been imagining it all out--the wedding and everything--Diana dressed in snowy garments, with a veil, and looking as beautiful and regal as a queen; and me the bridesmaid, with a lovely dress too, and puffed sleeves, but with a breaking heart hid beneath my smiling face. And then bidding Diana goodbye-e-e--" Here Anne broke down entirely and wept with increasing bitterness. Marilla turned quickly away to hide her twitching face; but it was no use; she collapsed on the nearest chair and burst into such a hearty and unusual peal of laughter that Matthew, crossing the yard outside, halted in amazement. When had he heard Marilla laugh like that before? "Well, Anne Shirley," said Marilla as soon as she could speak, "if you must borrow trouble, for pity's sake borrow it handier home. I should think you had an imagination, sure enough." CHAPTER XVI. Diana Is Invited to Tea with Tragic Results OCTOBER was a beautiful month at Green Gables, when the birches in the hollow turned as golden as sunshine and the maples behind the orchard were royal crimson and the wild cherry trees along the lane put on the loveliest shades of dark red and bronzy green, while the fields sunned themselves in aftermaths. Anne reveled in the world of color about her. "Oh, Marilla," she exclaimed one Saturday morning, coming dancing in with her arms full of gorgeous boughs, "I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers. It would be terrible if we just skipped from September to November, wouldn't it? Look at these maple branches. Don't they give you a thrill--several thrills? I'm going to decorate my room with them." "Messy things," said Marilla, whose aesthetic sense was not noticeably developed. "You clutter up your room entirely too much with out-of-doors stuff, Anne. Bedrooms were made to sleep in." "Oh, and dream in too, Marilla. And you know one can dream so much better in a room where there are pretty things. I'm going to put these boughs in the old blue jug and set them on my table." "Mind you don't drop leaves all over the stairs then. I'm going on a meeting of the Aid Society at Carmody this afternoon, Anne, and I won't likely be home before dark. You'll have to get Matthew and Jerry their supper, so mind you don't forget to put the tea to draw until you sit down at the table as you did last time." "It was dreadful of me to forget," said Anne apologetically, "but that was the afternoon I was trying to think of a name for Violet Vale and it crowded other things out. Matthew was so good. He never scolded a bit. He put the tea down himself and said we could wait awhile as well as not. And I told him a lovely fairy story while we were waiting, so he didn't find the time long at all. It was a beautiful fairy story, Marilla. I forgot the end of it, so I made up an end for it myself and Matthew said he couldn't tell where the join came in." "Matthew would think it all right, Anne, if you took a notion to get up and have dinner in the middle of the night. But you keep your wits about you this time. And--I don't really know if I'm doing right--it may make you more addlepated than ever--but you can ask Diana to come over and spend the afternoon with you and have tea here." "Oh, Marilla!" Anne clasped her hands. "How perfectly lovely! You _are_ able to imagine things after all or else you'd never have understood how I've longed for that very thing. It will seem so nice and grown-uppish. No fear of my forgetting to put the tea to draw when I have company. Oh, Marilla, can I use the rosebud spray tea set?" "No, indeed! The rosebud tea set! Well, what next? You know I never use that except for the minister or the Aids. You'll put down the old brown tea set. But you can open the little yellow crock of cherry preserves. It's time it was being used anyhow--I believe it's beginning to work. And you can cut some fruit cake and have some of the cookies and snaps." "I can just imagine myself sitting down at the head of the table and pouring out the tea,"<|quote|>said Anne, shutting her eyes ecstatically.</|quote|>"And asking Diana if she takes sugar! I know she doesn't but of course I'll ask her just as if I didn't know. And then pressing her to take another piece of fruit cake and another helping of preserves. Oh, Marilla, it's a wonderful sensation just to think of it. Can I take her into the spare room to lay off her hat when she comes? And then into the parlor to sit?" "No. The sitting room will do for you and your company. But there's a bottle half full of raspberry cordial that was left over from the church social the other night. It's on the second shelf of the sitting-room closet and you and Diana can have it if you like, and a cooky to eat with it along in the afternoon, for I daresay Matthew ?ll be late coming in to tea since he's hauling potatoes to the vessel." Anne flew down to the hollow, past the Dryad's Bubble and up the spruce path to Orchard Slope, to ask Diana to tea. As a result just after Marilla had driven off to Carmody, Diana came over, dressed in _her_ second-best dress and looking exactly as it is proper to look when asked out to tea. At other times she was wont to run into the kitchen without knocking; but now she knocked primly at the front door. And when Anne, dressed in her second best, as primly opened it, both little girls shook hands as gravely as if they had never met before. This unnatural solemnity lasted until after Diana had been taken to the east gable to lay off her hat and then had sat for ten minutes in the sitting room, toes in position. "How is your mother?" inquired Anne politely, just as if she had not seen Mrs. Barry picking apples that morning in excellent health and spirits. "She is very well, thank you. I suppose Mr. Cuthbert is hauling potatoes to the _lily sands_ this afternoon, is he?" said Diana, who had ridden down to Mr. Harmon Andrews's that morning in Matthew's cart. "Yes. Our potato crop is very good this year. I hope your father's crop is good too." "It is fairly good, thank you. Have you picked many of your apples yet?" "Oh, ever so many," said Anne forgetting to be dignified and jumping up quickly. "Let's go out to the orchard and get some of the Red Sweetings, Diana. Marilla says we can have all that are left on the tree. Marilla is a very generous woman. She said we could have fruit cake and cherry preserves for tea. But it isn't good manners to tell your company what you are going to give them to eat, so I won't tell you what she said we could have to drink. Only it begins with an R and a C and it's bright red color. I love bright red drinks, don't you? They taste twice as good as any other color." The orchard, with its great sweeping boughs that bent to the ground with fruit, proved so delightful that the little girls spent most of the afternoon in it, sitting in a grassy corner where the frost had spared the green and the mellow autumn sunshine lingered warmly, eating apples and talking as hard as they could. Diana had much to tell Anne of what went on in school. She had to sit with Gertie Pye and she hated it; Gertie squeaked her pencil all the time and it just made her--Diana's--blood run cold; Ruby Gillis had charmed all her warts away, true's you live, with a magic pebble that old Mary Joe from the Creek gave her. You had to rub the warts with the pebble and then throw it away over your left shoulder at the time of the new moon and the warts would all go. Charlie Sloane's name was written up with Em White's on the porch wall and Em White was _awful mad_ about it; Sam Boulter had "sassed" Mr. Phillips in class and Mr. Phillips whipped him and Sam's father came down to the school and dared Mr. Phillips to lay a hand on one of his children again; and Mattie Andrews had a new red hood and a blue crossover with tassels on it and the airs she put on about it were perfectly sickening; and Lizzie Wright didn't speak to Mamie Wilson because Mamie Wilson's grown-up sister had cut out Lizzie Wright's grown-up sister with her beau; and everybody missed Anne so and wished she's come to school again; and Gilbert Blythe-- But Anne didn't want to hear about Gilbert Blythe. She jumped up hurriedly and said suppose they go in and have some raspberry cordial. Anne looked on the second shelf of | to draw until you sit down at the table as you did last time." "It was dreadful of me to forget," said Anne apologetically, "but that was the afternoon I was trying to think of a name for Violet Vale and it crowded other things out. Matthew was so good. He never scolded a bit. He put the tea down himself and said we could wait awhile as well as not. And I told him a lovely fairy story while we were waiting, so he didn't find the time long at all. It was a beautiful fairy story, Marilla. I forgot the end of it, so I made up an end for it myself and Matthew said he couldn't tell where the join came in." "Matthew would think it all right, Anne, if you took a notion to get up and have dinner in the middle of the night. But you keep your wits about you this time. And--I don't really know if I'm doing right--it may make you more addlepated than ever--but you can ask Diana to come over and spend the afternoon with you and have tea here." "Oh, Marilla!" Anne clasped her hands. "How perfectly lovely! You _are_ able to imagine things after all or else you'd never have understood how I've longed for that very thing. It will seem so nice and grown-uppish. No fear of my forgetting to put the tea to draw when I have company. Oh, Marilla, can I use the rosebud spray tea set?" "No, indeed! The rosebud tea set! Well, what next? You know I never use that except for the minister or the Aids. You'll put down the old brown tea set. But you can open the little yellow crock of cherry preserves. It's time it was being used anyhow--I believe it's beginning to work. And you can cut some fruit cake and have some of the cookies and snaps." "I can just imagine myself sitting down at the head of the table and pouring out the tea,"<|quote|>said Anne, shutting her eyes ecstatically.</|quote|>"And asking Diana if she takes sugar! I know she doesn't but of course I'll ask her just as if I didn't know. And then pressing her to take another piece of fruit cake and another helping of preserves. Oh, Marilla, it's a wonderful sensation just to think of it. Can I take her into the spare room to lay off her hat when she comes? And then into the parlor to sit?" "No. The sitting room will do for you and your company. But there's a bottle half full of raspberry cordial that was left over from the church social the other night. It's on the second shelf of the sitting-room closet and you and Diana can have it if you like, and a cooky to eat with it along in the afternoon, for I daresay Matthew ?ll be late coming in to tea since he's hauling potatoes to the vessel." Anne flew down to the hollow, past the Dryad's Bubble and up the spruce path to Orchard Slope, to ask Diana to tea. As a result just after Marilla had driven off to Carmody, Diana came over, dressed in _her_ second-best dress and looking exactly as it is proper to look when asked out to tea. At other times she was wont to run into the kitchen without knocking; but now she knocked primly at the front door. And when Anne, dressed in her second best, as primly opened it, both little girls shook hands as gravely as if they had never met before. This unnatural solemnity lasted until after Diana had been taken to the east gable to lay off her hat and then had sat for ten minutes in the sitting room, toes in position. "How is your mother?" inquired Anne politely, just as if she had not seen Mrs. Barry picking apples that morning in excellent health and spirits. "She is very well, thank you. I suppose Mr. Cuthbert is hauling potatoes to the _lily sands_ this afternoon, is he?" said Diana, who had ridden down to Mr. Harmon Andrews's that morning in Matthew's cart. "Yes. Our potato crop is very good this year. I hope your father's crop is good too." "It is fairly good, thank | Anne Of Green Gables |
interposed the lady, hastily. | No speaker | paupers as" "No, no, love!"<|quote|>interposed the lady, hastily.</|quote|>"If I thought it was," | from any of them male paupers as" "No, no, love!"<|quote|>interposed the lady, hastily.</|quote|>"If I thought it was," continued Mr. Bumble; "if I | lady evasively. "It must have been something, love," urged Mr. Bumble. "Won't you tell your own B.?" "Not now," rejoined the lady; "one of these days. After we're married, dear." "After we're married!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble. "It wasn't any impudence from any of them male paupers as" "No, no, love!"<|quote|>interposed the lady, hastily.</|quote|>"If I thought it was," continued Mr. Bumble; "if I thought as any one of 'em had dared to lift his wulgar eyes to that lovely countenance" "They wouldn't have dared to do it, love," responded the lady. "They had better not!" said Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist. "Let me | was being disposed of, she acquainted Mr. Bumble with the old woman's decease. "Very good," said that gentleman, sipping his peppermint; "I'll call at Sowerberry's as I go home, and tell him to send to-morrow morning. Was it that as frightened you, love?" "It wasn't anything particular, dear," said the lady evasively. "It must have been something, love," urged Mr. Bumble. "Won't you tell your own B.?" "Not now," rejoined the lady; "one of these days. After we're married, dear." "After we're married!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble. "It wasn't any impudence from any of them male paupers as" "No, no, love!"<|quote|>interposed the lady, hastily.</|quote|>"If I thought it was," continued Mr. Bumble; "if I thought as any one of 'em had dared to lift his wulgar eyes to that lovely countenance" "They wouldn't have dared to do it, love," responded the lady. "They had better not!" said Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist. "Let me see any man, porochial or extra-porochial, as would presume to do it; and I can tell him that he wouldn't do it a second time!" Unembellished by any violence of gesticulation, this might have seemed no very high compliment to the lady's charms; but, as Mr. Bumble accompanied the threat | yes!" sighed out the matron. "One more," pursued the beadle; "compose your darling feelings for only one more. When is it to come off?" Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak: and twice failed. At length summoning up courage, she threw her arms around Mr. Bumble's neck, and said, it might be as soon as ever he pleased, and that he was "a irresistible duck." Matters being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged, the contract was solemnly ratified in another teacupful of the peppermint mixture; which was rendered the more necessary, by the flutter and agitation of the lady's spirits. While it was being disposed of, she acquainted Mr. Bumble with the old woman's decease. "Very good," said that gentleman, sipping his peppermint; "I'll call at Sowerberry's as I go home, and tell him to send to-morrow morning. Was it that as frightened you, love?" "It wasn't anything particular, dear," said the lady evasively. "It must have been something, love," urged Mr. Bumble. "Won't you tell your own B.?" "Not now," rejoined the lady; "one of these days. After we're married, dear." "After we're married!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble. "It wasn't any impudence from any of them male paupers as" "No, no, love!"<|quote|>interposed the lady, hastily.</|quote|>"If I thought it was," continued Mr. Bumble; "if I thought as any one of 'em had dared to lift his wulgar eyes to that lovely countenance" "They wouldn't have dared to do it, love," responded the lady. "They had better not!" said Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist. "Let me see any man, porochial or extra-porochial, as would presume to do it; and I can tell him that he wouldn't do it a second time!" Unembellished by any violence of gesticulation, this might have seemed no very high compliment to the lady's charms; but, as Mr. Bumble accompanied the threat with many warlike gestures, she was much touched with this proof of his devotion, and protested, with great admiration, that he was indeed a dove. The dove then turned up his coat-collar, and put on his cocked hat; and, having exchanged a long and affectionate embrace with his future partner, once again braved the cold wind of the night: merely pausing, for a few minutes, in the male paupers' ward, to abuse them a little, with the view of satisfying himself that he could fill the office of workhouse-master with needful acerbity. Assured of his qualifications, Mr. Bumble left the | get a view of Mrs. Corney's face. Mrs. Corney, with great propriety, turned her head away, and released her hand to get at her pocket-handkerchief; but insensibly replaced it in that of Mr. Bumble. "The board allows you coals, don't they, Mrs. Corney?" inquired the beadle, affectionately pressing her hand. "And candles," replied Mrs. Corney, slightly returning the pressure. "Coals, candles, and house-rent free," said Mr. Bumble. "Oh, Mrs. Corney, what an Angel you are!" The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She sank into Mr. Bumble's arms; and that gentleman in his agitation, imprinted a passionate kiss upon her chaste nose. "Such porochial perfection!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, rapturously. "You know that Mr. Slout is worse to-night, my fascinator?" "Yes," replied Mrs. Corney, bashfully. "He can't live a week, the doctor says," pursued Mr. Bumble. "He is the master of this establishment; his death will cause a wacancy; that wacancy must be filled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this opens! What a opportunity for a jining of hearts and housekeepings!" Mrs. Corney sobbed. "The little word?" said Mr. Bumble, bending over the bashful beauty. "The one little, little, little word, my blessed Corney?" "Ye ye yes!" sighed out the matron. "One more," pursued the beadle; "compose your darling feelings for only one more. When is it to come off?" Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak: and twice failed. At length summoning up courage, she threw her arms around Mr. Bumble's neck, and said, it might be as soon as ever he pleased, and that he was "a irresistible duck." Matters being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged, the contract was solemnly ratified in another teacupful of the peppermint mixture; which was rendered the more necessary, by the flutter and agitation of the lady's spirits. While it was being disposed of, she acquainted Mr. Bumble with the old woman's decease. "Very good," said that gentleman, sipping his peppermint; "I'll call at Sowerberry's as I go home, and tell him to send to-morrow morning. Was it that as frightened you, love?" "It wasn't anything particular, dear," said the lady evasively. "It must have been something, love," urged Mr. Bumble. "Won't you tell your own B.?" "Not now," rejoined the lady; "one of these days. After we're married, dear." "After we're married!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble. "It wasn't any impudence from any of them male paupers as" "No, no, love!"<|quote|>interposed the lady, hastily.</|quote|>"If I thought it was," continued Mr. Bumble; "if I thought as any one of 'em had dared to lift his wulgar eyes to that lovely countenance" "They wouldn't have dared to do it, love," responded the lady. "They had better not!" said Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist. "Let me see any man, porochial or extra-porochial, as would presume to do it; and I can tell him that he wouldn't do it a second time!" Unembellished by any violence of gesticulation, this might have seemed no very high compliment to the lady's charms; but, as Mr. Bumble accompanied the threat with many warlike gestures, she was much touched with this proof of his devotion, and protested, with great admiration, that he was indeed a dove. The dove then turned up his coat-collar, and put on his cocked hat; and, having exchanged a long and affectionate embrace with his future partner, once again braved the cold wind of the night: merely pausing, for a few minutes, in the male paupers' ward, to abuse them a little, with the view of satisfying himself that he could fill the office of workhouse-master with needful acerbity. Assured of his qualifications, Mr. Bumble left the building with a light heart, and bright visions of his future promotion: which served to occupy his mind until he reached the shop of the undertaker. Now, Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry having gone out to tea and supper: and Noah Claypole not being at any time disposed to take upon himself a greater amount of physical exertion than is necessary to a convenient performance of the two functions of eating and drinking, the shop was not closed, although it was past the usual hour of shutting-up. Mr. Bumble tapped with his cane on the counter several times; but, attracting no attention, and beholding a light shining through the glass-window of the little parlour at the back of the shop, he made bold to peep in and see what was going forward; and when he saw what was going forward, he was not a little surprised. The cloth was laid for supper; the table was covered with bread and butter, plates and glasses; a porter-pot and a wine-bottle. At the upper end of the table, Mr. Noah Claypole lolled negligently in an easy-chair, with his legs thrown over one of the arms: an open clasp-knife in one hand, and a mass | Mr. Bumble. "I can't help it," whimpered the lady. "Then take something, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble soothingly. "A little of the wine?" "Not for the world!" replied Mrs. Corney. "I couldn't, oh! The top shelf in the right-hand corner oh!" Uttering these words, the good lady pointed, distractedly, to the cupboard, and underwent a convulsion from internal spasms. Mr. Bumble rushed to the closet; and, snatching a pint green-glass bottle from the shelf thus incoherently indicated, filled a tea-cup with its contents, and held it to the lady's lips. "I'm better now," said Mrs. Corney, falling back, after drinking half of it. Mr. Bumble raised his eyes piously to the ceiling in thankfulness; and, bringing them down again to the brim of the cup, lifted it to his nose. "Peppermint," exclaimed Mrs. Corney, in a faint voice, smiling gently on the beadle as she spoke. "Try it! There's a little a little something else in it." Mr. Bumble tasted the medicine with a doubtful look; smacked his lips; took another taste; and put the cup down empty. "It's very comforting," said Mrs. Corney. "Very much so indeed, ma'am," said the beadle. As he spoke, he drew a chair beside the matron, and tenderly inquired what had happened to distress her. "Nothing," replied Mrs. Corney. "I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur." "Not weak, ma'am," retorted Mr. Bumble, drawing his chair a little closer. "Are you a weak creetur, Mrs. Corney?" "We are all weak creeturs," said Mrs. Corney, laying down a general principle. "So we are," said the beadle. Nothing was said on either side, for a minute or two afterwards. By the expiration of that time, Mr. Bumble had illustrated the position by removing his left arm from the back of Mrs. Corney's chair, where it had previously rested, to Mrs. Corney's apron-string, round which it gradually became entwined. "We are all weak creeturs," said Mr. Bumble. Mrs. Corney sighed. "Don't sigh, Mrs. Corney," said Mr. Bumble. "I can't help it," said Mrs. Corney. And she sighed again. "This is a very comfortable room, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble looking round. "Another room, and this, ma'am, would be a complete thing." "It would be too much for one," murmured the lady. "But not for two, ma'am," rejoined Mr. Bumble, in soft accents. "Eh, Mrs. Corney?" Mrs. Corney drooped her head, when the beadle said this; the beadle drooped his, to get a view of Mrs. Corney's face. Mrs. Corney, with great propriety, turned her head away, and released her hand to get at her pocket-handkerchief; but insensibly replaced it in that of Mr. Bumble. "The board allows you coals, don't they, Mrs. Corney?" inquired the beadle, affectionately pressing her hand. "And candles," replied Mrs. Corney, slightly returning the pressure. "Coals, candles, and house-rent free," said Mr. Bumble. "Oh, Mrs. Corney, what an Angel you are!" The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She sank into Mr. Bumble's arms; and that gentleman in his agitation, imprinted a passionate kiss upon her chaste nose. "Such porochial perfection!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, rapturously. "You know that Mr. Slout is worse to-night, my fascinator?" "Yes," replied Mrs. Corney, bashfully. "He can't live a week, the doctor says," pursued Mr. Bumble. "He is the master of this establishment; his death will cause a wacancy; that wacancy must be filled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this opens! What a opportunity for a jining of hearts and housekeepings!" Mrs. Corney sobbed. "The little word?" said Mr. Bumble, bending over the bashful beauty. "The one little, little, little word, my blessed Corney?" "Ye ye yes!" sighed out the matron. "One more," pursued the beadle; "compose your darling feelings for only one more. When is it to come off?" Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak: and twice failed. At length summoning up courage, she threw her arms around Mr. Bumble's neck, and said, it might be as soon as ever he pleased, and that he was "a irresistible duck." Matters being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged, the contract was solemnly ratified in another teacupful of the peppermint mixture; which was rendered the more necessary, by the flutter and agitation of the lady's spirits. While it was being disposed of, she acquainted Mr. Bumble with the old woman's decease. "Very good," said that gentleman, sipping his peppermint; "I'll call at Sowerberry's as I go home, and tell him to send to-morrow morning. Was it that as frightened you, love?" "It wasn't anything particular, dear," said the lady evasively. "It must have been something, love," urged Mr. Bumble. "Won't you tell your own B.?" "Not now," rejoined the lady; "one of these days. After we're married, dear." "After we're married!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble. "It wasn't any impudence from any of them male paupers as" "No, no, love!"<|quote|>interposed the lady, hastily.</|quote|>"If I thought it was," continued Mr. Bumble; "if I thought as any one of 'em had dared to lift his wulgar eyes to that lovely countenance" "They wouldn't have dared to do it, love," responded the lady. "They had better not!" said Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist. "Let me see any man, porochial or extra-porochial, as would presume to do it; and I can tell him that he wouldn't do it a second time!" Unembellished by any violence of gesticulation, this might have seemed no very high compliment to the lady's charms; but, as Mr. Bumble accompanied the threat with many warlike gestures, she was much touched with this proof of his devotion, and protested, with great admiration, that he was indeed a dove. The dove then turned up his coat-collar, and put on his cocked hat; and, having exchanged a long and affectionate embrace with his future partner, once again braved the cold wind of the night: merely pausing, for a few minutes, in the male paupers' ward, to abuse them a little, with the view of satisfying himself that he could fill the office of workhouse-master with needful acerbity. Assured of his qualifications, Mr. Bumble left the building with a light heart, and bright visions of his future promotion: which served to occupy his mind until he reached the shop of the undertaker. Now, Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry having gone out to tea and supper: and Noah Claypole not being at any time disposed to take upon himself a greater amount of physical exertion than is necessary to a convenient performance of the two functions of eating and drinking, the shop was not closed, although it was past the usual hour of shutting-up. Mr. Bumble tapped with his cane on the counter several times; but, attracting no attention, and beholding a light shining through the glass-window of the little parlour at the back of the shop, he made bold to peep in and see what was going forward; and when he saw what was going forward, he was not a little surprised. The cloth was laid for supper; the table was covered with bread and butter, plates and glasses; a porter-pot and a wine-bottle. At the upper end of the table, Mr. Noah Claypole lolled negligently in an easy-chair, with his legs thrown over one of the arms: an open clasp-knife in one hand, and a mass of buttered bread in the other. Close beside him stood Charlotte, opening oysters from a barrel: which Mr. Claypole condescended to swallow, with remarkable avidity. A more than ordinary redness in the region of the young gentleman's nose, and a kind of fixed wink in his right eye, denoted that he was in a slight degree intoxicated; these symptoms were confirmed by the intense relish with which he took his oysters, for which nothing but a strong appreciation of their cooling properties, in cases of internal fever, could have sufficiently accounted. "Here's a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!" said Charlotte; "try him, do; only this one." "What a delicious thing is a oyster!" remarked Mr. Claypole, after he had swallowed it. "What a pity it is, a number of 'em should ever make you feel uncomfortable; isn't it, Charlotte?" "It's quite a cruelty," said Charlotte. "So it is," acquiesced Mr. Claypole. "An't yer fond of oysters?" "Not overmuch," replied Charlotte. "I like to see you eat 'em, Noah dear, better than eating 'em myself." "Lor!" said Noah, reflectively; "how queer!" "Have another," said Charlotte. "Here's one with such a beautiful, delicate beard!" "I can't manage any more," said Noah. "I'm very sorry. Come here, Charlotte, and I'll kiss yer." "What!" said Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room. "Say that again, sir." Charlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face in her apron. Mr. Claypole, without making any further change in his position than suffering his legs to reach the ground, gazed at the beadle in drunken terror. "Say it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!" said Mr. Bumble. "How dare you mention such a thing, sir? And how dare you encourage him, you insolent minx? Kiss her!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, in strong indignation. "Faugh!" "I didn't mean to do it!" said Noah, blubbering. "She's always a-kissing of me, whether I like it, or not." "Oh, Noah," cried Charlotte, reproachfully. "Yer are; yer know yer are!" retorted Noah. "She's always a-doin' of it, Mr. Bumble, sir; she chucks me under the chin, please, sir; and makes all manner of love!" "Silence!" cried Mr. Bumble, sternly. "Take yourself downstairs, ma'am. Noah, you shut up the shop; say another word till your master comes home, at your peril; and, when he does come home, tell him that Mr. Bumble said he was to send a old woman's shell after breakfast to-morrow morning. Do you | to get at her pocket-handkerchief; but insensibly replaced it in that of Mr. Bumble. "The board allows you coals, don't they, Mrs. Corney?" inquired the beadle, affectionately pressing her hand. "And candles," replied Mrs. Corney, slightly returning the pressure. "Coals, candles, and house-rent free," said Mr. Bumble. "Oh, Mrs. Corney, what an Angel you are!" The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She sank into Mr. Bumble's arms; and that gentleman in his agitation, imprinted a passionate kiss upon her chaste nose. "Such porochial perfection!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, rapturously. "You know that Mr. Slout is worse to-night, my fascinator?" "Yes," replied Mrs. Corney, bashfully. "He can't live a week, the doctor says," pursued Mr. Bumble. "He is the master of this establishment; his death will cause a wacancy; that wacancy must be filled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this opens! What a opportunity for a jining of hearts and housekeepings!" Mrs. Corney sobbed. "The little word?" said Mr. Bumble, bending over the bashful beauty. "The one little, little, little word, my blessed Corney?" "Ye ye yes!" sighed out the matron. "One more," pursued the beadle; "compose your darling feelings for only one more. When is it to come off?" Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak: and twice failed. At length summoning up courage, she threw her arms around Mr. Bumble's neck, and said, it might be as soon as ever he pleased, and that he was "a irresistible duck." Matters being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged, the contract was solemnly ratified in another teacupful of the peppermint mixture; which was rendered the more necessary, by the flutter and agitation of the lady's spirits. While it was being disposed of, she acquainted Mr. Bumble with the old woman's decease. "Very good," said that gentleman, sipping his peppermint; "I'll call at Sowerberry's as I go home, and tell him to send to-morrow morning. Was it that as frightened you, love?" "It wasn't anything particular, dear," said the lady evasively. "It must have been something, love," urged Mr. Bumble. "Won't you tell your own B.?" "Not now," rejoined the lady; "one of these days. After we're married, dear." "After we're married!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble. "It wasn't any impudence from any of them male paupers as" "No, no, love!"<|quote|>interposed the lady, hastily.</|quote|>"If I thought it was," continued Mr. Bumble; "if I thought as any one of 'em had dared to lift his wulgar eyes to that lovely countenance" "They wouldn't have dared to do it, love," responded the lady. "They had better not!" said Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist. "Let me see any man, porochial or extra-porochial, as would presume to do it; and I can tell him that he wouldn't do it a second time!" Unembellished by any violence of gesticulation, this might have seemed no very high compliment to the lady's charms; but, as Mr. Bumble accompanied the threat with many warlike gestures, she was much touched with this proof of his devotion, and protested, with great admiration, that he was indeed a dove. The dove then turned up his coat-collar, and put on his cocked hat; and, having exchanged a long and affectionate embrace with his future partner, once again braved the cold wind of the night: merely pausing, for a few minutes, in the male paupers' ward, to abuse them a little, with the view of satisfying himself that he could fill the office of workhouse-master with needful acerbity. Assured of his qualifications, Mr. Bumble left the building with a light heart, and bright visions of his future promotion: which served to occupy his mind until he reached the shop of the undertaker. Now, Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry having gone out to tea and supper: and Noah Claypole not being at any time disposed to take upon himself a greater amount of physical exertion than is necessary to a convenient performance of the two functions of eating and drinking, the shop was not closed, although it was past the usual hour of shutting-up. Mr. Bumble tapped with his cane on the counter several times; but, attracting no attention, and beholding a light shining through the glass-window of the little parlour at the back of the shop, he made bold to peep in and see what was going forward; and when he saw what was going forward, he was not a little surprised. The cloth was laid | Oliver Twist |
“Well, ma’m, it’s politics. It would take me a long while to explain.” | Otto | wrinkled his brow and nose.<|quote|>“Well, ma’m, it’s politics. It would take me a long while to explain.”</|quote|>The land was growing rougher; | why is that, Otto?” Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose.<|quote|>“Well, ma’m, it’s politics. It would take me a long while to explain.”</|quote|>The land was growing rougher; I was told that we | old horses for the price of good work-teams. I’d have interfered about the horses—the old man can understand some German—if I’d ’a’ thought it would do any good. But Bohemians has a natural distrust of Austrians.” Grandmother looked interested. “Now, why is that, Otto?” Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose.<|quote|>“Well, ma’m, it’s politics. It would take me a long while to explain.”</|quote|>The land was growing rougher; I was told that we were approaching Squaw Creek, which cut up the west half of the Shimerdas’ place and made the land of little value for farming. Soon we could see the broken, grassy clay cliffs which indicated the windings of the stream, and | winter in that cave of Krajiek’s,” said grandmother. “It’s no better than a badger hole; no proper dugout at all. And I hear he’s made them pay twenty dollars for his old cookstove that ain’t worth ten.” “Yes’m,” said Otto; “and he’s sold ’em his oxen and his two bony old horses for the price of good work-teams. I’d have interfered about the horses—the old man can understand some German—if I’d ’a’ thought it would do any good. But Bohemians has a natural distrust of Austrians.” Grandmother looked interested. “Now, why is that, Otto?” Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose.<|quote|>“Well, ma’m, it’s politics. It would take me a long while to explain.”</|quote|>The land was growing rougher; I was told that we were approaching Squaw Creek, which cut up the west half of the Shimerdas’ place and made the land of little value for farming. Soon we could see the broken, grassy clay cliffs which indicated the windings of the stream, and the glittering tops of the cottonwoods and ash trees that grew down in the ravine. Some of the cottonwoods had already turned, and the yellow leaves and shining white bark made them look like the gold and silver trees in fairy tales. As we approached the Shimerdas’ dwelling, I could | he chose. They could not speak enough English to ask for advice, or even to make their most pressing wants known. One son, Fuchs said, was well-grown, and strong enough to work the land; but the father was old and frail and knew nothing about farming. He was a weaver by trade; had been a skilled workman on tapestries and upholstery materials. He had brought his fiddle with him, which would n’t be of much use here, though he used to pick up money by it at home. “If they’re nice people, I hate to think of them spending the winter in that cave of Krajiek’s,” said grandmother. “It’s no better than a badger hole; no proper dugout at all. And I hear he’s made them pay twenty dollars for his old cookstove that ain’t worth ten.” “Yes’m,” said Otto; “and he’s sold ’em his oxen and his two bony old horses for the price of good work-teams. I’d have interfered about the horses—the old man can understand some German—if I’d ’a’ thought it would do any good. But Bohemians has a natural distrust of Austrians.” Grandmother looked interested. “Now, why is that, Otto?” Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose.<|quote|>“Well, ma’m, it’s politics. It would take me a long while to explain.”</|quote|>The land was growing rougher; I was told that we were approaching Squaw Creek, which cut up the west half of the Shimerdas’ place and made the land of little value for farming. Soon we could see the broken, grassy clay cliffs which indicated the windings of the stream, and the glittering tops of the cottonwoods and ash trees that grew down in the ravine. Some of the cottonwoods had already turned, and the yellow leaves and shining white bark made them look like the gold and silver trees in fairy tales. As we approached the Shimerdas’ dwelling, I could still see nothing but rough red hillocks, and draws with shelving banks and long roots hanging out where the earth had crumbled away. Presently, against one of those banks, I saw a sort of shed, thatched with the same wine-colored grass that grew everywhere. Near it tilted a shattered windmill-frame, that had no wheel. We drove up to this skeleton to tie our horses, and then I saw a door and window sunk deep in the draw-bank. The door stood open, and a woman and a girl of fourteen ran out and looked up at us hopefully. A little girl | beyond that cornfield; but there was only red grass like ours, and nothing else, though from the high wagon-seat one could look off a long way. The road ran about like a wild thing, avoiding the deep draws, crossing them where they were wide and shallow. And all along it, wherever it looped or ran, the sunflowers grew; some of them were as big as little trees, with great rough leaves and many branches which bore dozens of blossoms. They made a gold ribbon across the prairie. Occasionally one of the horses would tear off with his teeth a plant full of blossoms, and walk along munching it, the flowers nodding in time to his bites as he ate down toward them. The Bohemian family, grandmother told me as we drove along, had bought the homestead of a fellow-countryman, Peter Krajiek, and had paid him more than it was worth. Their agreement with him was made before they left the old country, through a cousin of his, who was also a relative of Mrs. Shimerda. The Shimerdas were the first Bohemian family to come to this part of the county. Krajiek was their only interpreter, and could tell them anything he chose. They could not speak enough English to ask for advice, or even to make their most pressing wants known. One son, Fuchs said, was well-grown, and strong enough to work the land; but the father was old and frail and knew nothing about farming. He was a weaver by trade; had been a skilled workman on tapestries and upholstery materials. He had brought his fiddle with him, which would n’t be of much use here, though he used to pick up money by it at home. “If they’re nice people, I hate to think of them spending the winter in that cave of Krajiek’s,” said grandmother. “It’s no better than a badger hole; no proper dugout at all. And I hear he’s made them pay twenty dollars for his old cookstove that ain’t worth ten.” “Yes’m,” said Otto; “and he’s sold ’em his oxen and his two bony old horses for the price of good work-teams. I’d have interfered about the horses—the old man can understand some German—if I’d ’a’ thought it would do any good. But Bohemians has a natural distrust of Austrians.” Grandmother looked interested. “Now, why is that, Otto?” Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose.<|quote|>“Well, ma’m, it’s politics. It would take me a long while to explain.”</|quote|>The land was growing rougher; I was told that we were approaching Squaw Creek, which cut up the west half of the Shimerdas’ place and made the land of little value for farming. Soon we could see the broken, grassy clay cliffs which indicated the windings of the stream, and the glittering tops of the cottonwoods and ash trees that grew down in the ravine. Some of the cottonwoods had already turned, and the yellow leaves and shining white bark made them look like the gold and silver trees in fairy tales. As we approached the Shimerdas’ dwelling, I could still see nothing but rough red hillocks, and draws with shelving banks and long roots hanging out where the earth had crumbled away. Presently, against one of those banks, I saw a sort of shed, thatched with the same wine-colored grass that grew everywhere. Near it tilted a shattered windmill-frame, that had no wheel. We drove up to this skeleton to tie our horses, and then I saw a door and window sunk deep in the draw-bank. The door stood open, and a woman and a girl of fourteen ran out and looked up at us hopefully. A little girl trailed along behind them. The woman had on her head the same embroidered shawl with silk fringes that she wore when she had alighted from the train at Black Hawk. She was not old, but she was certainly not young. Her face was alert and lively, with a sharp chin and shrewd little eyes. She shook grandmother’s hand energetically. “Very glad, very glad!” she ejaculated. Immediately she pointed to the bank out of which she had emerged and said, “House no good, house no good!” Grandmother nodded consolingly. “You’ll get fixed up comfortable after while, Mrs. Shimerda; make good house.” My grandmother always spoke in a very loud tone to foreigners, as if they were deaf. She made Mrs. Shimerda understand the friendly intention of our visit, and the Bohemian woman handled the loaves of bread and even smelled them, and examined the pies with lively curiosity, exclaiming, “Much good, much thank!” —and again she wrung grandmother’s hand. The oldest son, Ambrož,—they called it Ambrosch,—came out of the cave and stood beside his mother. He was nineteen years old, short and broad-backed, with a close-cropped, flat head, and a wide, flat face. His hazel eyes were little and shrewd, like | path, leaning forward a little. The road followed the windings of the draw; when she came to the first bend she waved at me and disappeared. I was left alone with this new feeling of lightness and content. I sat down in the middle of the garden, where snakes could scarcely approach unseen, and leaned my back against a warm yellow pumpkin. There were some ground-cherry bushes growing along the furrows, full of fruit. I turned back the papery triangular sheaths that protected the berries and ate a few. All about me giant grasshoppers, twice as big as any I had ever seen, were doing acrobatic feats among the dried vines. The gophers scurried up and down the ploughed ground. There in the sheltered draw-bottom the wind did not blow very hard, but I could hear it singing its humming tune up on the level, and I could see the tall grasses wave. The earth was warm under me, and warm as I crumbled it through my fingers. Queer little red bugs came out and moved in slow squadrons around me. Their backs were polished vermilion, with black spots. I kept as still as I could. Nothing happened. I did not expect anything to happen. I was something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins, and I did not want to be anything more. I was entirely happy. Perhaps we feel like that when we die and become a part of something entire, whether it is sun and air, or goodness and knowledge. At any rate, that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great. When it comes to one, it comes as naturally as sleep. III ON Sunday morning Otto Fuchs was to drive us over to make the acquaintance of our new Bohemian neighbors. We were taking them some provisions, as they had come to live on a wild place where there was no garden or chicken-house, and very little broken land. Fuchs brought up a sack of potatoes and a piece of cured pork from the cellar, and grandmother packed some loaves of Saturday’s bread, a jar of butter, and several pumpkin pies in the straw of the wagon-box. We clambered up to the front seat and jolted off past the little pond and along the road that climbed to the big cornfield. I could hardly wait to see what lay beyond that cornfield; but there was only red grass like ours, and nothing else, though from the high wagon-seat one could look off a long way. The road ran about like a wild thing, avoiding the deep draws, crossing them where they were wide and shallow. And all along it, wherever it looped or ran, the sunflowers grew; some of them were as big as little trees, with great rough leaves and many branches which bore dozens of blossoms. They made a gold ribbon across the prairie. Occasionally one of the horses would tear off with his teeth a plant full of blossoms, and walk along munching it, the flowers nodding in time to his bites as he ate down toward them. The Bohemian family, grandmother told me as we drove along, had bought the homestead of a fellow-countryman, Peter Krajiek, and had paid him more than it was worth. Their agreement with him was made before they left the old country, through a cousin of his, who was also a relative of Mrs. Shimerda. The Shimerdas were the first Bohemian family to come to this part of the county. Krajiek was their only interpreter, and could tell them anything he chose. They could not speak enough English to ask for advice, or even to make their most pressing wants known. One son, Fuchs said, was well-grown, and strong enough to work the land; but the father was old and frail and knew nothing about farming. He was a weaver by trade; had been a skilled workman on tapestries and upholstery materials. He had brought his fiddle with him, which would n’t be of much use here, though he used to pick up money by it at home. “If they’re nice people, I hate to think of them spending the winter in that cave of Krajiek’s,” said grandmother. “It’s no better than a badger hole; no proper dugout at all. And I hear he’s made them pay twenty dollars for his old cookstove that ain’t worth ten.” “Yes’m,” said Otto; “and he’s sold ’em his oxen and his two bony old horses for the price of good work-teams. I’d have interfered about the horses—the old man can understand some German—if I’d ’a’ thought it would do any good. But Bohemians has a natural distrust of Austrians.” Grandmother looked interested. “Now, why is that, Otto?” Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose.<|quote|>“Well, ma’m, it’s politics. It would take me a long while to explain.”</|quote|>The land was growing rougher; I was told that we were approaching Squaw Creek, which cut up the west half of the Shimerdas’ place and made the land of little value for farming. Soon we could see the broken, grassy clay cliffs which indicated the windings of the stream, and the glittering tops of the cottonwoods and ash trees that grew down in the ravine. Some of the cottonwoods had already turned, and the yellow leaves and shining white bark made them look like the gold and silver trees in fairy tales. As we approached the Shimerdas’ dwelling, I could still see nothing but rough red hillocks, and draws with shelving banks and long roots hanging out where the earth had crumbled away. Presently, against one of those banks, I saw a sort of shed, thatched with the same wine-colored grass that grew everywhere. Near it tilted a shattered windmill-frame, that had no wheel. We drove up to this skeleton to tie our horses, and then I saw a door and window sunk deep in the draw-bank. The door stood open, and a woman and a girl of fourteen ran out and looked up at us hopefully. A little girl trailed along behind them. The woman had on her head the same embroidered shawl with silk fringes that she wore when she had alighted from the train at Black Hawk. She was not old, but she was certainly not young. Her face was alert and lively, with a sharp chin and shrewd little eyes. She shook grandmother’s hand energetically. “Very glad, very glad!” she ejaculated. Immediately she pointed to the bank out of which she had emerged and said, “House no good, house no good!” Grandmother nodded consolingly. “You’ll get fixed up comfortable after while, Mrs. Shimerda; make good house.” My grandmother always spoke in a very loud tone to foreigners, as if they were deaf. She made Mrs. Shimerda understand the friendly intention of our visit, and the Bohemian woman handled the loaves of bread and even smelled them, and examined the pies with lively curiosity, exclaiming, “Much good, much thank!” —and again she wrung grandmother’s hand. The oldest son, Ambrož,—they called it Ambrosch,—came out of the cave and stood beside his mother. He was nineteen years old, short and broad-backed, with a close-cropped, flat head, and a wide, flat face. His hazel eyes were little and shrewd, like his mother’s, but more sly and suspicious; they fairly snapped at the food. The family had been living on corncakes and sorghum molasses for three days. The little girl was pretty, but Án-tonia— they accented the name thus, strongly, when they spoke to her—was still prettier. I remembered what the conductor had said about her eyes. They were big and warm and full of light, like the sun shining on brown pools in the wood. Her skin was brown, too, and in her cheeks she had a glow of rich, dark color. Her brown hair was curly and wild-looking. The little sister, whom they called Yulka (Julka), was fair, and seemed mild and obedient. While I stood awkwardly confronting the two girls, Krajiek came up from the barn to see what was going on. With him was another Shimerda son. Even from a distance one could see that there was something strange about this boy. As he approached us, he began to make uncouth noises, and held up his hands to show us his fingers, which were webbed to the first knuckle, like a duck’s foot. When he saw me draw back, he began to crow delightedly, “Hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo!” like a rooster. His mother scowled and said sternly, “Marek!” then spoke rapidly to Krajiek in Bohemian. “She wants me to tell you he won’t hurt nobody, Mrs. Burden. He was born like that. The others are smart. Ambrosch, he make good farmer.” He struck Ambrosch on the back, and the boy smiled knowingly. At that moment the father came out of the hole in the bank. He wore no hat, and his thick, iron-gray hair was brushed straight back from his forehead. It was so long that it bushed out behind his ears, and made him look like the old portraits I remembered in Virginia. He was tall and slender, and his thin shoulders stooped. He looked at us understandingly, then took grandmother’s hand and bent over it. I noticed how white and well-shaped his own hands were. They looked calm, somehow, and skilled. His eyes were melancholy, and were set back deep under his brow. His face was ruggedly formed, but it looked like ashes—like something from which all the warmth and light had died out. Everything about this old man was in keeping with his dignified manner. He was neatly dressed. Under his coat he wore a | down toward them. The Bohemian family, grandmother told me as we drove along, had bought the homestead of a fellow-countryman, Peter Krajiek, and had paid him more than it was worth. Their agreement with him was made before they left the old country, through a cousin of his, who was also a relative of Mrs. Shimerda. The Shimerdas were the first Bohemian family to come to this part of the county. Krajiek was their only interpreter, and could tell them anything he chose. They could not speak enough English to ask for advice, or even to make their most pressing wants known. One son, Fuchs said, was well-grown, and strong enough to work the land; but the father was old and frail and knew nothing about farming. He was a weaver by trade; had been a skilled workman on tapestries and upholstery materials. He had brought his fiddle with him, which would n’t be of much use here, though he used to pick up money by it at home. “If they’re nice people, I hate to think of them spending the winter in that cave of Krajiek’s,” said grandmother. “It’s no better than a badger hole; no proper dugout at all. And I hear he’s made them pay twenty dollars for his old cookstove that ain’t worth ten.” “Yes’m,” said Otto; “and he’s sold ’em his oxen and his two bony old horses for the price of good work-teams. I’d have interfered about the horses—the old man can understand some German—if I’d ’a’ thought it would do any good. But Bohemians has a natural distrust of Austrians.” Grandmother looked interested. “Now, why is that, Otto?” Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose.<|quote|>“Well, ma’m, it’s politics. It would take me a long while to explain.”</|quote|>The land was growing rougher; I was told that we were approaching Squaw Creek, which cut up the west half of the Shimerdas’ place and made the land of little value for farming. Soon we could see the broken, grassy clay cliffs which indicated the windings of the stream, and the glittering tops of the cottonwoods and ash trees that grew down in the ravine. Some of the cottonwoods had already turned, and the yellow leaves and shining white bark made them look like the gold and silver trees in fairy tales. As we approached the Shimerdas’ dwelling, I could still see nothing but rough red hillocks, and draws with shelving banks and long roots hanging out where the earth had crumbled away. Presently, against one of those banks, I saw a sort of shed, thatched with the same wine-colored grass that grew everywhere. Near it tilted a shattered windmill-frame, that had no wheel. We drove up to this skeleton to tie our horses, and then I saw a door and window sunk deep in the draw-bank. The door stood open, and a woman and a girl of fourteen ran out and looked up at us hopefully. A little girl trailed along behind them. The woman had on her head the same embroidered shawl with silk fringes that she wore when she had alighted from the train at Black Hawk. She was not old, but she was certainly not young. Her face was alert and lively, with a sharp chin and shrewd little eyes. She shook grandmother’s hand energetically. “Very glad, very glad!” she ejaculated. Immediately she pointed to the bank out of which she had emerged and said, “House no good, house no good!” Grandmother nodded consolingly. “You’ll get fixed up comfortable after while, Mrs. Shimerda; make good house.” My grandmother always spoke in a very loud tone to foreigners, as if they were deaf. She made Mrs. Shimerda understand the friendly intention of our visit, and the Bohemian woman handled the loaves of bread and even smelled them, and examined the pies with lively curiosity, exclaiming, “Much good, much thank!” —and again she wrung grandmother’s hand. The oldest son, Ambrož,—they called it Ambrosch,—came out of the cave and stood beside his mother. He was nineteen years old, short | My Antonia |
"Is it? I never notice houses much." | Mrs. Rattery | pretty ghastly house, isn't it?"<|quote|>"Is it? I never notice houses much."</|quote|>She was an easy guest | again?" "Tony Last. It's a pretty ghastly house, isn't it?"<|quote|>"Is it? I never notice houses much."</|quote|>She was an easy guest to entertain. After dinner on | What d'you think of Tony?" "Is he married to that rather lovely woman we saw at the Caf? de Paris?" "Yes." "The one you said was in love with that young man?" "Yes." "Funny of her... What's this one's name again?" "Tony Last. It's a pretty ghastly house, isn't it?"<|quote|>"Is it? I never notice houses much."</|quote|>She was an easy guest to entertain. After dinner on Monday she produced four packs of cards and laid out for herself on the smoking-room table a very elaborate patience, which kept her engrossed all the evening. "Don't wait up for me," she said. "I shall stay here until it | though he were a man of her own age. "You'll have to show me the country." "I expect they'll draw Bruton Wood first. There's a big fox there, daddy and I saw him." * * * * * When they were alone together, Jock said, "It's delightful your coming down. What d'you think of Tony?" "Is he married to that rather lovely woman we saw at the Caf? de Paris?" "Yes." "The one you said was in love with that young man?" "Yes." "Funny of her... What's this one's name again?" "Tony Last. It's a pretty ghastly house, isn't it?"<|quote|>"Is it? I never notice houses much."</|quote|>She was an easy guest to entertain. After dinner on Monday she produced four packs of cards and laid out for herself on the smoking-room table a very elaborate patience, which kept her engrossed all the evening. "Don't wait up for me," she said. "I shall stay here until it comes out. It often takes several hours." They showed her where to put the lights out and left her to it. Next day Jock said, "Have you got any pigs at the farm?" "Yes." "Would you mind if I went to see them?" "Not in the least--but why?" "And is | Tony had imagined her. Vaguely, at the back of his mind he had secreted the slightly absurd expectation of a chorus girl, in silk shorts and brassi?re, popping out of an immense beribboned Easter egg with a cry of "Whoopee, boys." Mrs Rattery's greetings were deft and impersonal. "Are you going to hunt on Wednesday?" asked John. "They're meeting here, you know." "I might go out for half the day, if I can find a horse. It'll be the first time this year." "It's my first time too." "We shall both be terribly stiff." She spoke to him exactly as though he were a man of her own age. "You'll have to show me the country." "I expect they'll draw Bruton Wood first. There's a big fox there, daddy and I saw him." * * * * * When they were alone together, Jock said, "It's delightful your coming down. What d'you think of Tony?" "Is he married to that rather lovely woman we saw at the Caf? de Paris?" "Yes." "The one you said was in love with that young man?" "Yes." "Funny of her... What's this one's name again?" "Tony Last. It's a pretty ghastly house, isn't it?"<|quote|>"Is it? I never notice houses much."</|quote|>She was an easy guest to entertain. After dinner on Monday she produced four packs of cards and laid out for herself on the smoking-room table a very elaborate patience, which kept her engrossed all the evening. "Don't wait up for me," she said. "I shall stay here until it comes out. It often takes several hours." They showed her where to put the lights out and left her to it. Next day Jock said, "Have you got any pigs at the farm?" "Yes." "Would you mind if I went to see them?" "Not in the least--but why?" "And is there a man who looks after them, who will be able to explain about them?" "Yes." "Well, I think I'll spend the morning with him. I've got to make a speech about pigs, fairly soon." They did not see Mrs Rattery until luncheon. Tony assumed she was asleep until she appeared in overalls from the morning-room. "I was down early," she explained, "and found the men at work stripping the ceiling. I couldn't resist joining in. I hope you don't mind." In the afternoon they went to a neighbouring livery stables to look for hirelings. After tea Tony wrote to | she was liable to bouts of morphine; then she gave up her bridge and remained for several days at a time alone in her hotel suite, refreshed at intervals with glasses of cold milk. She arrived by air on Monday afternoon. It was the first time that a guest had come in this fashion and the household was appreciably excited. Under Jock's direction the boiler man and one of the gardeners pegged out a dust sheet in the park to mark a landing for her and lit a bonfire of damp leaves to show the direction of the wind. The five trunks arrived in the ordinary way by train, with an elderly, irreproachable maid. She brought her own sheets with her in one of the trunks; they were neither silk nor coloured, without lace or ornament of any kind, except small, plain monograms. Tony, Jock and John went out to watch her land. She climbed out of the cockpit, stretched, unbuttoned the flaps of her leather helmet, and came to meet them. "Forty-two minutes," she said, "not at all bad with the wind against me." She was tall and erect, almost austere in helmet and overalls; not at all as Tony had imagined her. Vaguely, at the back of his mind he had secreted the slightly absurd expectation of a chorus girl, in silk shorts and brassi?re, popping out of an immense beribboned Easter egg with a cry of "Whoopee, boys." Mrs Rattery's greetings were deft and impersonal. "Are you going to hunt on Wednesday?" asked John. "They're meeting here, you know." "I might go out for half the day, if I can find a horse. It'll be the first time this year." "It's my first time too." "We shall both be terribly stiff." She spoke to him exactly as though he were a man of her own age. "You'll have to show me the country." "I expect they'll draw Bruton Wood first. There's a big fox there, daddy and I saw him." * * * * * When they were alone together, Jock said, "It's delightful your coming down. What d'you think of Tony?" "Is he married to that rather lovely woman we saw at the Caf? de Paris?" "Yes." "The one you said was in love with that young man?" "Yes." "Funny of her... What's this one's name again?" "Tony Last. It's a pretty ghastly house, isn't it?"<|quote|>"Is it? I never notice houses much."</|quote|>She was an easy guest to entertain. After dinner on Monday she produced four packs of cards and laid out for herself on the smoking-room table a very elaborate patience, which kept her engrossed all the evening. "Don't wait up for me," she said. "I shall stay here until it comes out. It often takes several hours." They showed her where to put the lights out and left her to it. Next day Jock said, "Have you got any pigs at the farm?" "Yes." "Would you mind if I went to see them?" "Not in the least--but why?" "And is there a man who looks after them, who will be able to explain about them?" "Yes." "Well, I think I'll spend the morning with him. I've got to make a speech about pigs, fairly soon." They did not see Mrs Rattery until luncheon. Tony assumed she was asleep until she appeared in overalls from the morning-room. "I was down early," she explained, "and found the men at work stripping the ceiling. I couldn't resist joining in. I hope you don't mind." In the afternoon they went to a neighbouring livery stables to look for hirelings. After tea Tony wrote to Brenda; he had taken to writing letters in the past few weeks. How enjoyable the week-end was [he wrote]. Thank you a thousand times for all your sweetness. I wish you were coming down next week-end, or that you had been able to stay on a little, but I quite understand. The Shameless Blonde is not the least what we expected--very serene and distant. Not at all like Jock's usual taste. I am sure she hasn't any idea where she is or what my name is. The work in the morning-room is going on well. The foreman told me to-day he thought he would begin on the chromium plating by the end of the week. You know what I think about that. John can talk of nothing except his hunting to-morrow. I hope he doesn't break his neck. Jock and his S.B. are going out too. Hetton lay near the boundary of three packs; the Pigstanton, who hunted it, had, in the division of territory, come off with the worst country and they cherished a permanent resentment about some woods near Bayton. They were a somewhat ill-tempered lot, contemptuous of each other's performance, hostile to strangers, torn by internal rancour, | If he did, it would soon be over... What an ass she is being." "I should say she was managing it unusually well, if you ask me." * * * * * The other married couple said to each other, "D'you think Marjorie and Allan know about Brenda?" "I'm sure they don't." * * * * * Brenda said to Allan, "Tony's as happy as a sandboy, isn't he?" "Full of beans." "I was getting worried about him... You don't think he's got any idea about my goings on?" "Lord no. It's the last thing that would come into his head." Brenda said, "I don't want him to be unhappy, you know... Marjorie's been frightfully governessy about the whole thing." "Has she? I haven't discussed it with her." "How did _you_ hear?" "My dear girl, until this minute I didn't know you had any goings on. And I'm not asking any questions about them now." "Oh... I thought everyone knew." "That's always the trouble with people when they start walking out. They either think no one knows, or everybody. The truth is that a few people like Polly and Sybil make a point of finding out about everyone's private life; the rest of us just aren't interested." "Oh." * * * * * Later he said to Marjorie, "Brenda tried to be confidential about Beaver this evening." "I didn't know you knew." "Oh, I knew all right. But I wasn't going to let her feel important by talking about it." "I couldn't disapprove more of the whole thing. Do you know Beaver?" "I've seen him about. Anyway, it's her business and Tony's, not ours." [V] Jock's blonde was called Mrs Rattery. Tony had conceived an idea of her from what he overheard of Polly's gossip and from various fragments of information let fall by Jock. She was a little over thirty. Somewhere in the Cottesmore country there lived a long-legged, slightly discredited Major Rattery, to whom she had once been married. She was an American by origin, now totally denationalized, rich, without property or possessions, except those that would pack in five vast trunks. Jock had had his eye on her last summer at Biarritz and had fallen in with her again in London where she played big bridge, very ably, for six or seven hours a day and changed her hotel, on an average, once every three weeks. Periodically she was liable to bouts of morphine; then she gave up her bridge and remained for several days at a time alone in her hotel suite, refreshed at intervals with glasses of cold milk. She arrived by air on Monday afternoon. It was the first time that a guest had come in this fashion and the household was appreciably excited. Under Jock's direction the boiler man and one of the gardeners pegged out a dust sheet in the park to mark a landing for her and lit a bonfire of damp leaves to show the direction of the wind. The five trunks arrived in the ordinary way by train, with an elderly, irreproachable maid. She brought her own sheets with her in one of the trunks; they were neither silk nor coloured, without lace or ornament of any kind, except small, plain monograms. Tony, Jock and John went out to watch her land. She climbed out of the cockpit, stretched, unbuttoned the flaps of her leather helmet, and came to meet them. "Forty-two minutes," she said, "not at all bad with the wind against me." She was tall and erect, almost austere in helmet and overalls; not at all as Tony had imagined her. Vaguely, at the back of his mind he had secreted the slightly absurd expectation of a chorus girl, in silk shorts and brassi?re, popping out of an immense beribboned Easter egg with a cry of "Whoopee, boys." Mrs Rattery's greetings were deft and impersonal. "Are you going to hunt on Wednesday?" asked John. "They're meeting here, you know." "I might go out for half the day, if I can find a horse. It'll be the first time this year." "It's my first time too." "We shall both be terribly stiff." She spoke to him exactly as though he were a man of her own age. "You'll have to show me the country." "I expect they'll draw Bruton Wood first. There's a big fox there, daddy and I saw him." * * * * * When they were alone together, Jock said, "It's delightful your coming down. What d'you think of Tony?" "Is he married to that rather lovely woman we saw at the Caf? de Paris?" "Yes." "The one you said was in love with that young man?" "Yes." "Funny of her... What's this one's name again?" "Tony Last. It's a pretty ghastly house, isn't it?"<|quote|>"Is it? I never notice houses much."</|quote|>She was an easy guest to entertain. After dinner on Monday she produced four packs of cards and laid out for herself on the smoking-room table a very elaborate patience, which kept her engrossed all the evening. "Don't wait up for me," she said. "I shall stay here until it comes out. It often takes several hours." They showed her where to put the lights out and left her to it. Next day Jock said, "Have you got any pigs at the farm?" "Yes." "Would you mind if I went to see them?" "Not in the least--but why?" "And is there a man who looks after them, who will be able to explain about them?" "Yes." "Well, I think I'll spend the morning with him. I've got to make a speech about pigs, fairly soon." They did not see Mrs Rattery until luncheon. Tony assumed she was asleep until she appeared in overalls from the morning-room. "I was down early," she explained, "and found the men at work stripping the ceiling. I couldn't resist joining in. I hope you don't mind." In the afternoon they went to a neighbouring livery stables to look for hirelings. After tea Tony wrote to Brenda; he had taken to writing letters in the past few weeks. How enjoyable the week-end was [he wrote]. Thank you a thousand times for all your sweetness. I wish you were coming down next week-end, or that you had been able to stay on a little, but I quite understand. The Shameless Blonde is not the least what we expected--very serene and distant. Not at all like Jock's usual taste. I am sure she hasn't any idea where she is or what my name is. The work in the morning-room is going on well. The foreman told me to-day he thought he would begin on the chromium plating by the end of the week. You know what I think about that. John can talk of nothing except his hunting to-morrow. I hope he doesn't break his neck. Jock and his S.B. are going out too. Hetton lay near the boundary of three packs; the Pigstanton, who hunted it, had, in the division of territory, come off with the worst country and they cherished a permanent resentment about some woods near Bayton. They were a somewhat ill-tempered lot, contemptuous of each other's performance, hostile to strangers, torn by internal rancour, united only in their dislike of the Master. In the case of Colonel Inch this unpopularity, traditional to the hunt, was quite undeserved; he was a timid, inconspicuous man who provided the neighbourhood with sport of a kind at great personal expense. He himself was seldom in sight of hounds and could often be found in another part of the country morosely nibbling ginger-nut biscuits in a lane or towards the end of the day cantering heavily across country, quite lost, a lonely scarlet figure against the ploughed land, staring about him in the deepening twilight and shouting at yokels for information. The only pleasure he gained from his position, but that a substantial one, was in referring to it casually at Board Meetings of the various companies he directed. The Pigstanton met twice a week. There was seldom a large field on Wednesday, but the Hetton meet was popular; it lay in their best country and the prospect of stirrup-cups had drawn many leathery old ladies from the neighbouring packs. There were also followers on foot and in every kind of vehicle, some hanging back diffidently, others, more or less known to Tony, crowding round the refreshment table. Mr Tendril had a niece staying with him, who appeared on a motor bicycle. John stood beside Thunderclap, solemn with excitement. Ben had secured a powerful, square-headed mare from a neighbouring farmer; he hoped to have a hunt after John had been taken home; at John's earnest entreaty nanny was confined indoors, among the housemaids whose heads obtruded at the upper windows; it was not her day. She had been out of temper while dressing him. "If I'm in at the death I expect Colonel Inch will blood me." "You won't see any death," said nanny. Now she stood with her eyes at an arrow slit gazing rather resentfully at the animated scene below. "It's all a lot of nonsense of Ben Hacket's," she thought. She deplored it all, hounds, Master, field, huntsman and whippers-in, Mr Tendril's niece in her mackintosh, Jock in a rat-catcher, Mrs Rattery in tall hat and cutaway coat, oblivious of the suspicious glances of the subscribers, Tony smiling and chatting to his guests, the crazy old man with the terriers, the Press photographer, pretty Miss Ripon in difficulties with a young horse, titupping sideways over the lawn, the grooms and second horses, the humble, unknown followers | helmet, and came to meet them. "Forty-two minutes," she said, "not at all bad with the wind against me." She was tall and erect, almost austere in helmet and overalls; not at all as Tony had imagined her. Vaguely, at the back of his mind he had secreted the slightly absurd expectation of a chorus girl, in silk shorts and brassi?re, popping out of an immense beribboned Easter egg with a cry of "Whoopee, boys." Mrs Rattery's greetings were deft and impersonal. "Are you going to hunt on Wednesday?" asked John. "They're meeting here, you know." "I might go out for half the day, if I can find a horse. It'll be the first time this year." "It's my first time too." "We shall both be terribly stiff." She spoke to him exactly as though he were a man of her own age. "You'll have to show me the country." "I expect they'll draw Bruton Wood first. There's a big fox there, daddy and I saw him." * * * * * When they were alone together, Jock said, "It's delightful your coming down. What d'you think of Tony?" "Is he married to that rather lovely woman we saw at the Caf? de Paris?" "Yes." "The one you said was in love with that young man?" "Yes." "Funny of her... What's this one's name again?" "Tony Last. It's a pretty ghastly house, isn't it?"<|quote|>"Is it? I never notice houses much."</|quote|>She was an easy guest to entertain. After dinner on Monday she produced four packs of cards and laid out for herself on the smoking-room table a very elaborate patience, which kept her engrossed all the evening. "Don't wait up for me," she said. "I shall stay here until it comes out. It often takes several hours." They showed her where to put the lights out and left her to it. Next day Jock said, "Have you got any pigs at the farm?" "Yes." "Would you mind if I went to see them?" "Not in the least--but why?" "And is there a man who looks after them, who will be able to explain about them?" "Yes." "Well, I think I'll spend the morning with him. I've got to make a speech about pigs, fairly soon." They did not see Mrs Rattery until luncheon. Tony assumed she was asleep until she appeared in overalls from the morning-room. "I was down early," she explained, "and found the men at work stripping the ceiling. I couldn't resist joining in. I hope you don't mind." In the afternoon they went to a neighbouring livery stables to look for hirelings. After tea Tony wrote to Brenda; he had taken to writing letters in the past few weeks. How enjoyable the week-end was [he wrote]. Thank you a thousand times for all your sweetness. I wish you were coming down next week-end, or that you had been able to stay on a little, but I quite understand. The Shameless Blonde is not the least what we expected--very serene and distant. Not at all like Jock's usual taste. I am sure she hasn't any idea where she is or what my name is. The work in the morning-room is going on well. The foreman told me to-day he thought he would begin | A Handful Of Dust |
"I ha' paid her to keep awa' fra' me. These five year I ha' paid her. I ha' gotten decent fewtrils about me agen. I ha' lived hard and sad, but not ashamed and fearfo' a' the minnits o' my life. Last night, I went home. There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!" | Stephen Blackpool | humble eye in My direction."<|quote|>"I ha' paid her to keep awa' fra' me. These five year I ha' paid her. I ha' gotten decent fewtrils about me agen. I ha' lived hard and sad, but not ashamed and fearfo' a' the minnits o' my life. Last night, I went home. There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!"</|quote|>In the strength of his | small. Please to turn your humble eye in My direction."<|quote|>"I ha' paid her to keep awa' fra' me. These five year I ha' paid her. I ha' gotten decent fewtrils about me agen. I ha' lived hard and sad, but not ashamed and fearfo' a' the minnits o' my life. Last night, I went home. There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!"</|quote|>In the strength of his misfortune, and the energy of | bore that much, that I were owd when I were young." Mrs. Sparsit, easily ambling along with her netting-needles, raised the Coriolanian eyebrows and shook her head, as much as to say, "The great know trouble as well as the small. Please to turn your humble eye in My direction."<|quote|>"I ha' paid her to keep awa' fra' me. These five year I ha' paid her. I ha' gotten decent fewtrils about me agen. I ha' lived hard and sad, but not ashamed and fearfo' a' the minnits o' my life. Last night, I went home. There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!"</|quote|>In the strength of his misfortune, and the energy of his distress, he fired for the moment like a proud man. In another moment, he stood as he had stood all the time his usual stoop upon him; his pondering face addressed to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expression on | everyways, bitter and bad. She coom back, she coom back, she coom back. What could I do t' hinder her? I ha' walked the streets nights long, ere ever I'd go home. I ha' gone t' th' brigg, minded to fling myseln ower, and ha' no more on't. I ha' bore that much, that I were owd when I were young." Mrs. Sparsit, easily ambling along with her netting-needles, raised the Coriolanian eyebrows and shook her head, as much as to say, "The great know trouble as well as the small. Please to turn your humble eye in My direction."<|quote|>"I ha' paid her to keep awa' fra' me. These five year I ha' paid her. I ha' gotten decent fewtrils about me agen. I ha' lived hard and sad, but not ashamed and fearfo' a' the minnits o' my life. Last night, I went home. There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!"</|quote|>In the strength of his misfortune, and the energy of his distress, he fired for the moment like a proud man. In another moment, he stood as he had stood all the time his usual stoop upon him; his pondering face addressed to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expression on it, half shrewd, half perplexed, as if his mind were set upon unravelling something very difficult; his hat held tight in his left hand, which rested on his hip; his right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action, very earnestly emphasizing what he said: not least so when | very patient wi' her. I tried to wean her fra 't ower and ower agen. I tried this, I tried that, I tried t'other. I ha' gone home, many's the time, and found all vanished as I had in the world, and her without a sense left to bless herseln lying on bare ground. I ha' dun 't not once, not twice twenty time!" Every line in his face deepened as he said it, and put in its affecting evidence of the suffering he had undergone. "From bad to worse, from worse to worsen. She left me. She disgraced herseln everyways, bitter and bad. She coom back, she coom back, she coom back. What could I do t' hinder her? I ha' walked the streets nights long, ere ever I'd go home. I ha' gone t' th' brigg, minded to fling myseln ower, and ha' no more on't. I ha' bore that much, that I were owd when I were young." Mrs. Sparsit, easily ambling along with her netting-needles, raised the Coriolanian eyebrows and shook her head, as much as to say, "The great know trouble as well as the small. Please to turn your humble eye in My direction."<|quote|>"I ha' paid her to keep awa' fra' me. These five year I ha' paid her. I ha' gotten decent fewtrils about me agen. I ha' lived hard and sad, but not ashamed and fearfo' a' the minnits o' my life. Last night, I went home. There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!"</|quote|>In the strength of his misfortune, and the energy of his distress, he fired for the moment like a proud man. In another moment, he stood as he had stood all the time his usual stoop upon him; his pondering face addressed to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expression on it, half shrewd, half perplexed, as if his mind were set upon unravelling something very difficult; his hat held tight in his left hand, which rested on his hip; his right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action, very earnestly emphasizing what he said: not least so when it always paused, a little bent, but not withdrawn, as he paused. "I was acquainted with all this, you know," said Mr. Bounderby, "except the last clause, long ago. It's a bad job; that's what it is. You had better have been satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it's too late to say that." "Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit. "You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?" said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty | if you have got anything to say that can't be said before a born lady, this lady will leave the room. If what you have got to say _can_ be said before a born lady, this lady will stay where she is." "Sir, I hope I never had nowt to say, not fitten for a born lady to year, sin' I were born mysen'," was the reply, accompanied with a slight flush. "Very well," said Mr. Bounderby, pushing away his plate, and leaning back. "Fire away!" "I ha' coom," Stephen began, raising his eyes from the floor, after a moment's consideration, "to ask yo yor advice. I need 't overmuch. I were married on Eas'r Monday nineteen year sin, long and dree. She were a young lass pretty enow wi' good accounts of herseln. Well! She went bad soon. Not along of me. Gonnows I were not a unkind husband to her." "I have heard all this before," said Mr. Bounderby. "She took to drinking, left off working, sold the furniture, pawned the clothes, and played old Gooseberry." "I were patient wi' her." (" "The more fool you, I think," said Mr. Bounderby, in confidence to his wine-glass.) "I were very patient wi' her. I tried to wean her fra 't ower and ower agen. I tried this, I tried that, I tried t'other. I ha' gone home, many's the time, and found all vanished as I had in the world, and her without a sense left to bless herseln lying on bare ground. I ha' dun 't not once, not twice twenty time!" Every line in his face deepened as he said it, and put in its affecting evidence of the suffering he had undergone. "From bad to worse, from worse to worsen. She left me. She disgraced herseln everyways, bitter and bad. She coom back, she coom back, she coom back. What could I do t' hinder her? I ha' walked the streets nights long, ere ever I'd go home. I ha' gone t' th' brigg, minded to fling myseln ower, and ha' no more on't. I ha' bore that much, that I were owd when I were young." Mrs. Sparsit, easily ambling along with her netting-needles, raised the Coriolanian eyebrows and shook her head, as much as to say, "The great know trouble as well as the small. Please to turn your humble eye in My direction."<|quote|>"I ha' paid her to keep awa' fra' me. These five year I ha' paid her. I ha' gotten decent fewtrils about me agen. I ha' lived hard and sad, but not ashamed and fearfo' a' the minnits o' my life. Last night, I went home. There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!"</|quote|>In the strength of his misfortune, and the energy of his distress, he fired for the moment like a proud man. In another moment, he stood as he had stood all the time his usual stoop upon him; his pondering face addressed to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expression on it, half shrewd, half perplexed, as if his mind were set upon unravelling something very difficult; his hat held tight in his left hand, which rested on his hip; his right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action, very earnestly emphasizing what he said: not least so when it always paused, a little bent, but not withdrawn, as he paused. "I was acquainted with all this, you know," said Mr. Bounderby, "except the last clause, long ago. It's a bad job; that's what it is. You had better have been satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it's too late to say that." "Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit. "You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?" said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln; she were twenty nighbut." "Indeed, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. "I inferred, from its being so miserable a marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in point of years." Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good lady in a side-long way that had an odd sheepishness about it. He fortified himself with a little more sherry. "Well? Why don't you go on?" he then asked, turning rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool. "I ha' coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be ridded o' this woman." Stephen infused a yet deeper gravity into the mixed expression of his attentive face. Mrs. Sparsit uttered a gentle ejaculation, as having received a moral shock. "What do you mean?" said Bounderby, getting up to lean his back against the chimney-piece. "What are you talking about? You took her for better for worse." "I mun' be ridden o' her. I cannot bear 't nommore. I ha' lived under 't so long, for that I ha' had'n the pity and comforting words o' th' best lass living or dead. Haply, but for her, I should ha' gone battering mad." "He wishes to be free, to marry | in the parlour. Mr. Bounderby (whom he just knew by sight), at lunch on chop and sherry. Mrs. Sparsit netting at the fireside, in a side-saddle attitude, with one foot in a cotton stirrup. It was a part, at once of Mrs. Sparsit's dignity and service, not to lunch. She supervised the meal officially, but implied that in her own stately person she considered lunch a weakness. "Now, Stephen," said Mr. Bounderby, "what's the matter with _you_?" Stephen made a bow. Not a servile one these Hands will never do that! Lord bless you, sir, you'll never catch them at that, if they have been with you twenty years! and, as a complimentary toilet for Mrs. Sparsit, tucked his neckerchief ends into his waistcoat. "Now, you know," said Mr. Bounderby, taking some sherry, "we have never had any difficulty with you, and you have never been one of the unreasonable ones. You don't expect to be set up in a coach and six, and to be fed on turtle soup and venison, with a gold spoon, as a good many of 'em do!" Mr. Bounderby always represented this to be the sole, immediate, and direct object of any Hand who was not entirely satisfied; "and therefore I know already that you have not come here to make a complaint. Now, you know, I am certain of that, beforehand." "No, sir, sure I ha' not coom for nowt o' th' kind." Mr. Bounderby seemed agreeably surprised, notwithstanding his previous strong conviction. "Very well," he returned. "You're a steady Hand, and I was not mistaken. Now, let me hear what it's all about. As it's not that, let me hear what it is. What have you got to say? Out with it, lad!" Stephen happened to glance towards Mrs. Sparsit. "I can go, Mr. Bounderby, if you wish it," said that self-sacrificing lady, making a feint of taking her foot out of the stirrup. Mr. Bounderby stayed her, by holding a mouthful of chop in suspension before swallowing it, and putting out his left hand. Then, withdrawing his hand and swallowing his mouthful of chop, he said to Stephen: "Now you know, this good lady is a born lady, a high lady. You are not to suppose because she keeps my house for me, that she hasn't been very high up the tree ah, up at the top of the tree! Now, if you have got anything to say that can't be said before a born lady, this lady will leave the room. If what you have got to say _can_ be said before a born lady, this lady will stay where she is." "Sir, I hope I never had nowt to say, not fitten for a born lady to year, sin' I were born mysen'," was the reply, accompanied with a slight flush. "Very well," said Mr. Bounderby, pushing away his plate, and leaning back. "Fire away!" "I ha' coom," Stephen began, raising his eyes from the floor, after a moment's consideration, "to ask yo yor advice. I need 't overmuch. I were married on Eas'r Monday nineteen year sin, long and dree. She were a young lass pretty enow wi' good accounts of herseln. Well! She went bad soon. Not along of me. Gonnows I were not a unkind husband to her." "I have heard all this before," said Mr. Bounderby. "She took to drinking, left off working, sold the furniture, pawned the clothes, and played old Gooseberry." "I were patient wi' her." (" "The more fool you, I think," said Mr. Bounderby, in confidence to his wine-glass.) "I were very patient wi' her. I tried to wean her fra 't ower and ower agen. I tried this, I tried that, I tried t'other. I ha' gone home, many's the time, and found all vanished as I had in the world, and her without a sense left to bless herseln lying on bare ground. I ha' dun 't not once, not twice twenty time!" Every line in his face deepened as he said it, and put in its affecting evidence of the suffering he had undergone. "From bad to worse, from worse to worsen. She left me. She disgraced herseln everyways, bitter and bad. She coom back, she coom back, she coom back. What could I do t' hinder her? I ha' walked the streets nights long, ere ever I'd go home. I ha' gone t' th' brigg, minded to fling myseln ower, and ha' no more on't. I ha' bore that much, that I were owd when I were young." Mrs. Sparsit, easily ambling along with her netting-needles, raised the Coriolanian eyebrows and shook her head, as much as to say, "The great know trouble as well as the small. Please to turn your humble eye in My direction."<|quote|>"I ha' paid her to keep awa' fra' me. These five year I ha' paid her. I ha' gotten decent fewtrils about me agen. I ha' lived hard and sad, but not ashamed and fearfo' a' the minnits o' my life. Last night, I went home. There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!"</|quote|>In the strength of his misfortune, and the energy of his distress, he fired for the moment like a proud man. In another moment, he stood as he had stood all the time his usual stoop upon him; his pondering face addressed to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expression on it, half shrewd, half perplexed, as if his mind were set upon unravelling something very difficult; his hat held tight in his left hand, which rested on his hip; his right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action, very earnestly emphasizing what he said: not least so when it always paused, a little bent, but not withdrawn, as he paused. "I was acquainted with all this, you know," said Mr. Bounderby, "except the last clause, long ago. It's a bad job; that's what it is. You had better have been satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it's too late to say that." "Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit. "You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?" said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln; she were twenty nighbut." "Indeed, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. "I inferred, from its being so miserable a marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in point of years." Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good lady in a side-long way that had an odd sheepishness about it. He fortified himself with a little more sherry. "Well? Why don't you go on?" he then asked, turning rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool. "I ha' coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be ridded o' this woman." Stephen infused a yet deeper gravity into the mixed expression of his attentive face. Mrs. Sparsit uttered a gentle ejaculation, as having received a moral shock. "What do you mean?" said Bounderby, getting up to lean his back against the chimney-piece. "What are you talking about? You took her for better for worse." "I mun' be ridden o' her. I cannot bear 't nommore. I ha' lived under 't so long, for that I ha' had'n the pity and comforting words o' th' best lass living or dead. Haply, but for her, I should ha' gone battering mad." "He wishes to be free, to marry the female of whom he speaks, I fear, sir," observed Mrs. Sparsit in an undertone, and much dejected by the immorality of the people. "I do. The lady says what's right. I do. I were a coming to 't. I ha' read i' th' papers that great folk (fair faw 'em a'! I wishes 'em no hurt!) are not bonded together for better for worst so fast, but that they can be set free fro' _their_ misfortnet marriages, an' marry ower agen. When they dunnot agree, for that their tempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o' one kind an' another in their houses, above a bit, and they can live asunders. We fok ha' only one room, and we can't. When that won't do, they ha' gowd an' other cash, an' they can say" "This for yo' an' that for me," "an' they can go their separate ways. We can't. Spite o' all that, they can be set free for smaller wrongs than mine. So, I mun be ridden o' this woman, and I want t' know how?" "No how," returned Mr. Bounderby. "If I do her any hurt, sir, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I flee from her, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I marry t'oother dear lass, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I was to live wi' her an' not marry her saying such a thing could be, which it never could or would, an' her so good there's a law to punish me, in every innocent child belonging to me?" "Of course there is." "Now, a' God's name," said Stephen Blackpool, "show me the law to help me!" "Hem! There's a sanctity in this relation of life," said Mr. Bounderby, "and and it must be kept up." "No no, dunnot say that, sir. 'Tan't kep' up that way. Not that way. 'Tis kep' down that way. I'm a weaver, I were in a fact'ry when a chilt, but I ha' gotten een to see wi' and eern to year wi'. I read in th' papers every 'Sizes, every Sessions and you read too I know it! with dismay how th' supposed unpossibility o' ever getting unchained from one another, at any price, on any terms, brings blood upon this land, and brings many common married fok to battle, murder, | "I ha' coom," Stephen began, raising his eyes from the floor, after a moment's consideration, "to ask yo yor advice. I need 't overmuch. I were married on Eas'r Monday nineteen year sin, long and dree. She were a young lass pretty enow wi' good accounts of herseln. Well! She went bad soon. Not along of me. Gonnows I were not a unkind husband to her." "I have heard all this before," said Mr. Bounderby. "She took to drinking, left off working, sold the furniture, pawned the clothes, and played old Gooseberry." "I were patient wi' her." (" "The more fool you, I think," said Mr. Bounderby, in confidence to his wine-glass.) "I were very patient wi' her. I tried to wean her fra 't ower and ower agen. I tried this, I tried that, I tried t'other. I ha' gone home, many's the time, and found all vanished as I had in the world, and her without a sense left to bless herseln lying on bare ground. I ha' dun 't not once, not twice twenty time!" Every line in his face deepened as he said it, and put in its affecting evidence of the suffering he had undergone. "From bad to worse, from worse to worsen. She left me. She disgraced herseln everyways, bitter and bad. She coom back, she coom back, she coom back. What could I do t' hinder her? I ha' walked the streets nights long, ere ever I'd go home. I ha' gone t' th' brigg, minded to fling myseln ower, and ha' no more on't. I ha' bore that much, that I were owd when I were young." Mrs. Sparsit, easily ambling along with her netting-needles, raised the Coriolanian eyebrows and shook her head, as much as to say, "The great know trouble as well as the small. Please to turn your humble eye in My direction."<|quote|>"I ha' paid her to keep awa' fra' me. These five year I ha' paid her. I ha' gotten decent fewtrils about me agen. I ha' lived hard and sad, but not ashamed and fearfo' a' the minnits o' my life. Last night, I went home. There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!"</|quote|>In the strength of his misfortune, and the energy of his distress, he fired for the moment like a proud man. In another moment, he stood as he had stood all the time his usual stoop upon him; his pondering face addressed to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expression on it, half shrewd, half perplexed, as if his mind were set upon unravelling something very difficult; his hat held tight in his left hand, which rested on his hip; his right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action, very earnestly emphasizing what he said: not least so when it always paused, a little bent, but not withdrawn, as he paused. "I was acquainted with all this, you know," said Mr. Bounderby, "except the last clause, long ago. It's a bad job; that's what it is. You had better have been satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it's too late to say that." "Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit. "You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?" said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln; she were twenty nighbut." "Indeed, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. | Hard Times |
Mike said. | No speaker | I asked. "Here she is,"<|quote|>Mike said.</|quote|>"Here's the beautiful lady with | "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is,"<|quote|>Mike said.</|quote|>"Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put | Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is,"<|quote|>Mike said.</|quote|>"Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. | the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed. "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" "You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is,"<|quote|>Mike said.</|quote|>"Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No." "Yes." "What a night!" Bill said. "He | with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said. "You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me." "Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed. "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" "You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is,"<|quote|>Mike said.</|quote|>"Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No." "Yes." "What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good." "I'll bet she was," Bill said. "Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with Brett, too." "I know. He shook hands with me." "Did he? Well, they weren't having any of it. | damn Cohn. He should have hit somebody the first time he was insulted, and then gone away. He was so sure that Brett loved him. He was going to stay, and true love would conquer all. Some one knocked on the door. "Come in." It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed. "Some encierro," Bill said. "Some encierro." "I say, weren't you there?" Mike asked. "Ring for some beer, Bill." "What a morning!" Bill said. He mopped off his face. "My God! what a morning! And here's old Jake. Old Jake, the human punching-bag." "What happened inside?" "Good God!" Bill said, "what happened, Mike?" "There were these bulls coming in," Mike said. "Just ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought the whole lot of them down." "And the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell." "That was Edna," Bill said. "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts." "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over." "They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said. "You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me." "Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed. "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" "You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is,"<|quote|>Mike said.</|quote|>"Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No." "Yes." "What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good." "I'll bet she was," Bill said. "Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with Brett, too." "I know. He shook hands with me." "Did he? Well, they weren't having any of it. The bull-fighter fellow was rather good. He didn't say much, but he kept getting up and getting knocked down again. Cohn couldn't knock him out. It must have been damned funny." "Where did you hear all this?" "Brett. I saw her this morning." "What happened finally?" "It seems the bull-fighter fellow was sitting on the bed. He'd been knocked down about fifteen times, and he wanted to fight some more. Brett held him and wouldn't let him get up. He was weak, but Brett couldn't hold him, and he got up. Then Cohn said he wouldn't hit him again. Said he couldn't do it. Said it would be wicked. So the bull-fighter chap sort of rather staggered over to him. Cohn went back against the wall." "'So you won't hit me?' "'No,' "said Cohn." 'I'd be ashamed to.' "So the bull-fighter fellow hit him just as hard as he could in the face, and then sat down on the floor. He couldn't get up, Brett said. Cohn wanted to pick him up and carry him to the bed. He said if Cohn helped him he'd kill him, and he'd kill him anyway this morning if Cohn wasn't out of town. | was married. The next day his wife came in from Tafalla to be with the body, and the day after there was a service in the chapel of San Fermin, and the coffin was carried to the railway-station by members of the dancing and drinking society of Tafalla. The drums marched ahead, and there was music on the fifes, and behind the men who carried the coffin walked the wife and two children. . . . Behind them marched all the members of the dancing and drinking societies of Pamplona, Estella, Tafalla, and Sanguesa who could stay over for the funeral. The coffin was loaded into the baggage-car of the train, and the widow and the two children rode, sitting, all three together, in an open third-class railway-carriage. The train started with a jerk, and then ran smoothly, going down grade around the edge of the plateau and out into the fields of grain that blew in the wind on the plain on the way to Tafalla. The bull who killed Vicente Girones was named Bocanegra, was Number 118 of the bull-breeding establishment of Sanchez Tabemo, and was killed by Pedro Romero as the third bull of that same afternoon. His ear was cut by popular acclamation and given to Pedro Romero, who, in turn, gave it to Brett, who wrapped it in a handkerchief belonging to myself, and left both ear and handkerchief, along with a number of Muratti cigarette-stubs, shoved far back in the drawer of the bed-table that stood beside her bed in the Hotel Montoya, in Pamplona. * * * * * Back in the hotel, the night watchman was sitting on a bench inside the door. He had been there all night and was very sleepy. He stood up as I came in. Three of the waitresses came in at the same time. They had been to the morning show at the bull-ring. They went up-stairs laughing. I followed them up-stairs and went into my room. I took off my shoes and lay down on the bed. The window was open onto the balcony and the sunlight was bright in the room. I did not feel sleepy. It must have been half past three o'clock when I had gone to bed and the bands had waked me at six. My jaw was sore on both sides. I felt it with my thumb and fingers. That damn Cohn. He should have hit somebody the first time he was insulted, and then gone away. He was so sure that Brett loved him. He was going to stay, and true love would conquer all. Some one knocked on the door. "Come in." It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed. "Some encierro," Bill said. "Some encierro." "I say, weren't you there?" Mike asked. "Ring for some beer, Bill." "What a morning!" Bill said. He mopped off his face. "My God! what a morning! And here's old Jake. Old Jake, the human punching-bag." "What happened inside?" "Good God!" Bill said, "what happened, Mike?" "There were these bulls coming in," Mike said. "Just ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought the whole lot of them down." "And the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell." "That was Edna," Bill said. "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts." "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over." "They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said. "You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me." "Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed. "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" "You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is,"<|quote|>Mike said.</|quote|>"Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No." "Yes." "What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good." "I'll bet she was," Bill said. "Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with Brett, too." "I know. He shook hands with me." "Did he? Well, they weren't having any of it. The bull-fighter fellow was rather good. He didn't say much, but he kept getting up and getting knocked down again. Cohn couldn't knock him out. It must have been damned funny." "Where did you hear all this?" "Brett. I saw her this morning." "What happened finally?" "It seems the bull-fighter fellow was sitting on the bed. He'd been knocked down about fifteen times, and he wanted to fight some more. Brett held him and wouldn't let him get up. He was weak, but Brett couldn't hold him, and he got up. Then Cohn said he wouldn't hit him again. Said he couldn't do it. Said it would be wicked. So the bull-fighter chap sort of rather staggered over to him. Cohn went back against the wall." "'So you won't hit me?' "'No,' "said Cohn." 'I'd be ashamed to.' "So the bull-fighter fellow hit him just as hard as he could in the face, and then sat down on the floor. He couldn't get up, Brett said. Cohn wanted to pick him up and carry him to the bed. He said if Cohn helped him he'd kill him, and he'd kill him anyway this morning if Cohn wasn't out of town. Cohn was crying, and Brett had told him off, and he wanted to shake hands. I've told you that before." "Tell the rest," Bill said. "It seems the bull-fighter chap was sitting on the floor. He was waiting to get strength enough to get up and hit Cohn again. Brett wasn't having any shaking hands, and Cohn was crying and telling her how much he loved her, and she was telling him not to be a ruddy ass. Then Cohn leaned down to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. No hard feelings, you know. All for forgiveness. And the bull-fighter chap hit him in the face again." "That's quite a kid," Bill said. "He ruined Cohn," Mike said. "You know I don't think Cohn will ever want to knock people about again." "When did you see Brett?" "This morning. She came in to get some things. She's looking after this Romero lad." He poured out another bottle of beer. "Brett's rather cut up. But she loves looking after people. That's how we came to go off together. She was looking after me." "I know," I said. "I'm rather drunk," Mike said. "I think I'll _stay_ rather drunk. This is all awfully amusing, but it's not too pleasant. It's not too pleasant for me." He drank off the beer. "I gave Brett what for, you know. I said if she would go about with Jews and bull-fighters and such people, she must expect trouble." He leaned forward. "I say, Jake, do you mind if I drink that bottle of yours? She'll bring you another one." "Please," I said. "I wasn't drinking it, anyway." Mike started to open the bottle. "Would you mind opening it?" I pressed up the wire fastener and poured it for him. "You know," Mike went on, "Brett was rather good. She's always rather good. I gave her a fearful hiding about Jews and bull-fighters, and all those sort of people, and do you know what she said: 'Yes. I've had such a hell of a happy life with the British aristocracy!" '" He took a drink. "That was rather good. Ashley, chap she got the title from, was a sailor, you know. Ninth baronet. When he came home he wouldn't sleep in a bed. Always made Brett sleep on the floor. Finally, when he got really bad, he used to tell her he'd kill her. Always slept | gone to bed and the bands had waked me at six. My jaw was sore on both sides. I felt it with my thumb and fingers. That damn Cohn. He should have hit somebody the first time he was insulted, and then gone away. He was so sure that Brett loved him. He was going to stay, and true love would conquer all. Some one knocked on the door. "Come in." It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed. "Some encierro," Bill said. "Some encierro." "I say, weren't you there?" Mike asked. "Ring for some beer, Bill." "What a morning!" Bill said. He mopped off his face. "My God! what a morning! And here's old Jake. Old Jake, the human punching-bag." "What happened inside?" "Good God!" Bill said, "what happened, Mike?" "There were these bulls coming in," Mike said. "Just ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought the whole lot of them down." "And the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell." "That was Edna," Bill said. "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts." "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over." "They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said. "You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me." "Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed. "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" "You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is,"<|quote|>Mike said.</|quote|>"Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No." "Yes." "What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good." "I'll bet she was," Bill said. "Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with Brett, too." "I know. He shook hands with me." "Did he? Well, they weren't having any of it. The bull-fighter fellow was rather good. He didn't say much, but he kept getting up and getting knocked down again. Cohn couldn't knock him out. It must have been damned funny." "Where did you hear all this?" "Brett. I saw her this morning." "What happened finally?" "It seems the bull-fighter fellow was sitting on the bed. He'd been knocked down about fifteen times, and he wanted to fight some more. Brett held him and wouldn't let him get up. He was weak, but Brett couldn't hold him, and he got up. Then Cohn said he wouldn't hit him again. Said he couldn't do it. Said it would be wicked. So the bull-fighter chap sort of rather staggered over to him. Cohn went back against the wall." "'So you won't hit me?' "'No,' "said Cohn." 'I'd be ashamed to.' "So the bull-fighter fellow hit him just as hard as he could in the face, and then sat down on the floor. He couldn't get up, Brett said. Cohn wanted to pick him up and carry him to the bed. He said if Cohn helped him he'd kill him, and he'd kill him anyway this morning if Cohn wasn't out of town. Cohn was crying, and Brett had told him off, and he wanted to shake hands. I've told you that before." "Tell the rest," Bill said. "It seems the bull-fighter chap was sitting on the floor. He was waiting to get strength enough to get up and hit Cohn again. Brett wasn't having any shaking hands, and Cohn was crying and telling her how much he loved her, and she was telling him not to be a ruddy ass. Then Cohn leaned down to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. No hard feelings, you know. All for forgiveness. And the bull-fighter chap hit him in the face again." "That's quite | The Sun Also Rises |
I ask him. | No speaker | "Where has it got you?"<|quote|>I ask him.</|quote|>"In the knee, I think." | in and drown," groans Albert. "Where has it got you?"<|quote|>I ask him.</|quote|>"In the knee, I think." "Can you run?" "I think----" | the cover is good. So we wade in up to our necks. Whenever a shell whistles we duck our heads under the water. After we have done this a dozen times, I am exhausted. "Let's get away, or I'll fall in and drown," groans Albert. "Where has it got you?"<|quote|>I ask him.</|quote|>"In the knee, I think." "Can you run?" "I think----" "Then out!" We make for the ditch beside the road, and stooping, run along it. The shelling follows us. The road leads toward the munition dump. If that goes up there won't be a man of us with his head | we are. Kropp seizes a branch, I heave him up by the leg, he cries out, I give him a swing and he flies over. With one leap I follow him and fall into a ditch that lies behind the hedge. Our faces are smothered with duck-weed and mud, but the cover is good. So we wade in up to our necks. Whenever a shell whistles we duck our heads under the water. After we have done this a dozen times, I am exhausted. "Let's get away, or I'll fall in and drown," groans Albert. "Where has it got you?"<|quote|>I ask him.</|quote|>"In the knee, I think." "Can you run?" "I think----" "Then out!" We make for the ditch beside the road, and stooping, run along it. The shelling follows us. The road leads toward the munition dump. If that goes up there won't be a man of us with his head left on his shoulders. So we change our plan and run diagonally across country. Albert begins to drag. "You go, I'll come on after," he says, and throws himself down. I seize him by the arm and shake him. "Up, Albert, if once you lie down you'll never get any | and fling ourselves down on the ground, but at that moment I feel the instinctive alertness leave me which hitherto has always made me do unconsciously the right thing under fire; the thought leaps up with a terrible, throttling fear: "You are lost" --and the next moment a blow sweeps like a whip over my left leg. I hear Albert cry out; he is beside me. "Quick, up, Albert!" I yell, for we are lying unsheltered in the open field. He staggers up and runs. I keep beside him. We have to get over a hedge; it is higher than we are. Kropp seizes a branch, I heave him up by the leg, he cries out, I give him a swing and he flies over. With one leap I follow him and fall into a ditch that lies behind the hedge. Our faces are smothered with duck-weed and mud, but the cover is good. So we wade in up to our necks. Whenever a shell whistles we duck our heads under the water. After we have done this a dozen times, I am exhausted. "Let's get away, or I'll fall in and drown," groans Albert. "Where has it got you?"<|quote|>I ask him.</|quote|>"In the knee, I think." "Can you run?" "I think----" "Then out!" We make for the ditch beside the road, and stooping, run along it. The shelling follows us. The road leads toward the munition dump. If that goes up there won't be a man of us with his head left on his shoulders. So we change our plan and run diagonally across country. Albert begins to drag. "You go, I'll come on after," he says, and throws himself down. I seize him by the arm and shake him. "Up, Albert, if once you lie down you'll never get any farther. Quick, I'll hold you up." At last we reach a small dug-out. Kropp pitches in and I bandage him up. The shot is just a little above his knee. Then I take a look at myself. My trousers are bloody and my arm, too. Albert binds up my wounds with his field dressing. Already he is no longer able to move his leg, and we both wonder how we managed to get this far. Fear alone made it possible; we would have run even if our feet had been shot off;--we would have run on the stumps. I can | Each man has a long cigar in his mouth. And thus from aloft we survey the scene. Between us stands a parrot-cage that we found for the cat. She is coming with us, and lies in the cage before her saucer of meat, and purrs. Slowly the lorries roll down the road. We sing. Behind us the shells are sending up fountains from the now utterly abandoned town. * * A few days later we are sent out to evacuate a village. On the way we meet the fleeing inhabitants trundling their goods and chattels along with them in wheel-barrows, perambulators, and on their backs. Their figures are bent, their faces full of grief, despair, haste, and resignation. The children hold on to their mothers' hands, and often an older girl leads the little ones who stumble onward and are for ever looking back. A few carry miserable-looking dolls. All are silent as they pass us by. We are marching in column; the French do not fire on a town in which there are still inhabitants. But a few minutes later the air screams, the earth heaves, cries ring out; a shell has landed among the rear squad. We scatter and fling ourselves down on the ground, but at that moment I feel the instinctive alertness leave me which hitherto has always made me do unconsciously the right thing under fire; the thought leaps up with a terrible, throttling fear: "You are lost" --and the next moment a blow sweeps like a whip over my left leg. I hear Albert cry out; he is beside me. "Quick, up, Albert!" I yell, for we are lying unsheltered in the open field. He staggers up and runs. I keep beside him. We have to get over a hedge; it is higher than we are. Kropp seizes a branch, I heave him up by the leg, he cries out, I give him a swing and he flies over. With one leap I follow him and fall into a ditch that lies behind the hedge. Our faces are smothered with duck-weed and mud, but the cover is good. So we wade in up to our necks. Whenever a shell whistles we duck our heads under the water. After we have done this a dozen times, I am exhausted. "Let's get away, or I'll fall in and drown," groans Albert. "Where has it got you?"<|quote|>I ask him.</|quote|>"In the knee, I think." "Can you run?" "I think----" "Then out!" We make for the ditch beside the road, and stooping, run along it. The shelling follows us. The road leads toward the munition dump. If that goes up there won't be a man of us with his head left on his shoulders. So we change our plan and run diagonally across country. Albert begins to drag. "You go, I'll come on after," he says, and throws himself down. I seize him by the arm and shake him. "Up, Albert, if once you lie down you'll never get any farther. Quick, I'll hold you up." At last we reach a small dug-out. Kropp pitches in and I bandage him up. The shot is just a little above his knee. Then I take a look at myself. My trousers are bloody and my arm, too. Albert binds up my wounds with his field dressing. Already he is no longer able to move his leg, and we both wonder how we managed to get this far. Fear alone made it possible; we would have run even if our feet had been shot off;--we would have run on the stumps. I can still crawl a little. I call out to a passing ambulance wagon which picks us up. It is full of wounded. There is an army medical lance-corporal with it who sticks an anti-tetanus needle into our chests. At the dressing station we arrange matters so that we lie side by side. They give us a thin soup which we spoon down greedily and scornfully, because we are accustomed to better times but are hungry all the same. "Now for home, Albert," I say. "Let's hope so," he replies, "I only wish I knew what I've got." The pain increases. The bandages burn like fire. We drink and drink, one glass of water after another. "How far above the knee am I hit?" asks Kropp. "At least four inches, Albert," I answer. Actually it is perhaps one. "I've made up my mind," he says after a while, "if they take off my leg, I'll put an end to it. I won't go through life as a cripple." So we lie there with our thoughts and wait. * * In the evening we are hauled on to the chopping-block. I am frightened and think quickly what I ought to do; for everyone | good hiding for us. So we go differently about it. We explain that we are the guard and so know our way about, we get hold of the tinned stuff and exchange it for things we are short of. What does it matter anyhow--in a while it will all be blown to pieces. For ourselves we take some chocolate from the depot and eat it in slabs. Kat says it is good for loose bowels. Almost a fortnight passes thus in eating, drinking, and roaming about. No one disturbs us. The town gradually vanishes under the shells and we lead a charmed life. So long as any part of the supply dump still stands we don't worry, we desire nothing better than to stay here till the end of the war. Tjaden has become so fastidious that he only half smokes his cigars. With his nose in the air he explains to us that he was brought up that way. And Kat is most cheerful. In the morning his first call is: "Emil, bring in the caviare and coffee." We put on extraordinary airs, every man treats the other as his valet, bounces him and gives him orders. "There is something itching under my foot; Kropp, my man, catch that louse at once," says Leer, poking out his leg at him like a ballet girl, and Albert drags him up the stairs by the foot. "Tjaden!" -- "What?" -- "Stand at ease, Tjaden; and what's more, don't say 'What,' say 'Yes, Sir,'--now: Tjaden!" Tjaden retorts in the well-known phrase from Goethe's "Götz von Berlichingen," with which he is always very free. After eight more days we receive orders to go back. The palmy days are over. Two big motor lorries take us away. They are stacked high with planks. Nevertheless, Albert and I erect on top our four-poster bed complete with blue silk canopy, mattress, and two lace coverlets. And behind it at the head is stowed a bag full of choice edibles. We often dip into it, and the tough ham sausages, the tins of liver sausages, the conserves, the boxes of cigarettes rejoice our hearts. Each man has a bag to himself. Kropp and I have rescued two big red armchairs as well. They stand inside the bed, and we sprawl back in them as in a theatre box. Above us swells the silken cover like a baldaquin. Each man has a long cigar in his mouth. And thus from aloft we survey the scene. Between us stands a parrot-cage that we found for the cat. She is coming with us, and lies in the cage before her saucer of meat, and purrs. Slowly the lorries roll down the road. We sing. Behind us the shells are sending up fountains from the now utterly abandoned town. * * A few days later we are sent out to evacuate a village. On the way we meet the fleeing inhabitants trundling their goods and chattels along with them in wheel-barrows, perambulators, and on their backs. Their figures are bent, their faces full of grief, despair, haste, and resignation. The children hold on to their mothers' hands, and often an older girl leads the little ones who stumble onward and are for ever looking back. A few carry miserable-looking dolls. All are silent as they pass us by. We are marching in column; the French do not fire on a town in which there are still inhabitants. But a few minutes later the air screams, the earth heaves, cries ring out; a shell has landed among the rear squad. We scatter and fling ourselves down on the ground, but at that moment I feel the instinctive alertness leave me which hitherto has always made me do unconsciously the right thing under fire; the thought leaps up with a terrible, throttling fear: "You are lost" --and the next moment a blow sweeps like a whip over my left leg. I hear Albert cry out; he is beside me. "Quick, up, Albert!" I yell, for we are lying unsheltered in the open field. He staggers up and runs. I keep beside him. We have to get over a hedge; it is higher than we are. Kropp seizes a branch, I heave him up by the leg, he cries out, I give him a swing and he flies over. With one leap I follow him and fall into a ditch that lies behind the hedge. Our faces are smothered with duck-weed and mud, but the cover is good. So we wade in up to our necks. Whenever a shell whistles we duck our heads under the water. After we have done this a dozen times, I am exhausted. "Let's get away, or I'll fall in and drown," groans Albert. "Where has it got you?"<|quote|>I ask him.</|quote|>"In the knee, I think." "Can you run?" "I think----" "Then out!" We make for the ditch beside the road, and stooping, run along it. The shelling follows us. The road leads toward the munition dump. If that goes up there won't be a man of us with his head left on his shoulders. So we change our plan and run diagonally across country. Albert begins to drag. "You go, I'll come on after," he says, and throws himself down. I seize him by the arm and shake him. "Up, Albert, if once you lie down you'll never get any farther. Quick, I'll hold you up." At last we reach a small dug-out. Kropp pitches in and I bandage him up. The shot is just a little above his knee. Then I take a look at myself. My trousers are bloody and my arm, too. Albert binds up my wounds with his field dressing. Already he is no longer able to move his leg, and we both wonder how we managed to get this far. Fear alone made it possible; we would have run even if our feet had been shot off;--we would have run on the stumps. I can still crawl a little. I call out to a passing ambulance wagon which picks us up. It is full of wounded. There is an army medical lance-corporal with it who sticks an anti-tetanus needle into our chests. At the dressing station we arrange matters so that we lie side by side. They give us a thin soup which we spoon down greedily and scornfully, because we are accustomed to better times but are hungry all the same. "Now for home, Albert," I say. "Let's hope so," he replies, "I only wish I knew what I've got." The pain increases. The bandages burn like fire. We drink and drink, one glass of water after another. "How far above the knee am I hit?" asks Kropp. "At least four inches, Albert," I answer. Actually it is perhaps one. "I've made up my mind," he says after a while, "if they take off my leg, I'll put an end to it. I won't go through life as a cripple." So we lie there with our thoughts and wait. * * In the evening we are hauled on to the chopping-block. I am frightened and think quickly what I ought to do; for everyone knows that the surgeons in the dressing stations amputate on the slightest provocation. Under the great pressure of business that is much simpler than complicated patching. I think of Kemmerich. Whatever happens I will not let them chloroform me, even if I have to crack a couple of their skulls. It is all right. The surgeon pokes around in the wound and a blackness comes before my eyes. "Don't carry on so," he says gruffly, and hacks away. The instruments gleam in the bright light like malevolent animals. The pain is insufferable. Two orderlies hold my arms fast, but I break loose with one of them and try to crash into the surgeon's spectacles just as he notices and springs back. "Chloroform the scoundrel," he roars madly. Then I become quiet. "Pardon me, Herr Doctor, I will keep still, but do not chloroform me." "Well now," he cackles and takes up his instrument again. He is a fair fellow, not more than thirty years old, with scars and disgusting gold spectacles. Now I see that he is tormenting me, he is merely raking about in the wound and looking up surreptitiously at me over his glasses. My hands squeeze around the grips, I'll kick the bucket before he will get a squeak out of me. He has fished out a piece of shell and tosses it to me. Apparently he is pleased at my self-control, for he seems to be more considerate of me now and says: "To-morrow you'll be off home." Then I am put in plaster. When I am back again with Kropp I tell him that apparently a hospital train comes in to-morrow morning. "We must work the army medical sergeant-major so that we can keep together, Albert." I manage to slip the sergeant-major two of my cigars with belly-bands, and then tip the word to him. He smells the cigars and says: "Have you got any more of them?" "Another good handful," I say, "and my comrade," I point to Kropp, "he has some as well. We might possibly be glad to hand them to you out of the window of the hospital train in the morning." He understands, of course, smells them once again and says: "Done." We cannot get a minute's sleep all night. Seven fellows die in our ward. One of them sings hymns in a high cracked tenor before he begins to | our hearts. Each man has a bag to himself. Kropp and I have rescued two big red armchairs as well. They stand inside the bed, and we sprawl back in them as in a theatre box. Above us swells the silken cover like a baldaquin. Each man has a long cigar in his mouth. And thus from aloft we survey the scene. Between us stands a parrot-cage that we found for the cat. She is coming with us, and lies in the cage before her saucer of meat, and purrs. Slowly the lorries roll down the road. We sing. Behind us the shells are sending up fountains from the now utterly abandoned town. * * A few days later we are sent out to evacuate a village. On the way we meet the fleeing inhabitants trundling their goods and chattels along with them in wheel-barrows, perambulators, and on their backs. Their figures are bent, their faces full of grief, despair, haste, and resignation. The children hold on to their mothers' hands, and often an older girl leads the little ones who stumble onward and are for ever looking back. A few carry miserable-looking dolls. All are silent as they pass us by. We are marching in column; the French do not fire on a town in which there are still inhabitants. But a few minutes later the air screams, the earth heaves, cries ring out; a shell has landed among the rear squad. We scatter and fling ourselves down on the ground, but at that moment I feel the instinctive alertness leave me which hitherto has always made me do unconsciously the right thing under fire; the thought leaps up with a terrible, throttling fear: "You are lost" --and the next moment a blow sweeps like a whip over my left leg. I hear Albert cry out; he is beside me. "Quick, up, Albert!" I yell, for we are lying unsheltered in the open field. He staggers up and runs. I keep beside him. We have to get over a hedge; it is higher than we are. Kropp seizes a branch, I heave him up by the leg, he cries out, I give him a swing and he flies over. With one leap I follow him and fall into a ditch that lies behind the hedge. Our faces are smothered with duck-weed and mud, but the cover is good. So we wade in up to our necks. Whenever a shell whistles we duck our heads under the water. After we have done this a dozen times, I am exhausted. "Let's get away, or I'll fall in and drown," groans Albert. "Where has it got you?"<|quote|>I ask him.</|quote|>"In the knee, I think." "Can you run?" "I think----" "Then out!" We make for the ditch beside the road, and stooping, run along it. The shelling follows us. The road leads toward the munition dump. If that goes up there won't be a man of us with his head left on his shoulders. So we change our plan and run diagonally across country. Albert begins to drag. "You go, I'll come on after," he says, and throws himself down. I seize him by the arm and shake him. "Up, Albert, if once you lie down you'll never get any farther. Quick, I'll hold you up." At last we reach a small dug-out. Kropp pitches in and I bandage him up. The shot is just a little above his knee. Then I take a look at myself. My trousers are bloody and my arm, too. Albert binds up my wounds with his field dressing. Already he is no longer able to move his leg, and we both wonder how we managed to get this far. Fear alone made it possible; we would have run even if our feet had been shot off;--we would have run on the stumps. I can still crawl a little. I call out to a passing ambulance wagon which picks us up. It is full of wounded. There is an army medical lance-corporal with it who sticks an anti-tetanus needle into our chests. At the dressing station we arrange matters so that we lie side by side. They give us a thin soup which we spoon down greedily and scornfully, because we are accustomed to better times but are hungry all the same. "Now for home, Albert," I say. "Let's hope so," he replies, "I only wish I knew what I've got." The pain increases. The bandages burn like fire. We drink and drink, one glass of water after another. "How far above the knee am I hit?" asks Kropp. "At least four inches, Albert," I answer. Actually it is perhaps one. "I've made up my mind," he says after a while, "if they take off my leg, I'll put an end to it. I won't go through life as a cripple." So we lie there with our thoughts and wait. * * In the evening we are hauled on to the chopping-block. I am frightened and think quickly what I ought to do; for everyone knows that the surgeons in the dressing stations amputate on the slightest provocation. Under the great pressure of business that is much simpler than complicated patching. I think of | All Quiet on the Western Front |
said Mrs. Cosham, rather tartly. | No speaker | the sailor, I am sure,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Cosham, rather tartly.</|quote|>"My sister-in-law," she continued, "has | were entirely with Susan and the sailor, I am sure,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Cosham, rather tartly.</|quote|>"My sister-in-law," she continued, "has laid her burdens upon Providence | Katharine. "My darling, it was a great red Devonshire bull, and not long after it gored a man to death and had to be destroyed. And your mother forgave Susan a thing I could never have done." "Maggie s sympathies were entirely with Susan and the sailor, I am sure,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Cosham, rather tartly.</|quote|>"My sister-in-law," she continued, "has laid her burdens upon Providence at every crisis in her life, and Providence, I must confess, has responded nobly, so far" "Yes," said Katharine, with a laugh, for she liked the rashness which irritated the rest of the family. "My mother s bulls always turn | a bull. The animal became enraged by the red blanket in the perambulator, and Heaven knows what might have happened if a gentleman had not been walking by in the nick of time, and rescued Katharine in his arms!" "I think the bull was only a cow, Aunt Celia," said Katharine. "My darling, it was a great red Devonshire bull, and not long after it gored a man to death and had to be destroyed. And your mother forgave Susan a thing I could never have done." "Maggie s sympathies were entirely with Susan and the sailor, I am sure,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Cosham, rather tartly.</|quote|>"My sister-in-law," she continued, "has laid her burdens upon Providence at every crisis in her life, and Providence, I must confess, has responded nobly, so far" "Yes," said Katharine, with a laugh, for she liked the rashness which irritated the rest of the family. "My mother s bulls always turn into cows at the critical moment." "Well," said Mrs. Milvain, "I m glad you have some one to protect you from bulls now." "I can t imagine William protecting any one from bulls," said Katharine. It happened that Mrs. Cosham had once more produced her pocket volume of Shakespeare, and | us, and summing us all up in her little mind. And they had a nurse in those days," she went on, telling her story with charming solemnity to Ralph, "who was a good woman, but engaged to a sailor. When she ought to have been attending to the baby, her eyes were on the sea. And Mrs. Hilbery allowed this girl Susan her name was to have him to stay in the village. They abused her goodness, I m sorry to say, and while they walked in the lanes, they stood the perambulator alone in a field where there was a bull. The animal became enraged by the red blanket in the perambulator, and Heaven knows what might have happened if a gentleman had not been walking by in the nick of time, and rescued Katharine in his arms!" "I think the bull was only a cow, Aunt Celia," said Katharine. "My darling, it was a great red Devonshire bull, and not long after it gored a man to death and had to be destroyed. And your mother forgave Susan a thing I could never have done." "Maggie s sympathies were entirely with Susan and the sailor, I am sure,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Cosham, rather tartly.</|quote|>"My sister-in-law," she continued, "has laid her burdens upon Providence at every crisis in her life, and Providence, I must confess, has responded nobly, so far" "Yes," said Katharine, with a laugh, for she liked the rashness which irritated the rest of the family. "My mother s bulls always turn into cows at the critical moment." "Well," said Mrs. Milvain, "I m glad you have some one to protect you from bulls now." "I can t imagine William protecting any one from bulls," said Katharine. It happened that Mrs. Cosham had once more produced her pocket volume of Shakespeare, and was consulting Ralph upon an obscure passage in "Measure for Measure." He did not at once seize the meaning of what Katharine and her aunt were saying; William, he supposed, referred to some small cousin, for he now saw Katharine as a child in a pinafore; but, nevertheless, he was so much distracted that his eye could hardly follow the words on the paper. A moment later he heard them speak distinctly of an engagement ring. "I like rubies," he heard Katharine say. "To be imprison d in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant | agreed with you, anyhow" She looked at him, and thought that there were signs of distinct power in his brow. He would do well, she thought, to devote himself to satire. "Charles Lavington, you remember, was a solicitor," Mrs. Milvain interposed, rather resenting the waste of time involved in talking about fictitious people when you might be talking about real people. "But you wouldn t remember him, Katharine." "Mr. Lavington? Oh, yes, I do," said Katharine, waking from other thoughts with her little start. "The summer we had a house near Tenby. I remember the field and the pond with the tadpoles, and making haystacks with Mr. Lavington." "She is right. There _was_ a pond with tadpoles," Mrs. Cosham corroborated. "Millais made studies of it for Ophelia. Some say that is the best picture he ever painted" "And I remember the dog chained up in the yard, and the dead snakes hanging in the toolhouse." "It was at Tenby that you were chased by the bull," Mrs. Milvain continued. "But that you couldn t remember, though it s true you were a wonderful child. Such eyes she had, Mr. Denham! I used to say to her father, She s watching us, and summing us all up in her little mind. And they had a nurse in those days," she went on, telling her story with charming solemnity to Ralph, "who was a good woman, but engaged to a sailor. When she ought to have been attending to the baby, her eyes were on the sea. And Mrs. Hilbery allowed this girl Susan her name was to have him to stay in the village. They abused her goodness, I m sorry to say, and while they walked in the lanes, they stood the perambulator alone in a field where there was a bull. The animal became enraged by the red blanket in the perambulator, and Heaven knows what might have happened if a gentleman had not been walking by in the nick of time, and rescued Katharine in his arms!" "I think the bull was only a cow, Aunt Celia," said Katharine. "My darling, it was a great red Devonshire bull, and not long after it gored a man to death and had to be destroyed. And your mother forgave Susan a thing I could never have done." "Maggie s sympathies were entirely with Susan and the sailor, I am sure,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Cosham, rather tartly.</|quote|>"My sister-in-law," she continued, "has laid her burdens upon Providence at every crisis in her life, and Providence, I must confess, has responded nobly, so far" "Yes," said Katharine, with a laugh, for she liked the rashness which irritated the rest of the family. "My mother s bulls always turn into cows at the critical moment." "Well," said Mrs. Milvain, "I m glad you have some one to protect you from bulls now." "I can t imagine William protecting any one from bulls," said Katharine. It happened that Mrs. Cosham had once more produced her pocket volume of Shakespeare, and was consulting Ralph upon an obscure passage in "Measure for Measure." He did not at once seize the meaning of what Katharine and her aunt were saying; William, he supposed, referred to some small cousin, for he now saw Katharine as a child in a pinafore; but, nevertheless, he was so much distracted that his eye could hardly follow the words on the paper. A moment later he heard them speak distinctly of an engagement ring. "I like rubies," he heard Katharine say. "To be imprison d in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world...." Mrs. Cosham intoned; at the same instant "Rodney" fitted itself to "William" in Ralph s mind. He felt convinced that Katharine was engaged to Rodney. His first sensation was one of violent rage with her for having deceived him throughout the visit, fed him with pleasant old wives tales, let him see her as a child playing in a meadow, shared her youth with him, while all the time she was a stranger entirely, and engaged to marry Rodney. But was it possible? Surely it was not possible. For in his eyes she was still a child. He paused so long over the book that Mrs. Cosham had time to look over his shoulder and ask her niece: "And have you settled upon a house yet, Katharine?" This convinced him of the truth of the monstrous idea. He looked up at once and said: "Yes, it s a difficult passage." His voice had changed so much, he spoke with such curtness and even with such contempt, that Mrs. Cosham looked at him fairly puzzled. Happily she belonged to a generation which expected uncouthness in its men, and she merely felt convinced that this Mr. Denham was very, very clever. | literature. "In my spare time," Denham reassured her. "In your spare time!" Mrs. Cosham echoed. "That is a proof of devotion, indeed." She half closed her eyes, and indulged herself in a fascinating picture of a briefless barrister lodged in a garret, writing immortal novels by the light of a farthing dip. But the romance which fell upon the figures of great writers and illumined their pages was no false radiance in her case. She carried her pocket Shakespeare about with her, and met life fortified by the words of the poets. How far she saw Denham, and how far she confused him with some hero of fiction, it would be hard to say. Literature had taken possession even of her memories. She was matching him, presumably, with certain characters in the old novels, for she came out, after a pause, with: "Um um Pendennis Warrington I could never forgive Laura," she pronounced energetically, "for not marrying George, in spite of everything. George Eliot did the very same thing; and Lewes was a little frog-faced man, with the manner of a dancing master. But Warrington, now, had everything in his favor; intellect, passion, romance, distinction, and the connection was a mere piece of undergraduate folly. Arthur, I confess, has always seemed to me a bit of a fop; I can t imagine how Laura married him. But you say you re a solicitor, Mr. Denham. Now there are one or two things I should like to ask you about Shakespeare" She drew out her small, worn volume with some difficulty, opened it, and shook it in the air. "They say, nowadays, that Shakespeare was a lawyer. They say, that accounts for his knowledge of human nature. There s a fine example for you, Mr. Denham. Study your clients, young man, and the world will be the richer one of these days, I have no doubt. Tell me, how do we come out of it, now; better or worse than you expected?" Thus called upon to sum up the worth of human nature in a few words, Ralph answered unhesitatingly: "Worse, Mrs. Cosham, a good deal worse. I m afraid the ordinary man is a bit of a rascal" "And the ordinary woman?" "No, I don t like the ordinary woman either" "Ah, dear me, I ve no doubt that s very true, very true." Mrs. Cosham sighed. "Swift would have agreed with you, anyhow" She looked at him, and thought that there were signs of distinct power in his brow. He would do well, she thought, to devote himself to satire. "Charles Lavington, you remember, was a solicitor," Mrs. Milvain interposed, rather resenting the waste of time involved in talking about fictitious people when you might be talking about real people. "But you wouldn t remember him, Katharine." "Mr. Lavington? Oh, yes, I do," said Katharine, waking from other thoughts with her little start. "The summer we had a house near Tenby. I remember the field and the pond with the tadpoles, and making haystacks with Mr. Lavington." "She is right. There _was_ a pond with tadpoles," Mrs. Cosham corroborated. "Millais made studies of it for Ophelia. Some say that is the best picture he ever painted" "And I remember the dog chained up in the yard, and the dead snakes hanging in the toolhouse." "It was at Tenby that you were chased by the bull," Mrs. Milvain continued. "But that you couldn t remember, though it s true you were a wonderful child. Such eyes she had, Mr. Denham! I used to say to her father, She s watching us, and summing us all up in her little mind. And they had a nurse in those days," she went on, telling her story with charming solemnity to Ralph, "who was a good woman, but engaged to a sailor. When she ought to have been attending to the baby, her eyes were on the sea. And Mrs. Hilbery allowed this girl Susan her name was to have him to stay in the village. They abused her goodness, I m sorry to say, and while they walked in the lanes, they stood the perambulator alone in a field where there was a bull. The animal became enraged by the red blanket in the perambulator, and Heaven knows what might have happened if a gentleman had not been walking by in the nick of time, and rescued Katharine in his arms!" "I think the bull was only a cow, Aunt Celia," said Katharine. "My darling, it was a great red Devonshire bull, and not long after it gored a man to death and had to be destroyed. And your mother forgave Susan a thing I could never have done." "Maggie s sympathies were entirely with Susan and the sailor, I am sure,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Cosham, rather tartly.</|quote|>"My sister-in-law," she continued, "has laid her burdens upon Providence at every crisis in her life, and Providence, I must confess, has responded nobly, so far" "Yes," said Katharine, with a laugh, for she liked the rashness which irritated the rest of the family. "My mother s bulls always turn into cows at the critical moment." "Well," said Mrs. Milvain, "I m glad you have some one to protect you from bulls now." "I can t imagine William protecting any one from bulls," said Katharine. It happened that Mrs. Cosham had once more produced her pocket volume of Shakespeare, and was consulting Ralph upon an obscure passage in "Measure for Measure." He did not at once seize the meaning of what Katharine and her aunt were saying; William, he supposed, referred to some small cousin, for he now saw Katharine as a child in a pinafore; but, nevertheless, he was so much distracted that his eye could hardly follow the words on the paper. A moment later he heard them speak distinctly of an engagement ring. "I like rubies," he heard Katharine say. "To be imprison d in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world...." Mrs. Cosham intoned; at the same instant "Rodney" fitted itself to "William" in Ralph s mind. He felt convinced that Katharine was engaged to Rodney. His first sensation was one of violent rage with her for having deceived him throughout the visit, fed him with pleasant old wives tales, let him see her as a child playing in a meadow, shared her youth with him, while all the time she was a stranger entirely, and engaged to marry Rodney. But was it possible? Surely it was not possible. For in his eyes she was still a child. He paused so long over the book that Mrs. Cosham had time to look over his shoulder and ask her niece: "And have you settled upon a house yet, Katharine?" This convinced him of the truth of the monstrous idea. He looked up at once and said: "Yes, it s a difficult passage." His voice had changed so much, he spoke with such curtness and even with such contempt, that Mrs. Cosham looked at him fairly puzzled. Happily she belonged to a generation which expected uncouthness in its men, and she merely felt convinced that this Mr. Denham was very, very clever. She took back her Shakespeare, as Denham seemed to have no more to say, and secreted it once more about her person with the infinitely pathetic resignation of the old. "Katharine s engaged to William Rodney," she said, by way of filling in the pause; "a very old friend of ours. He has a wonderful knowledge of literature, too wonderful." She nodded her head rather vaguely. "You should meet each other." Denham s one wish was to leave the house as soon as he could; but the elderly ladies had risen, and were proposing to visit Mrs. Hilbery in her bedroom, so that any move on his part was impossible. At the same time, he wished to say something, but he knew not what, to Katharine alone. She took her aunts upstairs, and returned, coming towards him once more with an air of innocence and friendliness that amazed him. "My father will be back," she said. "Won t you sit down?" and she laughed, as if now they might share a perfectly friendly laugh at the tea-party. But Ralph made no attempt to seat himself. "I must congratulate you," he said. "It was news to me." He saw her face change, but only to become graver than before. "My engagement?" she asked. "Yes, I am going to marry William Rodney." Ralph remained standing with his hand on the back of a chair in absolute silence. Abysses seemed to plunge into darkness between them. He looked at her, but her face showed that she was not thinking of him. No regret or consciousness of wrong disturbed her. "Well, I must go," he said at length. She seemed about to say something, then changed her mind and said merely: "You will come again, I hope. We always seem" she hesitated "to be interrupted." He bowed and left the room. Ralph strode with extreme swiftness along the Embankment. Every muscle was taut and braced as if to resist some sudden attack from outside. For the moment it seemed as if the attack were about to be directed against his body, and his brain thus was on the alert, but without understanding. Finding himself, after a few minutes, no longer under observation, and no attack delivered, he slackened his pace, the pain spread all through him, took possession of every governing seat, and met with scarcely any resistance from powers exhausted by their first | Mr. Lavington." "She is right. There _was_ a pond with tadpoles," Mrs. Cosham corroborated. "Millais made studies of it for Ophelia. Some say that is the best picture he ever painted" "And I remember the dog chained up in the yard, and the dead snakes hanging in the toolhouse." "It was at Tenby that you were chased by the bull," Mrs. Milvain continued. "But that you couldn t remember, though it s true you were a wonderful child. Such eyes she had, Mr. Denham! I used to say to her father, She s watching us, and summing us all up in her little mind. And they had a nurse in those days," she went on, telling her story with charming solemnity to Ralph, "who was a good woman, but engaged to a sailor. When she ought to have been attending to the baby, her eyes were on the sea. And Mrs. Hilbery allowed this girl Susan her name was to have him to stay in the village. They abused her goodness, I m sorry to say, and while they walked in the lanes, they stood the perambulator alone in a field where there was a bull. The animal became enraged by the red blanket in the perambulator, and Heaven knows what might have happened if a gentleman had not been walking by in the nick of time, and rescued Katharine in his arms!" "I think the bull was only a cow, Aunt Celia," said Katharine. "My darling, it was a great red Devonshire bull, and not long after it gored a man to death and had to be destroyed. And your mother forgave Susan a thing I could never have done." "Maggie s sympathies were entirely with Susan and the sailor, I am sure,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Cosham, rather tartly.</|quote|>"My sister-in-law," she continued, "has laid her burdens upon Providence at every crisis in her life, and Providence, I must confess, has responded nobly, so far" "Yes," said Katharine, with a laugh, for she liked the rashness which irritated the rest of the family. "My mother s bulls always turn into cows at the critical moment." "Well," said Mrs. Milvain, "I m glad you have some one to protect you from bulls now." "I can t imagine William protecting any one from bulls," said Katharine. It happened that Mrs. Cosham had once more produced her pocket volume of Shakespeare, and was consulting Ralph upon an obscure passage in "Measure for Measure." He did not at once seize the meaning of what Katharine and her aunt were saying; William, he supposed, referred to some small cousin, for he now saw Katharine as a child in a pinafore; but, nevertheless, he was so much distracted that his eye could hardly follow the words on the paper. A moment later he heard them speak distinctly of an engagement ring. "I like rubies," he heard Katharine say. "To be imprison d in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world...." Mrs. Cosham intoned; at the same instant "Rodney" fitted itself to "William" in Ralph s mind. He felt convinced that Katharine was engaged to Rodney. His first sensation was one of violent rage with her for having deceived him throughout the visit, fed him with pleasant old wives tales, let him see her as a child playing in a meadow, shared her youth with him, while all the time she was a stranger entirely, and engaged to marry Rodney. But was it possible? Surely it was not possible. For in his eyes she was still a child. He paused so long over the book that Mrs. Cosham had time to look over his shoulder and ask her niece: "And have you settled upon a house yet, Katharine?" This convinced him of the truth of the monstrous idea. He looked up at once and said: "Yes, it s a difficult passage." His voice had changed so much, he spoke with such curtness and even with such contempt, that Mrs. Cosham looked at him fairly puzzled. Happily she belonged to a generation which expected uncouthness in its men, and she merely felt convinced that this Mr. Denham was very, very clever. She took back her Shakespeare, as Denham seemed to have no more to say, and secreted it once more about her person with the infinitely pathetic resignation of the old. "Katharine s engaged to William Rodney," she said, by way of filling in the pause; "a very old friend of ours. He has a wonderful knowledge of literature, too wonderful." She nodded her head rather vaguely. "You should meet each other." Denham s one wish was to leave the house as soon as he could; but the elderly ladies had risen, and were proposing to visit Mrs. Hilbery in her bedroom, so that any move on | Night And Day |
"There's not enough there," | Nance | of the winder," replied Sikes.<|quote|>"There's not enough there,"</|quote|>said the girl. "I want | air." "Put your head out of the winder," replied Sikes.<|quote|>"There's not enough there,"</|quote|>said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then | Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. "Nowhere. Sit down." "I'm not well. I told you that before," rejoined the girl. "I want a breath of air." "Put your head out of the winder," replied Sikes.<|quote|>"There's not enough there,"</|quote|>said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press. "There," said the robber. "Now | the foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room. "Hallo!" cried Sikes. "Nance. Where's the gal going to at this time of night?" "Not far." "What answer's that?" retorted Sikes. "Do you hear me?" "I don't know where," replied the girl. "Then I do," said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. "Nowhere. Sit down." "I'm not well. I told you that before," rejoined the girl. "I want a breath of air." "Put your head out of the winder," replied Sikes.<|quote|>"There's not enough there,"</|quote|>said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press. "There," said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will you?" "It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me," said the girl turning very pale. "What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?" "Know what I'm Oh!" cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, "she's out of her senses, you | nervous, Bill, reminds you of being nabbed, does it?" said Fagin, determined not to be offended. "Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil," returned Sikes. "There never was another man with such a face as yours, unless it was your father, and I suppose _he_ is singeing his grizzled red beard by this time, unless you came straight from the old 'un without any father at all betwixt you; which I shouldn't wonder at, a bit." Fagin offered no reply to this compliment: but, pulling Sikes by the sleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room. "Hallo!" cried Sikes. "Nance. Where's the gal going to at this time of night?" "Not far." "What answer's that?" retorted Sikes. "Do you hear me?" "I don't know where," replied the girl. "Then I do," said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. "Nowhere. Sit down." "I'm not well. I told you that before," rejoined the girl. "I want a breath of air." "Put your head out of the winder," replied Sikes.<|quote|>"There's not enough there,"</|quote|>said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press. "There," said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will you?" "It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me," said the girl turning very pale. "What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?" "Know what I'm Oh!" cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, "she's out of her senses, you know, or she daren't talk to me in that way." "You'll drive me on the something desperate," muttered the girl placing both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. "Let me go, will you, this minute this instant." "No!" said Sikes. "Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It'll be better for him. Do you hear me?" cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground. "Hear you!" repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her. "Aye! And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog | talking, but they paused to listen. The girl looked up from the low seat on which she crouched, and listened too. Eleven. "An hour this side of midnight," said Sikes, raising the blind to look out and returning to his seat. "Dark and heavy it is too. A good night for business this." "Ah!" replied Fagin. "What a pity, Bill, my dear, that there's none quite ready to be done." "You're right for once," replied Sikes gruffly. "It is a pity, for I'm in the humour too." Fagin sighed, and shook his head despondingly. "We must make up for lost time when we've got things into a good train. That's all I know," said Sikes. "That's the way to talk, my dear," replied Fagin, venturing to pat him on the shoulder. "It does me good to hear you." "Does you good, does it!" cried Sikes. "Well, so be it." "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Fagin, as if he were relieved by even this concession. "You're like yourself to-night, Bill. Quite like yourself." "I don't feel like myself when you lay that withered old claw on my shoulder, so take it away," said Sikes, casting off the Jew's hand. "It make you nervous, Bill, reminds you of being nabbed, does it?" said Fagin, determined not to be offended. "Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil," returned Sikes. "There never was another man with such a face as yours, unless it was your father, and I suppose _he_ is singeing his grizzled red beard by this time, unless you came straight from the old 'un without any father at all betwixt you; which I shouldn't wonder at, a bit." Fagin offered no reply to this compliment: but, pulling Sikes by the sleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room. "Hallo!" cried Sikes. "Nance. Where's the gal going to at this time of night?" "Not far." "What answer's that?" retorted Sikes. "Do you hear me?" "I don't know where," replied the girl. "Then I do," said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. "Nowhere. Sit down." "I'm not well. I told you that before," rejoined the girl. "I want a breath of air." "Put your head out of the winder," replied Sikes.<|quote|>"There's not enough there,"</|quote|>said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press. "There," said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will you?" "It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me," said the girl turning very pale. "What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?" "Know what I'm Oh!" cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, "she's out of her senses, you know, or she daren't talk to me in that way." "You'll drive me on the something desperate," muttered the girl placing both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. "Let me go, will you, this minute this instant." "No!" said Sikes. "Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It'll be better for him. Do you hear me?" cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground. "Hear you!" repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her. "Aye! And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a grip on your throat as'll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has come over you, you jade! Wot is it?" "Let me go," said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself down on the floor, before the door, she said, "Bill, let me go; you don't know what you are doing. You don't, indeed. For only one hour do do!" "Cut my limbs off one by one!" cried Sikes, seizing her roughly by the arm, "If I don't think the gal's stark raving mad. Get up." "Not till you let me go not till you let me go Never never!" screamed the girl. Sikes looked on, for a minute, watching his opportunity, and suddenly pinioning her hands dragged her, struggling and wrestling with him by the way, into a small room adjoining, where he sat himself on a bench, and thrusting her into a chair, held her down by force. She struggled and implored by turns until twelve o'clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest the point any further. With a caution, backed by many oaths, to make no more efforts to go out that night, Sikes left her | all the arts of cunning and dissimulation, the girl Nancy could not wholly conceal the effect which the knowledge of the step she had taken, wrought upon her mind. She remembered that both the crafty Jew and the brutal Sikes had confided to her schemes, which had been hidden from all others: in the full confidence that she was trustworthy and beyond the reach of their suspicion. Vile as those schemes were, desperate as were their originators, and bitter as were her feelings towards Fagin, who had led her, step by step, deeper and deeper down into an abyss of crime and misery, whence was no escape; still, there were times when, even towards him, she felt some relenting, lest her disclosure should bring him within the iron grasp he had so long eluded, and he should fall at last richly as he merited such a fate by her hand. But, these were the mere wanderings of a mind unable wholly to detach itself from old companions and associations, though enabled to fix itself steadily on one object, and resolved not to be turned aside by any consideration. Her fears for Sikes would have been more powerful inducements to recoil while there was yet time; but she had stipulated that her secret should be rigidly kept, she had dropped no clue which could lead to his discovery, she had refused, even for his sake, a refuge from all the guilt and wretchedness that encompasses her and what more could she do! She was resolved. Though all her mental struggles terminated in this conclusion, they forced themselves upon her, again and again, and left their traces too. She grew pale and thin, even within a few days. At times, she took no heed of what was passing before her, or no part in conversations where once, she would have been the loudest. At other times, she laughed without merriment, and was noisy without a moment afterwards she sat silent and dejected, brooding with her head upon her hands, while the very effort by which she roused herself, told, more forcibly than even these indications, that she was ill at ease, and that her thoughts were occupied with matters very different and distant from those in the course of discussion by her companions. It was Sunday night, and the bell of the nearest church struck the hour. Sikes and the Jew were talking, but they paused to listen. The girl looked up from the low seat on which she crouched, and listened too. Eleven. "An hour this side of midnight," said Sikes, raising the blind to look out and returning to his seat. "Dark and heavy it is too. A good night for business this." "Ah!" replied Fagin. "What a pity, Bill, my dear, that there's none quite ready to be done." "You're right for once," replied Sikes gruffly. "It is a pity, for I'm in the humour too." Fagin sighed, and shook his head despondingly. "We must make up for lost time when we've got things into a good train. That's all I know," said Sikes. "That's the way to talk, my dear," replied Fagin, venturing to pat him on the shoulder. "It does me good to hear you." "Does you good, does it!" cried Sikes. "Well, so be it." "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Fagin, as if he were relieved by even this concession. "You're like yourself to-night, Bill. Quite like yourself." "I don't feel like myself when you lay that withered old claw on my shoulder, so take it away," said Sikes, casting off the Jew's hand. "It make you nervous, Bill, reminds you of being nabbed, does it?" said Fagin, determined not to be offended. "Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil," returned Sikes. "There never was another man with such a face as yours, unless it was your father, and I suppose _he_ is singeing his grizzled red beard by this time, unless you came straight from the old 'un without any father at all betwixt you; which I shouldn't wonder at, a bit." Fagin offered no reply to this compliment: but, pulling Sikes by the sleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room. "Hallo!" cried Sikes. "Nance. Where's the gal going to at this time of night?" "Not far." "What answer's that?" retorted Sikes. "Do you hear me?" "I don't know where," replied the girl. "Then I do," said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. "Nowhere. Sit down." "I'm not well. I told you that before," rejoined the girl. "I want a breath of air." "Put your head out of the winder," replied Sikes.<|quote|>"There's not enough there,"</|quote|>said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press. "There," said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will you?" "It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me," said the girl turning very pale. "What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?" "Know what I'm Oh!" cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, "she's out of her senses, you know, or she daren't talk to me in that way." "You'll drive me on the something desperate," muttered the girl placing both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. "Let me go, will you, this minute this instant." "No!" said Sikes. "Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It'll be better for him. Do you hear me?" cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground. "Hear you!" repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her. "Aye! And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a grip on your throat as'll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has come over you, you jade! Wot is it?" "Let me go," said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself down on the floor, before the door, she said, "Bill, let me go; you don't know what you are doing. You don't, indeed. For only one hour do do!" "Cut my limbs off one by one!" cried Sikes, seizing her roughly by the arm, "If I don't think the gal's stark raving mad. Get up." "Not till you let me go not till you let me go Never never!" screamed the girl. Sikes looked on, for a minute, watching his opportunity, and suddenly pinioning her hands dragged her, struggling and wrestling with him by the way, into a small room adjoining, where he sat himself on a bench, and thrusting her into a chair, held her down by force. She struggled and implored by turns until twelve o'clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest the point any further. With a caution, backed by many oaths, to make no more efforts to go out that night, Sikes left her to recover at leisure and rejoined Fagin. "Whew!" said the housebreaker wiping the perspiration from his face. "Wot a precious strange gal that is!" "You may say that, Bill," replied Fagin thoughtfully. "You may say that." "Wot did she take it into her head to go out to-night for, do you think?" asked Sikes. "Come; you should know her better than me. Wot does it mean?" "Obstinacy; woman's obstinacy, I suppose, my dear." "Well, I suppose it is," growled Sikes. "I thought I had tamed her, but she's as bad as ever." "Worse," said Fagin thoughtfully. "I never knew her like this, for such a little cause." "Nor I," said Sikes. "I think she's got a touch of that fever in her blood yet, and it won't come out eh?" "Like enough." "I'll let her a little blood, without troubling the doctor, if she's took that way again," said Sikes. Fagin nodded an expressive approval of this mode of treatment. "She was hanging about me all day, and night too, when I was stretched on my back; and you, like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept yourself aloof," said Sikes. "We was poor too, all the time, and I think, one way or other, it's worried and fretted her; and that being shut up here so long has made her restless eh?" "That's it, my dear," replied the Jew in a whisper. "Hush!" As he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared and resumed her former seat. Her eyes were swollen and red; she rocked herself to and fro; tossed her head; and, after a little time, burst out laughing. "Why, now she's on the other tack!" exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of excessive surprise on his companion. Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs. "Light him down," said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. "It's a pity he should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light." Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and | to listen. The girl looked up from the low seat on which she crouched, and listened too. Eleven. "An hour this side of midnight," said Sikes, raising the blind to look out and returning to his seat. "Dark and heavy it is too. A good night for business this." "Ah!" replied Fagin. "What a pity, Bill, my dear, that there's none quite ready to be done." "You're right for once," replied Sikes gruffly. "It is a pity, for I'm in the humour too." Fagin sighed, and shook his head despondingly. "We must make up for lost time when we've got things into a good train. That's all I know," said Sikes. "That's the way to talk, my dear," replied Fagin, venturing to pat him on the shoulder. "It does me good to hear you." "Does you good, does it!" cried Sikes. "Well, so be it." "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Fagin, as if he were relieved by even this concession. "You're like yourself to-night, Bill. Quite like yourself." "I don't feel like myself when you lay that withered old claw on my shoulder, so take it away," said Sikes, casting off the Jew's hand. "It make you nervous, Bill, reminds you of being nabbed, does it?" said Fagin, determined not to be offended. "Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil," returned Sikes. "There never was another man with such a face as yours, unless it was your father, and I suppose _he_ is singeing his grizzled red beard by this time, unless you came straight from the old 'un without any father at all betwixt you; which I shouldn't wonder at, a bit." Fagin offered no reply to this compliment: but, pulling Sikes by the sleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room. "Hallo!" cried Sikes. "Nance. Where's the gal going to at this time of night?" "Not far." "What answer's that?" retorted Sikes. "Do you hear me?" "I don't know where," replied the girl. "Then I do," said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. "Nowhere. Sit down." "I'm not well. I told you that before," rejoined the girl. "I want a breath of air." "Put your head out of the winder," replied Sikes.<|quote|>"There's not enough there,"</|quote|>said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press. "There," said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will you?" "It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me," said the girl turning very pale. "What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?" "Know what I'm Oh!" cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, "she's out of her senses, you know, or she daren't talk to me in that way." "You'll drive me on the something desperate," muttered the girl placing both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. "Let me go, will you, this minute this instant." "No!" said Sikes. "Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It'll be better for him. Do you hear me?" cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground. "Hear you!" repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her. "Aye! And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a grip on your throat as'll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has come over you, you jade! Wot is it?" "Let me go," said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself down on the floor, before the door, she said, "Bill, let me go; you don't know what you are doing. You don't, indeed. For only one hour do do!" "Cut my limbs off one by one!" cried Sikes, seizing her roughly by the arm, "If I don't think the gal's stark raving mad. Get up." "Not till you let me go not till you | Oliver Twist |
"Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" | Bill Gorton | "Sore," I said. Bill laughed.<|quote|>"Why didn't you hit him with a chair?"</|quote|>"You can talk," Mike said. | your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed.<|quote|>"Why didn't you hit him with a chair?"</|quote|>"You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, | was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed.<|quote|>"Why didn't you hit him with a chair?"</|quote|>"You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. | war. It was two hours and a half for me." "Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed.<|quote|>"Why didn't you hit him with a chair?"</|quote|>"You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" | in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell." "That was Edna," Bill said. "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts." "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over." "They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said. "You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me." "Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed.<|quote|>"Why didn't you hit him with a chair?"</|quote|>"You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No." "Yes." "What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what for. | on the bed. The window was open onto the balcony and the sunlight was bright in the room. I did not feel sleepy. It must have been half past three o'clock when I had gone to bed and the bands had waked me at six. My jaw was sore on both sides. I felt it with my thumb and fingers. That damn Cohn. He should have hit somebody the first time he was insulted, and then gone away. He was so sure that Brett loved him. He was going to stay, and true love would conquer all. Some one knocked on the door. "Come in." It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed. "Some encierro," Bill said. "Some encierro." "I say, weren't you there?" Mike asked. "Ring for some beer, Bill." "What a morning!" Bill said. He mopped off his face. "My God! what a morning! And here's old Jake. Old Jake, the human punching-bag." "What happened inside?" "Good God!" Bill said, "what happened, Mike?" "There were these bulls coming in," Mike said. "Just ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought the whole lot of them down." "And the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell." "That was Edna," Bill said. "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts." "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over." "They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said. "You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me." "Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed.<|quote|>"Why didn't you hit him with a chair?"</|quote|>"You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No." "Yes." "What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good." "I'll bet she was," Bill said. "Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with Brett, too." "I know. He shook hands with me." "Did he? Well, they weren't having any of it. The bull-fighter fellow was rather good. He didn't say much, but he kept getting up and getting knocked down again. Cohn couldn't knock him out. It must have been damned funny." "Where did you hear all this?" "Brett. I saw her this morning." "What happened finally?" "It seems the bull-fighter fellow was sitting on the bed. He'd been knocked down about fifteen times, and he wanted to fight some more. Brett held him and wouldn't let him get up. He was weak, but Brett couldn't hold him, and he got up. Then Cohn said he wouldn't hit him again. Said he couldn't do it. Said it would be wicked. So the bull-fighter chap sort of rather staggered over to him. Cohn went back against the wall." "'So you won't hit me?' "'No,' "said Cohn." 'I'd be ashamed to.' "So the bull-fighter fellow hit him just | fun in that for me." Later in the day we learned that the man who was killed was named Vicente Girones, and came from near Tafalla. The next day in the paper we read that he was twenty-eight years old, and had a farm, a wife, and two children. He had continued to come to the fiesta each year after he was married. The next day his wife came in from Tafalla to be with the body, and the day after there was a service in the chapel of San Fermin, and the coffin was carried to the railway-station by members of the dancing and drinking society of Tafalla. The drums marched ahead, and there was music on the fifes, and behind the men who carried the coffin walked the wife and two children. . . . Behind them marched all the members of the dancing and drinking societies of Pamplona, Estella, Tafalla, and Sanguesa who could stay over for the funeral. The coffin was loaded into the baggage-car of the train, and the widow and the two children rode, sitting, all three together, in an open third-class railway-carriage. The train started with a jerk, and then ran smoothly, going down grade around the edge of the plateau and out into the fields of grain that blew in the wind on the plain on the way to Tafalla. The bull who killed Vicente Girones was named Bocanegra, was Number 118 of the bull-breeding establishment of Sanchez Tabemo, and was killed by Pedro Romero as the third bull of that same afternoon. His ear was cut by popular acclamation and given to Pedro Romero, who, in turn, gave it to Brett, who wrapped it in a handkerchief belonging to myself, and left both ear and handkerchief, along with a number of Muratti cigarette-stubs, shoved far back in the drawer of the bed-table that stood beside her bed in the Hotel Montoya, in Pamplona. * * * * * Back in the hotel, the night watchman was sitting on a bench inside the door. He had been there all night and was very sleepy. He stood up as I came in. Three of the waitresses came in at the same time. They had been to the morning show at the bull-ring. They went up-stairs laughing. I followed them up-stairs and went into my room. I took off my shoes and lay down on the bed. The window was open onto the balcony and the sunlight was bright in the room. I did not feel sleepy. It must have been half past three o'clock when I had gone to bed and the bands had waked me at six. My jaw was sore on both sides. I felt it with my thumb and fingers. That damn Cohn. He should have hit somebody the first time he was insulted, and then gone away. He was so sure that Brett loved him. He was going to stay, and true love would conquer all. Some one knocked on the door. "Come in." It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed. "Some encierro," Bill said. "Some encierro." "I say, weren't you there?" Mike asked. "Ring for some beer, Bill." "What a morning!" Bill said. He mopped off his face. "My God! what a morning! And here's old Jake. Old Jake, the human punching-bag." "What happened inside?" "Good God!" Bill said, "what happened, Mike?" "There were these bulls coming in," Mike said. "Just ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought the whole lot of them down." "And the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell." "That was Edna," Bill said. "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts." "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over." "They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said. "You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me." "Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed.<|quote|>"Why didn't you hit him with a chair?"</|quote|>"You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No." "Yes." "What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good." "I'll bet she was," Bill said. "Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with Brett, too." "I know. He shook hands with me." "Did he? Well, they weren't having any of it. The bull-fighter fellow was rather good. He didn't say much, but he kept getting up and getting knocked down again. Cohn couldn't knock him out. It must have been damned funny." "Where did you hear all this?" "Brett. I saw her this morning." "What happened finally?" "It seems the bull-fighter fellow was sitting on the bed. He'd been knocked down about fifteen times, and he wanted to fight some more. Brett held him and wouldn't let him get up. He was weak, but Brett couldn't hold him, and he got up. Then Cohn said he wouldn't hit him again. Said he couldn't do it. Said it would be wicked. So the bull-fighter chap sort of rather staggered over to him. Cohn went back against the wall." "'So you won't hit me?' "'No,' "said Cohn." 'I'd be ashamed to.' "So the bull-fighter fellow hit him just as hard as he could in the face, and then sat down on the floor. He couldn't get up, Brett said. Cohn wanted to pick him up and carry him to the bed. He said if Cohn helped him he'd kill him, and he'd kill him anyway this morning if Cohn wasn't out of town. Cohn was crying, and Brett had told him off, and he wanted to shake hands. I've told you that before." "Tell the rest," Bill said. "It seems the bull-fighter chap was sitting on the floor. He was waiting to get strength enough to get up and hit Cohn again. Brett wasn't having any shaking hands, and Cohn was crying and telling her how much he loved her, and she was telling him not to be a ruddy ass. Then Cohn leaned down to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. No hard feelings, you know. All for forgiveness. And the bull-fighter chap hit him in the face again." "That's quite a kid," Bill said. "He ruined Cohn," Mike said. "You know I don't think Cohn will ever want to knock people about again." "When did you see Brett?" "This morning. She came in to get some things. She's looking after this Romero lad." He poured out another bottle of beer. "Brett's rather cut up. But she loves looking after people. That's how we came to go off together. She was looking after me." "I know," I said. "I'm rather drunk," Mike said. "I think I'll _stay_ rather drunk. This is all awfully amusing, but it's not too pleasant. It's not too pleasant for me." He drank off the beer. "I gave Brett what for, you know. I said if she would go about with Jews and bull-fighters and such people, she must expect trouble." He leaned forward. "I say, Jake, do you mind if I drink that bottle of yours? She'll bring you another one." "Please," I said. "I wasn't drinking it, anyway." Mike started to open the bottle. "Would you mind opening it?" I pressed up the wire fastener and poured it for him. "You know," Mike went on, "Brett was rather good. She's always rather good. I gave her a fearful hiding about Jews and bull-fighters, and all those sort of people, and do you know what she said: 'Yes. I've had such a hell of a happy life with the British aristocracy!" '" | Cohn. He should have hit somebody the first time he was insulted, and then gone away. He was so sure that Brett loved him. He was going to stay, and true love would conquer all. Some one knocked on the door. "Come in." It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed. "Some encierro," Bill said. "Some encierro." "I say, weren't you there?" Mike asked. "Ring for some beer, Bill." "What a morning!" Bill said. He mopped off his face. "My God! what a morning! And here's old Jake. Old Jake, the human punching-bag." "What happened inside?" "Good God!" Bill said, "what happened, Mike?" "There were these bulls coming in," Mike said. "Just ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought the whole lot of them down." "And the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell." "That was Edna," Bill said. "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts." "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over." "They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said. "You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me." "Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed.<|quote|>"Why didn't you hit him with a chair?"</|quote|>"You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No." "Yes." "What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good." "I'll bet she was," Bill said. "Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with Brett, too." "I know. He shook hands with me." "Did he? Well, they weren't having any of it. The bull-fighter fellow was rather good. He didn't say much, but he kept getting up and getting knocked down again. Cohn couldn't knock him out. It must have been damned funny." "Where did you hear all this?" "Brett. I saw her this morning." "What happened finally?" "It seems the bull-fighter fellow was sitting on the bed. He'd been knocked down about fifteen times, and he wanted to fight some more. Brett held him and wouldn't let him get up. He was weak, but Brett couldn't hold him, and he got up. Then Cohn said he wouldn't hit him again. Said he couldn't do it. Said it would be wicked. So the bull-fighter chap sort of rather staggered over to him. Cohn went back against the wall." "'So you won't hit me?' "'No,' "said Cohn." 'I'd be ashamed to.' "So the bull-fighter fellow hit him just as hard as he could in the face, and then sat down on the floor. He couldn't get up, Brett said. Cohn wanted to pick him up and carry him to the bed. He said if Cohn helped him he'd kill him, and he'd kill him anyway this morning if Cohn wasn't out of town. Cohn was crying, and Brett had told him off, and he wanted to shake hands. I've told you that before." "Tell the rest," Bill said. "It seems the bull-fighter chap was sitting on the floor. He was waiting | The Sun Also Rises |
said Teddy. | No speaker | "Well, I should hope so,"<|quote|>said Teddy.</|quote|>"After all, it's our place." | to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so,"<|quote|>said Teddy.</|quote|>"After all, it's our place." * * * * * | allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so,"<|quote|>said Teddy.</|quote|>"After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St | sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so,"<|quote|>said Teddy.</|quote|>"After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that | rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so,"<|quote|>said Teddy.</|quote|>"After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. | late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so,"<|quote|>said Teddy.</|quote|>"After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of | of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so,"<|quote|>said Teddy.</|quote|>"After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony. | her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so,"<|quote|>said Teddy.</|quote|>"After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who | A Handful Of Dust |
"For the land's sake!" | Marilla Cuthbert | abandonment of disappointment and despair.<|quote|>"For the land's sake!"</|quote|>gasped Marilla, hastening from the | and writhing in an utter abandonment of disappointment and despair.<|quote|>"For the land's sake!"</|quote|>gasped Marilla, hastening from the room. "I believe the child | not going to the picnic and that's final. No, not a word." Anne realized that Marilla was not to be moved. She clasped her hands together, gave a piercing shriek, and then flung herself face downward on the bed, crying and writhing in an utter abandonment of disappointment and despair.<|quote|>"For the land's sake!"</|quote|>gasped Marilla, hastening from the room. "I believe the child is crazy. No child in her senses would behave as she does. If she isn't she's utterly bad. Oh dear, I'm afraid Rachel was right from the first. But I've put my hand to the plow and I won't look | Punish me any way you like but that. Oh, Marilla, please, please, let me go to the picnic. Think of the ice cream! For anything you know I may never have a chance to taste ice cream again." Marilla disengaged Anne's clinging hands stonily. "You needn't plead, Anne. You are not going to the picnic and that's final. No, not a word." Anne realized that Marilla was not to be moved. She clasped her hands together, gave a piercing shriek, and then flung herself face downward on the bed, crying and writhing in an utter abandonment of disappointment and despair.<|quote|>"For the land's sake!"</|quote|>gasped Marilla, hastening from the room. "I believe the child is crazy. No child in her senses would behave as she does. If she isn't she's utterly bad. Oh dear, I'm afraid Rachel was right from the first. But I've put my hand to the plow and I won't look back." That was a dismal morning. Marilla worked fiercely and scrubbed the porch floor and the dairy shelves when she could find nothing else to do. Neither the shelves nor the porch needed it--but Marilla did. Then she went out and raked the yard. When dinner was ready she went | am," agreed Anne tranquilly. "And I know I'll have to be punished. It'll be your duty to punish me, Marilla. Won't you please get it over right off because I'd like to go to the picnic with nothing on my mind." "Picnic, indeed! You'll go to no picnic today, Anne Shirley. That shall be your punishment. And it isn't half severe enough either for what you've done!" "Not go to the picnic!" Anne sprang to her feet and clutched Marilla's hand. "But you _promised_ me I might! Oh, Marilla, I must go to the picnic. That was why I confessed. Punish me any way you like but that. Oh, Marilla, please, please, let me go to the picnic. Think of the ice cream! For anything you know I may never have a chance to taste ice cream again." Marilla disengaged Anne's clinging hands stonily. "You needn't plead, Anne. You are not going to the picnic and that's final. No, not a word." Anne realized that Marilla was not to be moved. She clasped her hands together, gave a piercing shriek, and then flung herself face downward on the bed, crying and writhing in an utter abandonment of disappointment and despair.<|quote|>"For the land's sake!"</|quote|>gasped Marilla, hastening from the room. "I believe the child is crazy. No child in her senses would behave as she does. If she isn't she's utterly bad. Oh dear, I'm afraid Rachel was right from the first. But I've put my hand to the plow and I won't look back." That was a dismal morning. Marilla worked fiercely and scrubbed the porch floor and the dairy shelves when she could find nothing else to do. Neither the shelves nor the porch needed it--but Marilla did. Then she went out and raked the yard. When dinner was ready she went to the stairs and called Anne. A tear-stained face appeared, looking tragically over the banisters. "Come down to your dinner, Anne." "I don't want any dinner, Marilla," said Anne, sobbingly. "I couldn't eat anything. My heart is broken. You'll feel remorse of conscience someday, I expect, for breaking it, Marilla, but I forgive you. Remember when the time comes that I forgive you. But please don't ask me to eat anything, especially boiled pork and greens. Boiled pork and greens are so unromantic when one is in affliction." Exasperated, Marilla returned to the kitchen and poured out her tale of | was the Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald. It would be so much easier to imagine I was the Lady Cordelia if I had a real amethyst brooch on. Diana and I make necklaces of roseberries but what are roseberries compared to amethysts? So I took the brooch. I thought I could put it back before you came home. I went all the way around by the road to lengthen out the time. When I was going over the bridge across the Lake of Shining Waters I took the brooch off to have another look at it. Oh, how it did shine in the sunlight! And then, when I was leaning over the bridge, it just slipped through my fingers--so--and went down--down--down, all purply-sparkling, and sank forevermore beneath the Lake of Shining Waters. And that's the best I can do at confessing, Marilla." Marilla felt hot anger surge up into her heart again. This child had taken and lost her treasured amethyst brooch and now sat there calmly reciting the details thereof without the least apparent compunction or repentance. "Anne, this is terrible," she said, trying to speak calmly. "You are the very wickedest girl I ever heard of." "Yes, I suppose I am," agreed Anne tranquilly. "And I know I'll have to be punished. It'll be your duty to punish me, Marilla. Won't you please get it over right off because I'd like to go to the picnic with nothing on my mind." "Picnic, indeed! You'll go to no picnic today, Anne Shirley. That shall be your punishment. And it isn't half severe enough either for what you've done!" "Not go to the picnic!" Anne sprang to her feet and clutched Marilla's hand. "But you _promised_ me I might! Oh, Marilla, I must go to the picnic. That was why I confessed. Punish me any way you like but that. Oh, Marilla, please, please, let me go to the picnic. Think of the ice cream! For anything you know I may never have a chance to taste ice cream again." Marilla disengaged Anne's clinging hands stonily. "You needn't plead, Anne. You are not going to the picnic and that's final. No, not a word." Anne realized that Marilla was not to be moved. She clasped her hands together, gave a piercing shriek, and then flung herself face downward on the bed, crying and writhing in an utter abandonment of disappointment and despair.<|quote|>"For the land's sake!"</|quote|>gasped Marilla, hastening from the room. "I believe the child is crazy. No child in her senses would behave as she does. If she isn't she's utterly bad. Oh dear, I'm afraid Rachel was right from the first. But I've put my hand to the plow and I won't look back." That was a dismal morning. Marilla worked fiercely and scrubbed the porch floor and the dairy shelves when she could find nothing else to do. Neither the shelves nor the porch needed it--but Marilla did. Then she went out and raked the yard. When dinner was ready she went to the stairs and called Anne. A tear-stained face appeared, looking tragically over the banisters. "Come down to your dinner, Anne." "I don't want any dinner, Marilla," said Anne, sobbingly. "I couldn't eat anything. My heart is broken. You'll feel remorse of conscience someday, I expect, for breaking it, Marilla, but I forgive you. Remember when the time comes that I forgive you. But please don't ask me to eat anything, especially boiled pork and greens. Boiled pork and greens are so unromantic when one is in affliction." Exasperated, Marilla returned to the kitchen and poured out her tale of woe to Matthew, who, between his sense of justice and his unlawful sympathy with Anne, was a miserable man. "Well now, she shouldn't have taken the brooch, Marilla, or told stories about it," he admitted, mournfully surveying his plateful of unromantic pork and greens as if he, like Anne, thought it a food unsuited to crises of feeling, "but she's such a little thing--such an interesting little thing. Don't you think it's pretty rough not to let her go to the picnic when she's so set on it?" "Matthew Cuthbert, I'm amazed at you. I think I've let her off entirely too easy. And she doesn't appear to realize how wicked she's been at all--that's what worries me most. If she'd really felt sorry it wouldn't be so bad. And you don't seem to realize it, neither; you're making excuses for her all the time to yourself--I can see that." "Well now, she's such a little thing," feebly reiterated Matthew. "And there should be allowances made, Marilla. You know she's never had any bringing up." "Well, she's having it now" retorted Marilla. The retort silenced Matthew if it did not convince him. That dinner was a very dismal meal. The | her," said Matthew, reaching for his hat. "I've nothing to do with it, remember. You warned me off yourself." Marilla felt deserted by everyone. She could not even go to Mrs. Lynde for advice. She went up to the east gable with a very serious face and left it with a face more serious still. Anne steadfastly refused to confess. She persisted in asserting that she had not taken the brooch. The child had evidently been crying and Marilla felt a pang of pity which she sternly repressed. By night she was, as she expressed it, "beat out." "You'll stay in this room until you confess, Anne. You can make up your mind to that," she said firmly. "But the picnic is tomorrow, Marilla," cried Anne. "You won't keep me from going to that, will you? You'll just let me out for the afternoon, won't you? Then I'll stay here as long as you like _afterwards_ cheerfully. But I _must_ go to the picnic." "You'll not go to picnics nor anywhere else until you've confessed, Anne." "Oh, Marilla," gasped Anne. But Marilla had gone out and shut the door. Wednesday morning dawned as bright and fair as if expressly made to order for the picnic. Birds sang around Green Gables; the Madonna lilies in the garden sent out whiffs of perfume that entered in on viewless winds at every door and window, and wandered through halls and rooms like spirits of benediction. The birches in the hollow waved joyful hands as if watching for Anne's usual morning greeting from the east gable. But Anne was not at her window. When Marilla took her breakfast up to her she found the child sitting primly on her bed, pale and resolute, with tight-shut lips and gleaming eyes. "Marilla, I'm ready to confess." "Ah!" Marilla laid down her tray. Once again her method had succeeded; but her success was very bitter to her. "Let me hear what you have to say then, Anne." "I took the amethyst brooch," said Anne, as if repeating a lesson she had learned. "I took it just as you said. I didn't mean to take it when I went in. But it did look so beautiful, Marilla, when I pinned it on my breast that I was overcome by an irresistible temptation. I imagined how perfectly thrilling it would be to take it to Idlewild and play I was the Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald. It would be so much easier to imagine I was the Lady Cordelia if I had a real amethyst brooch on. Diana and I make necklaces of roseberries but what are roseberries compared to amethysts? So I took the brooch. I thought I could put it back before you came home. I went all the way around by the road to lengthen out the time. When I was going over the bridge across the Lake of Shining Waters I took the brooch off to have another look at it. Oh, how it did shine in the sunlight! And then, when I was leaning over the bridge, it just slipped through my fingers--so--and went down--down--down, all purply-sparkling, and sank forevermore beneath the Lake of Shining Waters. And that's the best I can do at confessing, Marilla." Marilla felt hot anger surge up into her heart again. This child had taken and lost her treasured amethyst brooch and now sat there calmly reciting the details thereof without the least apparent compunction or repentance. "Anne, this is terrible," she said, trying to speak calmly. "You are the very wickedest girl I ever heard of." "Yes, I suppose I am," agreed Anne tranquilly. "And I know I'll have to be punished. It'll be your duty to punish me, Marilla. Won't you please get it over right off because I'd like to go to the picnic with nothing on my mind." "Picnic, indeed! You'll go to no picnic today, Anne Shirley. That shall be your punishment. And it isn't half severe enough either for what you've done!" "Not go to the picnic!" Anne sprang to her feet and clutched Marilla's hand. "But you _promised_ me I might! Oh, Marilla, I must go to the picnic. That was why I confessed. Punish me any way you like but that. Oh, Marilla, please, please, let me go to the picnic. Think of the ice cream! For anything you know I may never have a chance to taste ice cream again." Marilla disengaged Anne's clinging hands stonily. "You needn't plead, Anne. You are not going to the picnic and that's final. No, not a word." Anne realized that Marilla was not to be moved. She clasped her hands together, gave a piercing shriek, and then flung herself face downward on the bed, crying and writhing in an utter abandonment of disappointment and despair.<|quote|>"For the land's sake!"</|quote|>gasped Marilla, hastening from the room. "I believe the child is crazy. No child in her senses would behave as she does. If she isn't she's utterly bad. Oh dear, I'm afraid Rachel was right from the first. But I've put my hand to the plow and I won't look back." That was a dismal morning. Marilla worked fiercely and scrubbed the porch floor and the dairy shelves when she could find nothing else to do. Neither the shelves nor the porch needed it--but Marilla did. Then she went out and raked the yard. When dinner was ready she went to the stairs and called Anne. A tear-stained face appeared, looking tragically over the banisters. "Come down to your dinner, Anne." "I don't want any dinner, Marilla," said Anne, sobbingly. "I couldn't eat anything. My heart is broken. You'll feel remorse of conscience someday, I expect, for breaking it, Marilla, but I forgive you. Remember when the time comes that I forgive you. But please don't ask me to eat anything, especially boiled pork and greens. Boiled pork and greens are so unromantic when one is in affliction." Exasperated, Marilla returned to the kitchen and poured out her tale of woe to Matthew, who, between his sense of justice and his unlawful sympathy with Anne, was a miserable man. "Well now, she shouldn't have taken the brooch, Marilla, or told stories about it," he admitted, mournfully surveying his plateful of unromantic pork and greens as if he, like Anne, thought it a food unsuited to crises of feeling, "but she's such a little thing--such an interesting little thing. Don't you think it's pretty rough not to let her go to the picnic when she's so set on it?" "Matthew Cuthbert, I'm amazed at you. I think I've let her off entirely too easy. And she doesn't appear to realize how wicked she's been at all--that's what worries me most. If she'd really felt sorry it wouldn't be so bad. And you don't seem to realize it, neither; you're making excuses for her all the time to yourself--I can see that." "Well now, she's such a little thing," feebly reiterated Matthew. "And there should be allowances made, Marilla. You know she's never had any bringing up." "Well, she's having it now" retorted Marilla. The retort silenced Matthew if it did not convince him. That dinner was a very dismal meal. The only cheerful thing about it was Jerry Buote, the hired boy, and Marilla resented his cheerfulness as a personal insult. When her dishes were washed and her bread sponge set and her hens fed Marilla remembered that she had noticed a small rent in her best black lace shawl when she had taken it off on Monday afternoon on returning from the Ladies' Aid. She would go and mend it. The shawl was in a box in her trunk. As Marilla lifted it out, the sunlight, falling through the vines that clustered thickly about the window, struck upon something caught in the shawl--something that glittered and sparkled in facets of violet light. Marilla snatched at it with a gasp. It was the amethyst brooch, hanging to a thread of the lace by its catch! "Dear life and heart," said Marilla blankly, "what does this mean? Here's my brooch safe and sound that I thought was at the bottom of Barry's pond. Whatever did that girl mean by saying she took it and lost it? I declare I believe Green Gables is bewitched. I remember now that when I took off my shawl Monday afternoon I laid it on the bureau for a minute. I suppose the brooch got caught in it somehow. Well!" Marilla betook herself to the east gable, brooch in hand. Anne had cried herself out and was sitting dejectedly by the window. "Anne Shirley," said Marilla solemnly, "I've just found my brooch hanging to my black lace shawl. Now I want to know what that rigmarole you told me this morning meant." "Why, you said you'd keep me here until I confessed," returned Anne wearily, "and so I decided to confess because I was bound to get to the picnic. I thought out a confession last night after I went to bed and made it as interesting as I could. And I said it over and over so that I wouldn't forget it. But you wouldn't let me go to the picnic after all, so all my trouble was wasted." Marilla had to laugh in spite of herself. But her conscience pricked her. "Anne, you do beat all! But I was wrong--I see that now. I shouldn't have doubted your word when I'd never known you to tell a story. Of course, it wasn't right for you to confess to a thing you hadn't done--it was very | I took the brooch. I thought I could put it back before you came home. I went all the way around by the road to lengthen out the time. When I was going over the bridge across the Lake of Shining Waters I took the brooch off to have another look at it. Oh, how it did shine in the sunlight! And then, when I was leaning over the bridge, it just slipped through my fingers--so--and went down--down--down, all purply-sparkling, and sank forevermore beneath the Lake of Shining Waters. And that's the best I can do at confessing, Marilla." Marilla felt hot anger surge up into her heart again. This child had taken and lost her treasured amethyst brooch and now sat there calmly reciting the details thereof without the least apparent compunction or repentance. "Anne, this is terrible," she said, trying to speak calmly. "You are the very wickedest girl I ever heard of." "Yes, I suppose I am," agreed Anne tranquilly. "And I know I'll have to be punished. It'll be your duty to punish me, Marilla. Won't you please get it over right off because I'd like to go to the picnic with nothing on my mind." "Picnic, indeed! You'll go to no picnic today, Anne Shirley. That shall be your punishment. And it isn't half severe enough either for what you've done!" "Not go to the picnic!" Anne sprang to her feet and clutched Marilla's hand. "But you _promised_ me I might! Oh, Marilla, I must go to the picnic. That was why I confessed. Punish me any way you like but that. Oh, Marilla, please, please, let me go to the picnic. Think of the ice cream! For anything you know I may never have a chance to taste ice cream again." Marilla disengaged Anne's clinging hands stonily. "You needn't plead, Anne. You are not going to the picnic and that's final. No, not a word." Anne realized that Marilla was not to be moved. She clasped her hands together, gave a piercing shriek, and then flung herself face downward on the bed, crying and writhing in an utter abandonment of disappointment and despair.<|quote|>"For the land's sake!"</|quote|>gasped Marilla, hastening from the room. "I believe the child is crazy. No child in her senses would behave as she does. If she isn't she's utterly bad. Oh dear, I'm afraid Rachel was right from the first. But I've put my hand to the plow and I won't look back." That was a dismal morning. Marilla worked fiercely and scrubbed the porch floor and the dairy shelves when she could find nothing else to do. Neither the shelves nor the porch needed it--but Marilla did. Then she went out and raked the yard. When dinner was ready she went to the stairs and called Anne. A tear-stained face appeared, looking tragically over the banisters. "Come down to your dinner, Anne." "I don't want any dinner, Marilla," said Anne, sobbingly. "I couldn't eat anything. My heart is broken. You'll feel remorse of conscience someday, I expect, for breaking it, Marilla, but I forgive you. Remember when the time comes that I forgive you. But please don't ask me to eat anything, especially boiled pork and greens. Boiled pork and greens are so unromantic when one is in affliction." Exasperated, Marilla returned to the kitchen and poured out her tale of woe to Matthew, who, between his sense of justice and his unlawful sympathy with Anne, was a miserable man. "Well now, she shouldn't have taken the brooch, Marilla, or told stories about it," he admitted, mournfully surveying his plateful of unromantic pork and greens as if he, like Anne, thought it a food unsuited to crises of feeling, "but she's such a little thing--such an interesting little thing. Don't you think it's pretty rough not to let her go to the picnic when she's so set on it?" "Matthew Cuthbert, I'm amazed at you. I think I've let her off entirely too easy. And she doesn't appear to realize how wicked she's been at all--that's what worries me most. If she'd really felt sorry it wouldn't be so bad. And you don't seem to realize it, neither; you're making excuses for her all the time to yourself--I can see that." "Well now, she's such a little thing," feebly reiterated Matthew. "And there should be allowances made, Marilla. You know she's never had any bringing up." "Well, she's having it now" retorted Marilla. The retort silenced Matthew if it did not convince him. That dinner was a very dismal meal. The only cheerful thing about it was Jerry Buote, the hired boy, and Marilla resented his cheerfulness as a personal insult. When her dishes were washed and her bread sponge set and her hens fed Marilla remembered that she had noticed a small rent in her best black lace shawl when she had taken it off on Monday afternoon on returning from the Ladies' Aid. She would go and mend it. The shawl was in a box in her trunk. As Marilla lifted it out, the sunlight, falling through the vines that clustered thickly about the window, struck upon something caught in the shawl--something that glittered and sparkled in facets of violet light. Marilla snatched at it with a gasp. It was the amethyst brooch, hanging to a thread of the lace by its catch! "Dear life and heart," said Marilla blankly, "what does this mean? Here's my brooch safe and sound that I thought was at the bottom of Barry's pond. Whatever did that girl mean by saying she | Anne Of Green Gables |
"Don't get bloody," | Pedro Romero | the ear in her hand.<|quote|>"Don't get bloody,"</|quote|>Romero said, and grinned. The | other and smiled. Brett had the ear in her hand.<|quote|>"Don't get bloody,"</|quote|>Romero said, and grinned. The crowd wanted him. Several boys | against the barrera and gave the ear to Brett. He nodded his head and smiled. The crowd were all about him. Brett held down the cape. "You liked it?" Romero called. Brett did not say anything. They looked at each other and smiled. Brett had the ear in her hand.<|quote|>"Don't get bloody,"</|quote|>Romero said, and grinned. The crowd wanted him. Several boys shouted at Brett. The crowd was the boys, the dancers, and the drunks. Romero turned and tried to get through the crowd. They were all around him trying to lift him and put him on their shoulders. He fought and | parts of the arena, making a little circle around him. They were starting to dance around the bull. Romero took the ear from his brother and held it up toward the President. The President bowed and Romero, running to get ahead of the crowd, came toward us. He leaned up against the barrera and gave the ear to Brett. He nodded his head and smiled. The crowd were all about him. Brett held down the cape. "You liked it?" Romero called. Brett did not say anything. They looked at each other and smiled. Brett had the ear in her hand.<|quote|>"Don't get bloody,"</|quote|>Romero said, and grinned. The crowd wanted him. Several boys shouted at Brett. The crowd was the boys, the dancers, and the drunks. Romero turned and tried to get through the crowd. They were all around him trying to lift him and put him on their shoulders. He fought and twisted away, and started running, in the midst of them, toward the exit. He did not want to be carried on people's shoulders. But they held him and lifted him. It was uncomfortable and his legs were spraddled and his body was very sore. They were lifting him and all | at the base of the horns. The first time he missed. He drove the knife in again, and the bull went over, twitching and rigid. Romero's brother, holding the bull's horn in one hand, the knife in the other, looked up at the President's box. Handkerchiefs were waving all over the bull-ring. The President looked down from the box and waved his handkerchief. The brother cut the notched black ear from the dead bull and trotted over with it to Romero. The bull lay heavy and black on the sand, his tongue out. Boys were running toward him from all parts of the arena, making a little circle around him. They were starting to dance around the bull. Romero took the ear from his brother and held it up toward the President. The President bowed and Romero, running to get ahead of the crowd, came toward us. He leaned up against the barrera and gave the ear to Brett. He nodded his head and smiled. The crowd were all about him. Brett held down the cape. "You liked it?" Romero called. Brett did not say anything. They looked at each other and smiled. Brett had the ear in her hand.<|quote|>"Don't get bloody,"</|quote|>Romero said, and grinned. The crowd wanted him. Several boys shouted at Brett. The crowd was the boys, the dancers, and the drunks. Romero turned and tried to get through the crowd. They were all around him trying to lift him and put him on their shoulders. He fought and twisted away, and started running, in the midst of them, toward the exit. He did not want to be carried on people's shoulders. But they held him and lifted him. It was uncomfortable and his legs were spraddled and his body was very sore. They were lifting him and all running toward the gate. He had his hand on somebody's shoulder. He looked around at us apologetically. The crowd, running, went out the gate with him. We all three went back to the hotel. Brett went up-stairs. Bill and I sat in the down-stairs dining-room and ate some hard-boiled eggs and drank several bottles of beer. Belmonte came down in his street clothes with his manager and two other men. They sat at the next table and ate. Belmonte ate very little. They were leaving on the seven o'clock train for Barcelona. Belmonte wore a blue-striped shirt and a dark | no brusqueness. And each pass as it reached the summit gave you a sudden ache inside. The crowd did not want it ever to be finished. The bull was squared on all four feet to be killed, and Romero killed directly below us. He killed not as he had been forced to by the last bull, but as he wanted to. He profiled directly in front of the bull, drew the sword out of the folds of the muleta and sighted along the blade. The bull watched him. Romero spoke to the bull and tapped one of his feet. The bull charged and Romero waited for the charge, the muleta held low, sighting along the blade, his feet firm. Then without taking a step forward, he became one with the bull, the sword was in high between the shoulders, the bull had followed the low-swung flannel, that disappeared as Romero lurched clear to the left, and it was over. The bull tried to go forward, his legs commenced to settle, he swung from side to side, hesitated, then went down on his knees, and Romero's older brother leaned forward behind him and drove a short knife into the bull's neck at the base of the horns. The first time he missed. He drove the knife in again, and the bull went over, twitching and rigid. Romero's brother, holding the bull's horn in one hand, the knife in the other, looked up at the President's box. Handkerchiefs were waving all over the bull-ring. The President looked down from the box and waved his handkerchief. The brother cut the notched black ear from the dead bull and trotted over with it to Romero. The bull lay heavy and black on the sand, his tongue out. Boys were running toward him from all parts of the arena, making a little circle around him. They were starting to dance around the bull. Romero took the ear from his brother and held it up toward the President. The President bowed and Romero, running to get ahead of the crowd, came toward us. He leaned up against the barrera and gave the ear to Brett. He nodded his head and smiled. The crowd were all about him. Brett held down the cape. "You liked it?" Romero called. Brett did not say anything. They looked at each other and smiled. Brett had the ear in her hand.<|quote|>"Don't get bloody,"</|quote|>Romero said, and grinned. The crowd wanted him. Several boys shouted at Brett. The crowd was the boys, the dancers, and the drunks. Romero turned and tried to get through the crowd. They were all around him trying to lift him and put him on their shoulders. He fought and twisted away, and started running, in the midst of them, toward the exit. He did not want to be carried on people's shoulders. But they held him and lifted him. It was uncomfortable and his legs were spraddled and his body was very sore. They were lifting him and all running toward the gate. He had his hand on somebody's shoulder. He looked around at us apologetically. The crowd, running, went out the gate with him. We all three went back to the hotel. Brett went up-stairs. Bill and I sat in the down-stairs dining-room and ate some hard-boiled eggs and drank several bottles of beer. Belmonte came down in his street clothes with his manager and two other men. They sat at the next table and ate. Belmonte ate very little. They were leaving on the seven o'clock train for Barcelona. Belmonte wore a blue-striped shirt and a dark suit, and ate soft-boiled eggs. The others ate a big meal. Belmonte did not talk. He only answered questions. Bill was tired after the bull-fight. So was I. We both took a bull-fight very hard. We sat and ate the eggs and I watched Belmonte and the people at his table. The men with him were tough-looking and businesslike. "Come on over to the caf ," Bill said. "I want an absinthe." It was the last day of the fiesta. Outside it was beginning to be cloudy again. The square was full of people and the fireworks experts were making up their set pieces for the night and covering them over with beech branches. Boys were watching. We passed stands of rockets with long bamboo stems. Outside the caf there was a great crowd. The music and the dancing were going on. The giants and the dwarfs were passing. "Where's Edna?" I asked Bill. "I don't know." We watched the beginning of the evening of the last night of the fiesta. The absinthe made everything seem better. I drank it without sugar in the dripping glass, and it was pleasantly bitter. "I feel sorry about Cohn," Bill said. "He had | of the sword had gone in between the bull's shoulders. Then the figure was broken. There was a little jolt as Romero came clear, and then he was standing, one hand up, facing the bull, his shirt ripped out from under his sleeve, the white blowing in the wind, and the bull, the red sword hilt tight between his shoulders, his head going down and his legs settling. "There he goes," Bill said. Romero was close enough so the bull could see him. His hand still up, he spoke to the bull. The bull gathered himself, then his head went forward and he went over slowly, then all over, suddenly, four feet in the air. They handed the sword to Romero, and carrying it blade down, the muleta in his other hand, he walked over to in front of the President's box, bowed, straightened, and came over to the barrera and handed over the sword and muleta. "Bad one," said the sword-handler. "He made me sweat," said Romero. He wiped off his face. The sword-handler handed him the water-jug. Romero wiped his lips. It hurt him to drink out of the jug. He did not look up at us. Marcial had a big day. They were still applauding him when Romero's last bull came in. It was the bull that had sprinted out and killed the man in the morning running. During Romero's first bull his hurt face had been very noticeable. Everything he did showed it. All the concentration of the awkwardly delicate working with the bull that could not see well brought it out. The fight with Cohn had not touched his spirit but his face had been smashed and his body hurt. He was wiping all that out now. Each thing that he did with this bull wiped that out a little cleaner. It was a good bull, a big bull, and with horns, and it turned and recharged easily and surely. He was what Romero wanted in bulls. When he had finished his work with the muleta and was ready to kill, the crowd made him go on. They did not want the bull killed yet, they did not want it to be over. Romero went on. It was like a course in bull-fighting. All the passes he linked up, all completed, all slow, templed and smooth. There were no tricks and no mystifications. There was no brusqueness. And each pass as it reached the summit gave you a sudden ache inside. The crowd did not want it ever to be finished. The bull was squared on all four feet to be killed, and Romero killed directly below us. He killed not as he had been forced to by the last bull, but as he wanted to. He profiled directly in front of the bull, drew the sword out of the folds of the muleta and sighted along the blade. The bull watched him. Romero spoke to the bull and tapped one of his feet. The bull charged and Romero waited for the charge, the muleta held low, sighting along the blade, his feet firm. Then without taking a step forward, he became one with the bull, the sword was in high between the shoulders, the bull had followed the low-swung flannel, that disappeared as Romero lurched clear to the left, and it was over. The bull tried to go forward, his legs commenced to settle, he swung from side to side, hesitated, then went down on his knees, and Romero's older brother leaned forward behind him and drove a short knife into the bull's neck at the base of the horns. The first time he missed. He drove the knife in again, and the bull went over, twitching and rigid. Romero's brother, holding the bull's horn in one hand, the knife in the other, looked up at the President's box. Handkerchiefs were waving all over the bull-ring. The President looked down from the box and waved his handkerchief. The brother cut the notched black ear from the dead bull and trotted over with it to Romero. The bull lay heavy and black on the sand, his tongue out. Boys were running toward him from all parts of the arena, making a little circle around him. They were starting to dance around the bull. Romero took the ear from his brother and held it up toward the President. The President bowed and Romero, running to get ahead of the crowd, came toward us. He leaned up against the barrera and gave the ear to Brett. He nodded his head and smiled. The crowd were all about him. Brett held down the cape. "You liked it?" Romero called. Brett did not say anything. They looked at each other and smiled. Brett had the ear in her hand.<|quote|>"Don't get bloody,"</|quote|>Romero said, and grinned. The crowd wanted him. Several boys shouted at Brett. The crowd was the boys, the dancers, and the drunks. Romero turned and tried to get through the crowd. They were all around him trying to lift him and put him on their shoulders. He fought and twisted away, and started running, in the midst of them, toward the exit. He did not want to be carried on people's shoulders. But they held him and lifted him. It was uncomfortable and his legs were spraddled and his body was very sore. They were lifting him and all running toward the gate. He had his hand on somebody's shoulder. He looked around at us apologetically. The crowd, running, went out the gate with him. We all three went back to the hotel. Brett went up-stairs. Bill and I sat in the down-stairs dining-room and ate some hard-boiled eggs and drank several bottles of beer. Belmonte came down in his street clothes with his manager and two other men. They sat at the next table and ate. Belmonte ate very little. They were leaving on the seven o'clock train for Barcelona. Belmonte wore a blue-striped shirt and a dark suit, and ate soft-boiled eggs. The others ate a big meal. Belmonte did not talk. He only answered questions. Bill was tired after the bull-fight. So was I. We both took a bull-fight very hard. We sat and ate the eggs and I watched Belmonte and the people at his table. The men with him were tough-looking and businesslike. "Come on over to the caf ," Bill said. "I want an absinthe." It was the last day of the fiesta. Outside it was beginning to be cloudy again. The square was full of people and the fireworks experts were making up their set pieces for the night and covering them over with beech branches. Boys were watching. We passed stands of rockets with long bamboo stems. Outside the caf there was a great crowd. The music and the dancing were going on. The giants and the dwarfs were passing. "Where's Edna?" I asked Bill. "I don't know." We watched the beginning of the evening of the last night of the fiesta. The absinthe made everything seem better. I drank it without sugar in the dripping glass, and it was pleasantly bitter. "I feel sorry about Cohn," Bill said. "He had an awful time." "Oh, to hell with Cohn," I said. "Where do you suppose he went?" "Up to Paris." "What do you suppose he'll do?" "Oh, to hell with him." "What do you suppose he'll do?" "Pick up with his old girl, probably." "Who was his old girl?" "Somebody named Frances." We had another absinthe. "When do you go back?" I asked. "To-morrow." After a little while Bill said: "Well, it was a swell fiesta." "Yes," I said; "something doing all the time." "You wouldn't believe it. It's like a wonderful nightmare." "Sure," I said. "I'd believe anything. Including nightmares." "What's the matter? Feel low?" "Low as hell." "Have another absinthe. Here, waiter! Another absinthe for this se or." "I feel like hell," I said. "Drink that," said Bill. "Drink it slow." It was beginning to get dark. The fiesta was going on. I began to feel drunk but I did not feel any better. "How do you feel?" "I feel like hell." "Have another?" "It won't do any good." "Try it. You can't tell; maybe this is the one that gets it. Hey, waiter! Another absinthe for this se or!" I poured the water directly into it and stirred it instead of letting it drip. Bill put in a lump of ice. I stirred the ice around with a spoon in the brownish, cloudy mixture. "How is it?" "Fine." "Don't drink it fast that way. It will make you sick." I set down the glass. I had not meant to drink it fast. "I feel tight." "You ought to." "That's what you wanted, wasn't it?" "Sure. Get tight. Get over your damn depression." "Well, I'm tight. Is that what you want?" "Sit down." "I won't sit down," I said. "I'm going over to the hotel." I was very drunk. I was drunker than I ever remembered having been. At the hotel I went up-stairs. Brett's door was open. I put my head in the room. Mike was sitting on the bed. He waved a bottle. "Jake," he said. "Come in, Jake." I went in and sat down. The room was unstable unless I looked at some fixed point. "Brett, you know. She's gone off with the bull-fighter chap." "No." "Yes. She looked for you to say good-bye. They went on the seven o'clock train." "Did they?" "Bad thing to do," Mike said. "She shouldn't have done it." "No." "Have | muleta and sighted along the blade. The bull watched him. Romero spoke to the bull and tapped one of his feet. The bull charged and Romero waited for the charge, the muleta held low, sighting along the blade, his feet firm. Then without taking a step forward, he became one with the bull, the sword was in high between the shoulders, the bull had followed the low-swung flannel, that disappeared as Romero lurched clear to the left, and it was over. The bull tried to go forward, his legs commenced to settle, he swung from side to side, hesitated, then went down on his knees, and Romero's older brother leaned forward behind him and drove a short knife into the bull's neck at the base of the horns. The first time he missed. He drove the knife in again, and the bull went over, twitching and rigid. Romero's brother, holding the bull's horn in one hand, the knife in the other, looked up at the President's box. Handkerchiefs were waving all over the bull-ring. The President looked down from the box and waved his handkerchief. The brother cut the notched black ear from the dead bull and trotted over with it to Romero. The bull lay heavy and black on the sand, his tongue out. Boys were running toward him from all parts of the arena, making a little circle around him. They were starting to dance around the bull. Romero took the ear from his brother and held it up toward the President. The President bowed and Romero, running to get ahead of the crowd, came toward us. He leaned up against the barrera and gave the ear to Brett. He nodded his head and smiled. The crowd were all about him. Brett held down the cape. "You liked it?" Romero called. Brett did not say anything. They looked at each other and smiled. Brett had the ear in her hand.<|quote|>"Don't get bloody,"</|quote|>Romero said, and grinned. The crowd wanted him. Several boys shouted at Brett. The crowd was the boys, the dancers, and the drunks. Romero turned and tried to get through the crowd. They were all around him trying to lift him and put him on their shoulders. He fought and twisted away, and started running, in the midst of them, toward the exit. He did not want to be carried on people's shoulders. But they held him and lifted him. It was uncomfortable and his legs were spraddled and his body was very sore. They were lifting him and all running toward the gate. He had his hand on somebody's shoulder. He looked around at us apologetically. The crowd, running, went out the gate with him. We all three went back to the hotel. Brett went up-stairs. Bill and I sat in the down-stairs dining-room and ate some hard-boiled eggs and drank several bottles of beer. Belmonte came down in his street clothes with his manager and two other men. They sat at the next table and ate. Belmonte ate very little. They were leaving on the seven o'clock train for Barcelona. Belmonte wore a blue-striped shirt and a dark suit, and ate soft-boiled eggs. The others ate a big meal. Belmonte did not talk. He only answered questions. Bill was tired after the bull-fight. So was I. We both took a bull-fight very hard. We sat and ate the eggs and I watched Belmonte and the people at his table. The men with him were tough-looking and businesslike. "Come on over to the caf ," Bill said. "I want an absinthe." It was the last day of the fiesta. Outside it was beginning to be cloudy again. The square was full of people and the fireworks experts were making up their set pieces for the night and covering them | The Sun Also Rises |
"Save us!" | Mrs. Bedwin | drawing it round his neck.<|quote|>"Save us!"</|quote|>said the old lady, with | withered hand in hers, and drawing it round his neck.<|quote|>"Save us!"</|quote|>said the old lady, with tears in her eyes. "What | a dear!" With those words, the old lady very gently placed Oliver's head upon the pillow; and, smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and loving in his face, that he could not help placing his little withered hand in hers, and drawing it round his neck.<|quote|>"Save us!"</|quote|>said the old lady, with tears in her eyes. "What a grateful little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel if she had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!" "Perhaps she does see me," whispered Oliver, folding his hands together; "perhaps she | from an arm-chair close by, in which she had been sitting at needle-work. "Hush, my dear," said the old lady softly. "You must be very quiet, or you will be ill again; and you have been very bad, as bad as bad could be, pretty nigh. Lie down again; there's a dear!" With those words, the old lady very gently placed Oliver's head upon the pillow; and, smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and loving in his face, that he could not help placing his little withered hand in hers, and drawing it round his neck.<|quote|>"Save us!"</|quote|>said the old lady, with tears in her eyes. "What a grateful little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel if she had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!" "Perhaps she does see me," whispered Oliver, folding his hands together; "perhaps she has sat by me. I almost feel as if she had." "That was the fever, my dear," said the old lady mildly. "I suppose it was," replied Oliver, "because heaven is a long way off; and they are too happy there, to come down to the bedside of a poor | pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to have been a long and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in the bed, with his head resting on his trembling arm, he looked anxiously around. "What room is this? Where have I been brought to?" said Oliver. "This is not the place I went to sleep in." He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and weak; but they were overheard at once. The curtain at the bed's head was hastily drawn back, and a motherly old lady, very neatly and precisely dressed, rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair close by, in which she had been sitting at needle-work. "Hush, my dear," said the old lady softly. "You must be very quiet, or you will be ill again; and you have been very bad, as bad as bad could be, pretty nigh. Lie down again; there's a dear!" With those words, the old lady very gently placed Oliver's head upon the pillow; and, smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and loving in his face, that he could not help placing his little withered hand in hers, and drawing it round his neck.<|quote|>"Save us!"</|quote|>said the old lady, with tears in her eyes. "What a grateful little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel if she had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!" "Perhaps she does see me," whispered Oliver, folding his hands together; "perhaps she has sat by me. I almost feel as if she had." "That was the fever, my dear," said the old lady mildly. "I suppose it was," replied Oliver, "because heaven is a long way off; and they are too happy there, to come down to the bedside of a poor boy. But if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me, even there; for she was very ill herself before she died. She can't know anything about me though," added Oliver after a moment's silence. "If she had seen me hurt, it would have made her sorrowful; and her face has always looked sweet and happy, when I have dreamed of her." The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first, and her spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were part and parcel of those features, brought some cool stuff | keeper got into the coach; and away they drove. CHAPTER XII. IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. AND IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE REVERTS TO THE MERRY OLD GENTLEMAN AND HIS YOUTHFUL FRIENDS. The coach rattled away, over nearly the same ground as that which Oliver had traversed when he first entered London in company with the Dodger; and, turning a different way when it reached the Angel at Islington, stopped at length before a neat house, in a quiet shady street near Pentonville. Here, a bed was prepared, without loss of time, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his young charge carefully and comfortably deposited; and here, he was tended with a kindness and solicitude that knew no bounds. But, for many days, Oliver remained insensible to all the goodness of his new friends. The sun rose and sank, and rose and sank again, and many times after that; and still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy bed, dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever. The worm does not work more surely on the dead body, than does this slow creeping fire upon the living frame. Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to have been a long and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in the bed, with his head resting on his trembling arm, he looked anxiously around. "What room is this? Where have I been brought to?" said Oliver. "This is not the place I went to sleep in." He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and weak; but they were overheard at once. The curtain at the bed's head was hastily drawn back, and a motherly old lady, very neatly and precisely dressed, rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair close by, in which she had been sitting at needle-work. "Hush, my dear," said the old lady softly. "You must be very quiet, or you will be ill again; and you have been very bad, as bad as bad could be, pretty nigh. Lie down again; there's a dear!" With those words, the old lady very gently placed Oliver's head upon the pillow; and, smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and loving in his face, that he could not help placing his little withered hand in hers, and drawing it round his neck.<|quote|>"Save us!"</|quote|>said the old lady, with tears in her eyes. "What a grateful little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel if she had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!" "Perhaps she does see me," whispered Oliver, folding his hands together; "perhaps she has sat by me. I almost feel as if she had." "That was the fever, my dear," said the old lady mildly. "I suppose it was," replied Oliver, "because heaven is a long way off; and they are too happy there, to come down to the bedside of a poor boy. But if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me, even there; for she was very ill herself before she died. She can't know anything about me though," added Oliver after a moment's silence. "If she had seen me hurt, it would have made her sorrowful; and her face has always looked sweet and happy, when I have dreamed of her." The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first, and her spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were part and parcel of those features, brought some cool stuff for Oliver to drink; and then, patting him on the cheek, told him he must lie very quiet, or he would be ill again. So, Oliver kept very still; partly because he was anxious to obey the kind old lady in all things; and partly, to tell the truth, because he was completely exhausted with what he had already said. He soon fell into a gentle doze, from which he was awakened by the light of a candle: which, being brought near the bed, showed him a gentleman with a very large and loud-ticking gold watch in his hand, who felt his pulse, and said he was a great deal better. "You _are_ a great deal better, are you not, my dear?" said the gentleman. "Yes, thank you, sir," replied Oliver. "Yes, I know you are," said the gentleman: "You're hungry too, an't you?" "No, sir," answered Oliver. "Hem!" said the gentleman. "No, I know you're not. He is not hungry, Mrs. Bedwin," said the gentleman: looking very wise. The old lady made a respectful inclination of the head, which seemed to say that she thought the doctor was a very clever man. The doctor appeared much of the same | Having by this time recovered a little breath, the worthy book-stall keeper proceeded to relate, in a more coherent manner the exact circumstances of the robbery. "Why didn't you come here before?" said Fang, after a pause. "I hadn't a soul to mind the shop," replied the man. "Everybody who could have helped me, had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobody till five minutes ago; and I've run here all the way." "The prosecutor was reading, was he?" inquired Fang, after another pause. "Yes," replied the man. "The very book he has in his hand." "Oh, that book, eh?" said Fang. "Is it paid for?" "No, it is not," replied the man, with a smile. "Dear me, I forgot all about it!" exclaimed the absent old gentleman, innocently. "A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!" said Fang, with a comical effort to look humane. "I consider, sir, that you have obtained possession of that book, under very suspicious and disreputable circumstances; and you may think yourself very fortunate that the owner of the property declines to prosecute. Let this be a lesson to you, my man, or the law will overtake you yet. The boy is discharged. Clear the office!" "D n me!" cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had kept down so long, "d n me! I'll" "Clear the office!" said the magistrate. "Officers, do you hear? Clear the office!" The mandate was obeyed; and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was conveyed out, with the book in one hand, and the bamboo cane in the other: in a perfect phrenzy of rage and defiance. He reached the yard; and his passion vanished in a moment. Little Oliver Twist lay on his back on the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned, and his temples bathed with water; his face a deadly white; and a cold tremble convulsing his whole frame. "Poor boy, poor boy!" said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. "Call a coach, somebody, pray. Directly!" A coach was obtained, and Oliver having been carefully laid on the seat, the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other. "May I accompany you?" said the book-stall keeper, looking in. "Bless me, yes, my dear sir," said Mr. Brownlow quickly. "I forgot you. Dear, dear! I have this unhappy book still! Jump in. Poor fellow! There's no time to lose." The book-stall keeper got into the coach; and away they drove. CHAPTER XII. IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. AND IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE REVERTS TO THE MERRY OLD GENTLEMAN AND HIS YOUTHFUL FRIENDS. The coach rattled away, over nearly the same ground as that which Oliver had traversed when he first entered London in company with the Dodger; and, turning a different way when it reached the Angel at Islington, stopped at length before a neat house, in a quiet shady street near Pentonville. Here, a bed was prepared, without loss of time, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his young charge carefully and comfortably deposited; and here, he was tended with a kindness and solicitude that knew no bounds. But, for many days, Oliver remained insensible to all the goodness of his new friends. The sun rose and sank, and rose and sank again, and many times after that; and still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy bed, dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever. The worm does not work more surely on the dead body, than does this slow creeping fire upon the living frame. Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to have been a long and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in the bed, with his head resting on his trembling arm, he looked anxiously around. "What room is this? Where have I been brought to?" said Oliver. "This is not the place I went to sleep in." He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and weak; but they were overheard at once. The curtain at the bed's head was hastily drawn back, and a motherly old lady, very neatly and precisely dressed, rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair close by, in which she had been sitting at needle-work. "Hush, my dear," said the old lady softly. "You must be very quiet, or you will be ill again; and you have been very bad, as bad as bad could be, pretty nigh. Lie down again; there's a dear!" With those words, the old lady very gently placed Oliver's head upon the pillow; and, smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and loving in his face, that he could not help placing his little withered hand in hers, and drawing it round his neck.<|quote|>"Save us!"</|quote|>said the old lady, with tears in her eyes. "What a grateful little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel if she had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!" "Perhaps she does see me," whispered Oliver, folding his hands together; "perhaps she has sat by me. I almost feel as if she had." "That was the fever, my dear," said the old lady mildly. "I suppose it was," replied Oliver, "because heaven is a long way off; and they are too happy there, to come down to the bedside of a poor boy. But if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me, even there; for she was very ill herself before she died. She can't know anything about me though," added Oliver after a moment's silence. "If she had seen me hurt, it would have made her sorrowful; and her face has always looked sweet and happy, when I have dreamed of her." The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first, and her spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were part and parcel of those features, brought some cool stuff for Oliver to drink; and then, patting him on the cheek, told him he must lie very quiet, or he would be ill again. So, Oliver kept very still; partly because he was anxious to obey the kind old lady in all things; and partly, to tell the truth, because he was completely exhausted with what he had already said. He soon fell into a gentle doze, from which he was awakened by the light of a candle: which, being brought near the bed, showed him a gentleman with a very large and loud-ticking gold watch in his hand, who felt his pulse, and said he was a great deal better. "You _are_ a great deal better, are you not, my dear?" said the gentleman. "Yes, thank you, sir," replied Oliver. "Yes, I know you are," said the gentleman: "You're hungry too, an't you?" "No, sir," answered Oliver. "Hem!" said the gentleman. "No, I know you're not. He is not hungry, Mrs. Bedwin," said the gentleman: looking very wise. The old lady made a respectful inclination of the head, which seemed to say that she thought the doctor was a very clever man. The doctor appeared much of the same opinion himself. "You feel sleepy, don't you, my dear?" said the doctor. "No, sir," replied Oliver. "No," said the doctor, with a very shrewd and satisfied look. "You're not sleepy. Nor thirsty. Are you?" "Yes, sir, rather thirsty," answered Oliver. "Just as I expected, Mrs. Bedwin," said the doctor. "It's very natural that he should be thirsty. You may give him a little tea, ma'am, and some dry toast without any butter. Don't keep him too warm, ma'am; but be careful that you don't let him be too cold; will you have the goodness?" The old lady dropped a curtsey. The doctor, after tasting the cool stuff, and expressing a qualified approval of it, hurried away: his boots creaking in a very important and wealthy manner as he went downstairs. Oliver dozed off again, soon after this; when he awoke, it was nearly twelve o'clock. The old lady tenderly bade him good-night shortly afterwards, and left him in charge of a fat old woman who had just come: bringing with her, in a little bundle, a small Prayer Book and a large nightcap. Putting the latter on her head and the former on the table, the old woman, after telling Oliver that she had come to sit up with him, drew her chair close to the fire and went off into a series of short naps, chequered at frequent intervals with sundry tumblings forward, and divers moans and chokings. These, however, had no worse effect than causing her to rub her nose very hard, and then fall asleep again. And thus the night crept slowly on. Oliver lay awake for some time, counting the little circles of light which the reflection of the rushlight-shade threw upon the ceiling; or tracing with his languid eyes the intricate pattern of the paper on the wall. The darkness and the deep stillness of the room were very solemn; as they brought into the boy's mind the thought that death had been hovering there, for many days and nights, and might yet fill it with the gloom and dread of his awful presence, he turned his face upon the pillow, and fervently prayed to Heaven. Gradually, he fell into that deep tranquil sleep which ease from recent suffering alone imparts; that calm and peaceful rest which it is pain to wake from. Who, if this were death, would be roused again to all the | The book-stall keeper got into the coach; and away they drove. CHAPTER XII. IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. AND IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE REVERTS TO THE MERRY OLD GENTLEMAN AND HIS YOUTHFUL FRIENDS. The coach rattled away, over nearly the same ground as that which Oliver had traversed when he first entered London in company with the Dodger; and, turning a different way when it reached the Angel at Islington, stopped at length before a neat house, in a quiet shady street near Pentonville. Here, a bed was prepared, without loss of time, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his young charge carefully and comfortably deposited; and here, he was tended with a kindness and solicitude that knew no bounds. But, for many days, Oliver remained insensible to all the goodness of his new friends. The sun rose and sank, and rose and sank again, and many times after that; and still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy bed, dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever. The worm does not work more surely on the dead body, than does this slow creeping fire upon the living frame. Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to have been a long and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in the bed, with his head resting on his trembling arm, he looked anxiously around. "What room is this? Where have I been brought to?" said Oliver. "This is not the place I went to sleep in." He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and weak; but they were overheard at once. The curtain at the bed's head was hastily drawn back, and a motherly old lady, very neatly and precisely dressed, rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair close by, in which she had been sitting at needle-work. "Hush, my dear," said the old lady softly. "You must be very quiet, or you will be ill again; and you have been very bad, as bad as bad could be, pretty nigh. Lie down again; there's a dear!" With those words, the old lady very gently placed Oliver's head upon the pillow; and, smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and loving in his face, that he could not help placing his little withered hand in hers, and drawing it round his neck.<|quote|>"Save us!"</|quote|>said the old lady, with tears in her eyes. "What a grateful little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel if she had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!" "Perhaps she does see me," whispered Oliver, folding his hands together; "perhaps she has sat by me. I almost feel as if she had." "That was the fever, my dear," said the old lady mildly. "I suppose it was," replied Oliver, "because heaven is a long way off; and they are too happy there, to come down to the bedside of a poor boy. But if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me, even there; for she was very ill herself before she died. She can't know anything about me though," added Oliver after a moment's silence. "If she had seen me hurt, it would have made her sorrowful; and her face has always looked sweet and happy, when I have dreamed of her." The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first, and her spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were part and parcel of those features, brought some cool stuff for Oliver to drink; and then, patting him on the cheek, told him he must lie very quiet, or he would be ill again. So, Oliver kept very still; partly because he was anxious to obey the kind old lady in all things; and partly, to tell the truth, because he was completely exhausted with what he had already said. He soon fell into a gentle doze, from which he was awakened by the light of a candle: which, being brought near the bed, showed him a gentleman with a very large and loud-ticking gold watch in his hand, who felt his pulse, and said he was a great deal better. "You _are_ a great deal better, are you not, my dear?" said the gentleman. "Yes, thank you, sir," replied Oliver. "Yes, I know you are," said the gentleman: "You're hungry too, an't you?" "No, sir," answered Oliver. "Hem!" said the gentleman. "No, I know you're not. He is not hungry, Mrs. Bedwin," said the gentleman: looking very wise. The old lady made a respectful inclination of the head, which seemed to say that she thought the doctor was | Oliver Twist |
"Not a bit, sir." | Jem Wimble | be stupid. What's the good?"<|quote|>"Not a bit, sir."</|quote|>"But my uncle--my mother, what | Jem grimly; "I'd holloa." "Don't be stupid. What's the good?"<|quote|>"Not a bit, sir."</|quote|>"But my uncle--my mother, what will they think?" "I'll tell | "I did, sir. They'd press the monkeys out of a wild beast show if they got the chance." "But what are we to do?" "I d'know, sir." "We must let my uncle know at once." "Yes, sir, I would," said Jem grimly; "I'd holloa." "Don't be stupid. What's the good?"<|quote|>"Not a bit, sir."</|quote|>"But my uncle--my mother, what will they think?" "I'll tell yer, sir." "Yes?" "They'll think you've run away, so as not to have to go 'fore the magistrates." "Jem, what are you saying? Think I'm a thief?" "I didn't say that, sir; but so sure as you don't go home, | door, which was banged in his face, and locked. "The cowards!" panted Don, as he stood there in the darkness. "Why, Jem!" "Yes, Mas' Don." "They won't let us go." "No, Mas' Don, that they won't." "I never thought the press-gang would dare to do such a thing as this." "I did, sir. They'd press the monkeys out of a wild beast show if they got the chance." "But what are we to do?" "I d'know, sir." "We must let my uncle know at once." "Yes, sir, I would," said Jem grimly; "I'd holloa." "Don't be stupid. What's the good?"<|quote|>"Not a bit, sir."</|quote|>"But my uncle--my mother, what will they think?" "I'll tell yer, sir." "Yes?" "They'll think you've run away, so as not to have to go 'fore the magistrates." "Jem, what are you saying? Think I'm a thief?" "I didn't say that, sir; but so sure as you don't go home, they'll think you've cut away." "Jem!" cried Don in a despairing voice, as he recalled the bundle he had made up, and the drawer left open. "Well, sir, you was allus a-wanting to go abroad, and get away from the desk," said Jem ill-naturedly-- "oh, how my head do ache!--and | boy! That's right; but we're English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that." He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem. "You'll do," he said. "I thought we'd let you go, because you're such a boy, but you've got the pluck of a man, and you'll soon grow." He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed at him again, but only flung himself against the door, which was banged in his face, and locked. "The cowards!" panted Don, as he stood there in the darkness. "Why, Jem!" "Yes, Mas' Don." "They won't let us go." "No, Mas' Don, that they won't." "I never thought the press-gang would dare to do such a thing as this." "I did, sir. They'd press the monkeys out of a wild beast show if they got the chance." "But what are we to do?" "I d'know, sir." "We must let my uncle know at once." "Yes, sir, I would," said Jem grimly; "I'd holloa." "Don't be stupid. What's the good?"<|quote|>"Not a bit, sir."</|quote|>"But my uncle--my mother, what will they think?" "I'll tell yer, sir." "Yes?" "They'll think you've run away, so as not to have to go 'fore the magistrates." "Jem, what are you saying? Think I'm a thief?" "I didn't say that, sir; but so sure as you don't go home, they'll think you've cut away." "Jem!" cried Don in a despairing voice, as he recalled the bundle he had made up, and the drawer left open. "Well, sir, you was allus a-wanting to go abroad, and get away from the desk," said Jem ill-naturedly-- "oh, how my head do ache!--and now you've got your chance." "But that was all nonsense, Jem. I was only thinking then like a stupid, discontented boy. I don't want to go. What will they say?" "Dunno what they'll say," said Jem dolefully, "but I know what my Sally will say. I used to talk about going and leaving her, but that was because I too was a hidyut. I didn't want to go and leave her, poor little lass. Too fond on her, Mas' Don. She only shows a bit o' temper." "Jem, she'll think you've run away and deserted her." "Safe, Mas' Don. You | were seized, and he was held back, struggling hard. "Ah, I wish we had fifty of you," said the bluff man. "Don't hurt him, my lads. There, there, steady; you can't do anything. That will do. Save your strength to fight for the king." "You cowards!" cried Jem, who suddenly turned so faint that the men easily mastered him, laid him on his back, and one held him down, while another held Don till the rest had passed out, the bluff man only standing at the entrance with another holding up the light. "Come along," he shouted; and the man who held Jem left him, and ran out. "Do you hear?" cried the bluff man again. "Come along!" "How can I, when he's sticking on like a rat?" growled the man who held Don. "Did you ever see such a young ruffian?" The bluff man took a stride or two forward, gripped Don by the shoulder, and forced him from his hold. "Don't be a young fool," he said firmly, but not unkindly. "It's plucky, but it's no good. Can't you see we're seven to one?" "I don't care if you're a hundred," raged Don, struggling hard, but vainly. "Bravo, boy! That's right; but we're English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that." He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem. "You'll do," he said. "I thought we'd let you go, because you're such a boy, but you've got the pluck of a man, and you'll soon grow." He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed at him again, but only flung himself against the door, which was banged in his face, and locked. "The cowards!" panted Don, as he stood there in the darkness. "Why, Jem!" "Yes, Mas' Don." "They won't let us go." "No, Mas' Don, that they won't." "I never thought the press-gang would dare to do such a thing as this." "I did, sir. They'd press the monkeys out of a wild beast show if they got the chance." "But what are we to do?" "I d'know, sir." "We must let my uncle know at once." "Yes, sir, I would," said Jem grimly; "I'd holloa." "Don't be stupid. What's the good?"<|quote|>"Not a bit, sir."</|quote|>"But my uncle--my mother, what will they think?" "I'll tell yer, sir." "Yes?" "They'll think you've run away, so as not to have to go 'fore the magistrates." "Jem, what are you saying? Think I'm a thief?" "I didn't say that, sir; but so sure as you don't go home, they'll think you've cut away." "Jem!" cried Don in a despairing voice, as he recalled the bundle he had made up, and the drawer left open. "Well, sir, you was allus a-wanting to go abroad, and get away from the desk," said Jem ill-naturedly-- "oh, how my head do ache!--and now you've got your chance." "But that was all nonsense, Jem. I was only thinking then like a stupid, discontented boy. I don't want to go. What will they say?" "Dunno what they'll say," said Jem dolefully, "but I know what my Sally will say. I used to talk about going and leaving her, but that was because I too was a hidyut. I didn't want to go and leave her, poor little lass. Too fond on her, Mas' Don. She only shows a bit o' temper." "Jem, she'll think you've run away and deserted her." "Safe, Mas' Don. You see, I made up a bundle o' wittles as if I was a-going, and she saw me take it out under my arm, and she called to me to stop, but I wouldn't, because I was so waxy." "And I made up a bundle too, Jem. I--I did half think of going away." "Then you've done it now, my lad. My Sally will think I've forsook her." "And they at home will think of me as a thief. Oh, fool--fool--fool!" "What's the use o' calling yourself a fool, Mas' Don, when you means me all the time? Oh, my head, my head!" "Jem, we must escape." "Escape? I on'y wish we could. Oh, my head: how it do ache." "They will take us off to the tender, and then away in some ship, and they will not know at home where we are gone Jem, get up." "What's the good, sir? My head feels like feet, and if I tried to stand up I should go down flop!" "Let me help you, Jem. Here, give me your hand. How dark it is? Where's your hand?" "Gently, my lad; that's my hye. Arn't much use here in the dark, but may | it," said one of the sailors; "he fote so hard. So did this young chap too." "Nothing wrong with him, I daresay," said the bluff man. "No bones broken. All right in a day or two." Don had been silent while Jem was examined, for he felt that this man was either a doctor, or one who knew something about surgery; but as soon as he had finished, the boy, whose indignation had been growing, turned to him haughtily. "Now, sir!" he exclaimed, "have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage." "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" cried the bluff man. "It is nothing to laugh at, sir. I insist upon knowing why we have been ill-used and dragged here by your men." "Well crowed, my young cockerel," said the bluff man, laughing. "They said you fought well with your fists, so you can with your tongue." "Insulting us now you have us down will not save you," cried Don fiercely. "No, my lord," said the bluff man, as Jem rose up, shook his head, and stood by Don. The men laughed. "You coward!" cried Don in hot anger; "but you shall all suffer for it. My uncle will set the law to work, and have you all punished." "Really, this is growing serious," said the bluff man in mock alarm. "You will find it no laughing matter. You have made a mistake this time; so now let us go at once." "Well, I would with pleasure, my noble captain," said the bluff man, with mock solemnity; "but his Majesty is in sore need just now of some dashing young fellows who can fight; and he said to our first lieutenant, `short of men, Mr Morrison? Dear me, are you? Well then, the best thing you can do is to send round Bristol city, and persuade a few of the brave and daring young fellows there to come on board my good ship _Great Briton_, and help me till I've settled my quarrel with my enemies,' so we have persuaded you." "You are adding insult to what you have done, sir. Now let us pass. You and your miserable press-gang shall smart for this. Stand aside, sir." "What, after taking all this trouble? Hardly." "Here, I'm all right again now, Mas' Don. Press-gang, eh?" cried Jem. "Here, let me get at him." Jem made a dash at the bluff man, but his arms were seized, and he was held back, struggling hard. "Ah, I wish we had fifty of you," said the bluff man. "Don't hurt him, my lads. There, there, steady; you can't do anything. That will do. Save your strength to fight for the king." "You cowards!" cried Jem, who suddenly turned so faint that the men easily mastered him, laid him on his back, and one held him down, while another held Don till the rest had passed out, the bluff man only standing at the entrance with another holding up the light. "Come along," he shouted; and the man who held Jem left him, and ran out. "Do you hear?" cried the bluff man again. "Come along!" "How can I, when he's sticking on like a rat?" growled the man who held Don. "Did you ever see such a young ruffian?" The bluff man took a stride or two forward, gripped Don by the shoulder, and forced him from his hold. "Don't be a young fool," he said firmly, but not unkindly. "It's plucky, but it's no good. Can't you see we're seven to one?" "I don't care if you're a hundred," raged Don, struggling hard, but vainly. "Bravo, boy! That's right; but we're English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that." He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem. "You'll do," he said. "I thought we'd let you go, because you're such a boy, but you've got the pluck of a man, and you'll soon grow." He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed at him again, but only flung himself against the door, which was banged in his face, and locked. "The cowards!" panted Don, as he stood there in the darkness. "Why, Jem!" "Yes, Mas' Don." "They won't let us go." "No, Mas' Don, that they won't." "I never thought the press-gang would dare to do such a thing as this." "I did, sir. They'd press the monkeys out of a wild beast show if they got the chance." "But what are we to do?" "I d'know, sir." "We must let my uncle know at once." "Yes, sir, I would," said Jem grimly; "I'd holloa." "Don't be stupid. What's the good?"<|quote|>"Not a bit, sir."</|quote|>"But my uncle--my mother, what will they think?" "I'll tell yer, sir." "Yes?" "They'll think you've run away, so as not to have to go 'fore the magistrates." "Jem, what are you saying? Think I'm a thief?" "I didn't say that, sir; but so sure as you don't go home, they'll think you've cut away." "Jem!" cried Don in a despairing voice, as he recalled the bundle he had made up, and the drawer left open. "Well, sir, you was allus a-wanting to go abroad, and get away from the desk," said Jem ill-naturedly-- "oh, how my head do ache!--and now you've got your chance." "But that was all nonsense, Jem. I was only thinking then like a stupid, discontented boy. I don't want to go. What will they say?" "Dunno what they'll say," said Jem dolefully, "but I know what my Sally will say. I used to talk about going and leaving her, but that was because I too was a hidyut. I didn't want to go and leave her, poor little lass. Too fond on her, Mas' Don. She only shows a bit o' temper." "Jem, she'll think you've run away and deserted her." "Safe, Mas' Don. You see, I made up a bundle o' wittles as if I was a-going, and she saw me take it out under my arm, and she called to me to stop, but I wouldn't, because I was so waxy." "And I made up a bundle too, Jem. I--I did half think of going away." "Then you've done it now, my lad. My Sally will think I've forsook her." "And they at home will think of me as a thief. Oh, fool--fool--fool!" "What's the use o' calling yourself a fool, Mas' Don, when you means me all the time? Oh, my head, my head!" "Jem, we must escape." "Escape? I on'y wish we could. Oh, my head: how it do ache." "They will take us off to the tender, and then away in some ship, and they will not know at home where we are gone Jem, get up." "What's the good, sir? My head feels like feet, and if I tried to stand up I should go down flop!" "Let me help you, Jem. Here, give me your hand. How dark it is? Where's your hand?" "Gently, my lad; that's my hye. Arn't much use here in the dark, but may want 'em by-and-by. That's better. Thank ye, sir. Here, hold tight." "Can't you stand, Jem?" "Stand, sir? Yes: but what's the matter? It's like being in a round-about at the fair." "You'll be better soon." "Better, sir? Well, I can't be worse. Oh, my head, my head! I wish I'd got him as did it headed up in one of our barrels, I'd give him such a roll up and down the ware'us floor as 'ud make him as giddy as me." "Now try and think, Jem," said Don excitedly. "They must not believe at home that we are such cowards as to run away." "No, sir; my Sally mustn't think that." "Then what shall we do?" "Try to get out, sir, of course." "Can you walk?" "Well, sir, if I can't, I'll crawl. What yer going to do?" "Try the door. Perhaps they have left it unlocked." "Not likely," said Jem. "Wish I'd got a candle. It's like being a rat in a box trap. It _is_ dark." "This way, Jem. Your hand." "All right, sir. Frontards: my hands don't grow out o' my back." "That's it. Now together. Let's get to the wall." There was a rustling noise and then a rattle. "Phew! Shins!" cried Jem. "Oh, dear me. That's barrel staves, I know the feel on 'em. Such sharp edges, Mas' Don. Mind you don't tread on the edge of a hoop, or it'll fly up and hit you right in the middle." _Flip_! "There, I told you so. Hurt you much, my lad?" "Not very much, Jem. Now then; feel your way with me. Let's go all round the place, perhaps there's another way out." "All right, sir. Well, it might be, but I say as it couldn't be darker than this if you was brown sugar, and shut up in a barrel in the middle o' the night." "Now I am touching the wall, Jem," said Don. "I'm going to feel all round. Can you hear anything?" "Only you speaking, my lad." "Come along then." "All right, Mas' Don. My head aches as if it was a tub with the cooper at work hammering of it." Don went slowly along the side of the great cellar, guiding himself in the intense darkness by running: his hands over the damp bricks; but there was nothing but bare wall till he had passed down two sides, and | trouble? Hardly." "Here, I'm all right again now, Mas' Don. Press-gang, eh?" cried Jem. "Here, let me get at him." Jem made a dash at the bluff man, but his arms were seized, and he was held back, struggling hard. "Ah, I wish we had fifty of you," said the bluff man. "Don't hurt him, my lads. There, there, steady; you can't do anything. That will do. Save your strength to fight for the king." "You cowards!" cried Jem, who suddenly turned so faint that the men easily mastered him, laid him on his back, and one held him down, while another held Don till the rest had passed out, the bluff man only standing at the entrance with another holding up the light. "Come along," he shouted; and the man who held Jem left him, and ran out. "Do you hear?" cried the bluff man again. "Come along!" "How can I, when he's sticking on like a rat?" growled the man who held Don. "Did you ever see such a young ruffian?" The bluff man took a stride or two forward, gripped Don by the shoulder, and forced him from his hold. "Don't be a young fool," he said firmly, but not unkindly. "It's plucky, but it's no good. Can't you see we're seven to one?" "I don't care if you're a hundred," raged Don, struggling hard, but vainly. "Bravo, boy! That's right; but we're English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that." He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem. "You'll do," he said. "I thought we'd let you go, because you're such a boy, but you've got the pluck of a man, and you'll soon grow." He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed at him again, but only flung himself against the door, which was banged in his face, and locked. "The cowards!" panted Don, as he stood there in the darkness. "Why, Jem!" "Yes, Mas' Don." "They won't let us go." "No, Mas' Don, that they won't." "I never thought the press-gang would dare to do such a thing as this." "I did, sir. They'd press the monkeys out of a wild beast show if they got the chance." "But what are we to do?" "I d'know, sir." "We must let my uncle know at once." "Yes, sir, I would," said Jem grimly; "I'd holloa." "Don't be stupid. What's the good?"<|quote|>"Not a bit, sir."</|quote|>"But my uncle--my mother, what will they think?" "I'll tell yer, sir." "Yes?" "They'll think you've run away, so as not to have to go 'fore the magistrates." "Jem, what are you saying? Think I'm a thief?" "I didn't say that, sir; but so sure as you don't go home, they'll think you've cut away." "Jem!" cried Don in a despairing voice, as he recalled the bundle he had made up, and the drawer left open. "Well, sir, you was allus a-wanting to go abroad, and get away from the desk," said Jem ill-naturedly-- "oh, how my head do ache!--and now you've got your chance." "But that was all nonsense, Jem. I was only thinking then like a stupid, discontented boy. I don't want to go. What will they say?" "Dunno what they'll say," said Jem dolefully, "but I know what my Sally will say. I used to talk about going and leaving her, but that was because I too was a hidyut. I didn't want to go and leave her, poor little lass. Too fond on her, Mas' Don. She only shows a bit o' temper." "Jem, she'll think you've run away and deserted her." "Safe, Mas' Don. You see, I made up a bundle o' wittles as if I was a-going, and she saw me take it out under my arm, and she called to me to stop, but I wouldn't, because I was so waxy." "And I made up a bundle too, Jem. I--I did half think of going away." "Then you've done it now, my lad. My Sally will think I've forsook her." "And they at home will think of me as a thief. Oh, fool--fool--fool!" "What's the use o' calling yourself a fool, Mas' Don, when you means me all the time? Oh, my head, my head!" "Jem, we must escape." "Escape? I on'y wish we could. Oh, my head: how it do ache." "They will take us off to the tender, and then away in some ship, and they will not know at home where we are gone Jem, get up." "What's the good, sir? My head feels like feet, and if I tried to stand up I should go down flop!" "Let me help you, Jem. Here, give me your hand. How dark it is? Where's your hand?" "Gently, my lad; that's my hye. Arn't much use here in the dark, but may want 'em by-and-by. That's better. Thank ye, sir. Here, hold tight." "Can't you stand, Jem?" "Stand, sir? Yes: but what's the matter? It's like being in a round-about at the | Don Lavington |
"Don't shed tears. I don't complain of you. You are an affectionate, earnest, good young woman and and we must make that do." | Thomas Gradgrind | shed tears," said Mr. Gradgrind.<|quote|>"Don't shed tears. I don't complain of you. You are an affectionate, earnest, good young woman and and we must make that do."</|quote|>"Thank you, sir, very much," | your protection of her." "Don't shed tears," said Mr. Gradgrind.<|quote|>"Don't shed tears. I don't complain of you. You are an affectionate, earnest, good young woman and and we must make that do."</|quote|>"Thank you, sir, very much," said Sissy, with a grateful | that we began too late. Still, as I have said already, I am disappointed." "I wish I could have made a better acknowledgment, sir, of your kindness to a poor forlorn girl who had no claim upon you, and of your protection of her." "Don't shed tears," said Mr. Gradgrind.<|quote|>"Don't shed tears. I don't complain of you. You are an affectionate, earnest, good young woman and and we must make that do."</|quote|>"Thank you, sir, very much," said Sissy, with a grateful curtsey. "You are useful to Mrs. Gradgrind, and (in a generally pervading way) you are serviceable in the family also; so I understand from Miss Louisa, and, indeed, so I have observed myself. I therefore hope," said Mr. Gradgrind, "that | and most eminently practical way. "No. The course you pursued, you pursued according to the system the system and there is no more to be said about it. I can only suppose that the circumstances of your early life were too unfavourable to the development of your reasoning powers, and that we began too late. Still, as I have said already, I am disappointed." "I wish I could have made a better acknowledgment, sir, of your kindness to a poor forlorn girl who had no claim upon you, and of your protection of her." "Don't shed tears," said Mr. Gradgrind.<|quote|>"Don't shed tears. I don't complain of you. You are an affectionate, earnest, good young woman and and we must make that do."</|quote|>"Thank you, sir, very much," said Sissy, with a grateful curtsey. "You are useful to Mrs. Gradgrind, and (in a generally pervading way) you are serviceable in the family also; so I understand from Miss Louisa, and, indeed, so I have observed myself. I therefore hope," said Mr. Gradgrind, "that you can make yourself happy in those relations." "I should have nothing to wish, sir, if" "I understand you," said Mr. Gradgrind; "you still refer to your father. I have heard from Miss Louisa that you still preserve that bottle. Well! If your training in the science of arriving at | limited. You are altogether backward, and below the mark." "I am sorry, sir," she returned; "but I know it is quite true. Yet I have tried hard, sir." "Yes," said Mr. Gradgrind, "yes, I believe you have tried hard; I have observed you, and I can find no fault in that respect." "Thank you, sir. I have thought sometimes;" Sissy very timid here; "that perhaps I tried to learn too much, and that if I had asked to be allowed to try a little less, I might have" "No, Jupe, no," said Mr. Gradgrind, shaking his head in his profoundest and most eminently practical way. "No. The course you pursued, you pursued according to the system the system and there is no more to be said about it. I can only suppose that the circumstances of your early life were too unfavourable to the development of your reasoning powers, and that we began too late. Still, as I have said already, I am disappointed." "I wish I could have made a better acknowledgment, sir, of your kindness to a poor forlorn girl who had no claim upon you, and of your protection of her." "Don't shed tears," said Mr. Gradgrind.<|quote|>"Don't shed tears. I don't complain of you. You are an affectionate, earnest, good young woman and and we must make that do."</|quote|>"Thank you, sir, very much," said Sissy, with a grateful curtsey. "You are useful to Mrs. Gradgrind, and (in a generally pervading way) you are serviceable in the family also; so I understand from Miss Louisa, and, indeed, so I have observed myself. I therefore hope," said Mr. Gradgrind, "that you can make yourself happy in those relations." "I should have nothing to wish, sir, if" "I understand you," said Mr. Gradgrind; "you still refer to your father. I have heard from Miss Louisa that you still preserve that bottle. Well! If your training in the science of arriving at exact results had been more successful, you would have been wiser on these points. I will say no more." He really liked Sissy too well to have a contempt for her; otherwise he held her calculating powers in such very slight estimation that he must have fallen upon that conclusion. Somehow or other, he had become possessed by an idea that there was something in this girl which could hardly be set forth in a tabular form. Her capacity of definition might be easily stated at a very low figure, her mathematical knowledge at nothing; yet he was not sure | a young man." Time passed Thomas on in the mill, while his father was thinking about it, and there he stood in a long-tailed coat and a stiff shirt-collar. "Really," said Mr. Gradgrind, "the period has arrived when Thomas ought to go to Bounderby." Time, sticking to him, passed him on into Bounderby's Bank, made him an inmate of Bounderby's house, necessitated the purchase of his first razor, and exercised him diligently in his calculations relative to number one. The same great manufacturer, always with an immense variety of work on hand, in every stage of development, passed Sissy onward in his mill, and worked her up into a very pretty article indeed. "I fear, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, "that your continuance at the school any longer would be useless." "I am afraid it would, sir," Sissy answered with a curtsey. "I cannot disguise from you, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, knitting his brow, "that the result of your probation there has disappointed me; has greatly disappointed me. You have not acquired, under Mr. and Mrs. M'Choakumchild, anything like that amount of exact knowledge which I looked for. You are extremely deficient in your facts. Your acquaintance with figures is very limited. You are altogether backward, and below the mark." "I am sorry, sir," she returned; "but I know it is quite true. Yet I have tried hard, sir." "Yes," said Mr. Gradgrind, "yes, I believe you have tried hard; I have observed you, and I can find no fault in that respect." "Thank you, sir. I have thought sometimes;" Sissy very timid here; "that perhaps I tried to learn too much, and that if I had asked to be allowed to try a little less, I might have" "No, Jupe, no," said Mr. Gradgrind, shaking his head in his profoundest and most eminently practical way. "No. The course you pursued, you pursued according to the system the system and there is no more to be said about it. I can only suppose that the circumstances of your early life were too unfavourable to the development of your reasoning powers, and that we began too late. Still, as I have said already, I am disappointed." "I wish I could have made a better acknowledgment, sir, of your kindness to a poor forlorn girl who had no claim upon you, and of your protection of her." "Don't shed tears," said Mr. Gradgrind.<|quote|>"Don't shed tears. I don't complain of you. You are an affectionate, earnest, good young woman and and we must make that do."</|quote|>"Thank you, sir, very much," said Sissy, with a grateful curtsey. "You are useful to Mrs. Gradgrind, and (in a generally pervading way) you are serviceable in the family also; so I understand from Miss Louisa, and, indeed, so I have observed myself. I therefore hope," said Mr. Gradgrind, "that you can make yourself happy in those relations." "I should have nothing to wish, sir, if" "I understand you," said Mr. Gradgrind; "you still refer to your father. I have heard from Miss Louisa that you still preserve that bottle. Well! If your training in the science of arriving at exact results had been more successful, you would have been wiser on these points. I will say no more." He really liked Sissy too well to have a contempt for her; otherwise he held her calculating powers in such very slight estimation that he must have fallen upon that conclusion. Somehow or other, he had become possessed by an idea that there was something in this girl which could hardly be set forth in a tabular form. Her capacity of definition might be easily stated at a very low figure, her mathematical knowledge at nothing; yet he was not sure that if he had been required, for example, to tick her off into columns in a parliamentary return, he would have quite known how to divide her. In some stages of his manufacture of the human fabric, the processes of Time are very rapid. Young Thomas and Sissy being both at such a stage of their working up, these changes were effected in a year or two; while Mr. Gradgrind himself seemed stationary in his course, and underwent no alteration. Except one, which was apart from his necessary progress through the mill. Time hustled him into a little noisy and rather dirty machinery, in a by-comer, and made him Member of Parliament for Coketown: one of the respected members for ounce weights and measures, one of the representatives of the multiplication table, one of the deaf honourable gentlemen, dumb honourable gentlemen, blind honourable gentlemen, lame honourable gentlemen, dead honourable gentlemen, to every other consideration. Else wherefore live we in a Christian land, eighteen hundred and odd years after our Master? All this while, Louisa had been passing on, so quiet and reserved, and so much given to watching the bright ashes at twilight as they fell into the grate, and | creetur; but happenin' so suddenly upon 't, I thowt, "How can _I_ say what I might ha' done to myseln, or her, or both!"" She put her two hands on his mouth, with a face of terror, to stop him from saying more. He caught them in his unoccupied hand, and holding them, and still clasping the border of her shawl, said hurriedly: "But I see thee, Rachael, setten by the bed. I ha' seen thee, aw this night. In my troublous sleep I ha' known thee still to be there. Evermore I will see thee there. I nevermore will see her or think o' her, but thou shalt be beside her. I nevermore will see or think o' anything that angers me, but thou, so much better than me, shalt be by th' side on't. And so I will try t' look t' th' time, and so I will try t' trust t' th' time, when thou and me at last shall walk together far awa', beyond the deep gulf, in th' country where thy little sister is." He kissed the border of her shawl again, and let her go. She bade him good night in a broken voice, and went out into the street. The wind blew from the quarter where the day would soon appear, and still blew strongly. It had cleared the sky before it, and the rain had spent itself or travelled elsewhere, and the stars were bright. He stood bare-headed in the road, watching her quick disappearance. As the shining stars were to the heavy candle in the window, so was Rachael, in the rugged fancy of this man, to the common experiences of his life. CHAPTER XIV THE GREAT MANUFACTURER TIME went on in Coketown like its own machinery: so much material wrought up, so much fuel consumed, so many powers worn out, so much money made. But, less inexorable than iron, steel, and brass, it brought its varying seasons even into that wilderness of smoke and brick, and made the only stand that ever _was_ made in the place against its direful uniformity. "Louisa is becoming," said Mr. Gradgrind, "almost a young woman." Time, with his innumerable horse-power, worked away, not minding what anybody said, and presently turned out young Thomas a foot taller than when his father had last taken particular notice of him. "Thomas is becoming," said Mr. Gradgrind, "almost a young man." Time passed Thomas on in the mill, while his father was thinking about it, and there he stood in a long-tailed coat and a stiff shirt-collar. "Really," said Mr. Gradgrind, "the period has arrived when Thomas ought to go to Bounderby." Time, sticking to him, passed him on into Bounderby's Bank, made him an inmate of Bounderby's house, necessitated the purchase of his first razor, and exercised him diligently in his calculations relative to number one. The same great manufacturer, always with an immense variety of work on hand, in every stage of development, passed Sissy onward in his mill, and worked her up into a very pretty article indeed. "I fear, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, "that your continuance at the school any longer would be useless." "I am afraid it would, sir," Sissy answered with a curtsey. "I cannot disguise from you, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, knitting his brow, "that the result of your probation there has disappointed me; has greatly disappointed me. You have not acquired, under Mr. and Mrs. M'Choakumchild, anything like that amount of exact knowledge which I looked for. You are extremely deficient in your facts. Your acquaintance with figures is very limited. You are altogether backward, and below the mark." "I am sorry, sir," she returned; "but I know it is quite true. Yet I have tried hard, sir." "Yes," said Mr. Gradgrind, "yes, I believe you have tried hard; I have observed you, and I can find no fault in that respect." "Thank you, sir. I have thought sometimes;" Sissy very timid here; "that perhaps I tried to learn too much, and that if I had asked to be allowed to try a little less, I might have" "No, Jupe, no," said Mr. Gradgrind, shaking his head in his profoundest and most eminently practical way. "No. The course you pursued, you pursued according to the system the system and there is no more to be said about it. I can only suppose that the circumstances of your early life were too unfavourable to the development of your reasoning powers, and that we began too late. Still, as I have said already, I am disappointed." "I wish I could have made a better acknowledgment, sir, of your kindness to a poor forlorn girl who had no claim upon you, and of your protection of her." "Don't shed tears," said Mr. Gradgrind.<|quote|>"Don't shed tears. I don't complain of you. You are an affectionate, earnest, good young woman and and we must make that do."</|quote|>"Thank you, sir, very much," said Sissy, with a grateful curtsey. "You are useful to Mrs. Gradgrind, and (in a generally pervading way) you are serviceable in the family also; so I understand from Miss Louisa, and, indeed, so I have observed myself. I therefore hope," said Mr. Gradgrind, "that you can make yourself happy in those relations." "I should have nothing to wish, sir, if" "I understand you," said Mr. Gradgrind; "you still refer to your father. I have heard from Miss Louisa that you still preserve that bottle. Well! If your training in the science of arriving at exact results had been more successful, you would have been wiser on these points. I will say no more." He really liked Sissy too well to have a contempt for her; otherwise he held her calculating powers in such very slight estimation that he must have fallen upon that conclusion. Somehow or other, he had become possessed by an idea that there was something in this girl which could hardly be set forth in a tabular form. Her capacity of definition might be easily stated at a very low figure, her mathematical knowledge at nothing; yet he was not sure that if he had been required, for example, to tick her off into columns in a parliamentary return, he would have quite known how to divide her. In some stages of his manufacture of the human fabric, the processes of Time are very rapid. Young Thomas and Sissy being both at such a stage of their working up, these changes were effected in a year or two; while Mr. Gradgrind himself seemed stationary in his course, and underwent no alteration. Except one, which was apart from his necessary progress through the mill. Time hustled him into a little noisy and rather dirty machinery, in a by-comer, and made him Member of Parliament for Coketown: one of the respected members for ounce weights and measures, one of the representatives of the multiplication table, one of the deaf honourable gentlemen, dumb honourable gentlemen, blind honourable gentlemen, lame honourable gentlemen, dead honourable gentlemen, to every other consideration. Else wherefore live we in a Christian land, eighteen hundred and odd years after our Master? All this while, Louisa had been passing on, so quiet and reserved, and so much given to watching the bright ashes at twilight as they fell into the grate, and became extinct, that from the period when her father had said she was almost a young woman which seemed but yesterday she had scarcely attracted his notice again, when he found her quite a young woman. "Quite a young woman," said Mr. Gradgrind, musing. "Dear me!" Soon after this discovery, he became more thoughtful than usual for several days, and seemed much engrossed by one subject. On a certain night, when he was going out, and Louisa came to bid him good-bye before his departure as he was not to be home until late and she would not see him again until the morning he held her in his arms, looking at her in his kindest manner, and said: "My dear Louisa, you are a woman!" She answered with the old, quick, searching look of the night when she was found at the Circus; then cast down her eyes. "Yes, father." "My dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "I must speak with you alone and seriously. Come to me in my room after breakfast to-morrow, will you?" "Yes, father." "Your hands are rather cold, Louisa. Are you not well?" "Quite well, father." "And cheerful?" She looked at him again, and smiled in her peculiar manner. "I am as cheerful, father, as I usually am, or usually have been." "That's well," said Mr. Gradgrind. So, he kissed her and went away; and Louisa returned to the serene apartment of the hair-cutting character, and leaning her elbow on her hand, looked again at the short-lived sparks that so soon subsided into ashes. "Are you there, Loo?" said her brother, looking in at the door. He was quite a young gentleman of pleasure now, and not quite a prepossessing one. "Dear Tom," she answered, rising and embracing him, "how long it is since you have been to see me!" "Why, I have been otherwise engaged, Loo, in the evenings; and in the daytime old Bounderby has been keeping me at it rather. But I touch him up with you when he comes it too strong, and so we preserve an understanding. I say! Has father said anything particular to you to-day or yesterday, Loo?" "No, Tom. But he told me to-night that he wished to do so in the morning." "Ah! That's what I mean," said Tom. "Do you know where he is to-night?" with a very deep expression. "No." "Then I'll tell you. He's | like its own machinery: so much material wrought up, so much fuel consumed, so many powers worn out, so much money made. But, less inexorable than iron, steel, and brass, it brought its varying seasons even into that wilderness of smoke and brick, and made the only stand that ever _was_ made in the place against its direful uniformity. "Louisa is becoming," said Mr. Gradgrind, "almost a young woman." Time, with his innumerable horse-power, worked away, not minding what anybody said, and presently turned out young Thomas a foot taller than when his father had last taken particular notice of him. "Thomas is becoming," said Mr. Gradgrind, "almost a young man." Time passed Thomas on in the mill, while his father was thinking about it, and there he stood in a long-tailed coat and a stiff shirt-collar. "Really," said Mr. Gradgrind, "the period has arrived when Thomas ought to go to Bounderby." Time, sticking to him, passed him on into Bounderby's Bank, made him an inmate of Bounderby's house, necessitated the purchase of his first razor, and exercised him diligently in his calculations relative to number one. The same great manufacturer, always with an immense variety of work on hand, in every stage of development, passed Sissy onward in his mill, and worked her up into a very pretty article indeed. "I fear, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, "that your continuance at the school any longer would be useless." "I am afraid it would, sir," Sissy answered with a curtsey. "I cannot disguise from you, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, knitting his brow, "that the result of your probation there has disappointed me; has greatly disappointed me. You have not acquired, under Mr. and Mrs. M'Choakumchild, anything like that amount of exact knowledge which I looked for. You are extremely deficient in your facts. Your acquaintance with figures is very limited. You are altogether backward, and below the mark." "I am sorry, sir," she returned; "but I know it is quite true. Yet I have tried hard, sir." "Yes," said Mr. Gradgrind, "yes, I believe you have tried hard; I have observed you, and I can find no fault in that respect." "Thank you, sir. I have thought sometimes;" Sissy very timid here; "that perhaps I tried to learn too much, and that if I had asked to be allowed to try a little less, I might have" "No, Jupe, no," said Mr. Gradgrind, shaking his head in his profoundest and most eminently practical way. "No. The course you pursued, you pursued according to the system the system and there is no more to be said about it. I can only suppose that the circumstances of your early life were too unfavourable to the development of your reasoning powers, and that we began too late. Still, as I have said already, I am disappointed." "I wish I could have made a better acknowledgment, sir, of your kindness to a poor forlorn girl who had no claim upon you, and of your protection of her." "Don't shed tears," said Mr. Gradgrind.<|quote|>"Don't shed tears. I don't complain of you. You are an affectionate, earnest, good young woman and and we must make that do."</|quote|>"Thank you, sir, very much," said Sissy, with a grateful curtsey. "You are useful to Mrs. Gradgrind, and (in a generally pervading way) you are serviceable in the family also; so I understand from Miss Louisa, and, indeed, so I have observed myself. I therefore hope," said Mr. Gradgrind, "that you can make yourself happy in those relations." "I should have nothing to wish, sir, if" "I understand you," said Mr. Gradgrind; "you still refer to your father. I have heard from Miss Louisa that you still preserve that bottle. Well! If your training in the science of arriving at exact results had been more successful, you would have been wiser on these points. I will say no more." He really liked Sissy too well to have a contempt for her; otherwise he held her calculating powers in such very slight estimation that he must have fallen upon that conclusion. Somehow or other, he had become possessed by an idea that there was something in this girl which could hardly be set forth in a tabular form. Her capacity of definition might be easily stated at a very low figure, her mathematical knowledge at nothing; yet he was not sure that if he had been required, for example, to tick her off into columns in a parliamentary return, he would have quite known how to divide her. In some stages of his manufacture of the human fabric, the processes of Time are very rapid. Young Thomas and Sissy being both at such a stage of their working up, these changes were effected in a year or two; while Mr. Gradgrind himself seemed stationary in his course, and underwent no alteration. Except one, which was apart from his necessary progress through the mill. Time hustled him into a little noisy and rather dirty machinery, in a by-comer, and made him Member of Parliament for Coketown: one of the respected members for ounce weights and measures, one of the representatives of the multiplication table, one of the deaf honourable gentlemen, dumb honourable gentlemen, blind honourable gentlemen, lame honourable gentlemen, dead honourable gentlemen, to every other consideration. Else wherefore live we in a Christian land, eighteen hundred and odd years after our Master? All this while, Louisa had been passing on, so quiet and reserved, and so much given to watching the bright ashes | Hard Times |
Tony said, | No speaker | me one too, will you?"<|quote|>Tony said,</|quote|>"I only wanted to see | poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?"<|quote|>Tony said,</|quote|>"I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried | tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience. "Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?"<|quote|>Tony said,</|quote|>"I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery. "Of course," Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't | brightened a little when she emerged. "Have you got a car here," she asked, "or shall I ring up a taxi?" * * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience. "Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?"<|quote|>Tony said,</|quote|>"I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery. "Of course," Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children yourself--" "I've got two sons," said Mrs Rattery. "Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me." "That's all right. People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're at school somewhere. I took them to the | was dead... I shall never be able to face them again. I feel like a murderess... that brave little life snuffed out." "I say, you know, really, I shouldn't take that line about it." "It isn't the first time it's happened... always, anywhere, I am hunted down... without remorse. O God," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "What have I done to deserve it?" She rose to leave him; there was nowhere she could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, "Well, I must go along to Polly's and see Brenda." "Wait a minute and I'll come too." She had brightened a little when she emerged. "Have you got a car here," she asked, "or shall I ring up a taxi?" * * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience. "Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?"<|quote|>Tony said,</|quote|>"I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery. "Of course," Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children yourself--" "I've got two sons," said Mrs Rattery. "Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me." "That's all right. People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're at school somewhere. I took them to the cinema last summer. They're getting quite big. One's going to be good-looking, I think. His father is." "Quarter-past six," said Tony. "He's bound to have told her by now." * * * * * There was a little party at Lady Cockpurse's, Veronica and Daisy and Sybil, Souki de Foucald-Esterhazy, and four or five others, all women. They were there to consult a new fortune-teller called Mrs Northcote. Mrs Beaver had discovered her and for every five guineas that she earned at her introduction Mrs Beaver took a commission of two pounds twelve and sixpence. She told fortunes in a | waste-paper basket made of varnished aquatint, a golliwog presented at the gala dinner of a seaside hotel, a dozen or so framed photographs of the Princess, a garden scene ingeniously constructed in pieces of coloured wood, and a radio set in fumed oak, Tudor style. In so small a room the effect was distracting. The Princess sat at the looking-glass, Jock behind her on the divan. "What's your name?" she asked over her shoulder. He told her. "Oh yes, I've heard them mention you. I was at Hetton the week-end before last... such a quaint old place." "I'd better tell you. There's been a frightful accident there this morning." Jenny Abdul Akbar spun round on the leather stool; her eyes were wide with alarm, her hand pressed to her heart. "Quick," she whispered, "_tell me_. I can't bear it. Is it _death_?" Jock nodded. "Their little boy... kicked by a horse." "_Little Jimmy._" "John." "John... _dead_. It's _too_ horrible." "It wasn't anybody's fault." "Oh yes," said Jenny. "It was. It was _my_ fault. I ought never to have gone there... a terrible curse hangs over me. Wherever I go I bring nothing but sorrow... if only it was _I_ that was dead... I shall never be able to face them again. I feel like a murderess... that brave little life snuffed out." "I say, you know, really, I shouldn't take that line about it." "It isn't the first time it's happened... always, anywhere, I am hunted down... without remorse. O God," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "What have I done to deserve it?" She rose to leave him; there was nowhere she could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, "Well, I must go along to Polly's and see Brenda." "Wait a minute and I'll come too." She had brightened a little when she emerged. "Have you got a car here," she asked, "or shall I ring up a taxi?" * * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience. "Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?"<|quote|>Tony said,</|quote|>"I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery. "Of course," Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children yourself--" "I've got two sons," said Mrs Rattery. "Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me." "That's all right. People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're at school somewhere. I took them to the cinema last summer. They're getting quite big. One's going to be good-looking, I think. His father is." "Quarter-past six," said Tony. "He's bound to have told her by now." * * * * * There was a little party at Lady Cockpurse's, Veronica and Daisy and Sybil, Souki de Foucald-Esterhazy, and four or five others, all women. They were there to consult a new fortune-teller called Mrs Northcote. Mrs Beaver had discovered her and for every five guineas that she earned at her introduction Mrs Beaver took a commission of two pounds twelve and sixpence. She told fortunes in a new way, by reading the soles of the feet. They waited their turn impatiently. "What a time she is taking over Daisy." "She is very thorough," said Polly, "and it tickles rather." Presently Daisy emerged. "What was she like?" they asked. "I mustn't tell or it spoils it all," said Daisy. They had dealt cards for precedence. It was Brenda's turn now. She went next door to Mrs Northcote, who was sitting at a stool beside an armchair. She was a dowdy, middle-aged woman with a slightly genteel accent. Brenda sat down and took off her shoe and stocking. Mrs Northcote laid the foot on her knee and gazed at it with great solemnity; then she picked it up and began tracing the small creases of the sole with the point of a silver pencil case. Brenda wriggled her toes luxuriously and settled down to listen. Next door they said, "Where's Mr Beaver to-day?" "He's flown over to France with his mother to see some new wallpapers. She's been worrying all day thinking he's had an accident." "It's all very touching, isn't it? Though I can't see his point myself..." "You must never do anything on Thursdays," said Mrs Northcote. | paved hall. There was no porter; a woman came three mornings a week with bucket and mop. A board painted with the names of the tenants informed Jock that Brenda was IN. But he put little reliance on this information, knowing that Brenda was not one to remember, as she came in and out, to change the indicator. He found her front door on the second floor. After the first flight the staircase changed from marble to a faded carpet that had been there before Mrs Beaver undertook the reconstruction. Jock pressed the bell and heard it ringing just inside the door. Nobody came to open it. It was past five, and he had not expected to find Brenda at home. He had decided on the road up that after trying the flat, he would go to his club and ring up various friends of Brenda's who might know where she was. He rang again, from habit, and waited a little; then turned to go. But at that moment the door next to Brenda's opened and a dark lady in a dress of crimson velvet looked out at him; she wore very large earrings of oriental filigree, set with bosses of opaque, valueless stone. "Are you looking for Lady Brenda Last?" "I am. Is she a friend of yours?" "Oh, _such_ a friend," said Princess Abdul Akbar. "Then perhaps you can tell me where I can find her?" "I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?" "I had better come and see her." "Well, wait five minutes and you can go with me. Come inside." The Princess's single room was furnished promiscuously and with truly Eastern disregard of the right properties of things; swords meant to adorn the state robes of a Moorish caid were swung from the picture rail; mats made for prayer were strewn on the divan; the carpet on the floor had been made in Bokhara as a wall covering; while over the dressing table was draped a shawl made in Yokohama for sale to cruise-passengers; an octagonal table from Port Said held a Tibetan Buddha of pale soapstone; six ivory elephants from Bombay stood along the top of the radiator. Other cultures, too, were represented by a set of Lalique bottles and powder boxes, a phallic fetish from Senegal, a Dutch copper bowl, a waste-paper basket made of varnished aquatint, a golliwog presented at the gala dinner of a seaside hotel, a dozen or so framed photographs of the Princess, a garden scene ingeniously constructed in pieces of coloured wood, and a radio set in fumed oak, Tudor style. In so small a room the effect was distracting. The Princess sat at the looking-glass, Jock behind her on the divan. "What's your name?" she asked over her shoulder. He told her. "Oh yes, I've heard them mention you. I was at Hetton the week-end before last... such a quaint old place." "I'd better tell you. There's been a frightful accident there this morning." Jenny Abdul Akbar spun round on the leather stool; her eyes were wide with alarm, her hand pressed to her heart. "Quick," she whispered, "_tell me_. I can't bear it. Is it _death_?" Jock nodded. "Their little boy... kicked by a horse." "_Little Jimmy._" "John." "John... _dead_. It's _too_ horrible." "It wasn't anybody's fault." "Oh yes," said Jenny. "It was. It was _my_ fault. I ought never to have gone there... a terrible curse hangs over me. Wherever I go I bring nothing but sorrow... if only it was _I_ that was dead... I shall never be able to face them again. I feel like a murderess... that brave little life snuffed out." "I say, you know, really, I shouldn't take that line about it." "It isn't the first time it's happened... always, anywhere, I am hunted down... without remorse. O God," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "What have I done to deserve it?" She rose to leave him; there was nowhere she could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, "Well, I must go along to Polly's and see Brenda." "Wait a minute and I'll come too." She had brightened a little when she emerged. "Have you got a car here," she asked, "or shall I ring up a taxi?" * * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience. "Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?"<|quote|>Tony said,</|quote|>"I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery. "Of course," Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children yourself--" "I've got two sons," said Mrs Rattery. "Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me." "That's all right. People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're at school somewhere. I took them to the cinema last summer. They're getting quite big. One's going to be good-looking, I think. His father is." "Quarter-past six," said Tony. "He's bound to have told her by now." * * * * * There was a little party at Lady Cockpurse's, Veronica and Daisy and Sybil, Souki de Foucald-Esterhazy, and four or five others, all women. They were there to consult a new fortune-teller called Mrs Northcote. Mrs Beaver had discovered her and for every five guineas that she earned at her introduction Mrs Beaver took a commission of two pounds twelve and sixpence. She told fortunes in a new way, by reading the soles of the feet. They waited their turn impatiently. "What a time she is taking over Daisy." "She is very thorough," said Polly, "and it tickles rather." Presently Daisy emerged. "What was she like?" they asked. "I mustn't tell or it spoils it all," said Daisy. They had dealt cards for precedence. It was Brenda's turn now. She went next door to Mrs Northcote, who was sitting at a stool beside an armchair. She was a dowdy, middle-aged woman with a slightly genteel accent. Brenda sat down and took off her shoe and stocking. Mrs Northcote laid the foot on her knee and gazed at it with great solemnity; then she picked it up and began tracing the small creases of the sole with the point of a silver pencil case. Brenda wriggled her toes luxuriously and settled down to listen. Next door they said, "Where's Mr Beaver to-day?" "He's flown over to France with his mother to see some new wallpapers. She's been worrying all day thinking he's had an accident." "It's all very touching, isn't it? Though I can't see his point myself..." "You must never do anything on Thursdays," said Mrs Northcote. "Nothing?" "Nothing important. You are intellectual, imaginative, sympathetic, easily led by others, impulsive, affectionate. You are highly artistic and are not giving full scope to your capabilities." "Isn't there anything about love?" "I am coming to love. All these lines from the great toe to the instep represent lovers." "Yes, go on some more about that..." Princess Abdul Akbar was announced. "Where's Brenda?" she said. "I thought she'd be here." "Mrs Northcote's doing her now." "Jock Menzies wants to see her. He's downstairs." "Darling Jock... Why on earth didn't you bring him up?" "No, it's something terribly important. He's got to see Brenda alone." "My dear, how mysterious. Well, she won't be long now. We can't disturb them. It would upset Mrs Northcote." Jenny told them the news. On the other side of the door, Brenda's leg was beginning to feel slightly chilly. "Four men dominate your fate," Mrs Northcote was saying, "one is loyal and tender but he has not yet disclosed his love, one is passionate and overpowering, you are a little afraid of him." "Dear me," said Brenda. "How very exciting. Who _can_ they be?" "One you must avoid; he bodes no good for you, he is steely hearted and rapacious." "I bet that's my Mr Beaver, bless him." Downstairs Jock was waiting in the small front room where Polly's guests usually assembled before luncheon. It was five past six. Soon Brenda pulled on her stocking, stepped into her shoe and joined the ladies. "_Most_ enjoyable," she pronounced. "Why, how odd you all look." "Jock Grant-Menzies wants to see you downstairs." "Jock? How very extraordinary. It isn't anything awful, is it?" "You'd better go and see him." Suddenly Brenda became frightened by the strange air of the room and the unfamiliar expression in her friends' faces. She ran downstairs to the room where Jock was waiting. "What is it, Jock? Tell me quickly, I'm scared. It's nothing awful, is it?" "I'm afraid it is. There's been a very serious accident." "John?" "Yes." "Dead?" He nodded. She sat down on a hard little Empire chair against the wall, perfectly still with her hands folded in her lap, like a small well-brought-up child introduced into a room full of grown-ups. She said, "Tell me what happened. Why do you know about it first?" "I've been down at Hetton since the week-end." "Hetton?" "Don't you remember? John was going hunting | better come and see her." "Well, wait five minutes and you can go with me. Come inside." The Princess's single room was furnished promiscuously and with truly Eastern disregard of the right properties of things; swords meant to adorn the state robes of a Moorish caid were swung from the picture rail; mats made for prayer were strewn on the divan; the carpet on the floor had been made in Bokhara as a wall covering; while over the dressing table was draped a shawl made in Yokohama for sale to cruise-passengers; an octagonal table from Port Said held a Tibetan Buddha of pale soapstone; six ivory elephants from Bombay stood along the top of the radiator. Other cultures, too, were represented by a set of Lalique bottles and powder boxes, a phallic fetish from Senegal, a Dutch copper bowl, a waste-paper basket made of varnished aquatint, a golliwog presented at the gala dinner of a seaside hotel, a dozen or so framed photographs of the Princess, a garden scene ingeniously constructed in pieces of coloured wood, and a radio set in fumed oak, Tudor style. In so small a room the effect was distracting. The Princess sat at the looking-glass, Jock behind her on the divan. "What's your name?" she asked over her shoulder. He told her. "Oh yes, I've heard them mention you. I was at Hetton the week-end before last... such a quaint old place." "I'd better tell you. There's been a frightful accident there this morning." Jenny Abdul Akbar spun round on the leather stool; her eyes were wide with alarm, her hand pressed to her heart. "Quick," she whispered, "_tell me_. I can't bear it. Is it _death_?" Jock nodded. "Their little boy... kicked by a horse." "_Little Jimmy._" "John." "John... _dead_. It's _too_ horrible." "It wasn't anybody's fault." "Oh yes," said Jenny. "It was. It was _my_ fault. I ought never to have gone there... a terrible curse hangs over me. Wherever I go I bring nothing but sorrow... if only it was _I_ that was dead... I shall never be able to face them again. I feel like a murderess... that brave little life snuffed out." "I say, you know, really, I shouldn't take that line about it." "It isn't the first time it's happened... always, anywhere, I am hunted down... without remorse. O God," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "What have I done to deserve it?" She rose to leave him; there was nowhere she could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, "Well, I must go along to Polly's and see Brenda." "Wait a minute and I'll come too." She had brightened a little when she emerged. "Have you got a car here," she asked, "or shall I ring up a taxi?" * * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience. "Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?"<|quote|>Tony said,</|quote|>"I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery. "Of course," Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children yourself--" "I've got two sons," said Mrs Rattery. "Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me." "That's all right. People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're at school somewhere. I took them to the cinema last summer. They're getting quite big. One's going to be good-looking, I think. His father is." "Quarter-past six," said Tony. "He's bound to have told her by now." * * * * * There was a little party at Lady Cockpurse's, Veronica and Daisy and Sybil, Souki de Foucald-Esterhazy, and four or five others, all women. They were there to consult a new fortune-teller called Mrs Northcote. Mrs Beaver had discovered her and for every five guineas that she earned at her introduction Mrs Beaver took a commission of two pounds twelve and sixpence. She told fortunes in a new way, by reading the soles of the feet. They waited their turn impatiently. "What a time she is taking over Daisy." "She is very thorough," said Polly, "and it tickles rather." Presently Daisy emerged. "What was she like?" they asked. "I mustn't tell or it spoils it all," said Daisy. They had dealt cards for precedence. It was Brenda's turn now. She went next door to Mrs Northcote, who was sitting at a stool beside an armchair. She was a dowdy, middle-aged woman with a slightly genteel accent. Brenda sat down and took off her shoe and stocking. Mrs Northcote laid the foot on her knee and gazed at it with great solemnity; then she picked it up and began tracing the small creases of the sole with the point of a silver pencil case. Brenda wriggled her toes luxuriously and settled down to listen. Next door they said, "Where's Mr Beaver to-day?" "He's flown over to France with his mother to see some new wallpapers. She's been worrying all day thinking he's had an accident." "It's all very touching, isn't it? Though I can't see his point myself..." "You must never do anything on Thursdays," said Mrs Northcote. "Nothing?" "Nothing important. You are intellectual, imaginative, sympathetic, easily led by others, impulsive, affectionate. You are highly artistic and are not giving full scope to your capabilities." "Isn't there anything about love?" "I am coming to love. All | A Handful Of Dust |
"this new picture cannot be greater than that, though it shall hang where kings can see it and this only graces the library of my poor house. It has the feeling of a woman's soul with the strength of a man's heart. When Frank and Claire marry, I shall give it back to them. It is too great a treasure for a clod like me. Heigho, why will women be so long a-shopping?" | Maurice Oakley | a genius. "Surely," he said,<|quote|>"this new picture cannot be greater than that, though it shall hang where kings can see it and this only graces the library of my poor house. It has the feeling of a woman's soul with the strength of a man's heart. When Frank and Claire marry, I shall give it back to them. It is too great a treasure for a clod like me. Heigho, why will women be so long a-shopping?"</|quote|>He glanced again at the | in it the touch of a genius. "Surely," he said,<|quote|>"this new picture cannot be greater than that, though it shall hang where kings can see it and this only graces the library of my poor house. It has the feeling of a woman's soul with the strength of a man's heart. When Frank and Claire marry, I shall give it back to them. It is too great a treasure for a clod like me. Heigho, why will women be so long a-shopping?"</|quote|>He glanced again at the letter, and his hand went | were taking the shape of reality in his mind, and he was believing all that he wanted to believe. He turned to look at a picture painted by Frank which hung over the mantel. He dwelt lovingly upon it, seeing in it the touch of a genius. "Surely," he said,<|quote|>"this new picture cannot be greater than that, though it shall hang where kings can see it and this only graces the library of my poor house. It has the feeling of a woman's soul with the strength of a man's heart. When Frank and Claire marry, I shall give it back to them. It is too great a treasure for a clod like me. Heigho, why will women be so long a-shopping?"</|quote|>He glanced again at the letter, and his hand went out involuntarily towards it. He fondled it, smiling. "Ah, Lady Leslie, I 've a mind to open it to punish you for staying so long." He essayed to be playful, but he knew that he was trying to make a | one day and do it himself." The letter drew his eyes back to it. It seemed to invite him, to beg him even. "No, I will not do it; I will wait until Leslie comes. She will be as glad to hear the good news as I am." His dreams were taking the shape of reality in his mind, and he was believing all that he wanted to believe. He turned to look at a picture painted by Frank which hung over the mantel. He dwelt lovingly upon it, seeing in it the touch of a genius. "Surely," he said,<|quote|>"this new picture cannot be greater than that, though it shall hang where kings can see it and this only graces the library of my poor house. It has the feeling of a woman's soul with the strength of a man's heart. When Frank and Claire marry, I shall give it back to them. It is too great a treasure for a clod like me. Heigho, why will women be so long a-shopping?"</|quote|>He glanced again at the letter, and his hand went out involuntarily towards it. He fondled it, smiling. "Ah, Lady Leslie, I 've a mind to open it to punish you for staying so long." He essayed to be playful, but he knew that he was trying to make a compromise with himself because his eagerness grew stronger than his gallantry. He laid the letter down and picked it up again. He studied the postmark over and over. He got up and walked to the window and back again, and then began fumbling in his pockets for his knife. No, | was forced to admit that he was the painter of the work. Then the windows of Paris were filled with his portraits. The papers were full of his praise, and brave men and fair women met together to do him homage. Fair women, yes, and Frank would look upon them all and see reflected in them but a tithe of the glory of one woman, and that woman Claire Lessing. He roused himself and laughed again as he tapped the magic envelope. "My fancies go on and conquer the world for my brother," he muttered. "He will follow their flight one day and do it himself." The letter drew his eyes back to it. It seemed to invite him, to beg him even. "No, I will not do it; I will wait until Leslie comes. She will be as glad to hear the good news as I am." His dreams were taking the shape of reality in his mind, and he was believing all that he wanted to believe. He turned to look at a picture painted by Frank which hung over the mantel. He dwelt lovingly upon it, seeing in it the touch of a genius. "Surely," he said,<|quote|>"this new picture cannot be greater than that, though it shall hang where kings can see it and this only graces the library of my poor house. It has the feeling of a woman's soul with the strength of a man's heart. When Frank and Claire marry, I shall give it back to them. It is too great a treasure for a clod like me. Heigho, why will women be so long a-shopping?"</|quote|>He glanced again at the letter, and his hand went out involuntarily towards it. He fondled it, smiling. "Ah, Lady Leslie, I 've a mind to open it to punish you for staying so long." He essayed to be playful, but he knew that he was trying to make a compromise with himself because his eagerness grew stronger than his gallantry. He laid the letter down and picked it up again. He studied the postmark over and over. He got up and walked to the window and back again, and then began fumbling in his pockets for his knife. No, he did not want it; yes, he did. He would just cut the envelope and make believe he had read it to pique his wife; but he would not read it. Yes, that was it. He found the knife and slit the paper. His fingers trembled as he touched the sheets that protruded. Why would not Leslie come? Did she not know that he was waiting for her? She ought to have known that there was a letter from Paris to-day, for it had been a month since they had had one. There was a sound of footsteps without. He | for his brother had written him several times of things that were a-doing, but not yet of anything that was done. Or, better yet, let the letter say that some picture, long finished, but of which the artist's pride and anxiety had forbidden him to speak, had made a glowing success, the success it deserved. This sounded well, and seemed not at all beyond the bounds of possibility. It was an alluring vision. He saw the picture already. It was a scene from life, true in detail to the point of very minuteness, and yet with something spiritual in it that lifted it above the mere copy of the commonplace. At the Salon it would be hung on the line, and people would stand before it admiring its workmanship and asking who the artist was. He drew on his memory of old reading. In his mind's eye he saw Frank, unconscious of his own power or too modest to admit it, stand unknown among the crowds around his picture waiting for and dreading their criticisms. He saw the light leap to his eyes as he heard their words of praise. He saw the straightening of his narrow shoulders when he was forced to admit that he was the painter of the work. Then the windows of Paris were filled with his portraits. The papers were full of his praise, and brave men and fair women met together to do him homage. Fair women, yes, and Frank would look upon them all and see reflected in them but a tithe of the glory of one woman, and that woman Claire Lessing. He roused himself and laughed again as he tapped the magic envelope. "My fancies go on and conquer the world for my brother," he muttered. "He will follow their flight one day and do it himself." The letter drew his eyes back to it. It seemed to invite him, to beg him even. "No, I will not do it; I will wait until Leslie comes. She will be as glad to hear the good news as I am." His dreams were taking the shape of reality in his mind, and he was believing all that he wanted to believe. He turned to look at a picture painted by Frank which hung over the mantel. He dwelt lovingly upon it, seeing in it the touch of a genius. "Surely," he said,<|quote|>"this new picture cannot be greater than that, though it shall hang where kings can see it and this only graces the library of my poor house. It has the feeling of a woman's soul with the strength of a man's heart. When Frank and Claire marry, I shall give it back to them. It is too great a treasure for a clod like me. Heigho, why will women be so long a-shopping?"</|quote|>He glanced again at the letter, and his hand went out involuntarily towards it. He fondled it, smiling. "Ah, Lady Leslie, I 've a mind to open it to punish you for staying so long." He essayed to be playful, but he knew that he was trying to make a compromise with himself because his eagerness grew stronger than his gallantry. He laid the letter down and picked it up again. He studied the postmark over and over. He got up and walked to the window and back again, and then began fumbling in his pockets for his knife. No, he did not want it; yes, he did. He would just cut the envelope and make believe he had read it to pique his wife; but he would not read it. Yes, that was it. He found the knife and slit the paper. His fingers trembled as he touched the sheets that protruded. Why would not Leslie come? Did she not know that he was waiting for her? She ought to have known that there was a letter from Paris to-day, for it had been a month since they had had one. There was a sound of footsteps without. He sprang up, crying, "I 've been waiting so long for you!" A servant opened the door to bring him a message. Oakley dismissed him angrily. What did he want to go down to the Continental for to drink and talk politics to a lot of muddle-pated fools when he had a brother in Paris who was an artist and a letter from him lay unread in his hand? His patience and his temper were going. Leslie was careless and unfeeling. She ought to come; he was tired of waiting. A carriage rolled up the driveway and he dropped the letter guiltily, as if it were not his own. He would only say that he had grown tired of waiting and started to read it. But it was only Mrs. Davis's footman leaving a note for Leslie about some charity. He went back to the letter. Well, it was his. Leslie had forfeited her right to see it as soon as he. It might be mean, but it was not dishonest. No, he would not read it now, but he would take it out and show her that he had exercised his self-control in spite of her shortcomings. He laid it | the union of this younger brother with Claire Lessing. She had lately come into a fortune, and there was nothing now to prevent it. They would have written Frank to urge it, but they both believed that to try to woo him away from his art was but to make him more wayward. That any woman could have power enough to take him away from this jealous mistress they very much doubted. But they could hope, and hope made them eager to open every letter that bore the French postmark. Always it might contain news that he was coming home, or that he had made a great success, or, better, some inquiry after Claire. A long time they had waited, but found no such tidings in the letters from Paris. At last, as Maurice Oakley sat in his library one day, the servant brought him a letter more bulky in weight and appearance than any he had yet received. His eyes glistened with pleasure as he read the postmark. "A letter from Frank," he said joyfully, "and an important one, I 'll wager." He smiled as he weighed it in his hand and caressed it. Mrs. Oakley was out shopping, and as he knew how deep her interest was, he hesitated to break the seal before she returned. He curbed his natural desire and laid the heavy envelope down on the desk. But he could not deny himself the pleasure of speculating as to its contents. It was such a large, interesting-looking package. What might it not contain? It simply reeked of possibilities. Had any one banteringly told Maurice Oakley that he had such a deep vein of sentiment, he would have denied it with scorn and laughter. But here he found himself sitting with the letter in his hand and weaving stories as to its contents. First, now, it might be a notice that Frank had received the badge of the Legion of Honour. No, no, that was too big, and he laughed aloud at his own folly, wondering the next minute, with half shame, why he laughed, for did he, after all, believe anything was too big for that brother of his? Well, let him begin, anyway, away down. Let him say, for instance, that the letter told of the completion and sale of a great picture. Frank had sold small ones. He would be glad of this, for his brother had written him several times of things that were a-doing, but not yet of anything that was done. Or, better yet, let the letter say that some picture, long finished, but of which the artist's pride and anxiety had forbidden him to speak, had made a glowing success, the success it deserved. This sounded well, and seemed not at all beyond the bounds of possibility. It was an alluring vision. He saw the picture already. It was a scene from life, true in detail to the point of very minuteness, and yet with something spiritual in it that lifted it above the mere copy of the commonplace. At the Salon it would be hung on the line, and people would stand before it admiring its workmanship and asking who the artist was. He drew on his memory of old reading. In his mind's eye he saw Frank, unconscious of his own power or too modest to admit it, stand unknown among the crowds around his picture waiting for and dreading their criticisms. He saw the light leap to his eyes as he heard their words of praise. He saw the straightening of his narrow shoulders when he was forced to admit that he was the painter of the work. Then the windows of Paris were filled with his portraits. The papers were full of his praise, and brave men and fair women met together to do him homage. Fair women, yes, and Frank would look upon them all and see reflected in them but a tithe of the glory of one woman, and that woman Claire Lessing. He roused himself and laughed again as he tapped the magic envelope. "My fancies go on and conquer the world for my brother," he muttered. "He will follow their flight one day and do it himself." The letter drew his eyes back to it. It seemed to invite him, to beg him even. "No, I will not do it; I will wait until Leslie comes. She will be as glad to hear the good news as I am." His dreams were taking the shape of reality in his mind, and he was believing all that he wanted to believe. He turned to look at a picture painted by Frank which hung over the mantel. He dwelt lovingly upon it, seeing in it the touch of a genius. "Surely," he said,<|quote|>"this new picture cannot be greater than that, though it shall hang where kings can see it and this only graces the library of my poor house. It has the feeling of a woman's soul with the strength of a man's heart. When Frank and Claire marry, I shall give it back to them. It is too great a treasure for a clod like me. Heigho, why will women be so long a-shopping?"</|quote|>He glanced again at the letter, and his hand went out involuntarily towards it. He fondled it, smiling. "Ah, Lady Leslie, I 've a mind to open it to punish you for staying so long." He essayed to be playful, but he knew that he was trying to make a compromise with himself because his eagerness grew stronger than his gallantry. He laid the letter down and picked it up again. He studied the postmark over and over. He got up and walked to the window and back again, and then began fumbling in his pockets for his knife. No, he did not want it; yes, he did. He would just cut the envelope and make believe he had read it to pique his wife; but he would not read it. Yes, that was it. He found the knife and slit the paper. His fingers trembled as he touched the sheets that protruded. Why would not Leslie come? Did she not know that he was waiting for her? She ought to have known that there was a letter from Paris to-day, for it had been a month since they had had one. There was a sound of footsteps without. He sprang up, crying, "I 've been waiting so long for you!" A servant opened the door to bring him a message. Oakley dismissed him angrily. What did he want to go down to the Continental for to drink and talk politics to a lot of muddle-pated fools when he had a brother in Paris who was an artist and a letter from him lay unread in his hand? His patience and his temper were going. Leslie was careless and unfeeling. She ought to come; he was tired of waiting. A carriage rolled up the driveway and he dropped the letter guiltily, as if it were not his own. He would only say that he had grown tired of waiting and started to read it. But it was only Mrs. Davis's footman leaving a note for Leslie about some charity. He went back to the letter. Well, it was his. Leslie had forfeited her right to see it as soon as he. It might be mean, but it was not dishonest. No, he would not read it now, but he would take it out and show her that he had exercised his self-control in spite of her shortcomings. He laid it on the desk once more. It leered at him. He might just open the sheets enough to see the lines that began it, and read no further. Yes, he would do that. Leslie could not feel hurt at such a little thing. The first line had only "Dear Brother." "Dear Brother"! Why not the second? That could not hold much more. The second line held him, and the third, and the fourth, and as he read on, unmindful now of what Leslie might think or feel, his face turned from the ruddy glow of pleasant anxiety to the pallor of grief and terror. He was not half-way through it when Mrs. Oakley's voice in the hall announced her coming. He did not hear her. He sat staring at the page before him, his lips apart and his eyes staring. Then, with a cry that echoed through the house, crumpling the sheets in his hand, he fell forward fainting to the floor, just as his wife rushed into the room. "What is it?" she cried. "Maurice! Maurice!" He lay on the floor staring up at the ceiling, the letter clutched in his hands. She ran to him and lifted up his head, but he gave no sign of life. Already the servants were crowding to the door. She bade one of them to hasten for a doctor, others to bring water and brandy, and the rest to be gone. As soon as she was alone, she loosed the crumpled sheets from his hand, for she felt that this must have been the cause of her husband's strange attack. Without a thought of wrong, for they had no secrets from each other, she glanced at the opening lines. Then she forgot the unconscious man at her feet and read the letter through to the end. The letter was in Frank's neat hand, a little shaken, perhaps, by nervousness. "DEAR BROTHER," it ran, "I know you will grieve at receiving this, and I wish that I might bear your grief for you, but I cannot, though I have as heavy a burden as this can bring to you. Mine would have been lighter to-day, perhaps, had you been more straightforward with me. I am not blaming you, however, for I know that my hypocrisy made you believe me possessed of a really soft heart, and you thought to spare me. Until yesterday, when | simply reeked of possibilities. Had any one banteringly told Maurice Oakley that he had such a deep vein of sentiment, he would have denied it with scorn and laughter. But here he found himself sitting with the letter in his hand and weaving stories as to its contents. First, now, it might be a notice that Frank had received the badge of the Legion of Honour. No, no, that was too big, and he laughed aloud at his own folly, wondering the next minute, with half shame, why he laughed, for did he, after all, believe anything was too big for that brother of his? Well, let him begin, anyway, away down. Let him say, for instance, that the letter told of the completion and sale of a great picture. Frank had sold small ones. He would be glad of this, for his brother had written him several times of things that were a-doing, but not yet of anything that was done. Or, better yet, let the letter say that some picture, long finished, but of which the artist's pride and anxiety had forbidden him to speak, had made a glowing success, the success it deserved. This sounded well, and seemed not at all beyond the bounds of possibility. It was an alluring vision. He saw the picture already. It was a scene from life, true in detail to the point of very minuteness, and yet with something spiritual in it that lifted it above the mere copy of the commonplace. At the Salon it would be hung on the line, and people would stand before it admiring its workmanship and asking who the artist was. He drew on his memory of old reading. In his mind's eye he saw Frank, unconscious of his own power or too modest to admit it, stand unknown among the crowds around his picture waiting for and dreading their criticisms. He saw the light leap to his eyes as he heard their words of praise. He saw the straightening of his narrow shoulders when he was forced to admit that he was the painter of the work. Then the windows of Paris were filled with his portraits. The papers were full of his praise, and brave men and fair women met together to do him homage. Fair women, yes, and Frank would look upon them all and see reflected in them but a tithe of the glory of one woman, and that woman Claire Lessing. He roused himself and laughed again as he tapped the magic envelope. "My fancies go on and conquer the world for my brother," he muttered. "He will follow their flight one day and do it himself." The letter drew his eyes back to it. It seemed to invite him, to beg him even. "No, I will not do it; I will wait until Leslie comes. She will be as glad to hear the good news as I am." His dreams were taking the shape of reality in his mind, and he was believing all that he wanted to believe. He turned to look at a picture painted by Frank which hung over the mantel. He dwelt lovingly upon it, seeing in it the touch of a genius. "Surely," he said,<|quote|>"this new picture cannot be greater than that, though it shall hang where kings can see it and this only graces the library of my poor house. It has the feeling of a woman's soul with the strength of a man's heart. When Frank and Claire marry, I shall give it back to them. It is too great a treasure for a clod like me. Heigho, why will women be so long a-shopping?"</|quote|>He glanced again at the letter, and his hand went out involuntarily towards it. He fondled it, smiling. "Ah, Lady Leslie, I 've a mind to open it to punish you for staying so long." He essayed to be playful, but he knew that he was trying to make a compromise with himself because his eagerness grew stronger than his gallantry. He laid the letter down and picked it up again. He studied the postmark over and over. He got up and walked to the window and back again, and then began fumbling in his pockets for his knife. No, he did not want it; yes, he did. He would just cut the envelope and make believe he had read it to pique his wife; but he would not read it. Yes, that was it. He found the knife and slit the paper. His fingers trembled as he touched the sheets that protruded. Why would not Leslie come? Did she not know that he was waiting for her? She ought to have known that there was a letter from Paris to-day, for it had been a month since they had had one. There was a sound of footsteps without. He sprang up, crying, "I 've been waiting so long for you!" A servant opened the door to bring him a message. Oakley dismissed him angrily. What did he want to go down to the Continental for to drink and talk politics to a lot of muddle-pated fools when he had a brother in Paris who was an artist and a letter from him lay unread in his hand? His patience and his temper were going. Leslie was careless and unfeeling. She ought to come; he was tired of waiting. A carriage rolled up the driveway and he dropped the letter guiltily, as if it were not his own. He would only say that he had grown tired of waiting and started to read it. But it was only Mrs. Davis's footman leaving a note for Leslie about some charity. He went back to the letter. Well, it was his. Leslie had forfeited her right to see it as soon as he. It might be mean, but it was not dishonest. No, he would not read it now, but he would take it out and show her that he had exercised his self-control in spite of her shortcomings. He laid it on the desk once more. It leered at him. He might just | The Sport Of The Gods |
"but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid, however, that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. Still, your wonderful girl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real than life. Let us go. Dorian, you will come with me. I am so sorry, Basil, but there is only room for two in the brougham. You must follow us in a hansom." | Lord Henry | tired look in his eyes,<|quote|>"but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid, however, that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. Still, your wonderful girl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real than life. Let us go. Dorian, you will come with me. I am so sorry, Basil, but there is only room for two in the brougham. You must follow us in a hansom."</|quote|>They got up and put | said Lord Henry, with a tired look in his eyes,<|quote|>"but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid, however, that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. Still, your wonderful girl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real than life. Let us go. Dorian, you will come with me. I am so sorry, Basil, but there is only room for two in the brougham. You must follow us in a hansom."</|quote|>They got up and put on their coats, sipping their | placed on the table. "Let us go down to the theatre. When Sibyl comes on the stage you will have a new ideal of life. She will represent something to you that you have never known." "I have known everything," said Lord Henry, with a tired look in his eyes,<|quote|>"but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid, however, that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. Still, your wonderful girl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real than life. Let us go. Dorian, you will come with me. I am so sorry, Basil, but there is only room for two in the brougham. You must follow us in a hansom."</|quote|>They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing. The painter was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him. He could not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better than many other things that might have happened. After a few | unsatisfied. What more can one want? Yes, Dorian, you will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you have never had the courage to commit." "What nonsense you talk, Harry!" cried the lad, taking a light from a fire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table. "Let us go down to the theatre. When Sibyl comes on the stage you will have a new ideal of life. She will represent something to you that you have never known." "I have known everything," said Lord Henry, with a tired look in his eyes,<|quote|>"but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid, however, that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. Still, your wonderful girl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real than life. Let us go. Dorian, you will come with me. I am so sorry, Basil, but there is only room for two in the brougham. You must follow us in a hansom."</|quote|>They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing. The painter was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him. He could not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better than many other things that might have happened. After a few minutes, they all passed downstairs. He drove off by himself, as had been arranged, and watched the flashing lights of the little brougham in front of him. A strange sense of loss came over him. He felt that Dorian Gray would never again be to him all that he had | as some witty Frenchman once put it, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and always prevent us from carrying them out." "Harry, you are dreadful! I don t know why I like you so much." "You will always like me, Dorian," he replied. "Will you have some coffee, you fellows? Waiter, bring coffee, and _fine-champagne_, and some cigarettes. No, don t mind the cigarettes I have some. Basil, I can t allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette. A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want? Yes, Dorian, you will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you have never had the courage to commit." "What nonsense you talk, Harry!" cried the lad, taking a light from a fire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table. "Let us go down to the theatre. When Sibyl comes on the stage you will have a new ideal of life. She will represent something to you that you have never known." "I have known everything," said Lord Henry, with a tired look in his eyes,<|quote|>"but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid, however, that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. Still, your wonderful girl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real than life. Let us go. Dorian, you will come with me. I am so sorry, Basil, but there is only room for two in the brougham. You must follow us in a hansom."</|quote|>They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing. The painter was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him. He could not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better than many other things that might have happened. After a few minutes, they all passed downstairs. He drove off by himself, as had been arranged, and watched the flashing lights of the little brougham in front of him. A strange sense of loss came over him. He felt that Dorian Gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the past. Life had come between them.... His eyes darkened, and the crowded flaring streets became blurred to his eyes. When the cab drew up at the theatre, it seemed to him that he had grown years older. CHAPTER VII. For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat Jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with an oily tremulous smile. He escorted them to their box with a sort of pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands and talking at the top of his voice. | art is charming, but medi val emotions are out of date. One can use them in fiction, of course. But then the only things that one can use in fiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact. Believe me, no civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man ever knows what a pleasure is." "I know what pleasure is," cried Dorian Gray. "It is to adore some one." "That is certainly better than being adored," he answered, toying with some fruits. "Being adored is a nuisance. Women treat us just as humanity treats its gods. They worship us, and are always bothering us to do something for them." "I should have said that whatever they ask for they had first given to us," murmured the lad gravely. "They create love in our natures. They have a right to demand it back." "That is quite true, Dorian," cried Hallward. "Nothing is ever quite true," said Lord Henry. "This is," interrupted Dorian. "You must admit, Harry, that women give to men the very gold of their lives." "Possibly," he sighed, "but they invariably want it back in such very small change. That is the worry. Women, as some witty Frenchman once put it, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and always prevent us from carrying them out." "Harry, you are dreadful! I don t know why I like you so much." "You will always like me, Dorian," he replied. "Will you have some coffee, you fellows? Waiter, bring coffee, and _fine-champagne_, and some cigarettes. No, don t mind the cigarettes I have some. Basil, I can t allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette. A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want? Yes, Dorian, you will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you have never had the courage to commit." "What nonsense you talk, Harry!" cried the lad, taking a light from a fire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table. "Let us go down to the theatre. When Sibyl comes on the stage you will have a new ideal of life. She will represent something to you that you have never known." "I have known everything," said Lord Henry, with a tired look in his eyes,<|quote|>"but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid, however, that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. Still, your wonderful girl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real than life. Let us go. Dorian, you will come with me. I am so sorry, Basil, but there is only room for two in the brougham. You must follow us in a hansom."</|quote|>They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing. The painter was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him. He could not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better than many other things that might have happened. After a few minutes, they all passed downstairs. He drove off by himself, as had been arranged, and watched the flashing lights of the little brougham in front of him. A strange sense of loss came over him. He felt that Dorian Gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the past. Life had come between them.... His eyes darkened, and the crowded flaring streets became blurred to his eyes. When the cab drew up at the theatre, it seemed to him that he had grown years older. CHAPTER VII. For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat Jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with an oily tremulous smile. He escorted them to their box with a sort of pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands and talking at the top of his voice. Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever. He felt as if he had come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord Henry, upon the other hand, rather liked him. At least he declared he did, and insisted on shaking him by the hand and assuring him that he was proud to meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over a poet. Hallward amused himself with watching the faces in the pit. The heat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight flamed like a monstrous dahlia with petals of yellow fire. The youths in the gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them over the side. They talked to each other across the theatre and shared their oranges with the tawdry girls who sat beside them. Some women were laughing in the pit. Their voices were horribly shrill and discordant. The sound of the popping of corks came from the bar. "What a place to find one s divinity in!" said Lord Henry. "Yes!" answered Dorian Gray. "It was here I found her, and she is divine beyond all living things. When she acts, you will forget everything. These | regret all that you have taught me. I become different from what you have known me to be. I am changed, and the mere touch of Sibyl Vane s hand makes me forget you and all your wrong, fascinating, poisonous, delightful theories." "And those are ...?" asked Lord Henry, helping himself to some salad. "Oh, your theories about life, your theories about love, your theories about pleasure. All your theories, in fact, Harry." "Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about," he answered in his slow melodious voice. "But I am afraid I cannot claim my theory as my own. It belongs to Nature, not to me. Pleasure is Nature s test, her sign of approval. When we are happy, we are always good, but when we are good, we are not always happy." "Ah! but what do you mean by good?" cried Basil Hallward. "Yes," echoed Dorian, leaning back in his chair and looking at Lord Henry over the heavy clusters of purple-lipped irises that stood in the centre of the table, "what do you mean by good, Harry?" "To be good is to be in harmony with one s self," he replied, touching the thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed fingers. "Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others. One s own life that is the important thing. As for the lives of one s neighbours, if one wishes to be a prig or a Puritan, one can flaunt one s moral views about them, but they are not one s concern. Besides, individualism has really the higher aim. Modern morality consists in accepting the standard of one s age. I consider that for any man of culture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest immorality." "But, surely, if one lives merely for one s self, Harry, one pays a terrible price for doing so?" suggested the painter. "Yes, we are overcharged for everything nowadays. I should fancy that the real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but self-denial. Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege of the rich." "One has to pay in other ways but money." "What sort of ways, Basil?" "Oh! I should fancy in remorse, in suffering, in ... well, in the consciousness of degradation." Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "My dear fellow, medi val art is charming, but medi val emotions are out of date. One can use them in fiction, of course. But then the only things that one can use in fiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact. Believe me, no civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man ever knows what a pleasure is." "I know what pleasure is," cried Dorian Gray. "It is to adore some one." "That is certainly better than being adored," he answered, toying with some fruits. "Being adored is a nuisance. Women treat us just as humanity treats its gods. They worship us, and are always bothering us to do something for them." "I should have said that whatever they ask for they had first given to us," murmured the lad gravely. "They create love in our natures. They have a right to demand it back." "That is quite true, Dorian," cried Hallward. "Nothing is ever quite true," said Lord Henry. "This is," interrupted Dorian. "You must admit, Harry, that women give to men the very gold of their lives." "Possibly," he sighed, "but they invariably want it back in such very small change. That is the worry. Women, as some witty Frenchman once put it, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and always prevent us from carrying them out." "Harry, you are dreadful! I don t know why I like you so much." "You will always like me, Dorian," he replied. "Will you have some coffee, you fellows? Waiter, bring coffee, and _fine-champagne_, and some cigarettes. No, don t mind the cigarettes I have some. Basil, I can t allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette. A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want? Yes, Dorian, you will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you have never had the courage to commit." "What nonsense you talk, Harry!" cried the lad, taking a light from a fire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table. "Let us go down to the theatre. When Sibyl comes on the stage you will have a new ideal of life. She will represent something to you that you have never known." "I have known everything," said Lord Henry, with a tired look in his eyes,<|quote|>"but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid, however, that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. Still, your wonderful girl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real than life. Let us go. Dorian, you will come with me. I am so sorry, Basil, but there is only room for two in the brougham. You must follow us in a hansom."</|quote|>They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing. The painter was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him. He could not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better than many other things that might have happened. After a few minutes, they all passed downstairs. He drove off by himself, as had been arranged, and watched the flashing lights of the little brougham in front of him. A strange sense of loss came over him. He felt that Dorian Gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the past. Life had come between them.... His eyes darkened, and the crowded flaring streets became blurred to his eyes. When the cab drew up at the theatre, it seemed to him that he had grown years older. CHAPTER VII. For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat Jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with an oily tremulous smile. He escorted them to their box with a sort of pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands and talking at the top of his voice. Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever. He felt as if he had come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord Henry, upon the other hand, rather liked him. At least he declared he did, and insisted on shaking him by the hand and assuring him that he was proud to meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over a poet. Hallward amused himself with watching the faces in the pit. The heat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight flamed like a monstrous dahlia with petals of yellow fire. The youths in the gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them over the side. They talked to each other across the theatre and shared their oranges with the tawdry girls who sat beside them. Some women were laughing in the pit. Their voices were horribly shrill and discordant. The sound of the popping of corks came from the bar. "What a place to find one s divinity in!" said Lord Henry. "Yes!" answered Dorian Gray. "It was here I found her, and she is divine beyond all living things. When she acts, you will forget everything. These common rough people, with their coarse faces and brutal gestures, become quite different when she is on the stage. They sit silently and watch her. They weep and laugh as she wills them to do. She makes them as responsive as a violin. She spiritualizes them, and one feels that they are of the same flesh and blood as one s self." "The same flesh and blood as one s self! Oh, I hope not!" exclaimed Lord Henry, who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his opera-glass. "Don t pay any attention to him, Dorian," said the painter. "I understand what you mean, and I believe in this girl. Any one you love must be marvellous, and any girl who has the effect you describe must be fine and noble. To spiritualize one s age that is something worth doing. If this girl can give a soul to those who have lived without one, if she can create the sense of beauty in people whose lives have been sordid and ugly, if she can strip them of their selfishness and lend them tears for sorrows that are not their own, she is worthy of all your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the world. This marriage is quite right. I did not think so at first, but I admit it now. The gods made Sibyl Vane for you. Without her you would have been incomplete." "Thanks, Basil," answered Dorian Gray, pressing his hand. "I knew that you would understand me. Harry is so cynical, he terrifies me. But here is the orchestra. It is quite dreadful, but it only lasts for about five minutes. Then the curtain rises, and you will see the girl to whom I am going to give all my life, to whom I have given everything that is good in me." A quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil of applause, Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage. Yes, she was certainly lovely to look at one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henry thought, that he had ever seen. There was something of the fawn in her shy grace and startled eyes. A faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded enthusiastic house. She stepped back a few paces and her lips seemed to tremble. Basil Hallward | his age is a form of the grossest immorality." "But, surely, if one lives merely for one s self, Harry, one pays a terrible price for doing so?" suggested the painter. "Yes, we are overcharged for everything nowadays. I should fancy that the real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but self-denial. Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege of the rich." "One has to pay in other ways but money." "What sort of ways, Basil?" "Oh! I should fancy in remorse, in suffering, in ... well, in the consciousness of degradation." Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "My dear fellow, medi val art is charming, but medi val emotions are out of date. One can use them in fiction, of course. But then the only things that one can use in fiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact. Believe me, no civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man ever knows what a pleasure is." "I know what pleasure is," cried Dorian Gray. "It is to adore some one." "That is certainly better than being adored," he answered, toying with some fruits. "Being adored is a nuisance. Women treat us just as humanity treats its gods. They worship us, and are always bothering us to do something for them." "I should have said that whatever they ask for they had first given to us," murmured the lad gravely. "They create love in our natures. They have a right to demand it back." "That is quite true, Dorian," cried Hallward. "Nothing is ever quite true," said Lord Henry. "This is," interrupted Dorian. "You must admit, Harry, that women give to men the very gold of their lives." "Possibly," he sighed, "but they invariably want it back in such very small change. That is the worry. Women, as some witty Frenchman once put it, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and always prevent us from carrying them out." "Harry, you are dreadful! I don t know why I like you so much." "You will always like me, Dorian," he replied. "Will you have some coffee, you fellows? Waiter, bring coffee, and _fine-champagne_, and some cigarettes. No, don t mind the cigarettes I have some. Basil, I can t allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette. A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want? Yes, Dorian, you will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you have never had the courage to commit." "What nonsense you talk, Harry!" cried the lad, taking a light from a fire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table. "Let us go down to the theatre. When Sibyl comes on the stage you will have a new ideal of life. She will represent something to you that you have never known." "I have known everything," said Lord Henry, with a tired look in his eyes,<|quote|>"but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid, however, that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. Still, your wonderful girl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real than life. Let us go. Dorian, you will come with me. I am so sorry, Basil, but there is only room for two in the brougham. You must follow us in a hansom."</|quote|>They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing. The painter was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him. He could not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better than many other things that might have happened. After a few minutes, they all passed downstairs. He drove off by himself, as had been arranged, and watched the flashing lights of the little brougham in front of him. A strange sense of loss came over him. He felt that Dorian Gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the past. Life had come between them.... His eyes darkened, and the crowded flaring streets became blurred to his eyes. When the cab drew up at the theatre, it seemed to him that he had grown years older. CHAPTER VII. For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat Jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with an oily tremulous smile. He escorted them to their box with a sort of pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands and talking at the top of his voice. Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever. He felt as if he had come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord Henry, upon the other hand, rather liked him. At least he declared he did, and insisted on shaking him by the hand | The Picture Of Dorian Gray |
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 | No speaker | in fact rather like it.”<|quote|>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</|quote|>“artful,” opposed to his larger | you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.”<|quote|>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</|quote|>“artful,” opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding | 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.”<|quote|>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</|quote|>“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 | 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.”<|quote|>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</|quote|>“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 | “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.”<|quote|>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</|quote|>“artful,” opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play. “Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you | 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.”<|quote|>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</|quote|>“artful,” opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play. “Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She waited a little, brightly composed--then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.” His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance--his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his eyes once more--though after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a glamour, no shade of a secret; then he came back to his hostess. “Do you call giving me an advantage squeezing me by your sweet modesty for less than I may possibly bear?” “How can I say fairer,” she returned, “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed you my word for, thrown in, I’ll resign myself to whatever you may be disposed--characteristically!--to give for this one.” “If it’s a question of resignation,” said Mr. Bender, “you mean of course what I may be disposed--characteristically!--_not_ to give.” She played on him for an instant all her radiance. “Yes then, you | mention by the voice of Mr. Gotch, who had thrown open the door to the not altogether assured sound of “Mr. Breckenridge Bender.” The guest in possession gave a cry of impatience, but Lady Sandgate said “Coming up?” “If his lordship will see him.” “Oh, he’s beyond his time,” his lordship pronounced-- “I can’t see him now!” “Ah, but _mustn’t_ you--and mayn’t _I_ then?” She waited, however, for no response to signify to her servant “Let him come,” and her companion could but exhale a groan of reluctant accommodation as if he wondered at the point she made of it. It enlightened him indeed perhaps a little that she went on while Gotch did her bidding. “Does the kind of relation you’d be condemned to with Mr. Crimble let you down, down, down, as you say, more than the relation you’ve been having with Mr. Bender?” Lord Theign had for it the most uninforming of stares. “Do you mean don’t I hate ‘em equally both?” She cut his further reply short, however, by a “Hush!” of warning--Mr. Bender was there and his introducer had left them. Lord Theign, full of his purpose of departure, sacrificed hereupon little to ceremony. “I’ve but a moment, to my regret, to give you, Mr. Bender, and if you’ve been unavoidably detained, as you great bustling people are so apt to be, it will perhaps still be soon enough for your comfort to hear from me that I’ve just given order to close our exhibition. From the present hour on, sir” --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.”<|quote|>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</|quote|>“artful,” opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play. “Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She waited a little, brightly composed--then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.” His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance--his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his eyes once more--though after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a glamour, no shade of a secret; then he came back to his hostess. “Do you call giving me an advantage squeezing me by your sweet modesty for less than I may possibly bear?” “How can I say fairer,” she returned, “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed you my word for, thrown in, I’ll resign myself to whatever you may be disposed--characteristically!--to give for this one.” “If it’s a question of resignation,” said Mr. Bender, “you mean of course what I may be disposed--characteristically!--_not_ to give.” She played on him for an instant all her radiance. “Yes then, you dear sharp rich thing!” “And you take in, I assume,” he pursued, “that I’m just going to lean on you, for what I want, with the full weight of a determined man.” “Well,” she laughed, “I promise you I’ll thoroughly obey the direction of your pressure.” “All right then!” And he stopped before her, in his unrest, monumentally pledged, yet still more massively immeasurable. “How’ll you have it?” She bristled as with all the possible beautiful choices; then she shed her selection as a heaving fruit-tree might have dropped some round ripeness. It was for her friend to pick up his plum and his privilege. “Will you write a cheque?” “Yes, if you want it right away.” To which, however, he added, clapping vainly a breast-pocket: “But my cheque-book’s down in my car.” “At the door?” 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 | 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.”<|quote|>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</|quote|>“artful,” opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play. “Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She waited a little, brightly composed--then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.” His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance--his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his eyes once more--though after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a glamour, no shade of a secret; then he came back to his hostess. “Do you call giving me an advantage | The Outcry |
The little man dropped one of his papers, and a flicker of fear went over all the faces of the group. Evidently the awful President, whose name was Sunday, did sometimes send down such irregular ambassadors to such branch meetings. | No speaker | a due observance of Sunday."<|quote|>The little man dropped one of his papers, and a flicker of fear went over all the faces of the group. Evidently the awful President, whose name was Sunday, did sometimes send down such irregular ambassadors to such branch meetings.</|quote|>"Well, comrade," said the man | to see that you show a due observance of Sunday."<|quote|>The little man dropped one of his papers, and a flicker of fear went over all the faces of the group. Evidently the awful President, whose name was Sunday, did sometimes send down such irregular ambassadors to such branch meetings.</|quote|>"Well, comrade," said the man with the papers after a | call it a branch," said Syme, laughing; "I should call it at the very least a root." "What do you mean?" "The fact is," said Syme serenely, "the truth is I am a Sabbatarian. I have been specially sent here to see that you show a due observance of Sunday."<|quote|>The little man dropped one of his papers, and a flicker of fear went over all the faces of the group. Evidently the awful President, whose name was Sunday, did sometimes send down such irregular ambassadors to such branch meetings.</|quote|>"Well, comrade," said the man with the papers after a pause, "I suppose we'd better give you a seat in the meeting?" "If you ask my advice as a friend," said Syme with severe benevolence, "I think you'd better." When Gregory heard the dangerous dialogue end, with a sudden safety | that your gate is well enough guarded to make it hard for anyone to be here who was not a delegate." The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still contracted with something like suspicion. "What branch do you represent?" he asked sharply. "I should hardly call it a branch," said Syme, laughing; "I should call it at the very least a root." "What do you mean?" "The fact is," said Syme serenely, "the truth is I am a Sabbatarian. I have been specially sent here to see that you show a due observance of Sunday."<|quote|>The little man dropped one of his papers, and a flicker of fear went over all the faces of the group. Evidently the awful President, whose name was Sunday, did sometimes send down such irregular ambassadors to such branch meetings.</|quote|>"Well, comrade," said the man with the papers after a pause, "I suppose we'd better give you a seat in the meeting?" "If you ask my advice as a friend," said Syme with severe benevolence, "I think you'd better." When Gregory heard the dangerous dialogue end, with a sudden safety for his rival, he rose abruptly and paced the floor in painful thought. He was, indeed, in an agony of diplomacy. It was clear that Syme's inspired impudence was likely to bring him out of all merely accidental dilemmas. Little was to be hoped from them. He could not himself | for ever." "I shall not break my word," said Syme sternly, "nor will you break yours. Here are your friends." The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a slouching and somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a black beard and glasses a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim Healy detached himself, and bustled forward with some papers in his hand. "Comrade Gregory," he said, "I suppose this man is a delegate?" Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of Syme; but Syme replied almost pertly "I am glad to see that your gate is well enough guarded to make it hard for anyone to be here who was not a delegate." The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still contracted with something like suspicion. "What branch do you represent?" he asked sharply. "I should hardly call it a branch," said Syme, laughing; "I should call it at the very least a root." "What do you mean?" "The fact is," said Syme serenely, "the truth is I am a Sabbatarian. I have been specially sent here to see that you show a due observance of Sunday."<|quote|>The little man dropped one of his papers, and a flicker of fear went over all the faces of the group. Evidently the awful President, whose name was Sunday, did sometimes send down such irregular ambassadors to such branch meetings.</|quote|>"Well, comrade," said the man with the papers after a pause, "I suppose we'd better give you a seat in the meeting?" "If you ask my advice as a friend," said Syme with severe benevolence, "I think you'd better." When Gregory heard the dangerous dialogue end, with a sudden safety for his rival, he rose abruptly and paced the floor in painful thought. He was, indeed, in an agony of diplomacy. It was clear that Syme's inspired impudence was likely to bring him out of all merely accidental dilemmas. Little was to be hoped from them. He could not himself betray Syme, partly from honour, but partly also because, if he betrayed him and for some reason failed to destroy him, the Syme who escaped would be a Syme freed from all obligation of secrecy, a Syme who would simply walk to the nearest police station. After all, it was only one night's discussion, and only one detective who would know of it. He would let out as little as possible of their plans that night, and then let Syme go, and chance it. He strode across to the group of anarchists, which was already distributing itself along the benches. | the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick." Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The one solitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely." Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster. "I don't believe in immortality," he said at last, "but if, after all this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you, to howl in for ever." "I shall not break my word," said Syme sternly, "nor will you break yours. Here are your friends." The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a slouching and somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a black beard and glasses a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim Healy detached himself, and bustled forward with some papers in his hand. "Comrade Gregory," he said, "I suppose this man is a delegate?" Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of Syme; but Syme replied almost pertly "I am glad to see that your gate is well enough guarded to make it hard for anyone to be here who was not a delegate." The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still contracted with something like suspicion. "What branch do you represent?" he asked sharply. "I should hardly call it a branch," said Syme, laughing; "I should call it at the very least a root." "What do you mean?" "The fact is," said Syme serenely, "the truth is I am a Sabbatarian. I have been specially sent here to see that you show a due observance of Sunday."<|quote|>The little man dropped one of his papers, and a flicker of fear went over all the faces of the group. Evidently the awful President, whose name was Sunday, did sometimes send down such irregular ambassadors to such branch meetings.</|quote|>"Well, comrade," said the man with the papers after a pause, "I suppose we'd better give you a seat in the meeting?" "If you ask my advice as a friend," said Syme with severe benevolence, "I think you'd better." When Gregory heard the dangerous dialogue end, with a sudden safety for his rival, he rose abruptly and paced the floor in painful thought. He was, indeed, in an agony of diplomacy. It was clear that Syme's inspired impudence was likely to bring him out of all merely accidental dilemmas. Little was to be hoped from them. He could not himself betray Syme, partly from honour, but partly also because, if he betrayed him and for some reason failed to destroy him, the Syme who escaped would be a Syme freed from all obligation of secrecy, a Syme who would simply walk to the nearest police station. After all, it was only one night's discussion, and only one detective who would know of it. He would let out as little as possible of their plans that night, and then let Syme go, and chance it. He strode across to the group of anarchists, which was already distributing itself along the benches. "I think it is time we began," he said; "the steam-tug is waiting on the river already. I move that Comrade Buttons takes the chair." This being approved by a show of hands, the little man with the papers slipped into the presidential seat. "Comrades," he began, as sharp as a pistol-shot, "our meeting tonight is important, though it need not be long. This branch has always had the honour of electing Thursdays for the Central European Council. We have elected many and splendid Thursdays. We all lament the sad decease of the heroic worker who occupied the post until last week. As you know, his services to the cause were considerable. He organised the great dynamite coup of Brighton which, under happier circumstances, ought to have killed everybody on the pier. As you also know, his death was as self-denying as his life, for he died through his faith in a hygienic mixture of chalk and water as a substitute for milk, which beverage he regarded as barbaric, and as involving cruelty to the cow. Cruelty, or anything approaching to cruelty, revolted him always. But it is not to acclaim his virtues that we are met, but for a | keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?" asked Gregory, wondering. "Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have you got a secret?" "Yes," said Syme, "I have a secret." Then after a pause, "Will you swear?" Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly "You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes." Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers' pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators. "Well," said Syme slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard." Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice. "What do you say?" he asked in an inhuman voice. "Yes," said Syme simply, "I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming." From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate. "Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick." Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The one solitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely." Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster. "I don't believe in immortality," he said at last, "but if, after all this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you, to howl in for ever." "I shall not break my word," said Syme sternly, "nor will you break yours. Here are your friends." The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a slouching and somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a black beard and glasses a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim Healy detached himself, and bustled forward with some papers in his hand. "Comrade Gregory," he said, "I suppose this man is a delegate?" Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of Syme; but Syme replied almost pertly "I am glad to see that your gate is well enough guarded to make it hard for anyone to be here who was not a delegate." The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still contracted with something like suspicion. "What branch do you represent?" he asked sharply. "I should hardly call it a branch," said Syme, laughing; "I should call it at the very least a root." "What do you mean?" "The fact is," said Syme serenely, "the truth is I am a Sabbatarian. I have been specially sent here to see that you show a due observance of Sunday."<|quote|>The little man dropped one of his papers, and a flicker of fear went over all the faces of the group. Evidently the awful President, whose name was Sunday, did sometimes send down such irregular ambassadors to such branch meetings.</|quote|>"Well, comrade," said the man with the papers after a pause, "I suppose we'd better give you a seat in the meeting?" "If you ask my advice as a friend," said Syme with severe benevolence, "I think you'd better." When Gregory heard the dangerous dialogue end, with a sudden safety for his rival, he rose abruptly and paced the floor in painful thought. He was, indeed, in an agony of diplomacy. It was clear that Syme's inspired impudence was likely to bring him out of all merely accidental dilemmas. Little was to be hoped from them. He could not himself betray Syme, partly from honour, but partly also because, if he betrayed him and for some reason failed to destroy him, the Syme who escaped would be a Syme freed from all obligation of secrecy, a Syme who would simply walk to the nearest police station. After all, it was only one night's discussion, and only one detective who would know of it. He would let out as little as possible of their plans that night, and then let Syme go, and chance it. He strode across to the group of anarchists, which was already distributing itself along the benches. "I think it is time we began," he said; "the steam-tug is waiting on the river already. I move that Comrade Buttons takes the chair." This being approved by a show of hands, the little man with the papers slipped into the presidential seat. "Comrades," he began, as sharp as a pistol-shot, "our meeting tonight is important, though it need not be long. This branch has always had the honour of electing Thursdays for the Central European Council. We have elected many and splendid Thursdays. We all lament the sad decease of the heroic worker who occupied the post until last week. As you know, his services to the cause were considerable. He organised the great dynamite coup of Brighton which, under happier circumstances, ought to have killed everybody on the pier. As you also know, his death was as self-denying as his life, for he died through his faith in a hygienic mixture of chalk and water as a substitute for milk, which beverage he regarded as barbaric, and as involving cruelty to the cow. Cruelty, or anything approaching to cruelty, revolted him always. But it is not to acclaim his virtues that we are met, but for a harder task. It is difficult properly to praise his qualities, but it is more difficult to replace them. Upon you, comrades, it devolves this evening to choose out of the company present the man who shall be Thursday. If any comrade suggests a name I will put it to the vote. If no comrade suggests a name, I can only tell myself that that dear dynamiter, who is gone from us, has carried into the unknowable abysses the last secret of his virtue and his innocence." There was a stir of almost inaudible applause, such as is sometimes heard in church. Then a large old man, with a long and venerable white beard, perhaps the only real working-man present, rose lumberingly and said "I move that Comrade Gregory be elected Thursday," and sat lumberingly down again. "Does anyone second?" asked the chairman. A little man with a velvet coat and pointed beard seconded. "Before I put the matter to the vote," said the chairman, "I will call on Comrade Gregory to make a statement." Gregory rose amid a great rumble of applause. His face was deadly pale, so that by contrast his queer red hair looked almost scarlet. But he was smiling and altogether at ease. He had made up his mind, and he saw his best policy quite plain in front of him like a white road. His best chance was to make a softened and ambiguous speech, such as would leave on the detective's mind the impression that the anarchist brotherhood was a very mild affair after all. He believed in his own literary power, his capacity for suggesting fine shades and picking perfect words. He thought that with care he could succeed, in spite of all the people around him, in conveying an impression of the institution, subtly and delicately false. Syme had once thought that anarchists, under all their bravado, were only playing the fool. Could he not now, in the hour of peril, make Syme think so again? "Comrades," began Gregory, in a low but penetrating voice, "it is not necessary for me to tell you what is my policy, for it is your policy also. Our belief has been slandered, it has been disfigured, it has been utterly confused and concealed, but it has never been altered. Those who talk about anarchism and its dangers go everywhere and anywhere to get their information, except | think I hear your friends coming." From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate. "Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick." Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The one solitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely." Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster. "I don't believe in immortality," he said at last, "but if, after all this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you, to howl in for ever." "I shall not break my word," said Syme sternly, "nor will you break yours. Here are your friends." The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a slouching and somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a black beard and glasses a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim Healy detached himself, and bustled forward with some papers in his hand. "Comrade Gregory," he said, "I suppose this man is a delegate?" Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of Syme; but Syme replied almost pertly "I am glad to see that your gate is well enough guarded to make it hard for anyone to be here who was not a delegate." The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still contracted with something like suspicion. "What branch do you represent?" he asked sharply. "I should hardly call it a branch," said Syme, laughing; "I should call it at the very least a root." "What do you mean?" "The fact is," said Syme serenely, "the truth is I am a Sabbatarian. I have been specially sent here to see that you show a due observance of Sunday."<|quote|>The little man dropped one of his papers, and a flicker of fear went over all the faces of the group. Evidently the awful President, whose name was Sunday, did sometimes send down such irregular ambassadors to such branch meetings.</|quote|>"Well, comrade," said the man with the papers after a pause, "I suppose we'd better give you a seat in the meeting?" "If you ask my advice as a friend," said Syme with severe benevolence, "I think you'd better." When Gregory heard the dangerous dialogue end, with a sudden safety for his rival, he rose abruptly and paced the floor in painful thought. He was, indeed, in an agony of diplomacy. It was clear that Syme's inspired impudence was likely to bring him out of all merely accidental dilemmas. Little was to be hoped from them. He could not himself betray Syme, partly from honour, but partly also because, if he betrayed him and for some reason failed to destroy him, the Syme who escaped would be a Syme freed from all obligation of secrecy, a Syme who would simply walk to the nearest police station. After all, it was only one night's discussion, and only one detective who would know of it. He would let out as little as possible of their plans that night, and then let Syme go, and chance it. He strode across to the group of anarchists, which was already distributing itself along the benches. "I think it is time we began," he said; "the steam-tug is waiting on the river already. I move that Comrade Buttons takes the chair." This being approved by a show of hands, the little man with the papers slipped into the presidential seat. "Comrades," he began, as sharp as a pistol-shot, "our meeting tonight is important, though it need not be long. This branch has always had the honour of electing Thursdays for the Central European Council. We have elected many and splendid Thursdays. We all lament the sad decease of the heroic worker who occupied the post until last week. As you know, his services to the cause were considerable. He organised the great dynamite coup of Brighton which, under happier circumstances, ought to have killed everybody on the pier. As you also know, his death was as self-denying as his life, for | The Man Who Was Thursday |
"You looked very, very nice." | Count Mippipopolous | up. "Very nice," he said.<|quote|>"You looked very, very nice."</|quote|>"Don't you dance, count?" I | the table. The count stood up. "Very nice," he said.<|quote|>"You looked very, very nice."</|quote|>"Don't you dance, count?" I asked. "No. I'm too old." | 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.<|quote|>"You looked very, very nice."</|quote|>"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, | 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.<|quote|>"You looked very, very nice."</|quote|>"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 is rather hard." "You know I think that boy's got a future. But personally I don't want him around." "Jake's rather the same way." "He gives me the willys." "Well," the count | 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.<|quote|>"You looked very, very nice."</|quote|>"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 is rather hard." "You know I think that boy's got a future. But personally I don't want him around." "Jake's rather the same way." "He gives me the willys." "Well," the count shrugged his shoulders. "About his future you can't ever tell. Anyhow, his father was a great friend of my father." "Come on. Let's dance," Brett said. We danced. It was crowded and close. "Oh, darling," Brett said, "I'm so miserable." I had that feeling of going through something that has all happened before. "You were happy a minute ago." The drummer shouted: "You can't two time--" "It's all gone." "What's the matter?" "I don't know. I just feel terribly." ". . . . . ." the drummer chanted. Then turned to his sticks. "Want to go?" I had the feeling | 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.<|quote|>"You looked very, very nice."</|quote|>"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 is rather hard." "You know I think that boy's got a future. But personally I don't want him around." "Jake's rather the same way." "He gives me the willys." "Well," the count shrugged his shoulders. "About his future you can't ever tell. Anyhow, his father was a great friend of my father." "Come on. Let's dance," Brett said. We danced. It was crowded and close. "Oh, darling," Brett said, "I'm so miserable." I had that feeling of going through something that has all happened before. "You were happy a minute ago." The drummer shouted: "You can't two time--" "It's all gone." "What's the matter?" "I don't know. I just feel terribly." ". . . . . ." the drummer chanted. Then turned to his sticks. "Want to go?" I had the feeling as in a nightmare of it all being something repeated, something I had been through and that now I must go through again. ". . . . . ." the drummer sang softly. "Let's go," said Brett. "You don't mind." ". . . . . ." the drummer shouted and grinned at Brett. "All right," I said. We got out from the crowd. Brett went to the dressing-room. "Brett wants to go," I said to the count. He nodded. "Does she? That's fine. You take the car. I'm going to stay here for a while, Mr. Barnes." We shook hands. "It was a wonderful time," I said. "I wish you would let me get this." I took a note out of my pocket. "Mr. Barnes, don't be ridiculous," the count said. Brett came over with her wrap on. She kissed the count and put her hand on his shoulder to keep him from standing up. As we went out the door I looked back and there were three girls at his table. We got into the big car. Brett gave the chauffeur the address of her hotel. "No, don't come up," she said at the hotel. She had rung and | 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. "See on the back where they come out." 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.<|quote|>"You looked very, very nice."</|quote|>"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 is rather hard." "You know I think that boy's got a future. But personally I don't want him around." "Jake's rather the same way." "He gives me the willys." "Well," the count shrugged his shoulders. "About his future you can't ever tell. Anyhow, his father was a great friend of my father." "Come on. Let's dance," Brett said. We danced. It was crowded and close. "Oh, darling," Brett said, "I'm so miserable." I had that feeling of going through something that has all happened before. "You were happy a minute ago." The drummer shouted: "You can't two time--" "It's all gone." "What's the matter?" "I don't know. I just feel terribly." ". . . . . ." the drummer chanted. Then turned to his sticks. "Want to go?" I had the feeling as in a nightmare of it all being something repeated, something I had been through and that now I must go through again. ". . . . . ." the drummer sang softly. "Let's go," said Brett. "You don't mind." ". . . . . ." the drummer shouted and grinned at Brett. "All right," I said. We got out from the crowd. Brett went to the dressing-room. "Brett wants to go," I said to the count. He nodded. "Does she? That's fine. You take the car. I'm going to stay here for a while, Mr. Barnes." We shook hands. "It was a wonderful time," I said. "I wish you would let me get this." I took a note out of my pocket. "Mr. Barnes, don't be ridiculous," the count said. Brett came over with her wrap on. She kissed the count and put her hand on his shoulder to keep him from standing up. As we went out the door I looked back and there were three girls at his table. We got into the big car. Brett gave the chauffeur the address of her hotel. "No, don't come up," she said at the hotel. She had rung and the door was unlatched. "Really?" "No. Please." "Good night, Brett," I said. "I'm sorry you feel rotten." "Good night, Jake. Good night, darling. I won't see you again." We kissed standing at the door. She pushed me away. We kissed again. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. She turned quickly and went into the hotel. The chauffeur drove me around to my flat. I gave him twenty francs and he touched his cap and said: "Good night, sir," and drove off. I rang the bell. The door opened and I went up-stairs and went to bed. BOOK II CHAPTER 8 I did not see Brett again until she came back from San Sebastian. One card came from her from there. It had a picture of the Concha, and said: "Darling. Very quiet and healthy. Love to all the chaps. BRETT." Nor did I see Robert Cohn again. I heard Frances had left for England and I had a note from Cohn saying he was going out in the country for a couple of weeks, he did not know where, but that he wanted to hold me to the fishing-trip in Spain we had talked about last winter. I could reach him always, he wrote, through his bankers. Brett was gone, I was not bothered by Cohn's troubles, I rather enjoyed not having to play tennis, there was plenty of work to do, I went often to the races, dined with friends, and put in some extra time at the office getting things ahead so I could leave it in charge of my secretary when Bill Gorton and I should shove off to Spain the end of June. Bill Gorton arrived, put up a couple of days at the flat and went off to Vienna. He was very cheerful and said the States were wonderful. New York was wonderful. There had been a grand theatrical season and a whole crop of great young light heavyweights. Any one of them was a good prospect to grow up, put on weight and trim Dempsey. Bill was very happy. He had made a lot of money on his last book, and was going to make a lot more. We had a good time while he was in Paris, and then he went off to Vienna. He was coming back in three weeks and we would leave for Spain to get in some fishing and go to | 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.<|quote|>"You looked very, very nice."</|quote|>"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 is rather hard." "You know I think that boy's got a future. But personally I don't want him around." "Jake's rather the same way." "He gives me the willys." "Well," the count shrugged his shoulders. "About his future you can't ever tell. Anyhow, his father was a great friend of my father." "Come on. Let's dance," Brett said. We danced. It was crowded and close. "Oh, darling," Brett said, "I'm so miserable." I had that feeling of going through something that has all happened before. "You were happy a minute ago." The drummer shouted: "You can't two time--" "It's all gone." "What's the matter?" "I don't know. I just feel terribly." ". . . . . ." the drummer chanted. Then turned to his sticks. "Want to go?" I had the feeling as in a nightmare of it all being something repeated, something I had been through and that now I must go through again. ". . . . . ." the drummer sang softly. "Let's go," said Brett. "You don't mind." ". . . . . ." the drummer shouted and grinned at Brett. "All right," I said. We got out from the crowd. Brett went to the dressing-room. "Brett wants to go," I said to the count. He nodded. "Does she? That's fine. You take the car. I'm going to stay here for a while, Mr. Barnes." We shook hands. "It was a wonderful time," I said. "I wish you would let me get this." I took a note out of my pocket. "Mr. Barnes, don't be ridiculous," the count said. Brett came over with her wrap on. She kissed the count and put her hand on his shoulder to keep him from standing up. As we went out the door I looked back and there were three girls at his table. We got into the big car. Brett gave the chauffeur the address of her hotel. "No, don't come up," she said at the hotel. She had rung and the door was unlatched. "Really?" "No. Please." "Good night, Brett," I said. "I'm sorry you feel rotten." "Good night, Jake. Good night, darling. | The Sun Also Rises |
"Perhaps it would have been better;" | Jane | this could not have happened!"<|quote|>"Perhaps it would have been better;"</|quote|>replied her sister. "But to | what we knew of him, this could not have happened!"<|quote|>"Perhaps it would have been better;"</|quote|>replied her sister. "But to expose the former faults of | to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad affair has taken place, it is said, that he left Meryton greatly in debt; but I hope this may be false." "Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him, this could not have happened!"<|quote|>"Perhaps it would have been better;"</|quote|>replied her sister. "But to expose the former faults of any person, without knowing what their present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions." "Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his wife?" "He brought it with him for us to see." Jane then | other, many weeks." "But not before they went to Brighton?" "No, I believe not." "And did Colonel Forster appear to think ill of Wickham himself? Does he know his real character?" "I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad affair has taken place, it is said, that he left Meryton greatly in debt; but I hope this may be false." "Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him, this could not have happened!"<|quote|>"Perhaps it would have been better;"</|quote|>replied her sister. "But to expose the former faults of any person, without knowing what their present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions." "Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his wife?" "He brought it with him for us to see." Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These were the contents: "MY DEAR HARRIET," "You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, | really married?" "How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains! I felt a little uneasy--a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite right. My father and mother knew nothing of that, they only felt how imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last letter, she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their being in love with each other, many weeks." "But not before they went to Brighton?" "No, I believe not." "And did Colonel Forster appear to think ill of Wickham himself? Does he know his real character?" "I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad affair has taken place, it is said, that he left Meryton greatly in debt; but I hope this may be false." "Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him, this could not have happened!"<|quote|>"Perhaps it would have been better;"</|quote|>replied her sister. "But to expose the former faults of any person, without knowing what their present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions." "Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his wife?" "He brought it with him for us to see." Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These were the contents: "MY DEAR HARRIET," "You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater, when I write to them, and sign my name Lydia Wickham. What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt, for | and every thing about it, which I have not already heard. Give me farther particulars. What did Colonel Forster say? Had they no apprehension of any thing before the elopement took place? They must have seen them together for ever." "Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality, especially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so grieved for him. His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He _was_ coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had any idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension first got abroad, it hastened his journey." "And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?" "Yes; but when questioned by _him_ Denny denied knowing any thing of their plan, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not repeat his persuasion of their not marrying--and from _that_, I am inclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before." "And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?" "How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains! I felt a little uneasy--a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite right. My father and mother knew nothing of that, they only felt how imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last letter, she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their being in love with each other, many weeks." "But not before they went to Brighton?" "No, I believe not." "And did Colonel Forster appear to think ill of Wickham himself? Does he know his real character?" "I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad affair has taken place, it is said, that he left Meryton greatly in debt; but I hope this may be false." "Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him, this could not have happened!"<|quote|>"Perhaps it would have been better;"</|quote|>replied her sister. "But to expose the former faults of any person, without knowing what their present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions." "Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his wife?" "He brought it with him for us to see." Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These were the contents: "MY DEAR HARRIET," "You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater, when I write to them, and sign my name Lydia Wickham. What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt, for not keeping my engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I hope he will excuse me when he knows all, and tell him I will dance with him at the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I shall send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown, before they are packed up. Good bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster, I hope you will drink to our good journey." "Your affectionate friend," "LYDIA BENNET." "Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!" cried Elizabeth when she had finished it. "What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment. But at least it shews, that _she_ was serious in the object of her journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her side a _scheme_ of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!" "I never saw any one so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in such confusion!" "Oh! Jane," cried Elizabeth, "was there a servant belonging to it, who did | her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her tongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it better that _one_ only of the household, and the one whom they could most trust, should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the subject. In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been too busily engaged in their separate apartments, to make their appearance before. One came from her books, and the other from her toilette. The faces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change was visible in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or the anger which she had herself incurred in the business, had given something more of fretfulness than usual, to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth with a countenance of grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table, "This is a most unfortunate affair; and will probably be much talked of. But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of each other, the balm of sisterly consolation." Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added, "Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful lesson; that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable--that one false step involves her in endless ruin--that her reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful,--and that she cannot be too much guarded in her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex." Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such kind of moral extractions from the evil before them. In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for half an hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of the opportunity of making many enquiries, which Jane was equally eager to satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel of this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible; the former continued the subject, by saying, "But tell me all and every thing about it, which I have not already heard. Give me farther particulars. What did Colonel Forster say? Had they no apprehension of any thing before the elopement took place? They must have seen them together for ever." "Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality, especially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so grieved for him. His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He _was_ coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had any idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension first got abroad, it hastened his journey." "And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?" "Yes; but when questioned by _him_ Denny denied knowing any thing of their plan, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not repeat his persuasion of their not marrying--and from _that_, I am inclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before." "And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?" "How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains! I felt a little uneasy--a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite right. My father and mother knew nothing of that, they only felt how imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last letter, she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their being in love with each other, many weeks." "But not before they went to Brighton?" "No, I believe not." "And did Colonel Forster appear to think ill of Wickham himself? Does he know his real character?" "I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad affair has taken place, it is said, that he left Meryton greatly in debt; but I hope this may be false." "Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him, this could not have happened!"<|quote|>"Perhaps it would have been better;"</|quote|>replied her sister. "But to expose the former faults of any person, without knowing what their present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions." "Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his wife?" "He brought it with him for us to see." Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These were the contents: "MY DEAR HARRIET," "You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater, when I write to them, and sign my name Lydia Wickham. What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt, for not keeping my engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I hope he will excuse me when he knows all, and tell him I will dance with him at the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I shall send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown, before they are packed up. Good bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster, I hope you will drink to our good journey." "Your affectionate friend," "LYDIA BENNET." "Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!" cried Elizabeth when she had finished it. "What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment. But at least it shews, that _she_ was serious in the object of her journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her side a _scheme_ of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!" "I never saw any one so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in such confusion!" "Oh! Jane," cried Elizabeth, "was there a servant belonging to it, who did not know the whole story before the end of the day?" "I do not know.--I hope there was.--But to be guarded at such a time, is very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavoured to give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so much as I might have done! But the horror of what might possibly happen, almost took from me my faculties." "Your attendance upon her, has been too much for you. You do not look well. Oh! that I had been with you, you have had every care and anxiety upon yourself alone." "Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every fatigue, I am sure, but I did not think it right for either of them. Kitty is slight and delicate, and Mary studies so much, that her hours of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt Philips came to Longbourn on Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all, and lady Lucas has been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters, if they could be of use to us." "She had better have stayed at home," cried Elizabeth; "perhaps she _meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see too little of one's neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence, insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied." She then proceeded to enquire into the measures which her father had intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter. "He meant, I believe," replied Jane, "to go to Epsom, the place where they last changed horses, see the postilions, and try if any thing could be made out from them. His principal object must be, to discover the number of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come with a fare from London; and as he thought the circumstance of a gentleman and lady's removing from one carriage into another, might be remarked, he meant to make enquiries at Clapham. If he could any how discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he determined to make enquiries there, and hoped it | that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable--that one false step involves her in endless ruin--that her reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful,--and that she cannot be too much guarded in her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex." Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such kind of moral extractions from the evil before them. In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for half an hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of the opportunity of making many enquiries, which Jane was equally eager to satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel of this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible; the former continued the subject, by saying, "But tell me all and every thing about it, which I have not already heard. Give me farther particulars. What did Colonel Forster say? Had they no apprehension of any thing before the elopement took place? They must have seen them together for ever." "Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality, especially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so grieved for him. His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He _was_ coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had any idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension first got abroad, it hastened his journey." "And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?" "Yes; but when questioned by _him_ Denny denied knowing any thing of their plan, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not repeat his persuasion of their not marrying--and from _that_, I am inclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before." "And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?" "How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains! I felt a little uneasy--a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite right. My father and mother knew nothing of that, they only felt how imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last letter, she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their being in love with each other, many weeks." "But not before they went to Brighton?" "No, I believe not." "And did Colonel Forster appear to think ill of Wickham himself? Does he know his real character?" "I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad affair has taken place, it is said, that he left Meryton greatly in debt; but I hope this may be false." "Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him, this could not have happened!"<|quote|>"Perhaps it would have been better;"</|quote|>replied her sister. "But to expose the former faults of any person, without knowing what their present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions." "Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his wife?" "He brought it with him for us to see." Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These were the contents: "MY DEAR HARRIET," "You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater, when I write to them, and sign my name Lydia Wickham. What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt, for not keeping my engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I hope he will excuse me when he knows all, and tell him I will dance with him at the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I shall send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown, before they are packed up. Good bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster, I hope you will drink to our good journey." "Your affectionate friend," "LYDIA BENNET." "Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!" cried Elizabeth when she had finished it. "What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment. But at least it shews, that _she_ was serious in the object of her journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her side a _scheme_ of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!" "I never saw any one so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in such confusion!" "Oh! Jane," cried Elizabeth, "was there a servant belonging to it, who did not know the whole story before the end of the day?" "I do not know.--I hope there was.--But to be guarded at such a time, is very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavoured to give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so much as I might have done! But the horror of what might possibly happen, almost took from | Pride And Prejudice |
"Those words?" | Ronny Heaslop | Doctor Aziz never did it.'"<|quote|>"Those words?"</|quote|>"The idea more than the | but just then she said: Doctor Aziz never did it.'"<|quote|>"Those words?"</|quote|>"The idea more than the words." "Never, never, my dear | of me!" "I was listening to all she said, as far as it could be listened to; she gets very incoherent." "When her voice dropped she said it towards the end, when she talked about love love I couldn't follow, but just then she said: Doctor Aziz never did it.'"<|quote|>"Those words?"</|quote|>"The idea more than the words." "Never, never, my dear girl. Complete illusion. His name was not mentioned by anyone. Look here you are confusing this with Fielding's letter." "That's it, that's it," she cried, greatly relieved. "I knew I'd heard his name somewhere. I am so grateful to you | accuse him." "Mother never said so." "Didn't she?" she asked, quite reasonable, open to every suggestion anyway. "She never mentioned that name once." "But, Ronny, I heard her." "Pure illusion. You can't be quite well, can you, to make up a thing like that." "I suppose I can't. How amazing of me!" "I was listening to all she said, as far as it could be listened to; she gets very incoherent." "When her voice dropped she said it towards the end, when she talked about love love I couldn't follow, but just then she said: Doctor Aziz never did it.'"<|quote|>"Those words?"</|quote|>"The idea more than the words." "Never, never, my dear girl. Complete illusion. His name was not mentioned by anyone. Look here you are confusing this with Fielding's letter." "That's it, that's it," she cried, greatly relieved. "I knew I'd heard his name somewhere. I am so grateful to you for clearing this up it's the sort of mistake that worries me, and proves I'm neurotic." "So you won't go saying he's innocent again, will you? for every servant I've got is a spy." He went to the window. The mali had gone, or rather had turned into two small | to the Minto Hospital, Aziz restored to prison, with an additional charge against him of disturbing the public peace. "Half a minute," he remarked when the anecdote was over, and went to the telephone to ask Callendar to look in as soon as he found it convenient, because she hadn't borne the journey well. When he returned, she was in a nervous crisis, but it took a different form she clung to him, and sobbed, "Help me to do what I ought. Aziz is good. You heard your mother say so." "Heard what?" "He's good; I've been so wrong to accuse him." "Mother never said so." "Didn't she?" she asked, quite reasonable, open to every suggestion anyway. "She never mentioned that name once." "But, Ronny, I heard her." "Pure illusion. You can't be quite well, can you, to make up a thing like that." "I suppose I can't. How amazing of me!" "I was listening to all she said, as far as it could be listened to; she gets very incoherent." "When her voice dropped she said it towards the end, when she talked about love love I couldn't follow, but just then she said: Doctor Aziz never did it.'"<|quote|>"Those words?"</|quote|>"The idea more than the words." "Never, never, my dear girl. Complete illusion. His name was not mentioned by anyone. Look here you are confusing this with Fielding's letter." "That's it, that's it," she cried, greatly relieved. "I knew I'd heard his name somewhere. I am so grateful to you for clearing this up it's the sort of mistake that worries me, and proves I'm neurotic." "So you won't go saying he's innocent again, will you? for every servant I've got is a spy." He went to the window. The mali had gone, or rather had turned into two small children impossible they should know English, but he sent them packing. "They all hate us," he explained. "It'll be all right after the verdict, for I will say this for them, they do accept the accomplished fact; but at present they're pouring out money like water to catch us tripping, and a remark like yours is the very thing they look out for. It would enable them to say it was a put-up job on the part of us officials. You see what I mean." Mrs. Moore came back, with the same air of ill-temper, and sat down with a | one another. She obeyed and took hold of his hand. He stroked it and she smiled, and gasped as if she had risen to the surface of the water, then touched her ear. "My echo's better." "That's good. You'll be perfectly well in a few days, but you must save yourself up for the trial. Das is a very good fellow, we shall all be with you." "But Ronny, dear Ronny, perhaps there oughtn't to be any trial." "I don't quite know what you're saying, and I don't think you do." "If Dr. Aziz never did it he ought to be let out." A shiver like impending death passed over Ronny. He said hurriedly, "He was let out until the Mohurram riot, when he had to be put in again." To divert her, he told her the story, which was held to be amusing. Nureddin had stolen the Nawab Bahadur's car and driven Aziz into a ditch in the dark. Both of them had fallen out, and Nureddin had cut his face open. Their wailing had been drowned by the cries of the faithful, and it was quite a time before they were rescued by the police. Nureddin was taken to the Minto Hospital, Aziz restored to prison, with an additional charge against him of disturbing the public peace. "Half a minute," he remarked when the anecdote was over, and went to the telephone to ask Callendar to look in as soon as he found it convenient, because she hadn't borne the journey well. When he returned, she was in a nervous crisis, but it took a different form she clung to him, and sobbed, "Help me to do what I ought. Aziz is good. You heard your mother say so." "Heard what?" "He's good; I've been so wrong to accuse him." "Mother never said so." "Didn't she?" she asked, quite reasonable, open to every suggestion anyway. "She never mentioned that name once." "But, Ronny, I heard her." "Pure illusion. You can't be quite well, can you, to make up a thing like that." "I suppose I can't. How amazing of me!" "I was listening to all she said, as far as it could be listened to; she gets very incoherent." "When her voice dropped she said it towards the end, when she talked about love love I couldn't follow, but just then she said: Doctor Aziz never did it.'"<|quote|>"Those words?"</|quote|>"The idea more than the words." "Never, never, my dear girl. Complete illusion. His name was not mentioned by anyone. Look here you are confusing this with Fielding's letter." "That's it, that's it," she cried, greatly relieved. "I knew I'd heard his name somewhere. I am so grateful to you for clearing this up it's the sort of mistake that worries me, and proves I'm neurotic." "So you won't go saying he's innocent again, will you? for every servant I've got is a spy." He went to the window. The mali had gone, or rather had turned into two small children impossible they should know English, but he sent them packing. "They all hate us," he explained. "It'll be all right after the verdict, for I will say this for them, they do accept the accomplished fact; but at present they're pouring out money like water to catch us tripping, and a remark like yours is the very thing they look out for. It would enable them to say it was a put-up job on the part of us officials. You see what I mean." Mrs. Moore came back, with the same air of ill-temper, and sat down with a flump by the card-table. To clear the confusion up, Ronny asked her point-blank whether she had mentioned the prisoner. She could not understand the question and the reason of it had to be explained. She replied: "I never said his name," and began to play patience. "I thought you said," Aziz is an innocent man,' "but it was in Mr. Fielding's letter." "Of course he is innocent," she answered indifferently: it was the first time she had expressed an opinion on the point. "You see, Ronny, I was right," said the girl. "You were not right, she never said it." "But she thinks it." "Who cares what she thinks?" "Red nine on black ten" from the card-table. "She can think, and Fielding too, but there's such a thing as evidence, I suppose." "I know, but" "Is it again my duty to talk?" asked Mrs. Moore, looking up. "Apparently, as you keep interrupting me." "Only if you have anything sensible to say." "Oh, how tedious . . . trivial . . ." and as when she had scoffed at love, love, love, her mind seemed to move towards them from a great distance and out of darkness. "Oh, why is everything | "I have changed my mind." "Well, we'd better end this unexpected wrangle," said the young man, striding about. "You appear to want to be left out of everything, and that's enough." "My body, my miserable body," she sighed. "Why isn't it strong? Oh, why can't I walk away and be gone? Why can't I finish my duties and be gone? Why do I get headaches and puff when I walk? And all the time this to do and that to do and this to do in your way and that to do in her way, and everything sympathy and confusion and bearing one another's burdens. Why can't this be done and that be done in my way and they be done and I at peace? Why has anything to be done, I cannot see. Why all this marriage, marriage? . . . The human race would have become a single person centuries ago if marriage was any use. And all this rubbish about love, love in a church, love in a cave, as if there is the least difference, and I held up from my business over such trifles!" "What do you want?" he said, exasperated. "Can you state it in simple language? If so, do." "I want my pack of patience cards." "Very well, get them." He found, as he expected, that the poor girl was crying. And, as always, an Indian close outside the window, a mali in this case, picking up sounds. Much upset, he sat silent for a moment, thinking over his mother and her senile intrusions. He wished he had never asked her to visit India, or become under any obligation to her. "Well, my dear girl, this isn't much of a home-coming," he said at last. "I had no idea she had this up her sleeve." Adela had stopped crying. An extraordinary expression was on her face, half relief, half horror. She repeated, "Aziz, Aziz." They all avoided mentioning that name. It had become synonymous with the power of evil. He was "the prisoner," "the person in question," "the defence," and the sound of it now rang out like the first note of new symphony. "Aziz . . . have I made a mistake?" "You're over-tired," he cried, not much surprised. "Ronny, he's innocent; I made an awful mistake." "Well, sit down anyhow." He looked round the room, but only two sparrows were chasing one another. She obeyed and took hold of his hand. He stroked it and she smiled, and gasped as if she had risen to the surface of the water, then touched her ear. "My echo's better." "That's good. You'll be perfectly well in a few days, but you must save yourself up for the trial. Das is a very good fellow, we shall all be with you." "But Ronny, dear Ronny, perhaps there oughtn't to be any trial." "I don't quite know what you're saying, and I don't think you do." "If Dr. Aziz never did it he ought to be let out." A shiver like impending death passed over Ronny. He said hurriedly, "He was let out until the Mohurram riot, when he had to be put in again." To divert her, he told her the story, which was held to be amusing. Nureddin had stolen the Nawab Bahadur's car and driven Aziz into a ditch in the dark. Both of them had fallen out, and Nureddin had cut his face open. Their wailing had been drowned by the cries of the faithful, and it was quite a time before they were rescued by the police. Nureddin was taken to the Minto Hospital, Aziz restored to prison, with an additional charge against him of disturbing the public peace. "Half a minute," he remarked when the anecdote was over, and went to the telephone to ask Callendar to look in as soon as he found it convenient, because she hadn't borne the journey well. When he returned, she was in a nervous crisis, but it took a different form she clung to him, and sobbed, "Help me to do what I ought. Aziz is good. You heard your mother say so." "Heard what?" "He's good; I've been so wrong to accuse him." "Mother never said so." "Didn't she?" she asked, quite reasonable, open to every suggestion anyway. "She never mentioned that name once." "But, Ronny, I heard her." "Pure illusion. You can't be quite well, can you, to make up a thing like that." "I suppose I can't. How amazing of me!" "I was listening to all she said, as far as it could be listened to; she gets very incoherent." "When her voice dropped she said it towards the end, when she talked about love love I couldn't follow, but just then she said: Doctor Aziz never did it.'"<|quote|>"Those words?"</|quote|>"The idea more than the words." "Never, never, my dear girl. Complete illusion. His name was not mentioned by anyone. Look here you are confusing this with Fielding's letter." "That's it, that's it," she cried, greatly relieved. "I knew I'd heard his name somewhere. I am so grateful to you for clearing this up it's the sort of mistake that worries me, and proves I'm neurotic." "So you won't go saying he's innocent again, will you? for every servant I've got is a spy." He went to the window. The mali had gone, or rather had turned into two small children impossible they should know English, but he sent them packing. "They all hate us," he explained. "It'll be all right after the verdict, for I will say this for them, they do accept the accomplished fact; but at present they're pouring out money like water to catch us tripping, and a remark like yours is the very thing they look out for. It would enable them to say it was a put-up job on the part of us officials. You see what I mean." Mrs. Moore came back, with the same air of ill-temper, and sat down with a flump by the card-table. To clear the confusion up, Ronny asked her point-blank whether she had mentioned the prisoner. She could not understand the question and the reason of it had to be explained. She replied: "I never said his name," and began to play patience. "I thought you said," Aziz is an innocent man,' "but it was in Mr. Fielding's letter." "Of course he is innocent," she answered indifferently: it was the first time she had expressed an opinion on the point. "You see, Ronny, I was right," said the girl. "You were not right, she never said it." "But she thinks it." "Who cares what she thinks?" "Red nine on black ten" from the card-table. "She can think, and Fielding too, but there's such a thing as evidence, I suppose." "I know, but" "Is it again my duty to talk?" asked Mrs. Moore, looking up. "Apparently, as you keep interrupting me." "Only if you have anything sensible to say." "Oh, how tedious . . . trivial . . ." and as when she had scoffed at love, love, love, her mind seemed to move towards them from a great distance and out of darkness. "Oh, why is everything still my duty? when shall I be free from your fuss? Was he in the cave and were you in the cave and on and on . . . and Unto us a Son is born, unto us a Child is given . . . and am I good and is he bad and are we saved? . . . and ending everything the echo." "I don't hear it so much," said Adela, moving towards her. "You send it away, you do nothing but good, you are so good." "I am not good, no, bad." She spoke more calmly and resumed her cards, saying as she turned them up, "A bad old woman, bad, bad, detestable. I used to be good with the children growing up, also I meet this young man in his mosque, I wanted him to be happy. Good, happy, small people. They do not exist, they were a dream. . . . But I will not help you to torture him for what he never did. There are different ways of evil and I prefer mine to yours." "Have you any evidence in the prisoner's favour?" said Ronny in the tones of the just official. "If so, it is your bounden duty to go into the witness-box for him instead of for us. No one will stop you." "One knows people's characters, as you call them," she retorted disdainfully, as if she really knew more than character but could not impart it. "I have heard both English and Indians speak well of him, and I felt it isn't the sort of thing he would do." "Feeble, mother, feeble." "Most feeble." "And most inconsiderate to Adela." Adela said: "It would be so appalling if I was wrong. I should take my own life." He turned on her with: "What was I warning you just now? You know you're right, and the whole station knows it." "Yes, he . . . This is very, very awful. I'm as certain as ever he followed me . . . only, wouldn't it be possible to withdraw the case? I dread the idea of giving evidence more and more, and you are all so good to women here and you have so much more power than in England look at Miss Derek's motor-car. Oh, of course it's out of the question, I'm ashamed to have mentioned it; please forgive me." "That's | this case, picking up sounds. Much upset, he sat silent for a moment, thinking over his mother and her senile intrusions. He wished he had never asked her to visit India, or become under any obligation to her. "Well, my dear girl, this isn't much of a home-coming," he said at last. "I had no idea she had this up her sleeve." Adela had stopped crying. An extraordinary expression was on her face, half relief, half horror. She repeated, "Aziz, Aziz." They all avoided mentioning that name. It had become synonymous with the power of evil. He was "the prisoner," "the person in question," "the defence," and the sound of it now rang out like the first note of new symphony. "Aziz . . . have I made a mistake?" "You're over-tired," he cried, not much surprised. "Ronny, he's innocent; I made an awful mistake." "Well, sit down anyhow." He looked round the room, but only two sparrows were chasing one another. She obeyed and took hold of his hand. He stroked it and she smiled, and gasped as if she had risen to the surface of the water, then touched her ear. "My echo's better." "That's good. You'll be perfectly well in a few days, but you must save yourself up for the trial. Das is a very good fellow, we shall all be with you." "But Ronny, dear Ronny, perhaps there oughtn't to be any trial." "I don't quite know what you're saying, and I don't think you do." "If Dr. Aziz never did it he ought to be let out." A shiver like impending death passed over Ronny. He said hurriedly, "He was let out until the Mohurram riot, when he had to be put in again." To divert her, he told her the story, which was held to be amusing. Nureddin had stolen the Nawab Bahadur's car and driven Aziz into a ditch in the dark. Both of them had fallen out, and Nureddin had cut his face open. Their wailing had been drowned by the cries of the faithful, and it was quite a time before they were rescued by the police. Nureddin was taken to the Minto Hospital, Aziz restored to prison, with an additional charge against him of disturbing the public peace. "Half a minute," he remarked when the anecdote was over, and went to the telephone to ask Callendar to look in as soon as he found it convenient, because she hadn't borne the journey well. When he returned, she was in a nervous crisis, but it took a different form she clung to him, and sobbed, "Help me to do what I ought. Aziz is good. You heard your mother say so." "Heard what?" "He's good; I've been so wrong to accuse him." "Mother never said so." "Didn't she?" she asked, quite reasonable, open to every suggestion anyway. "She never mentioned that name once." "But, Ronny, I heard her." "Pure illusion. You can't be quite well, can you, to make up a thing like that." "I suppose I can't. How amazing of me!" "I was listening to all she said, as far as it could be listened to; she gets very incoherent." "When her voice dropped she said it towards the end, when she talked about love love I couldn't follow, but just then she said: Doctor Aziz never did it.'"<|quote|>"Those words?"</|quote|>"The idea more than the words." "Never, never, my dear girl. Complete illusion. His name was not mentioned by anyone. Look here you are confusing this with Fielding's letter." "That's it, that's it," she cried, greatly relieved. "I knew I'd heard his name somewhere. I am so grateful to you for clearing this up it's the sort of mistake that worries me, and proves I'm neurotic." "So you won't go saying he's innocent again, will you? for every servant I've got is a spy." He went to the window. The mali had gone, or rather had turned into two small children impossible they should know English, but he sent them packing. "They all hate us," he explained. "It'll be all right after the verdict, for I will say this for them, they do accept the accomplished fact; but at present they're pouring out money like water to catch us tripping, and a remark like yours is the very thing they look out for. It would enable them to say it was a put-up job on the part of us officials. You see what I mean." Mrs. Moore came back, with the same air of ill-temper, and sat down with a flump by the card-table. To clear the confusion up, Ronny asked her point-blank whether she had mentioned the prisoner. She could not understand the question and the reason of it had to be explained. She replied: "I never said his name," and began to play patience. "I thought you said," Aziz is an innocent man,' "but it was in Mr. Fielding's letter." "Of course he is innocent," she answered indifferently: it was the first time she had expressed an opinion on the point. "You see, Ronny, I was right," said the girl. "You were not right, she never said it." "But she thinks it." "Who cares what she thinks?" "Red nine on black ten" from the card-table. "She can think, and Fielding too, but there's such a thing as evidence, I suppose." "I know, but" "Is it again my duty to talk?" asked Mrs. Moore, looking up. "Apparently, as you keep interrupting me." "Only if you have anything sensible to say." "Oh, how tedious . . . trivial . . ." and as when she had scoffed at love, love, love, her mind seemed to move towards them from a great distance and out of darkness. "Oh, why is everything still my duty? when shall I be free from your fuss? Was he in the cave and were you in the cave and on and on . . . and Unto us a Son is born, unto us a Child is given . . . and am I good and is he bad and are we saved? . . . and ending everything the echo." "I don't hear it so much," said Adela, moving towards her. "You send it away, you do nothing but good, you are so good." "I am | A Passage To India |
"It would be impossible, I know," | Elinor | the expense of the other."<|quote|>"It would be impossible, I know,"</|quote|>replied Elinor, "to convince you | wished to be benefited at the expense of the other."<|quote|>"It would be impossible, I know,"</|quote|>replied Elinor, "to convince you that a woman of seven | It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other."<|quote|>"It would be impossible, I know,"</|quote|>replied Elinor, "to convince you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a | again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other."<|quote|>"It would be impossible, I know,"</|quote|>replied Elinor, "to convince you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders." "But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment | enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony." "Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon s being thirty-five any objection to his marrying _her_." "A woman of seven and twenty," said Marianne, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other."<|quote|>"It would be impossible, I know,"</|quote|>replied Elinor, "to convince you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders." "But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble." "Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?" Soon after this, upon Elinor s leaving the room, "Mama," said Marianne, "I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but real indisposition could | throw ridicule on his age. "But at least, Mama, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation, though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be _my_ father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous! When is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not protect him?" "Infirmity!" said Elinor, "do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of his limbs!" "Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the commonest infirmity of declining life?" "My dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate you must be in continual terror of _my_ decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty." "Mama, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony." "Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon s being thirty-five any objection to his marrying _her_." "A woman of seven and twenty," said Marianne, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other."<|quote|>"It would be impossible, I know,"</|quote|>replied Elinor, "to convince you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders." "But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble." "Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?" Soon after this, upon Elinor s leaving the room, "Mama," said Marianne, "I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. What else can detain him at Norland?" "Had you any idea of his coming so soon?" said Mrs. Dashwood. "_I_ had none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his coming to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?" "I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must." "I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted for some time." "How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! But the whole of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how composed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the last evening of their being together! In Edward s farewell there was no distinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an affectionate brother to both. Twice did I leave | every allowance for the colonel s advanced state of life which humanity required. CHAPTER VIII. Mrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure. She had only two daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the world. In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as far as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. She was remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively to pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne Dashwood. She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening of their being together, from his listening so attentively while she sang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons dining at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again. It must be so. She was perfectly convinced of it. It would be an excellent match, for _he_ was rich, and _she_ was handsome. Mrs. Jennings had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever since her connection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge; and she was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl. The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for it supplied her with endless jokes against them both. At the park she laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne. To the former her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence, for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel s advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor. Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of wishing to throw ridicule on his age. "But at least, Mama, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation, though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be _my_ father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous! When is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not protect him?" "Infirmity!" said Elinor, "do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of his limbs!" "Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the commonest infirmity of declining life?" "My dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate you must be in continual terror of _my_ decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty." "Mama, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony." "Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon s being thirty-five any objection to his marrying _her_." "A woman of seven and twenty," said Marianne, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other."<|quote|>"It would be impossible, I know,"</|quote|>replied Elinor, "to convince you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders." "But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble." "Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?" Soon after this, upon Elinor s leaving the room, "Mama," said Marianne, "I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. What else can detain him at Norland?" "Had you any idea of his coming so soon?" said Mrs. Dashwood. "_I_ had none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his coming to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?" "I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must." "I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted for some time." "How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! But the whole of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how composed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the last evening of their being together! In Edward s farewell there was no distinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an affectionate brother to both. Twice did I leave them purposely together in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most unaccountably follow me out of the room. And Elinor, in quitting Norland and Edward, cried not as I did. Even now her self-command is invariable. When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?" CHAPTER IX. The Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to themselves. The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding them, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had given to Norland half its charms were engaged in again with far greater enjoyment than Norland had been able to afford, since the loss of their father. Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day for the first fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much occupation at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always employed. Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for, in spite of Sir John s urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at their service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood s spirit overcame the wish of society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to visit any family beyond the distance of a walk. There were but few who could be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable. About a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding valley of Allenham, which issued from that of Barton, as formerly described, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered an ancient respectable looking mansion which, by reminding them a little of Norland, interested their imagination and made them wish to be better acquainted with it. But they learnt, on enquiry, that its possessor, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately too infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home. The whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks. The high downs which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their superior beauties; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and Margaret one memorable morning direct their | to get a good husband for every pretty girl. The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for it supplied her with endless jokes against them both. At the park she laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne. To the former her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence, for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel s advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor. Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of wishing to throw ridicule on his age. "But at least, Mama, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation, though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be _my_ father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous! When is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not protect him?" "Infirmity!" said Elinor, "do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of his limbs!" "Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the commonest infirmity of declining life?" "My dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate you must be in continual terror of _my_ decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty." "Mama, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony." "Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon s being thirty-five any objection to his marrying _her_." "A woman of seven and twenty," said Marianne, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other."<|quote|>"It would be impossible, I know,"</|quote|>replied Elinor, "to convince you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders." "But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble." "Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?" Soon after this, upon Elinor s leaving the room, "Mama," said Marianne, "I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. What else can detain him at Norland?" "Had you any idea of his coming so soon?" said Mrs. Dashwood. "_I_ had none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his coming to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?" "I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must." "I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted for some time." "How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! But the whole of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how composed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the last evening of their being together! In Edward s farewell there was no distinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an affectionate brother to both. Twice did I leave them purposely together in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most unaccountably follow me out of the room. And Elinor, in quitting Norland and Edward, cried not as I did. Even now her self-command is invariable. When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?" CHAPTER IX. The Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to themselves. The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding them, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had given to Norland half its charms were engaged in again with far greater enjoyment than Norland had been able to afford, since the loss of their father. Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day for the first fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much occupation at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always employed. Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for, in spite of Sir John s urgent entreaties | Sense And Sensibility |
"What s happened?" | Margaret | the door of the car.<|quote|>"What s happened?"</|quote|>asked Margaret. "What do you | they stopped, and Crane opened the door of the car.<|quote|>"What s happened?"</|quote|>asked Margaret. "What do you suppose?" said Henry. A little | said, and though Dolly proffered Chorly-worly and Porgly-woggles in turn, she was obdurate. By this time it was raining steadily. The car came round with the hood up, and again she lost all sense of space. In a few minutes they stopped, and Crane opened the door of the car.<|quote|>"What s happened?"</|quote|>asked Margaret. "What do you suppose?" said Henry. A little porch was close up against her face. "Are we there already?" "We are." "Well, I never! In years ago it seemed so far away." Smiling, but somehow disillusioned, she jumped out, and her impetus carried her to the front-door. She | down. Margaret disliked babies, but hit it off better with the two-year-old, and sent Dolly into fits of laughter by talking sense to him. "Kiss them now, and come away," said Mr. Wilcox. She came, but refused to kiss them; it was such hard luck on the little things, she said, and though Dolly proffered Chorly-worly and Porgly-woggles in turn, she was obdurate. By this time it was raining steadily. The car came round with the hood up, and again she lost all sense of space. In a few minutes they stopped, and Crane opened the door of the car.<|quote|>"What s happened?"</|quote|>asked Margaret. "What do you suppose?" said Henry. A little porch was close up against her face. "Are we there already?" "We are." "Well, I never! In years ago it seemed so far away." Smiling, but somehow disillusioned, she jumped out, and her impetus carried her to the front-door. She was about to open it, when Henry said: "That s no good; it s locked. Who s got the key?" As he had himself forgotten to call for the key at the farm, no one replied. He also wanted to know who had left the front gate open, since a | were the first drops of the rain. They ran in gaily, and after a long wait in the drawing-room, sat down to the rough-and-ready lunch, every dish of which concealed or exuded cream. Mr. Bryce was the chief topic of conversation. Dolly described his visit with the key, while her father-in-law gave satisfaction by chaffing her and contradicting all she said. It was evidently the custom to laugh at Dolly. He chaffed Margaret too, and Margaret roused from a grave meditation was pleased and chaffed him back. Dolly seemed surprised and eyed her curiously. After lunch the two children came down. Margaret disliked babies, but hit it off better with the two-year-old, and sent Dolly into fits of laughter by talking sense to him. "Kiss them now, and come away," said Mr. Wilcox. She came, but refused to kiss them; it was such hard luck on the little things, she said, and though Dolly proffered Chorly-worly and Porgly-woggles in turn, she was obdurate. By this time it was raining steadily. The car came round with the hood up, and again she lost all sense of space. In a few minutes they stopped, and Crane opened the door of the car.<|quote|>"What s happened?"</|quote|>asked Margaret. "What do you suppose?" said Henry. A little porch was close up against her face. "Are we there already?" "We are." "Well, I never! In years ago it seemed so far away." Smiling, but somehow disillusioned, she jumped out, and her impetus carried her to the front-door. She was about to open it, when Henry said: "That s no good; it s locked. Who s got the key?" As he had himself forgotten to call for the key at the farm, no one replied. He also wanted to know who had left the front gate open, since a cow had strayed in from the road, and was spoiling the croquet lawn. Then he said rather crossly: "Margaret, you wait in the dry. I ll go down for the key. It isn t a hundred yards." "Mayn t I come too?" "No; I shall be back before I m gone." Then the car turned away, and it was as if a curtain had risen. For the second time that day she saw the appearance of the earth. There were the greengage-trees that Helen had once described, there the tennis lawn, there the hedge that would be glorious with dog-roses | nymphs. The chauffeur could not travel as quickly as he had hoped, for the Great North Road was full of Easter traffic. But he went quite quick enough for Margaret, a poor-spirited creature, who had chickens and children on the brain. "They re all right," said Mr. Wilcox. "They ll learn--like the swallows and the telegraph-wires." "Yes, but, while they re learning--" "The motor s come to stay," he answered. "One must get about. There s a pretty church--oh, you aren t sharp enough. Well, look out, if the road worries you--right outward at the scenery." She looked at the scenery. It heaved and merged like porridge. Presently it congealed. They had arrived. Charles s house on the left; on the right the swelling forms of the Six Hills. Their appearance in such a neighbourhood surprised her. They interrupted the stream of residences that was thickening up towards Hilton. Beyond them she saw meadows and a wood, and beneath them she settled that soldiers of the best kind lay buried. She hated war and liked soldiers--it was one of her amiable inconsistencies. But here was Dolly, dressed up to the nines, standing at the door to greet them, and here were the first drops of the rain. They ran in gaily, and after a long wait in the drawing-room, sat down to the rough-and-ready lunch, every dish of which concealed or exuded cream. Mr. Bryce was the chief topic of conversation. Dolly described his visit with the key, while her father-in-law gave satisfaction by chaffing her and contradicting all she said. It was evidently the custom to laugh at Dolly. He chaffed Margaret too, and Margaret roused from a grave meditation was pleased and chaffed him back. Dolly seemed surprised and eyed her curiously. After lunch the two children came down. Margaret disliked babies, but hit it off better with the two-year-old, and sent Dolly into fits of laughter by talking sense to him. "Kiss them now, and come away," said Mr. Wilcox. She came, but refused to kiss them; it was such hard luck on the little things, she said, and though Dolly proffered Chorly-worly and Porgly-woggles in turn, she was obdurate. By this time it was raining steadily. The car came round with the hood up, and again she lost all sense of space. In a few minutes they stopped, and Crane opened the door of the car.<|quote|>"What s happened?"</|quote|>asked Margaret. "What do you suppose?" said Henry. A little porch was close up against her face. "Are we there already?" "We are." "Well, I never! In years ago it seemed so far away." Smiling, but somehow disillusioned, she jumped out, and her impetus carried her to the front-door. She was about to open it, when Henry said: "That s no good; it s locked. Who s got the key?" As he had himself forgotten to call for the key at the farm, no one replied. He also wanted to know who had left the front gate open, since a cow had strayed in from the road, and was spoiling the croquet lawn. Then he said rather crossly: "Margaret, you wait in the dry. I ll go down for the key. It isn t a hundred yards." "Mayn t I come too?" "No; I shall be back before I m gone." Then the car turned away, and it was as if a curtain had risen. For the second time that day she saw the appearance of the earth. There were the greengage-trees that Helen had once described, there the tennis lawn, there the hedge that would be glorious with dog-roses in June, but the vision now was of black and palest green. Down by the dell-hole more vivid colours were awakening, and Lent lilies stood sentinel on its margin, or advanced in battalions over the grass. Tulips were a tray of jewels. She could not see the wych-elm tree, but a branch of the celebrated vine, studded with velvet knobs had covered the perch. She was struck by the fertility of the soil; she had seldom been in a garden where the flowers looked so well, and even the weeds she was idly plucking out of the porch were intensely green. Why had poor Mr. Bryce fled from all this beauty? For she had already decided that the place was beautiful. "Naughty cow! Go away!" cried Margaret to the cow, but without indignation. Harder came the rain, pouring out of a windless sky, and spattering up from the notice-boards of the house-agents, which lay in a row on the lawn where Charles had hurled them. She must have interviewed Charles in another world--where one did have interviews. How Helen would revel in such a notion! Charles dead, all people dead, nothing alive but houses and gardens. The obvious dead, the | charwoman to clear up after him. I never saw such a disgraceful mess. It s unbelievable. He wasn t in the house a month." "I ve more than a little bone to pick with Bryce," called Henry from the inner chamber. "Why did he go so suddenly?" "Invalid type; couldn t sleep." "Poor fellow!" "Poor fiddlesticks!" said Mr. Wilcox, joining them. "He had the impudence to put up notice-boards without as much as saying with your leave or by your leave. Charles flung them down." "Yes, I flung them down," said Charles modestly. "I ve sent a telegram after him, and a pretty sharp one, too. He, and he in person, is responsible for the upkeep of that house for the next three years." "The keys are at the farm; we wouldn t have the keys." "Quite right." "Dolly would have taken them, but I was in, fortunately." "What s Mr. Bryce like?" asked Margaret. But nobody cared. Mr. Bryce was the tenant, who had no right to sublet; to have defined him further was a waste of time. On his misdeeds they descanted profusely, until the girl who had been typing the strong letter came out with it. Mr. Wilcox added his signature. "Now we ll be off," said he. A motor-drive, a form of felicity detested by Margaret, awaited her. Charles saw them in, civil to the last, and in a moment the offices of the Imperial and West African Rubber Company faded away. But it was not an impressive drive. Perhaps the weather was to blame, being grey and banked high with weary clouds. Perhaps Hertfordshire is scarcely intended for motorists. Did not a gentleman once motor so quickly through Westmoreland that he missed it? and if Westmoreland can be missed, it will fare ill with a county whose delicate structure particularly needs the attentive eye. Hertfordshire is England at its quietest, with little emphasis of river and hill; it is England meditative. If Drayton were with us again to write a new edition of his incomparable poem, he would sing the nymphs of Hertfordshire as indeterminate of feature, with hair obfuscated by the London smoke. Their eyes would be sad, and averted from their fate towards the Northern flats, their leader not Isis or Sabrina, but the slowly flowing Lea. No glory of raiment would be theirs, no urgency of dance; but they would be real nymphs. The chauffeur could not travel as quickly as he had hoped, for the Great North Road was full of Easter traffic. But he went quite quick enough for Margaret, a poor-spirited creature, who had chickens and children on the brain. "They re all right," said Mr. Wilcox. "They ll learn--like the swallows and the telegraph-wires." "Yes, but, while they re learning--" "The motor s come to stay," he answered. "One must get about. There s a pretty church--oh, you aren t sharp enough. Well, look out, if the road worries you--right outward at the scenery." She looked at the scenery. It heaved and merged like porridge. Presently it congealed. They had arrived. Charles s house on the left; on the right the swelling forms of the Six Hills. Their appearance in such a neighbourhood surprised her. They interrupted the stream of residences that was thickening up towards Hilton. Beyond them she saw meadows and a wood, and beneath them she settled that soldiers of the best kind lay buried. She hated war and liked soldiers--it was one of her amiable inconsistencies. But here was Dolly, dressed up to the nines, standing at the door to greet them, and here were the first drops of the rain. They ran in gaily, and after a long wait in the drawing-room, sat down to the rough-and-ready lunch, every dish of which concealed or exuded cream. Mr. Bryce was the chief topic of conversation. Dolly described his visit with the key, while her father-in-law gave satisfaction by chaffing her and contradicting all she said. It was evidently the custom to laugh at Dolly. He chaffed Margaret too, and Margaret roused from a grave meditation was pleased and chaffed him back. Dolly seemed surprised and eyed her curiously. After lunch the two children came down. Margaret disliked babies, but hit it off better with the two-year-old, and sent Dolly into fits of laughter by talking sense to him. "Kiss them now, and come away," said Mr. Wilcox. She came, but refused to kiss them; it was such hard luck on the little things, she said, and though Dolly proffered Chorly-worly and Porgly-woggles in turn, she was obdurate. By this time it was raining steadily. The car came round with the hood up, and again she lost all sense of space. In a few minutes they stopped, and Crane opened the door of the car.<|quote|>"What s happened?"</|quote|>asked Margaret. "What do you suppose?" said Henry. A little porch was close up against her face. "Are we there already?" "We are." "Well, I never! In years ago it seemed so far away." Smiling, but somehow disillusioned, she jumped out, and her impetus carried her to the front-door. She was about to open it, when Henry said: "That s no good; it s locked. Who s got the key?" As he had himself forgotten to call for the key at the farm, no one replied. He also wanted to know who had left the front gate open, since a cow had strayed in from the road, and was spoiling the croquet lawn. Then he said rather crossly: "Margaret, you wait in the dry. I ll go down for the key. It isn t a hundred yards." "Mayn t I come too?" "No; I shall be back before I m gone." Then the car turned away, and it was as if a curtain had risen. For the second time that day she saw the appearance of the earth. There were the greengage-trees that Helen had once described, there the tennis lawn, there the hedge that would be glorious with dog-roses in June, but the vision now was of black and palest green. Down by the dell-hole more vivid colours were awakening, and Lent lilies stood sentinel on its margin, or advanced in battalions over the grass. Tulips were a tray of jewels. She could not see the wych-elm tree, but a branch of the celebrated vine, studded with velvet knobs had covered the perch. She was struck by the fertility of the soil; she had seldom been in a garden where the flowers looked so well, and even the weeds she was idly plucking out of the porch were intensely green. Why had poor Mr. Bryce fled from all this beauty? For she had already decided that the place was beautiful. "Naughty cow! Go away!" cried Margaret to the cow, but without indignation. Harder came the rain, pouring out of a windless sky, and spattering up from the notice-boards of the house-agents, which lay in a row on the lawn where Charles had hurled them. She must have interviewed Charles in another world--where one did have interviews. How Helen would revel in such a notion! Charles dead, all people dead, nothing alive but houses and gardens. The obvious dead, the intangible alive, and no connection at all between them! Margaret smiled. Would that her own fancies were as clear-cut! Would that she could deal as high-handedly with the world! Smiling and sighing, she laid her hand upon the door. It opened. The house was not locked up at all. She hesitated. Ought she to wait for Henry? He felt strongly about property, and might prefer to show her over himself. On the other hand, he had told her to keep in the dry, and the porch was beginning to drip. So she went in, and the draught from inside slammed the door behind. Desolation greeted her. Dirty finger-prints were on the hall-windows, flue and rubbish on its unwashed boards. The civilisation of luggage had been here for a month, and then decamped. Dining-room and drawing-room--right and left--were guessed only by their wallpapers. They were just rooms where one could shelter from the rain. Across the ceiling of each ran a great beam. The dining-room and hall revealed theirs openly, but the drawing-room s was match-boarded--because the facts of life must be concealed from ladies? Drawing-room, dining-room, and hall--how petty the names sounded! Here were simply three rooms where children could play and friends shelter from the rain. Yes, and they were beautiful. Then she opened one of the doors opposite--there were two--and exchanged wall-papers for whitewash. It was the servants part, though she scarcely realised that: just rooms again, where friends might shelter. The garden at the back was full of flowering cherries and plums. Farther on were hints of the meadow and a black cliff of pines. Yes, the meadow was beautiful. Penned in by the desolate weather, she recaptured the sense of space which the motor had tried to rob from her. She remembered again that ten square miles are not ten times as wonderful as one square mile, that a thousand square miles are not practically the same as heaven. The phantom of bigness, which London encourages, was laid for ever when she paced from the hall at Howards End to its kitchen and heard the rain run this way and that where the watershed of the roof divided it. Now Helen came to her mind, scrutinising half Wessex from the ridge of the Purbeck Downs, and saying: "You will have to lose something." She was not so sure. For instance she would double her kingdom by | Hertfordshire is scarcely intended for motorists. Did not a gentleman once motor so quickly through Westmoreland that he missed it? and if Westmoreland can be missed, it will fare ill with a county whose delicate structure particularly needs the attentive eye. Hertfordshire is England at its quietest, with little emphasis of river and hill; it is England meditative. If Drayton were with us again to write a new edition of his incomparable poem, he would sing the nymphs of Hertfordshire as indeterminate of feature, with hair obfuscated by the London smoke. Their eyes would be sad, and averted from their fate towards the Northern flats, their leader not Isis or Sabrina, but the slowly flowing Lea. No glory of raiment would be theirs, no urgency of dance; but they would be real nymphs. The chauffeur could not travel as quickly as he had hoped, for the Great North Road was full of Easter traffic. But he went quite quick enough for Margaret, a poor-spirited creature, who had chickens and children on the brain. "They re all right," said Mr. Wilcox. "They ll learn--like the swallows and the telegraph-wires." "Yes, but, while they re learning--" "The motor s come to stay," he answered. "One must get about. There s a pretty church--oh, you aren t sharp enough. Well, look out, if the road worries you--right outward at the scenery." She looked at the scenery. It heaved and merged like porridge. Presently it congealed. They had arrived. Charles s house on the left; on the right the swelling forms of the Six Hills. Their appearance in such a neighbourhood surprised her. They interrupted the stream of residences that was thickening up towards Hilton. Beyond them she saw meadows and a wood, and beneath them she settled that soldiers of the best kind lay buried. She hated war and liked soldiers--it was one of her amiable inconsistencies. But here was Dolly, dressed up to the nines, standing at the door to greet them, and here were the first drops of the rain. They ran in gaily, and after a long wait in the drawing-room, sat down to the rough-and-ready lunch, every dish of which concealed or exuded cream. Mr. Bryce was the chief topic of conversation. Dolly described his visit with the key, while her father-in-law gave satisfaction by chaffing her and contradicting all she said. It was evidently the custom to laugh at Dolly. He chaffed Margaret too, and Margaret roused from a grave meditation was pleased and chaffed him back. Dolly seemed surprised and eyed her curiously. After lunch the two children came down. Margaret disliked babies, but hit it off better with the two-year-old, and sent Dolly into fits of laughter by talking sense to him. "Kiss them now, and come away," said Mr. Wilcox. She came, but refused to kiss them; it was such hard luck on the little things, she said, and though Dolly proffered Chorly-worly and Porgly-woggles in turn, she was obdurate. By this time it was raining steadily. The car came round with the hood up, and again she lost all sense of space. In a few minutes they stopped, and Crane opened the door of the car.<|quote|>"What s happened?"</|quote|>asked Margaret. "What do you suppose?" said Henry. A little porch was close up against her face. "Are we there already?" "We are." "Well, I never! In years ago it seemed so far away." Smiling, but somehow disillusioned, she jumped out, and her impetus carried her to the front-door. She was about to open it, when Henry said: "That s no good; it s locked. Who s got the key?" As he had himself forgotten to call for the key at the farm, no one replied. He also wanted to know who had left the front gate open, since a cow had strayed in from the road, and was spoiling the croquet lawn. Then he said rather crossly: "Margaret, you wait in the dry. I ll go down for the key. It isn t a hundred yards." "Mayn t I come too?" "No; I shall be back before I m gone." Then the car turned away, and it was as if a curtain had risen. For the second time that day she saw the appearance of the earth. There were the greengage-trees that Helen had once described, there the tennis lawn, there the hedge that would be glorious with dog-roses in June, but the vision now was of black and palest green. Down by the dell-hole more vivid colours were awakening, and Lent lilies stood sentinel on its margin, or advanced in battalions over the grass. Tulips were a tray of jewels. She could not see the wych-elm tree, but a branch of the celebrated vine, studded with velvet knobs had covered the perch. She was struck by the fertility of the soil; she had seldom been in a garden where the flowers looked so well, and even the weeds she was idly plucking | Howards End |
"But, yer see," | Noah Claypole | thought that would suit him.<|quote|>"But, yer see,"</|quote|>observed Noah, "as she will | gradually relented, and said he thought that would suit him.<|quote|>"But, yer see,"</|quote|>observed Noah, "as she will be able to do a | agent, is very doubtful; but as he recollected that, in the event of his refusal, it was in the power of his new acquaintance to give him up to justice immediately (and more unlikely things had come to pass), he gradually relented, and said he thought that would suit him.<|quote|>"But, yer see,"</|quote|>observed Noah, "as she will be able to do a good deal, I should like to take something very light." "A little fancy work?" suggested Fagin. "Ah! something of that sort," replied Noah. "What do you think would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not | a gentleman board and lodging, pipes and spirits free half of all you earn, and half of all the young woman earns," replied Mr. Fagin. Whether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of the least comprehensive, would have acceded even to these glowing terms, had he been a perfectly free agent, is very doubtful; but as he recollected that, in the event of his refusal, it was in the power of his new acquaintance to give him up to justice immediately (and more unlikely things had come to pass), he gradually relented, and said he thought that would suit him.<|quote|>"But, yer see,"</|quote|>observed Noah, "as she will be able to do a good deal, I should like to take something very light." "A little fancy work?" suggested Fagin. "Ah! something of that sort," replied Noah. "What do you think would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, you know. That's the sort of thing!" "I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear," said Fagin. "My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much." "Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn't mind turning my hand to | "Should I have to hand over?" said Noah, slapping his breeches-pocket. "It couldn't possibly be done without," replied Fagin, in a most decided manner. "Twenty pound, though it's a lot of money!" "Not when it's in a note you can't get rid of," retorted Fagin. "Number and date taken, I suppose? Payment stopped at the Bank? Ah! It's not worth much to him. It'll have to go abroad, and he couldn't sell it for a great deal in the market." "When could I see him?" asked Noah doubtfully. "To-morrow morning." "Where?" "Here." "Um!" said Noah. "What's the wages?" "Live like a gentleman board and lodging, pipes and spirits free half of all you earn, and half of all the young woman earns," replied Mr. Fagin. Whether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of the least comprehensive, would have acceded even to these glowing terms, had he been a perfectly free agent, is very doubtful; but as he recollected that, in the event of his refusal, it was in the power of his new acquaintance to give him up to justice immediately (and more unlikely things had come to pass), he gradually relented, and said he thought that would suit him.<|quote|>"But, yer see,"</|quote|>observed Noah, "as she will be able to do a good deal, I should like to take something very light." "A little fancy work?" suggested Fagin. "Ah! something of that sort," replied Noah. "What do you think would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, you know. That's the sort of thing!" "I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear," said Fagin. "My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much." "Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn't mind turning my hand to it sometimes," rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; "but it wouldn't pay by itself, you know." "That's true!" observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate. "No, it might not." "What do you think, then?" asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. "Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being at home." "What do you think of the old ladies?" asked Fagin. "There's a good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner." "Don't they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?" asked Noah, shaking his | luggage upstairs the while. Charlotte, see to them bundles." This mandate, which had been delivered with great majesty, was obeyed without the slightest demur; and Charlotte made the best of her way off with the packages while Noah held the door open and watched her out. "She's kept tolerably well under, ain't she?" he asked as he resumed his seat: in the tone of a keeper who had tamed some wild animal. "Quite perfect," rejoined Fagin, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're a genius, my dear." "Why, I suppose if I wasn't, I shouldn't be here," replied Noah. "But, I say, she'll be back if yer lose time." "Now, what do you think?" said Fagin. "If you was to like my friend, could you do better than join him?" "Is he in a good way of business; that's where it is!" responded Noah, winking one of his little eyes. "The top of the tree; employs a power of hands; has the very best society in the profession." "Regular town-maders?" asked Mr. Claypole. "Not a countryman among 'em; and I don't think he'd take you, even on my recommendation, if he didn't run rather short of assistants just now," replied Fagin. "Should I have to hand over?" said Noah, slapping his breeches-pocket. "It couldn't possibly be done without," replied Fagin, in a most decided manner. "Twenty pound, though it's a lot of money!" "Not when it's in a note you can't get rid of," retorted Fagin. "Number and date taken, I suppose? Payment stopped at the Bank? Ah! It's not worth much to him. It'll have to go abroad, and he couldn't sell it for a great deal in the market." "When could I see him?" asked Noah doubtfully. "To-morrow morning." "Where?" "Here." "Um!" said Noah. "What's the wages?" "Live like a gentleman board and lodging, pipes and spirits free half of all you earn, and half of all the young woman earns," replied Mr. Fagin. Whether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of the least comprehensive, would have acceded even to these glowing terms, had he been a perfectly free agent, is very doubtful; but as he recollected that, in the event of his refusal, it was in the power of his new acquaintance to give him up to justice immediately (and more unlikely things had come to pass), he gradually relented, and said he thought that would suit him.<|quote|>"But, yer see,"</|quote|>observed Noah, "as she will be able to do a good deal, I should like to take something very light." "A little fancy work?" suggested Fagin. "Ah! something of that sort," replied Noah. "What do you think would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, you know. That's the sort of thing!" "I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear," said Fagin. "My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much." "Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn't mind turning my hand to it sometimes," rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; "but it wouldn't pay by itself, you know." "That's true!" observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate. "No, it might not." "What do you think, then?" asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. "Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being at home." "What do you think of the old ladies?" asked Fagin. "There's a good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner." "Don't they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?" asked Noah, shaking his head. "I don't think that would answer my purpose. Ain't there any other line open?" "Stop!" said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah's knee. "The kinchin lay." "What's that?" demanded Mr. Claypole. "The kinchins, my dear," said Fagin, "is the young children that's sent on errands by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the lay is just to take their money away they've always got it ready in their hands, then knock 'em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there were nothing else the matter but a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!" "Ha! ha!" roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy. "Lord, that's the very thing!" "To be sure it is," replied Fagin; "and you can have a few good beats chalked out in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and neighborhoods like that, where they're always going errands; and you can upset as many kinchins as you want, any hour in the day. Ha! ha! ha!" With this, Fagin poked Mr. Claypole in the side, and they joined in a burst of laughter both long and loud. "Well, that's all right!" said Noah, when he had recovered himself, | a mail-coach, or a bank, if he drinks it regularly." Mr. Claypole no sooner heard this extract from his own remarks than he fell back in his chair, and looked from the Jew to Charlotte with a countenance of ashy paleness and excessive terror. "Don't mind me, my dear," said Fagin, drawing his chair closer. "Ha! ha! it was lucky it was only me that heard you by chance. It was very lucky it was only me." "I didn't take it," stammered Noah, no longer stretching out his legs like an independent gentleman, but coiling them up as well as he could under his chair; "it was all her doing; yer've got it now, Charlotte, yer know yer have." "No matter who's got it, or who did it, my dear," replied Fagin, glancing, nevertheless, with a hawk's eye at the girl and the two bundles. "I'm in that way myself, and I like you for it." "In what way?" asked Mr. Claypole, a little recovering. "In that way of business," rejoined Fagin; "and so are the people of the house. You've hit the right nail upon the head, and are as safe here as you could be. There is not a safer place in all this town than is the Cripples; that is, when I like to make it so. And I have taken a fancy to you and the young woman; so I've said the word, and you may make your minds easy." Noah Claypole's mind might have been at ease after this assurance, but his body certainly was not; for he shuffled and writhed about, into various uncouth positions: eyeing his new friend meanwhile with mingled fear and suspicion. "I'll tell you more," said Fagin, after he had reassured the girl, by dint of friendly nods and muttered encouragements. "I have got a friend that I think can gratify your darling wish, and put you in the right way, where you can take whatever department of the business you think will suit you best at first, and be taught all the others." "Yer speak as if yer were in earnest," replied Noah. "What advantage would it be to me to be anything else?" inquired Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. "Here! Let me have a word with you outside." "There's no occasion to trouble ourselves to move," said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again. "She'll take the luggage upstairs the while. Charlotte, see to them bundles." This mandate, which had been delivered with great majesty, was obeyed without the slightest demur; and Charlotte made the best of her way off with the packages while Noah held the door open and watched her out. "She's kept tolerably well under, ain't she?" he asked as he resumed his seat: in the tone of a keeper who had tamed some wild animal. "Quite perfect," rejoined Fagin, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're a genius, my dear." "Why, I suppose if I wasn't, I shouldn't be here," replied Noah. "But, I say, she'll be back if yer lose time." "Now, what do you think?" said Fagin. "If you was to like my friend, could you do better than join him?" "Is he in a good way of business; that's where it is!" responded Noah, winking one of his little eyes. "The top of the tree; employs a power of hands; has the very best society in the profession." "Regular town-maders?" asked Mr. Claypole. "Not a countryman among 'em; and I don't think he'd take you, even on my recommendation, if he didn't run rather short of assistants just now," replied Fagin. "Should I have to hand over?" said Noah, slapping his breeches-pocket. "It couldn't possibly be done without," replied Fagin, in a most decided manner. "Twenty pound, though it's a lot of money!" "Not when it's in a note you can't get rid of," retorted Fagin. "Number and date taken, I suppose? Payment stopped at the Bank? Ah! It's not worth much to him. It'll have to go abroad, and he couldn't sell it for a great deal in the market." "When could I see him?" asked Noah doubtfully. "To-morrow morning." "Where?" "Here." "Um!" said Noah. "What's the wages?" "Live like a gentleman board and lodging, pipes and spirits free half of all you earn, and half of all the young woman earns," replied Mr. Fagin. Whether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of the least comprehensive, would have acceded even to these glowing terms, had he been a perfectly free agent, is very doubtful; but as he recollected that, in the event of his refusal, it was in the power of his new acquaintance to give him up to justice immediately (and more unlikely things had come to pass), he gradually relented, and said he thought that would suit him.<|quote|>"But, yer see,"</|quote|>observed Noah, "as she will be able to do a good deal, I should like to take something very light." "A little fancy work?" suggested Fagin. "Ah! something of that sort," replied Noah. "What do you think would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, you know. That's the sort of thing!" "I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear," said Fagin. "My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much." "Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn't mind turning my hand to it sometimes," rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; "but it wouldn't pay by itself, you know." "That's true!" observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate. "No, it might not." "What do you think, then?" asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. "Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being at home." "What do you think of the old ladies?" asked Fagin. "There's a good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner." "Don't they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?" asked Noah, shaking his head. "I don't think that would answer my purpose. Ain't there any other line open?" "Stop!" said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah's knee. "The kinchin lay." "What's that?" demanded Mr. Claypole. "The kinchins, my dear," said Fagin, "is the young children that's sent on errands by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the lay is just to take their money away they've always got it ready in their hands, then knock 'em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there were nothing else the matter but a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!" "Ha! ha!" roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy. "Lord, that's the very thing!" "To be sure it is," replied Fagin; "and you can have a few good beats chalked out in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and neighborhoods like that, where they're always going errands; and you can upset as many kinchins as you want, any hour in the day. Ha! ha! ha!" With this, Fagin poked Mr. Claypole in the side, and they joined in a burst of laughter both long and loud. "Well, that's all right!" said Noah, when he had recovered himself, and Charlotte had returned. "What time to-morrow shall we say?" "Will ten do?" asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded assent, "What name shall I tell my good friend." "Mr. Bolter," replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such emergency. "Mr. Morris Bolter. This is Mrs. Bolter." "Mrs. Bolter's humble servant," said Fagin, bowing with grotesque politeness. "I hope I shall know her better very shortly." "Do you hear the gentleman, Charlotte?" thundered Mr. Claypole. "Yes, Noah, dear!" replied Mrs. Bolter, extending her hand. "She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking," said Mr. Morris Bolter, late Claypole, turning to Fagin. "You understand?" "Oh yes, I understand perfectly," replied Fagin, telling the truth for once. "Good-night! Good-night!" With many adieus and good wishes, Mr. Fagin went his way. Noah Claypole, bespeaking his good lady's attention, proceeded to enlighten her relative to the arrangement he had made, with all that haughtiness and air of superiority, becoming, not only a member of the sterner sex, but a gentleman who appreciated the dignity of a special appointment on the kinchin lay, in London and its vicinity. CHAPTER XLIII. WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE ARTFUL DODGER GOT INTO TROUBLE "And so it was you that was your own friend, was it?" asked Mr. Claypole, otherwise Bolter, when, by virtue of the compact entered into between them, he had removed next day to Fagin's house. "Cod, I thought as much last night!" "Every man's his own friend, my dear," replied Fagin, with his most insinuating grin. "He hasn't as good a one as himself anywhere." "Except sometimes," replied Morris Bolter, assuming the air of a man of the world. "Some people are nobody's enemies but their own, yer know." "Don't believe that," said Fagin. "When a man's his own enemy, it's only because he's too much his own friend; not because he's careful for everybody but himself. Pooh! pooh! There ain't such a thing in nature." "There oughn't to be, if there is," replied Mr. Bolter. "That stands to reason. Some conjurers say that number three is the magic number, and some say number seven. It's neither, my friend, neither. It's number one." "Ha! ha!" cried Mr. Bolter. "Number one for ever." "In a little community like ours, my dear," said Fagin, who felt it necessary to qualify this position, "we have a general number one, without considering me too as | you in the right way, where you can take whatever department of the business you think will suit you best at first, and be taught all the others." "Yer speak as if yer were in earnest," replied Noah. "What advantage would it be to me to be anything else?" inquired Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. "Here! Let me have a word with you outside." "There's no occasion to trouble ourselves to move," said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again. "She'll take the luggage upstairs the while. Charlotte, see to them bundles." This mandate, which had been delivered with great majesty, was obeyed without the slightest demur; and Charlotte made the best of her way off with the packages while Noah held the door open and watched her out. "She's kept tolerably well under, ain't she?" he asked as he resumed his seat: in the tone of a keeper who had tamed some wild animal. "Quite perfect," rejoined Fagin, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're a genius, my dear." "Why, I suppose if I wasn't, I shouldn't be here," replied Noah. "But, I say, she'll be back if yer lose time." "Now, what do you think?" said Fagin. "If you was to like my friend, could you do better than join him?" "Is he in a good way of business; that's where it is!" responded Noah, winking one of his little eyes. "The top of the tree; employs a power of hands; has the very best society in the profession." "Regular town-maders?" asked Mr. Claypole. "Not a countryman among 'em; and I don't think he'd take you, even on my recommendation, if he didn't run rather short of assistants just now," replied Fagin. "Should I have to hand over?" said Noah, slapping his breeches-pocket. "It couldn't possibly be done without," replied Fagin, in a most decided manner. "Twenty pound, though it's a lot of money!" "Not when it's in a note you can't get rid of," retorted Fagin. "Number and date taken, I suppose? Payment stopped at the Bank? Ah! It's not worth much to him. It'll have to go abroad, and he couldn't sell it for a great deal in the market." "When could I see him?" asked Noah doubtfully. "To-morrow morning." "Where?" "Here." "Um!" said Noah. "What's the wages?" "Live like a gentleman board and lodging, pipes and spirits free half of all you earn, and half of all the young woman earns," replied Mr. Fagin. Whether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of the least comprehensive, would have acceded even to these glowing terms, had he been a perfectly free agent, is very doubtful; but as he recollected that, in the event of his refusal, it was in the power of his new acquaintance to give him up to justice immediately (and more unlikely things had come to pass), he gradually relented, and said he thought that would suit him.<|quote|>"But, yer see,"</|quote|>observed Noah, "as she will be able to do a good deal, I should like to take something very light." "A little fancy work?" suggested Fagin. "Ah! something of that sort," replied Noah. "What do you think would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, you know. That's the sort of thing!" "I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear," said Fagin. "My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much." "Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn't mind turning my hand to it sometimes," rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; "but it wouldn't pay by itself, you know." "That's true!" observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate. "No, it might not." "What do you think, then?" asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. "Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being at home." "What do you think of the old ladies?" asked Fagin. "There's a good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner." "Don't they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?" asked Noah, shaking his head. "I don't think that would answer my purpose. Ain't there any other line open?" "Stop!" said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah's knee. "The kinchin lay." "What's that?" demanded Mr. Claypole. "The kinchins, my dear," said Fagin, "is the young children that's sent on errands by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the lay is just to take their money away they've always got it ready in their hands, then knock 'em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there were nothing else the matter but a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!" "Ha! ha!" roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy. "Lord, that's the very thing!" "To be sure it is," replied Fagin; "and you can have a few good beats chalked out in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and neighborhoods like that, where they're always going errands; and you can upset as many kinchins as you want, any hour in the day. Ha! ha! ha!" With this, Fagin poked Mr. Claypole in the side, and they joined in a burst of laughter both long and loud. "Well, that's all right!" said Noah, when he had recovered himself, and Charlotte had returned. "What time to-morrow shall we say?" "Will ten do?" asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded assent, "What name shall I tell my good friend." "Mr. Bolter," replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such emergency. "Mr. Morris Bolter. This is Mrs. Bolter." "Mrs. Bolter's humble servant," said Fagin, bowing with grotesque politeness. "I hope I shall know her better very shortly." "Do you hear the gentleman, Charlotte?" thundered Mr. Claypole. "Yes, Noah, dear!" replied Mrs. Bolter, extending her hand. "She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking," said Mr. Morris Bolter, late Claypole, turning to Fagin. "You understand?" "Oh yes, I understand perfectly," replied Fagin, telling the truth for once. "Good-night! Good-night!" With many adieus and good wishes, Mr. Fagin went his way. Noah Claypole, bespeaking | Oliver Twist |
Expelled from his old fortress, Mr. Wilcox was building a new one. He could no longer appear respectable to her, so he defended himself instead in a lurid past. It was not true repentance. | No speaker | must be left at that."<|quote|>Expelled from his old fortress, Mr. Wilcox was building a new one. He could no longer appear respectable to her, so he defended himself instead in a lurid past. It was not true repentance.</|quote|>"Leave it where you will, | m a bad lot, and must be left at that."<|quote|>Expelled from his old fortress, Mr. Wilcox was building a new one. He could no longer appear respectable to her, so he defended himself instead in a lurid past. It was not true repentance.</|quote|>"Leave it where you will, boy. It s not going | Look at me. There. That s all." "You re referring to last evening," he said huskily. "I have released you from your engagement. I could find excuses, but I won t. No, I won t. A thousand times no. I m a bad lot, and must be left at that."<|quote|>Expelled from his old fortress, Mr. Wilcox was building a new one. He could no longer appear respectable to her, so he defended himself instead in a lurid past. It was not true repentance.</|quote|>"Leave it where you will, boy. It s not going to trouble us; I know what I m talking about, and it will make no difference." "No difference?" he inquired. "No difference, when you find that I am not the fellow you thought?" He was annoyed with Miss Schlegel here. | the Times. His sister-in-law was packing. Margaret knelt by him and took the paper from him, feeling that it was unusually heavy and thick. Then, putting her face where it had been, she looked up in his eyes. "Henry dear, look at me. No, I won t have you shirking. Look at me. There. That s all." "You re referring to last evening," he said huskily. "I have released you from your engagement. I could find excuses, but I won t. No, I won t. A thousand times no. I m a bad lot, and must be left at that."<|quote|>Expelled from his old fortress, Mr. Wilcox was building a new one. He could no longer appear respectable to her, so he defended himself instead in a lurid past. It was not true repentance.</|quote|>"Leave it where you will, boy. It s not going to trouble us; I know what I m talking about, and it will make no difference." "No difference?" he inquired. "No difference, when you find that I am not the fellow you thought?" He was annoyed with Miss Schlegel here. He would have preferred her to be prostrated by the blow, or even to rage. Against the tide of his sin flowed the feeling that she was not altogether womanly. Her eyes gazed too straight; they had read books that are suitable for men only. And though he had dreaded | own wrong. To her everything was in proportion now, and she, too, would pity the man who was blundering up and down their lives. Had Mrs. Wilcox known of his trespass? An interesting question, but Margaret fell asleep, tethered by affection, and lulled by the murmurs of the river that descended all the night from Wales. She felt herself at one with her future home, colouring it and coloured by it, and awoke to see, for the second time, Oniton Castle conquering the morning mists. CHAPTER XXIX "Henry dear--" was her greeting. He had finished his breakfast, and was beginning the Times. His sister-in-law was packing. Margaret knelt by him and took the paper from him, feeling that it was unusually heavy and thick. Then, putting her face where it had been, she looked up in his eyes. "Henry dear, look at me. No, I won t have you shirking. Look at me. There. That s all." "You re referring to last evening," he said huskily. "I have released you from your engagement. I could find excuses, but I won t. No, I won t. A thousand times no. I m a bad lot, and must be left at that."<|quote|>Expelled from his old fortress, Mr. Wilcox was building a new one. He could no longer appear respectable to her, so he defended himself instead in a lurid past. It was not true repentance.</|quote|>"Leave it where you will, boy. It s not going to trouble us; I know what I m talking about, and it will make no difference." "No difference?" he inquired. "No difference, when you find that I am not the fellow you thought?" He was annoyed with Miss Schlegel here. He would have preferred her to be prostrated by the blow, or even to rage. Against the tide of his sin flowed the feeling that she was not altogether womanly. Her eyes gazed too straight; they had read books that are suitable for men only. And though he had dreaded a scene, and though she had determined against one, there was a scene, all the same. It was somehow imperative. "I am unworthy of you," he began. "Had I been worthy, I should not have released you from your engagement. I know what I am talking about. I can t bear to talk of such things. We had better leave it." She kissed his hand. He jerked it from her, and, rising to his feet, went on: "You, with your sheltered life, and refined pursuits, and friends, and books, you and your sister, and women like you--I say, how can | obtuseness to personal influence, his strong but furtive passions. Should she refuse him because his outer life corresponded? Perhaps. Perhaps, if the dishonour had been done to her, but it was done long before her day. She struggled against the feeling. She told herself that Mrs. Wilcox s wrong was her own. But she was not a barren theorist. As she undressed, her anger, her regard for the dead, her desire for a scene, all grew weak. Henry must have it as he liked, for she loved him, and some day she would use her love to make him a better man. Pity was at the bottom of her actions all through this crisis. Pity, if one may generalise, is at the bottom of woman. When men like us, it is for our better qualities, and however tender their liking, we dare not be unworthy of it, or they will quietly let us go. But unworthiness stimulates woman. It brings out her deeper nature, for good or for evil. Here was the core of the question. Henry must be forgiven, and made better by love; nothing else mattered. Mrs. Wilcox, that unquiet yet kindly ghost, must be left to her own wrong. To her everything was in proportion now, and she, too, would pity the man who was blundering up and down their lives. Had Mrs. Wilcox known of his trespass? An interesting question, but Margaret fell asleep, tethered by affection, and lulled by the murmurs of the river that descended all the night from Wales. She felt herself at one with her future home, colouring it and coloured by it, and awoke to see, for the second time, Oniton Castle conquering the morning mists. CHAPTER XXIX "Henry dear--" was her greeting. He had finished his breakfast, and was beginning the Times. His sister-in-law was packing. Margaret knelt by him and took the paper from him, feeling that it was unusually heavy and thick. Then, putting her face where it had been, she looked up in his eyes. "Henry dear, look at me. No, I won t have you shirking. Look at me. There. That s all." "You re referring to last evening," he said huskily. "I have released you from your engagement. I could find excuses, but I won t. No, I won t. A thousand times no. I m a bad lot, and must be left at that."<|quote|>Expelled from his old fortress, Mr. Wilcox was building a new one. He could no longer appear respectable to her, so he defended himself instead in a lurid past. It was not true repentance.</|quote|>"Leave it where you will, boy. It s not going to trouble us; I know what I m talking about, and it will make no difference." "No difference?" he inquired. "No difference, when you find that I am not the fellow you thought?" He was annoyed with Miss Schlegel here. He would have preferred her to be prostrated by the blow, or even to rage. Against the tide of his sin flowed the feeling that she was not altogether womanly. Her eyes gazed too straight; they had read books that are suitable for men only. And though he had dreaded a scene, and though she had determined against one, there was a scene, all the same. It was somehow imperative. "I am unworthy of you," he began. "Had I been worthy, I should not have released you from your engagement. I know what I am talking about. I can t bear to talk of such things. We had better leave it." She kissed his hand. He jerked it from her, and, rising to his feet, went on: "You, with your sheltered life, and refined pursuits, and friends, and books, you and your sister, and women like you--I say, how can you guess the temptations that lie round a man?" "It is difficult for us," said Margaret; "but if we are worth marrying, we do guess." "Cut off from decent society and family ties, what do you suppose happens to thousands of young fellows overseas? Isolated. No one near. I know by bitter experience, and yet you say it makes no difference." "Not to me." He laughed bitterly. Margaret went to the sideboard and helped herself to one of the breakfast dishes. Being the last down, she turned out the spirit-lamp that kept them warm. She was tender, but grave. She knew that Henry was not so much confessing his soul as pointing out the gulf between the male soul and the female, and she did not desire to hear him on this point. "Did Helen come?" she asked. He shook his head. "But that won t do at all, at all! We don t want her gossiping with Mrs. Bast." "Good God! no!" he exclaimed, suddenly natural. Then he caught himself up. "Let them gossip, my game s up, though I thank you for your unselfishness--little as my thanks are worth." "Didn t she send me a message or anything?" | She hoped to avoid a conversation between the woman and Helen. She rang the bell for a servant, but no one answered it; Mr. Wilcox and the Warringtons were gone to bed, and the kitchen was abandoned to Saturnalia. Consequently she went over to the George herself. She did not enter the hotel, for discussion would have been perilous, and, saying that the letter was important, she gave it to the waitress. As she recrossed the square she saw Helen and Mr. Bast looking out of the window of the coffee-room, and feared she was already too late. Her task was not yet over; she ought to tell Henry what she had done. This came easily, for she saw him in the hall. The night wind had been rattling the pictures against the wall, and the noise had disturbed him. "Who s there?" he called, quite the householder. Margaret walked in and past him. "I have asked Helen to sleep," she said. "She is best here; so don t lock the front-door." "I thought some one had got in," said Henry. "At the same time I told the man that we could do nothing for him. I don t know about later, but now the Basts must clearly go." "Did you say that your sister is sleeping here, after all?" "Probably." "Is she to be shown up to your room?" "I have naturally nothing to say to her; I am going to bed. Will you tell the servants about Helen? Could some one go to carry her bag?" He tapped a little gong, which had been bought to summon the servants. "You must make more noise than that if you want them to hear." Henry opened a door, and down the corridor came shouts of laughter. "Far too much screaming there," he said, and strode towards it. Margaret went upstairs, uncertain whether to be glad that they had met, or sorry. They had behaved as if nothing had happened, and her deepest instincts told her that this was wrong. For his own sake, some explanation was due. And yet--what could an explanation tell her? A date, a place, a few details, which she could imagine all too clearly. Now that the first shock was over, she saw that there was every reason to premise a Mrs. Bast. Henry s inner life had long laid open to her--his intellectual confusion, his obtuseness to personal influence, his strong but furtive passions. Should she refuse him because his outer life corresponded? Perhaps. Perhaps, if the dishonour had been done to her, but it was done long before her day. She struggled against the feeling. She told herself that Mrs. Wilcox s wrong was her own. But she was not a barren theorist. As she undressed, her anger, her regard for the dead, her desire for a scene, all grew weak. Henry must have it as he liked, for she loved him, and some day she would use her love to make him a better man. Pity was at the bottom of her actions all through this crisis. Pity, if one may generalise, is at the bottom of woman. When men like us, it is for our better qualities, and however tender their liking, we dare not be unworthy of it, or they will quietly let us go. But unworthiness stimulates woman. It brings out her deeper nature, for good or for evil. Here was the core of the question. Henry must be forgiven, and made better by love; nothing else mattered. Mrs. Wilcox, that unquiet yet kindly ghost, must be left to her own wrong. To her everything was in proportion now, and she, too, would pity the man who was blundering up and down their lives. Had Mrs. Wilcox known of his trespass? An interesting question, but Margaret fell asleep, tethered by affection, and lulled by the murmurs of the river that descended all the night from Wales. She felt herself at one with her future home, colouring it and coloured by it, and awoke to see, for the second time, Oniton Castle conquering the morning mists. CHAPTER XXIX "Henry dear--" was her greeting. He had finished his breakfast, and was beginning the Times. His sister-in-law was packing. Margaret knelt by him and took the paper from him, feeling that it was unusually heavy and thick. Then, putting her face where it had been, she looked up in his eyes. "Henry dear, look at me. No, I won t have you shirking. Look at me. There. That s all." "You re referring to last evening," he said huskily. "I have released you from your engagement. I could find excuses, but I won t. No, I won t. A thousand times no. I m a bad lot, and must be left at that."<|quote|>Expelled from his old fortress, Mr. Wilcox was building a new one. He could no longer appear respectable to her, so he defended himself instead in a lurid past. It was not true repentance.</|quote|>"Leave it where you will, boy. It s not going to trouble us; I know what I m talking about, and it will make no difference." "No difference?" he inquired. "No difference, when you find that I am not the fellow you thought?" He was annoyed with Miss Schlegel here. He would have preferred her to be prostrated by the blow, or even to rage. Against the tide of his sin flowed the feeling that she was not altogether womanly. Her eyes gazed too straight; they had read books that are suitable for men only. And though he had dreaded a scene, and though she had determined against one, there was a scene, all the same. It was somehow imperative. "I am unworthy of you," he began. "Had I been worthy, I should not have released you from your engagement. I know what I am talking about. I can t bear to talk of such things. We had better leave it." She kissed his hand. He jerked it from her, and, rising to his feet, went on: "You, with your sheltered life, and refined pursuits, and friends, and books, you and your sister, and women like you--I say, how can you guess the temptations that lie round a man?" "It is difficult for us," said Margaret; "but if we are worth marrying, we do guess." "Cut off from decent society and family ties, what do you suppose happens to thousands of young fellows overseas? Isolated. No one near. I know by bitter experience, and yet you say it makes no difference." "Not to me." He laughed bitterly. Margaret went to the sideboard and helped herself to one of the breakfast dishes. Being the last down, she turned out the spirit-lamp that kept them warm. She was tender, but grave. She knew that Henry was not so much confessing his soul as pointing out the gulf between the male soul and the female, and she did not desire to hear him on this point. "Did Helen come?" she asked. He shook his head. "But that won t do at all, at all! We don t want her gossiping with Mrs. Bast." "Good God! no!" he exclaimed, suddenly natural. Then he caught himself up. "Let them gossip, my game s up, though I thank you for your unselfishness--little as my thanks are worth." "Didn t she send me a message or anything?" "I heard of none." "Would you ring the bell, please?" "What to do?" "Why, to inquire." He swaggered up to it tragically, and sounded a peal. Margaret poured herself out some coffee. The butler came, and said that Miss Schlegel had slept at the George, so far as he had heard. Should he go round to the George? "I ll go, thank you," said Margaret, and dismissed him. "It is no good," said Henry. "Those things leak out; you cannot stop a story once it has started. I have known cases of other men--I despised them once, I thought that I m different, I shall never be tempted. Oh, Margaret--" He came and sat down near her, improvising emotion. She could not bear to listen to him. "We fellows all come to grief once in our time. Will you believe that? There are moments when the strongest man--" Let him who standeth, take heed lest he fall. "That s true, isn t it? If you knew all, you would excuse me. I was far from good influences--far even from England. I was very, very lonely, and longed for a woman s voice. That s enough. I have told you too much already for you to forgive me now." "Yes, that s enough, dear." "I have" "--he lowered his voice--" "I have been through hell." Gravely she considered this claim. Had he? Had he suffered tortures of remorse, or had it been, "There! that s over. Now for respectable life again"? The latter, if she read him rightly. A man who has been through hell does not boast of his virility. He is humble and hides it, if, indeed, it still exists. Only in legend does the sinner come forth penitent, but terrible, to conquer pure woman by his resistless power. Henry was anxious to be terrible, but had not got it in him. He was a good average Englishman, who had slipped. The really culpable point--his faithlessness to Mrs. Wilcox--never seemed to strike him. She longed to mention Mrs. Wilcox. And bit by bit the story was told her. It was a very simple story. Ten years ago was the time, a garrison town in Cyprus the place. Now and then he asked her whether she could possibly forgive him, and she answered, "I have already forgiven you, Henry." She chose her words carefully, and so saved him from panic. | you say that your sister is sleeping here, after all?" "Probably." "Is she to be shown up to your room?" "I have naturally nothing to say to her; I am going to bed. Will you tell the servants about Helen? Could some one go to carry her bag?" He tapped a little gong, which had been bought to summon the servants. "You must make more noise than that if you want them to hear." Henry opened a door, and down the corridor came shouts of laughter. "Far too much screaming there," he said, and strode towards it. Margaret went upstairs, uncertain whether to be glad that they had met, or sorry. They had behaved as if nothing had happened, and her deepest instincts told her that this was wrong. For his own sake, some explanation was due. And yet--what could an explanation tell her? A date, a place, a few details, which she could imagine all too clearly. Now that the first shock was over, she saw that there was every reason to premise a Mrs. Bast. Henry s inner life had long laid open to her--his intellectual confusion, his obtuseness to personal influence, his strong but furtive passions. Should she refuse him because his outer life corresponded? Perhaps. Perhaps, if the dishonour had been done to her, but it was done long before her day. She struggled against the feeling. She told herself that Mrs. Wilcox s wrong was her own. But she was not a barren theorist. As she undressed, her anger, her regard for the dead, her desire for a scene, all grew weak. Henry must have it as he liked, for she loved him, and some day she would use her love to make him a better man. Pity was at the bottom of her actions all through this crisis. Pity, if one may generalise, is at the bottom of woman. When men like us, it is for our better qualities, and however tender their liking, we dare not be unworthy of it, or they will quietly let us go. But unworthiness stimulates woman. It brings out her deeper nature, for good or for evil. Here was the core of the question. Henry must be forgiven, and made better by love; nothing else mattered. Mrs. Wilcox, that unquiet yet kindly ghost, must be left to her own wrong. To her everything was in proportion now, and she, too, would pity the man who was blundering up and down their lives. Had Mrs. Wilcox known of his trespass? An interesting question, but Margaret fell asleep, tethered by affection, and lulled by the murmurs of the river that descended all the night from Wales. She felt herself at one with her future home, colouring it and coloured by it, and awoke to see, for the second time, Oniton Castle conquering the morning mists. CHAPTER XXIX "Henry dear--" was her greeting. He had finished his breakfast, and was beginning the Times. His sister-in-law was packing. Margaret knelt by him and took the paper from him, feeling that it was unusually heavy and thick. Then, putting her face where it had been, she looked up in his eyes. "Henry dear, look at me. No, I won t have you shirking. Look at me. There. That s all." "You re referring to last evening," he said huskily. "I have released you from your engagement. I could find excuses, but I won t. No, I won t. A thousand times no. I m a bad lot, and must be left at that."<|quote|>Expelled from his old fortress, Mr. Wilcox was building a new one. He could no longer appear respectable to her, so he defended himself instead in a lurid past. It was not true repentance.</|quote|>"Leave it where you will, boy. It s not going to trouble us; I know what I m talking about, and it will make no difference." "No difference?" he inquired. "No difference, when you find that I am not the fellow you thought?" He was annoyed with Miss Schlegel here. He would have preferred her to be prostrated by the blow, or even to rage. Against the tide of his sin flowed the feeling that she was not altogether womanly. Her eyes gazed too straight; they had read books that are suitable for men only. And though he had dreaded a scene, and though she had determined against one, there was a scene, all the same. It was somehow imperative. "I am unworthy of you," he began. "Had I been worthy, I should not have released you from your engagement. I know what I am talking about. I can t bear to talk of such things. We had better leave it." She kissed his hand. He jerked it from her, and, rising to his feet, went on: "You, with your sheltered life, and refined pursuits, and friends, and books, you and your sister, and women like you--I say, how can you guess the temptations that lie round a man?" "It is difficult for us," said Margaret; "but if we are worth marrying, we do guess." "Cut off from decent society and family ties, what do you suppose happens to thousands of young fellows overseas? Isolated. No one near. I know by bitter experience, and yet you say it makes no difference." "Not to me." He laughed bitterly. Margaret went to the sideboard and helped herself to one of the breakfast dishes. Being the last down, she turned out the spirit-lamp that kept them warm. She was tender, but grave. She knew that Henry | Howards End |
We shook hands. | No speaker | little dizzy for a while.”<|quote|>We shook hands.</|quote|>“Oh, and do you remember” | me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.”<|quote|>We shook hands.</|quote|>“Oh, and do you remember” —she added— “a conversation we | over again quickly and got up to say goodbye. “Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.”<|quote|>We shook hands.</|quote|>“Oh, and do you remember” —she added— “a conversation we had once about driving a car?” “Why—not exactly.” “You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such | me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye. “Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.”<|quote|>We shook hands.</|quote|>“Oh, and do you remember” —she added— “a conversation we had once about driving a car?” “Why—not exactly.” “You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.” “I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honour.” She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I | to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair. She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye. “Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.”<|quote|>We shook hands.</|quote|>“Oh, and do you remember” —she added— “a conversation we had once about driving a car?” “Why—not exactly.” “You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.” “I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honour.” She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as I slowed up to avoid overtaking him he stopped and began frowning into the windows of a jewellery store. Suddenly he saw me and walked back, holding out his hand. “What’s the matter, Nick? Do you object to shaking hands with me?” “Yes. You know | bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old—even then it had always for me a quality of distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares. After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home. There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair. She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye. “Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.”<|quote|>We shook hands.</|quote|>“Oh, and do you remember” —she added— “a conversation we had once about driving a car?” “Why—not exactly.” “You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.” “I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honour.” She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as I slowed up to avoid overtaking him he stopped and began frowning into the windows of a jewellery store. Suddenly he saw me and walked back, holding out his hand. “What’s the matter, Nick? Do you object to shaking hands with me?” “Yes. You know what I think of you.” “You’re crazy, Nick,” he said quickly. “Crazy as hell. I don’t know what’s the matter with you.” “Tom,” I inquired, “what did you say to Wilson that afternoon?” He stared at me without a word, and I knew I had guessed right about those missing hours. I started to turn away, but he took a step after me and grabbed my arm. “I told him the truth,” he said. “He came to the door while we were getting ready to leave, and when I sent down word that we weren’t in he tried to force his way upstairs. He was crazy enough to kill me if I hadn’t told him who owned the car. His hand was on a revolver in his pocket every minute he was in the house—” He broke off defiantly. “What if I did tell him? That fellow had it coming to him. He threw dust into your eyes just like he did in Daisy’s, but he was a tough one. He ran over Myrtle like you’d run over a dog and never even stopped his car.” There was nothing I could say, except the one unutterable fact that it wasn’t | else.” “Go on!” He started. “Why, my God! they used to go there by the hundreds.” He took off his glasses and wiped them again, outside and in. “The poor son-of-a-bitch,” he said. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One of my most vivid memories is of coming back West from prep school and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday gaieties, to bid them a hasty goodbye. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-That’s and the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: “Are you going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?” and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West—not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all—Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life. Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old—even then it had always for me a quality of distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares. After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home. There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair. She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye. “Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.”<|quote|>We shook hands.</|quote|>“Oh, and do you remember” —she added— “a conversation we had once about driving a car?” “Why—not exactly.” “You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.” “I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honour.” She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as I slowed up to avoid overtaking him he stopped and began frowning into the windows of a jewellery store. Suddenly he saw me and walked back, holding out his hand. “What’s the matter, Nick? Do you object to shaking hands with me?” “Yes. You know what I think of you.” “You’re crazy, Nick,” he said quickly. “Crazy as hell. I don’t know what’s the matter with you.” “Tom,” I inquired, “what did you say to Wilson that afternoon?” He stared at me without a word, and I knew I had guessed right about those missing hours. I started to turn away, but he took a step after me and grabbed my arm. “I told him the truth,” he said. “He came to the door while we were getting ready to leave, and when I sent down word that we weren’t in he tried to force his way upstairs. He was crazy enough to kill me if I hadn’t told him who owned the car. His hand was on a revolver in his pocket every minute he was in the house—” He broke off defiantly. “What if I did tell him? That fellow had it coming to him. He threw dust into your eyes just like he did in Daisy’s, but he was a tough one. He ran over Myrtle like you’d run over a dog and never even stopped his car.” There was nothing I could say, except the one unutterable fact that it wasn’t true. “And if you think I didn’t have my share of suffering—look here, when I went to give up that flat and saw that damn box of dog biscuits sitting there on the sideboard, I sat down and cried like a baby. By God it was awful—” I couldn’t forgive him or like him, but I saw that what he had done was, to him, entirely justified. It was all very careless and confused. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy—they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made … I shook hands with him; it seemed silly not to, for I felt suddenly as though I were talking to a child. Then he went into the jewellery store to buy a pearl necklace—or perhaps only a pair of cuff buttons—rid of my provincial squeamishness forever. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Gatsby’s house was still empty when I left—the grass on his lawn had grown as long as mine. One of the taxi drivers in the village never took a fare past the entrance gate without stopping for a minute and pointing inside; perhaps it was he who drove Daisy and Gatsby over to East Egg the night of the accident, and perhaps he had made a story about it all his own. I didn’t want to hear it and I avoided him when I got off the train. I spent my Saturday nights in New York because those gleaming, dazzling parties of his were with me so vividly that I could still hear the music and the laughter, faint and incessant, from his garden, and the cars going up and down his drive. One night I did hear a material car there, and saw its lights stop at his front steps. But I didn’t investigate. Probably it was some final guest who had been away at the ends of the earth and didn’t know that the party was over. On the last night, with my trunk packed and my car sold to the grocer, I went over and looked at that huge incoherent failure of a house once more. On the white steps an obscene word, scrawled by some boy with a piece of brick, stood out clearly in the moonlight, and I erased it, drawing | in a city where dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all—Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life. Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old—even then it had always for me a quality of distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares. After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home. There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair. She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye. “Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.”<|quote|>We shook hands.</|quote|>“Oh, and do you remember” —she added— “a conversation we had once about driving a car?” “Why—not exactly.” “You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.” “I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honour.” She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as I slowed up to avoid overtaking him he stopped and began frowning into the windows of a jewellery store. Suddenly he saw me and walked back, holding out his hand. “What’s the matter, Nick? Do you object to shaking hands with me?” “Yes. You know what I think of you.” “You’re crazy, Nick,” he said quickly. “Crazy as hell. I don’t know what’s the matter with you.” “Tom,” I inquired, “what did you say to Wilson that afternoon?” He stared at me without a word, and I knew I had guessed right about those missing hours. I started to turn away, but he took a step after me and grabbed my arm. “I told him the truth,” he said. “He came to the door while we were getting ready to leave, and when I sent down word that we weren’t in he tried to force his way upstairs. He was crazy enough to kill me if I hadn’t told him who owned the car. His hand was on a revolver in his pocket every minute he was in the house—” He broke off defiantly. “What if I did tell him? That fellow had it coming to him. He threw dust into your eyes just like he did in Daisy’s, but he was a tough one. He ran over Myrtle like you’d run over a dog and never even stopped his car.” There was nothing I could say, except the one unutterable fact that it wasn’t true. “And if you think I didn’t have my share of suffering—look here, when I went to give up that flat and saw that damn box of dog biscuits sitting there on the sideboard, I sat down and cried like a baby. By God it was awful—” I couldn’t forgive him or like him, but I saw that what he had done was, to him, entirely justified. It was all very careless and confused. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy—they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made … I shook hands with him; it seemed silly not to, for I felt suddenly as though I were talking to a child. Then he went into the jewellery store to buy a pearl necklace—or perhaps only a pair of cuff buttons—rid of my provincial squeamishness forever. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Gatsby’s house was still empty when I left—the grass | The Great Gatsby |
"No, no. You must have it." | Lucy | made many a tactful allusion.<|quote|>"No, no. You must have it."</|quote|>"I insist on it. Your | of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.<|quote|>"No, no. You must have it."</|quote|>"I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, | mustn't spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front--" "You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother--a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.<|quote|>"No, no. You must have it."</|quote|>"I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy." "She would never forgive me." The ladies' voices grew animated, and--if the sad truth be owned--a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them--one | letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!" "Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued; "but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a view." Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front--" "You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother--a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.<|quote|>"No, no. You must have it."</|quote|>"I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy." "She would never forgive me." The ladies' voices grew animated, and--if the sad truth be owned--a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them--one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad--leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said: "I have a view, I have a view." Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often | the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired." "This meat has surely been used for soup," said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. "I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!" "Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued; "but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a view." Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front--" "You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother--a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.<|quote|>"No, no. You must have it."</|quote|>"I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy." "She would never forgive me." The ladies' voices grew animated, and--if the sad truth be owned--a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them--one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad--leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said: "I have a view, I have a view." Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would "do" till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility. What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed | PART ONE Chapter I: The Bertolini "The Signora had no business to do it," said Miss Bartlett, "no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!" "And a Cockney, besides!" said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora's unexpected accent. "It might be London." She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired." "This meat has surely been used for soup," said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. "I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!" "Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued; "but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a view." Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front--" "You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother--a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.<|quote|>"No, no. You must have it."</|quote|>"I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy." "She would never forgive me." The ladies' voices grew animated, and--if the sad truth be owned--a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them--one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad--leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said: "I have a view, I have a view." Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would "do" till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility. What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: "A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!" "This is my son," said the old man; "his name's George. He has a view too." "Ah," said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak. "What I mean," he continued, "is that you can have our rooms, and we'll have yours. We'll change." The better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the new-comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said "Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the question." "Why?" said the old man, with both fists on the table. "Because it is quite out of the question, thank you." "You see, we don't like to take--" began Lucy. Her cousin again repressed her. "But why?" he persisted. "Women like looking at a view; men don't." And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son, saying, "George, persuade them!" "It's so obvious they should have the rooms," said the son. "There's nothing else to say." He did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed and | PART ONE Chapter I: The Bertolini "The Signora had no business to do it," said Miss Bartlett, "no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!" "And a Cockney, besides!" said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora's unexpected accent. "It might be London." She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired." "This meat has surely been used for soup," said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. "I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!" "Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued; "but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a view." Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front--" "You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother--a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.<|quote|>"No, no. You must have it."</|quote|>"I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy." "She would never forgive me." The ladies' voices grew animated, and--if the sad truth be owned--a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them--one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad--leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said: "I have a view, I have a view." Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would "do" till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility. What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: "A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!" "This is my son," said the old man; "his name's George. He has a view too." "Ah," said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak. "What I mean," he continued, "is that you can have our rooms, and we'll have yours. We'll change." The better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the new-comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said "Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the question." "Why?" said the old man, with both fists on the table. "Because it is quite out of the question, thank you." "You see, we don't like to take--" began Lucy. Her cousin again repressed her. "But why?" he persisted. "Women like looking at a view; men don't." And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son, saying, "George, persuade them!" "It's so obvious they should have the rooms," said the son. "There's nothing else to say." He did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed and sorrowful. Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw that they were in for what is known as "quite a scene," and she had an odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke the contest widened and deepened till it dealt, not with rooms and views, but with--well, with something quite different, whose existence she had not realized before. Now the old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not change? What possible objection had she? They would clear out in half an hour. Miss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, was powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub any one so gross. Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked around as much as to say, "Are you all like this?" And two little old ladies, who were sitting further up the table, with shawls hanging over the backs of the chairs, looked back, clearly indicating "We are not; we are genteel." "Eat your dinner, dear," she said to Lucy, and began to toy again with the meat that she had once censured. Lucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite. "Eat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure. To-morrow we will make a change." Hardly had she announced this fell decision when she reversed it. The curtains at the end of the room parted, and revealed a clergyman, stout but attractive, who hurried forward to take his place at the table, cheerfully apologizing for his lateness. Lucy, who had not yet acquired decency, at once rose to her feet, exclaiming: "Oh, oh! Why, it's Mr. Beebe! Oh, how perfectly lovely! Oh, Charlotte, we must stop now, however bad the rooms are. Oh!" Miss Bartlett said, with more restraint: "How do you do, Mr. Beebe? I expect that you have forgotten us: Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch, who were at Tunbridge Wells when you helped the Vicar of St. Peter's that very cold Easter." The clergyman, who had the air of one on a holiday, did not remember the ladies quite as clearly as they remembered him. But he came forward pleasantly enough and accepted the chair into which he was beckoned by Lucy. "I AM so glad to see you," said the girl, who was in a state of spiritual starvation, and would have been glad to see the waiter if her cousin had permitted it. "Just fancy how small | PART ONE Chapter I: The Bertolini "The Signora had no business to do it," said Miss Bartlett, "no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!" "And a Cockney, besides!" said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora's unexpected accent. "It might be London." She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired." "This meat has surely been used for soup," said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. "I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!" "Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued; "but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a view." Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front--" "You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother--a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.<|quote|>"No, no. You must have it."</|quote|>"I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy." "She would never forgive me." The ladies' voices grew animated, and--if the sad truth be owned--a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them--one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad--leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said: "I have a view, I have a view." Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would "do" till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility. What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: "A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!" "This is my son," said the old man; "his name's George. He has a view too." "Ah," said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak. "What I mean," he continued, "is that you can have | A Room With A View |
all I can say is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out. | No speaker | it was." Well, "said I,"<|quote|>all I can say is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out.</|quote|>"And so I shall always | almost ready to sink as it was." Well, "said I,"<|quote|>all I can say is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out.</|quote|>"And so I shall always say, my dear, you may | no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it; and I was almost ready to sink as it was." Well, "said I,"<|quote|>all I can say is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out.</|quote|>"And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I have no notion of men s going on in this way; and if ever I meet him again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a day. But there | said she in a voice of great compassion to Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer. "How is she, Miss Dashwood? Poor thing! she looks very bad. No wonder. Ay, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon a good-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it; and I was almost ready to sink as it was." Well, "said I,"<|quote|>all I can say is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out.</|quote|>"And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I have no notion of men s going on in this way; and if ever I meet him again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a day. But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne; he is not the only young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face you will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won t disturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and | more and more hysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at all, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for assistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she was at length persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings returned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless. CHAPTER XXX. Mrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and without waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the door and walked in with a look of real concern. "How do you do my dear?" said she in a voice of great compassion to Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer. "How is she, Miss Dashwood? Poor thing! she looks very bad. No wonder. Ay, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon a good-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it; and I was almost ready to sink as it was." Well, "said I,"<|quote|>all I can say is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out.</|quote|>"And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I have no notion of men s going on in this way; and if ever I meet him again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a day. But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne; he is not the only young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face you will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won t disturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done with. The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are coming tonight you know, and that will amuse her." She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she supposed her young friend s affliction could be increased by noise. Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with them. Elinor even advised her against it. But "no, she would go down; she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less." Elinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive, though believing it hardly possible that | Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young and attractive among his female acquaintance? Oh! no one, no one he talked to me only of myself." Another pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended thus. "Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mama. Can not we be gone to-morrow?" "To-morrow, Marianne!" "Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby s sake and now who cares for me? Who regards me?" "It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much more than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such a hasty removal as that." "Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here long, I cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people. The Middletons and Palmers how am I to bear their pity? The pity of such a woman as Lady Middleton! Oh, what would _he_ say to that!" Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; but no attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body she moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more hysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at all, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for assistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she was at length persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings returned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless. CHAPTER XXX. Mrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and without waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the door and walked in with a look of real concern. "How do you do my dear?" said she in a voice of great compassion to Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer. "How is she, Miss Dashwood? Poor thing! she looks very bad. No wonder. Ay, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon a good-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it; and I was almost ready to sink as it was." Well, "said I,"<|quote|>all I can say is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out.</|quote|>"And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I have no notion of men s going on in this way; and if ever I meet him again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a day. But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne; he is not the only young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face you will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won t disturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done with. The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are coming tonight you know, and that will amuse her." She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she supposed her young friend s affliction could be increased by noise. Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with them. Elinor even advised her against it. But "no, she would go down; she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less." Elinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive, though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner, said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could, while Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it. When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she been conscious of half Mrs. Jennings s well-meant but ill-judged attentions to her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her. Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings s kindness, though its effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her sister could not make or return for herself. Their good friend saw that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her which might make her at all less so. She treated her therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the last day of its holidays. | any one, in short, but your own dear self, mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to bely me. Beyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom I would not rather suspect of evil than Willoughby, whose heart I know so well?" Elinor would not contend, and only replied, "Whoever may have been so detestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph, my dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own innocence and good intentions supports your spirits. It is a reasonable and laudable pride which resists such malevolence." "No, no," cried Marianne, "misery such as mine has no pride. I care not who knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing me so may be open to all the world. Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be proud and independent as they like may resist insult, or return mortification but I cannot. I must feel I must be wretched and they are welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can." "But for my mother s sake and mine" "I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am so miserable Oh! who can require it?" Again they were both silent. Elinor was employed in walking thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire, without knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning objects through the other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the bed, with her head leaning against one of its posts, again took up Willoughby s letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence, exclaimed, "It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours! Cruel, cruel nothing can acquit you. Elinor, nothing can. Whatever he might have heard against me ought he not to have suspended his belief? ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power of clearing myself?" The lock of hair, (repeating it from the letter,) which you so obligingly bestowed on me "That is unpardonable. Willoughby, where was your heart when you wrote those words? Oh, barbarously insolent! Elinor, can he be justified?" "No, Marianne, in no possible way." "And yet this woman who knows what her art may have been? how long it may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her! Who is she? Who can she be? Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young and attractive among his female acquaintance? Oh! no one, no one he talked to me only of myself." Another pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended thus. "Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mama. Can not we be gone to-morrow?" "To-morrow, Marianne!" "Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby s sake and now who cares for me? Who regards me?" "It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much more than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such a hasty removal as that." "Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here long, I cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people. The Middletons and Palmers how am I to bear their pity? The pity of such a woman as Lady Middleton! Oh, what would _he_ say to that!" Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; but no attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body she moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more hysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at all, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for assistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she was at length persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings returned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless. CHAPTER XXX. Mrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and without waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the door and walked in with a look of real concern. "How do you do my dear?" said she in a voice of great compassion to Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer. "How is she, Miss Dashwood? Poor thing! she looks very bad. No wonder. Ay, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon a good-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it; and I was almost ready to sink as it was." Well, "said I,"<|quote|>all I can say is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out.</|quote|>"And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I have no notion of men s going on in this way; and if ever I meet him again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a day. But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne; he is not the only young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face you will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won t disturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done with. The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are coming tonight you know, and that will amuse her." She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she supposed her young friend s affliction could be increased by noise. Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with them. Elinor even advised her against it. But "no, she would go down; she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less." Elinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive, though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner, said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could, while Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it. When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she been conscious of half Mrs. Jennings s well-meant but ill-judged attentions to her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her. Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings s kindness, though its effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her sister could not make or return for herself. Their good friend saw that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her which might make her at all less so. She treated her therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have the best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day. Had not Elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings s endeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room. "Poor soul!" cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how it grieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without finishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to do her any good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I would send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! But when there is plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord bless you! they care no more about such things!" "The lady then Miss Grey I think you called her is very rich?" "Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? a smart, stylish girl they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very well, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family are all rich together. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it won t come before it s wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No wonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don t signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready to have him. Why don t he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? I warrant you, | the questions and remarks of all these people. The Middletons and Palmers how am I to bear their pity? The pity of such a woman as Lady Middleton! Oh, what would _he_ say to that!" Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; but no attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body she moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more hysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at all, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for assistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she was at length persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings returned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless. CHAPTER XXX. Mrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and without waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the door and walked in with a look of real concern. "How do you do my dear?" said she in a voice of great compassion to Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer. "How is she, Miss Dashwood? Poor thing! she looks very bad. No wonder. Ay, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon a good-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it; and I was almost ready to sink as it was." Well, "said I,"<|quote|>all I can say is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out.</|quote|>"And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I have no notion of men s going on in this way; and if ever I meet him again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a day. But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne; he is not the only young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face you will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won t disturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done with. The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are coming tonight you know, and that will amuse her." She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she supposed her young friend s affliction could be increased by noise. Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with them. Elinor even advised her against it. But "no, she would go down; she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less." Elinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive, though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner, said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could, while Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it. When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she been conscious of half Mrs. Jennings s well-meant but ill-judged attentions to her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her. Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings s kindness, though its effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her sister could not make or return for herself. Their good friend saw that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her which might make her at all less so. She treated her therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have the best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day. Had not Elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings s endeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As | Sense And Sensibility |
"Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn't it?" | Mrs. Corney | you won't,' says our overseer."<|quote|>"Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn't it?"</|quote|>interposed the matron. "Well, Mr. | says the vagrant. Oh no, you won't,' says our overseer."<|quote|>"Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn't it?"</|quote|>interposed the matron. "Well, Mr. Bumble?" "Well, ma'am," rejoined the | villain, what's the use of _this_ to me? You might as well give me a pair of iron spectacles!' Very good,' says our overseer, taking 'em away again, you won't get anything else here.' Then I'll die in the streets!' says the vagrant. Oh no, you won't,' says our overseer."<|quote|>"Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn't it?"</|quote|>interposed the matron. "Well, Mr. Bumble?" "Well, ma'am," rejoined the beadle, "he went away; and he _did_ die in the streets. There's a obstinate pauper for you!" "It beats anything I could have believed," observed the matron emphatically. "But don't you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing, any way, | our overseer's door when he has got company coming to dinner; and says, he must be relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn't go away, and shocked the company very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a pint of oatmeal. My heart!' says the ungrateful villain, what's the use of _this_ to me? You might as well give me a pair of iron spectacles!' Very good,' says our overseer, taking 'em away again, you won't get anything else here.' Then I'll die in the streets!' says the vagrant. Oh no, you won't,' says our overseer."<|quote|>"Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn't it?"</|quote|>interposed the matron. "Well, Mr. Bumble?" "Well, ma'am," rejoined the beadle, "he went away; and he _did_ die in the streets. There's a obstinate pauper for you!" "It beats anything I could have believed," observed the matron emphatically. "But don't you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing, any way, Mr. Bumble? You're a gentleman of experience, and ought to know. Come." "Mrs. Corney," said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious of superior information, "out-of-door relief, properly managed: properly managed, ma'am: is the porochial safeguard. The great principle of out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly | then come back for more. That's the way with these people, ma'am; give 'em a apron full of coals to-day, and they'll come back for another, the day after to-morrow, as brazen as alabaster." The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible simile; and the beadle went on. "I never," said Mr. Bumble, "see anything like the pitch it's got to. The day afore yesterday, a man you have been a married woman, ma'am, and I may mention it to you a man, with hardly a rag upon his back (here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer's door when he has got company coming to dinner; and says, he must be relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn't go away, and shocked the company very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a pint of oatmeal. My heart!' says the ungrateful villain, what's the use of _this_ to me? You might as well give me a pair of iron spectacles!' Very good,' says our overseer, taking 'em away again, you won't get anything else here.' Then I'll die in the streets!' says the vagrant. Oh no, you won't,' says our overseer."<|quote|>"Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn't it?"</|quote|>interposed the matron. "Well, Mr. Bumble?" "Well, ma'am," rejoined the beadle, "he went away; and he _did_ die in the streets. There's a obstinate pauper for you!" "It beats anything I could have believed," observed the matron emphatically. "But don't you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing, any way, Mr. Bumble? You're a gentleman of experience, and ought to know. Come." "Mrs. Corney," said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious of superior information, "out-of-door relief, properly managed: properly managed, ma'am: is the porochial safeguard. The great principle of out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what they don't want; and then they get tired of coming." "Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Corney. "Well, that is a good one, too!" "Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma'am," returned Mr. Bumble, "that's the great principle; and that's the reason why, if you look at any cases that get into them owdacious newspapers, you'll always observe that sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese. That's the rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however," said the beadle, stopping to unpack his bundle, "these are official secrets, ma'am; not to be spoken of; except, as I may | bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a bundle in the other. "Shall I shut the door, ma'am?" The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any impropriety in holding an interview with Mr. Bumble, with closed doors. Mr. Bumble taking advantage of the hesitation, and being very cold himself, shut it without permission. "Hard weather, Mr. Bumble," said the matron. "Hard, indeed, ma'am," replied the beadle. "Anti-porochial weather this, ma'am. We have given away, Mrs. Corney, we have given away a matter of twenty quartern loaves and a cheese and a half, this very blessed afternoon; and yet them paupers are not contented." "Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?" said the matron, sipping her tea. "When, indeed, ma'am!" rejoined Mr. Bumble. "Why here's one man that, in consideration of his wife and large family, has a quartern loaf and a good pound of cheese, full weight. Is he grateful, ma'am? Is he grateful? Not a copper farthing's worth of it! What does he do, ma'am, but ask for a few coals; if it's only a pocket handkerchief full, he says! Coals! What would he do with coals? Toast his cheese with 'em and then come back for more. That's the way with these people, ma'am; give 'em a apron full of coals to-day, and they'll come back for another, the day after to-morrow, as brazen as alabaster." The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible simile; and the beadle went on. "I never," said Mr. Bumble, "see anything like the pitch it's got to. The day afore yesterday, a man you have been a married woman, ma'am, and I may mention it to you a man, with hardly a rag upon his back (here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer's door when he has got company coming to dinner; and says, he must be relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn't go away, and shocked the company very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a pint of oatmeal. My heart!' says the ungrateful villain, what's the use of _this_ to me? You might as well give me a pair of iron spectacles!' Very good,' says our overseer, taking 'em away again, you won't get anything else here.' Then I'll die in the streets!' says the vagrant. Oh no, you won't,' says our overseer."<|quote|>"Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn't it?"</|quote|>interposed the matron. "Well, Mr. Bumble?" "Well, ma'am," rejoined the beadle, "he went away; and he _did_ die in the streets. There's a obstinate pauper for you!" "It beats anything I could have believed," observed the matron emphatically. "But don't you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing, any way, Mr. Bumble? You're a gentleman of experience, and ought to know. Come." "Mrs. Corney," said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious of superior information, "out-of-door relief, properly managed: properly managed, ma'am: is the porochial safeguard. The great principle of out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what they don't want; and then they get tired of coming." "Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Corney. "Well, that is a good one, too!" "Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma'am," returned Mr. Bumble, "that's the great principle; and that's the reason why, if you look at any cases that get into them owdacious newspapers, you'll always observe that sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese. That's the rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however," said the beadle, stopping to unpack his bundle, "these are official secrets, ma'am; not to be spoken of; except, as I may say, among the porochial officers, such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma'am, that the board ordered for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine; only out of the cask this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!" Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to test its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of drawers; folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it carefully in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go. "You'll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble," said the matron. "It blows, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar, "enough to cut one's ears off." The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was moving towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether whether he wouldn't take a cup of tea? Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat and stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr. | of all possible kettles was singing a small song in a small voice, her inward satisfaction evidently increased, so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Corney smiled. "Well!" said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and looking reflectively at the fire; "I'm sure we have all on us a great deal to be grateful for! A great deal, if we did but know it. Ah!" Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental blindness of those paupers who did not know it; and thrusting a silver spoon (private property) into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin tea-caddy, proceeded to make the tea. How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds! The black teapot, being very small and easily filled, ran over while Mrs. Corney was moralising; and the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney's hand. "Drat the pot!" said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on the hob; "a little stupid thing, that only holds a couple of cups! What use is it of, to anybody! Except," said Mrs. Corney, pausing, "except to a poor desolate creature like me. Oh dear!" With these words, the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more resting her elbow on the table, thought of her solitary fate. The small teapot, and the single cup, had awakened in her mind sad recollections of Mr. Corney (who had not been dead more than five-and-twenty years); and she was overpowered. "I shall never get another!" said Mrs. Corney, pettishly; "I shall never get another like him." Whether this remark bore reference to the husband, or the teapot, is uncertain. It might have been the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it as she spoke; and took it up afterwards. She had just tasted her first cup, when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room-door. "Oh, come in with you!" said Mrs. Corney, sharply. "Some of the old women dying, I suppose. They always die when I'm at meals. Don't stand there, letting the cold air in, don't. What's amiss now, eh?" "Nothing, ma'am, nothing," replied a man's voice. "Dear me!" exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, "is that Mr. Bumble?" "At your service, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping outside to rub his shoes clean, and to shake the snow off his coat; and who now made his appearance, bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a bundle in the other. "Shall I shut the door, ma'am?" The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any impropriety in holding an interview with Mr. Bumble, with closed doors. Mr. Bumble taking advantage of the hesitation, and being very cold himself, shut it without permission. "Hard weather, Mr. Bumble," said the matron. "Hard, indeed, ma'am," replied the beadle. "Anti-porochial weather this, ma'am. We have given away, Mrs. Corney, we have given away a matter of twenty quartern loaves and a cheese and a half, this very blessed afternoon; and yet them paupers are not contented." "Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?" said the matron, sipping her tea. "When, indeed, ma'am!" rejoined Mr. Bumble. "Why here's one man that, in consideration of his wife and large family, has a quartern loaf and a good pound of cheese, full weight. Is he grateful, ma'am? Is he grateful? Not a copper farthing's worth of it! What does he do, ma'am, but ask for a few coals; if it's only a pocket handkerchief full, he says! Coals! What would he do with coals? Toast his cheese with 'em and then come back for more. That's the way with these people, ma'am; give 'em a apron full of coals to-day, and they'll come back for another, the day after to-morrow, as brazen as alabaster." The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible simile; and the beadle went on. "I never," said Mr. Bumble, "see anything like the pitch it's got to. The day afore yesterday, a man you have been a married woman, ma'am, and I may mention it to you a man, with hardly a rag upon his back (here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer's door when he has got company coming to dinner; and says, he must be relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn't go away, and shocked the company very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a pint of oatmeal. My heart!' says the ungrateful villain, what's the use of _this_ to me? You might as well give me a pair of iron spectacles!' Very good,' says our overseer, taking 'em away again, you won't get anything else here.' Then I'll die in the streets!' says the vagrant. Oh no, you won't,' says our overseer."<|quote|>"Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn't it?"</|quote|>interposed the matron. "Well, Mr. Bumble?" "Well, ma'am," rejoined the beadle, "he went away; and he _did_ die in the streets. There's a obstinate pauper for you!" "It beats anything I could have believed," observed the matron emphatically. "But don't you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing, any way, Mr. Bumble? You're a gentleman of experience, and ought to know. Come." "Mrs. Corney," said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious of superior information, "out-of-door relief, properly managed: properly managed, ma'am: is the porochial safeguard. The great principle of out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what they don't want; and then they get tired of coming." "Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Corney. "Well, that is a good one, too!" "Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma'am," returned Mr. Bumble, "that's the great principle; and that's the reason why, if you look at any cases that get into them owdacious newspapers, you'll always observe that sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese. That's the rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however," said the beadle, stopping to unpack his bundle, "these are official secrets, ma'am; not to be spoken of; except, as I may say, among the porochial officers, such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma'am, that the board ordered for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine; only out of the cask this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!" Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to test its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of drawers; folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it carefully in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go. "You'll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble," said the matron. "It blows, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar, "enough to cut one's ears off." The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was moving towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether whether he wouldn't take a cup of tea? Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat and stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled. Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she sat down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle; she coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again Mr. Bumble coughed louder this time than he had coughed yet. "Sweet? Mr. Bumble?" inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin. "Very sweet, indeed, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that moment. The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department. "You have a cat, ma'am, I see," said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; "and kittens too, I declare!" "I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think," replied the matron. "They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that they are quite companions for me." "Very nice animals, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; "so very domestic." "Oh, yes!" rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; "so fond of their home too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure." "Mrs. Corney, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, "I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma'am." "Oh, Mr. Bumble!" remonstrated Mrs. Corney. "It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; "I would drown it myself, with pleasure." "Then you're a cruel man," said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand for the beadle's cup; "and a very hard-hearted man besides." "Hard-hearted, ma'am?" said Mr. Bumble. "Hard?" Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched | of Mr. Corney (who had not been dead more than five-and-twenty years); and she was overpowered. "I shall never get another!" said Mrs. Corney, pettishly; "I shall never get another like him." Whether this remark bore reference to the husband, or the teapot, is uncertain. It might have been the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it as she spoke; and took it up afterwards. She had just tasted her first cup, when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room-door. "Oh, come in with you!" said Mrs. Corney, sharply. "Some of the old women dying, I suppose. They always die when I'm at meals. Don't stand there, letting the cold air in, don't. What's amiss now, eh?" "Nothing, ma'am, nothing," replied a man's voice. "Dear me!" exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, "is that Mr. Bumble?" "At your service, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping outside to rub his shoes clean, and to shake the snow off his coat; and who now made his appearance, bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a bundle in the other. "Shall I shut the door, ma'am?" The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any impropriety in holding an interview with Mr. Bumble, with closed doors. Mr. Bumble taking advantage of the hesitation, and being very cold himself, shut it without permission. "Hard weather, Mr. Bumble," said the matron. "Hard, indeed, ma'am," replied the beadle. "Anti-porochial weather this, ma'am. We have given away, Mrs. Corney, we have given away a matter of twenty quartern loaves and a cheese and a half, this very blessed afternoon; and yet them paupers are not contented." "Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?" said the matron, sipping her tea. "When, indeed, ma'am!" rejoined Mr. Bumble. "Why here's one man that, in consideration of his wife and large family, has a quartern loaf and a good pound of cheese, full weight. Is he grateful, ma'am? Is he grateful? Not a copper farthing's worth of it! What does he do, ma'am, but ask for a few coals; if it's only a pocket handkerchief full, he says! Coals! What would he do with coals? Toast his cheese with 'em and then come back for more. That's the way with these people, ma'am; give 'em a apron full of coals to-day, and they'll come back for another, the day after to-morrow, as brazen as alabaster." The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible simile; and the beadle went on. "I never," said Mr. Bumble, "see anything like the pitch it's got to. The day afore yesterday, a man you have been a married woman, ma'am, and I may mention it to you a man, with hardly a rag upon his back (here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer's door when he has got company coming to dinner; and says, he must be relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn't go away, and shocked the company very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a pint of oatmeal. My heart!' says the ungrateful villain, what's the use of _this_ to me? You might as well give me a pair of iron spectacles!' Very good,' says our overseer, taking 'em away again, you won't get anything else here.' Then I'll die in the streets!' says the vagrant. Oh no, you won't,' says our overseer."<|quote|>"Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn't it?"</|quote|>interposed the matron. "Well, Mr. Bumble?" "Well, ma'am," rejoined the beadle, "he went away; and he _did_ die in the streets. There's a obstinate pauper for you!" "It beats anything I could have believed," observed the matron emphatically. "But don't you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing, any way, Mr. Bumble? You're a gentleman of experience, and ought to know. Come." "Mrs. Corney," said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious of superior information, "out-of-door relief, properly managed: properly managed, ma'am: is the porochial safeguard. The great principle of out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what they don't want; and then they get tired of coming." "Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Corney. "Well, that is a good one, too!" "Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma'am," returned Mr. Bumble, "that's the great principle; and that's the reason why, if you look at any cases that get into them owdacious newspapers, you'll always observe that sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese. That's the rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however," said the beadle, stopping to unpack his bundle, "these are official secrets, ma'am; not to be spoken of; except, as I may say, among the porochial officers, such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma'am, that the board ordered for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine; only out of the cask this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!" Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to test its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of drawers; folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it carefully in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go. "You'll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble," said the matron. "It blows, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar, "enough to cut one's ears off." The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was moving towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether whether he wouldn't take a cup of tea? Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back | Oliver Twist |
"Ah!" | Fagin | voice close to his ear.<|quote|>"Ah!"</|quote|>said the Jew, turning quickly | him unperceived. "Fagin!" whispered a voice close to his ear.<|quote|>"Ah!"</|quote|>said the Jew, turning quickly round, "is that" "Yes!" interrupted | He had reached the corner of his own street, and was already fumbling in his pocket for the door-key, when a dark figure emerged from a projecting entrance which lay in deep shadow, and, crossing the road, glided up to him unperceived. "Fagin!" whispered a voice close to his ear.<|quote|>"Ah!"</|quote|>said the Jew, turning quickly round, "is that" "Yes!" interrupted the stranger. "I have been lingering here these two hours. Where the devil have you been?" "On your business, my dear," replied the Jew, glancing uneasily at his companion, and slackening his pace as he spoke. "On your business all | of passengers, as of dust and mud, for few people were abroad, and they were to all appearance hastening fast home. It blew from the right quarter for the Jew, however, and straight before it he went: trembling, and shivering, as every fresh gust drove him rudely on his way. He had reached the corner of his own street, and was already fumbling in his pocket for the door-key, when a dark figure emerged from a projecting entrance which lay in deep shadow, and, crossing the road, glided up to him unperceived. "Fagin!" whispered a voice close to his ear.<|quote|>"Ah!"</|quote|>said the Jew, turning quickly round, "is that" "Yes!" interrupted the stranger. "I have been lingering here these two hours. Where the devil have you been?" "On your business, my dear," replied the Jew, glancing uneasily at his companion, and slackening his pace as he spoke. "On your business all night." "Oh, of course!" said the stranger, with a sneer. "Well; and what's come of it?" "Nothing good," said the Jew. "Nothing bad, I hope?" said the stranger, stopping short, and turning a startled look on his companion. The Jew shook his head, and was about to reply, when the | his time, saw, with great satisfaction, that she was very far gone indeed. Having eased his mind by this discovery; and having accomplished his twofold object of imparting to the girl what he had, that night, heard, and of ascertaining, with his own eyes, that Sikes had not returned, Mr. Fagin again turned his face homeward: leaving his young friend asleep, with her head upon the table. It was within an hour of midnight. The weather being dark, and piercing cold, he had no great temptation to loiter. The sharp wind that scoured the streets, seemed to have cleared them of passengers, as of dust and mud, for few people were abroad, and they were to all appearance hastening fast home. It blew from the right quarter for the Jew, however, and straight before it he went: trembling, and shivering, as every fresh gust drove him rudely on his way. He had reached the corner of his own street, and was already fumbling in his pocket for the door-key, when a dark figure emerged from a projecting entrance which lay in deep shadow, and, crossing the road, glided up to him unperceived. "Fagin!" whispered a voice close to his ear.<|quote|>"Ah!"</|quote|>said the Jew, turning quickly round, "is that" "Yes!" interrupted the stranger. "I have been lingering here these two hours. Where the devil have you been?" "On your business, my dear," replied the Jew, glancing uneasily at his companion, and slackening his pace as he spoke. "On your business all night." "Oh, of course!" said the stranger, with a sneer. "Well; and what's come of it?" "Nothing good," said the Jew. "Nothing bad, I hope?" said the stranger, stopping short, and turning a startled look on his companion. The Jew shook his head, and was about to reply, when the stranger, interrupting him, motioned to the house, before which they had by this time arrived: remarking, that he had better say what he had got to say, under cover: for his blood was chilled with standing about so long, and the wind blew through him. Fagin looked as if he could have willingly excused himself from taking home a visitor at that unseasonable hour; and, indeed, muttered something about having no fire; but his companion repeating his request in a peremptory manner, he unlocked the door, and requested him to close it softly, while he got a light. "It's as | till to-morrow. You put me up for a minute; but now I'm stupid again." Fagin put several other questions: all with the same drift of ascertaining whether the girl had profited by his unguarded hints; but, she answered them so readily, and was withal so utterly unmoved by his searching looks, that his original impression of her being more than a trifle in liquor, was confirmed. Nancy, indeed, was not exempt from a failing which was very common among the Jew's female pupils; and in which, in their tenderer years, they were rather encouraged than checked. Her disordered appearance, and a wholesale perfume of Geneva which pervaded the apartment, afforded strong confirmatory evidence of the justice of the Jew's supposition; and when, after indulging in the temporary display of violence above described, she subsided, first into dullness, and afterwards into a compound of feelings: under the influence of which she shed tears one minute, and in the next gave utterance to various exclamations of "Never say die!" and divers calculations as to what might be the amount of the odds so long as a lady or gentleman was happy, Mr. Fagin, who had had considerable experience of such matters in his time, saw, with great satisfaction, that she was very far gone indeed. Having eased his mind by this discovery; and having accomplished his twofold object of imparting to the girl what he had, that night, heard, and of ascertaining, with his own eyes, that Sikes had not returned, Mr. Fagin again turned his face homeward: leaving his young friend asleep, with her head upon the table. It was within an hour of midnight. The weather being dark, and piercing cold, he had no great temptation to loiter. The sharp wind that scoured the streets, seemed to have cleared them of passengers, as of dust and mud, for few people were abroad, and they were to all appearance hastening fast home. It blew from the right quarter for the Jew, however, and straight before it he went: trembling, and shivering, as every fresh gust drove him rudely on his way. He had reached the corner of his own street, and was already fumbling in his pocket for the door-key, when a dark figure emerged from a projecting entrance which lay in deep shadow, and, crossing the road, glided up to him unperceived. "Fagin!" whispered a voice close to his ear.<|quote|>"Ah!"</|quote|>said the Jew, turning quickly round, "is that" "Yes!" interrupted the stranger. "I have been lingering here these two hours. Where the devil have you been?" "On your business, my dear," replied the Jew, glancing uneasily at his companion, and slackening his pace as he spoke. "On your business all night." "Oh, of course!" said the stranger, with a sneer. "Well; and what's come of it?" "Nothing good," said the Jew. "Nothing bad, I hope?" said the stranger, stopping short, and turning a startled look on his companion. The Jew shook his head, and was about to reply, when the stranger, interrupting him, motioned to the house, before which they had by this time arrived: remarking, that he had better say what he had got to say, under cover: for his blood was chilled with standing about so long, and the wind blew through him. Fagin looked as if he could have willingly excused himself from taking home a visitor at that unseasonable hour; and, indeed, muttered something about having no fire; but his companion repeating his request in a peremptory manner, he unlocked the door, and requested him to close it softly, while he got a light. "It's as dark as the grave," said the man, groping forward a few steps. "Make haste!" "Shut the door," whispered Fagin from the end of the passage. As he spoke, it closed with a loud noise. "That wasn't my doing," said the other man, feeling his way. "The wind blew it to, or it shut of its own accord: one or the other. Look sharp with the light, or I shall knock my brains out against something in this confounded hole." Fagin stealthily descended the kitchen stairs. After a short absence, he returned with a lighted candle, and the intelligence that Toby Crackit was asleep in the back room below, and that the boys were in the front one. Beckoning the man to follow him, he led the way upstairs. "We can say the few words we've got to say in here, my dear," said the Jew, throwing open a door on the first floor; "and as there are holes in the shutters, and we never show lights to our neighbours, we'll set the candle on the stairs. There!" With those words, the Jew, stooping down, placed the candle on an upper flight of stairs, exactly opposite to the room door. This | behind him; if he gets off free, and dead or alive, fails to restore him to me; murder him yourself if you would have him escape Jack Ketch. And do it the moment he sets foot in this room, or mind me, it will be too late!" "What is all this?" cried the girl involuntarily. "What is it?" pursued Fagin, mad with rage. "When the boy's worth hundreds of pounds to me, am I to lose what chance threw me in the way of getting safely, through the whims of a drunken gang that I could whistle away the lives of! And me bound, too, to a born devil that only wants the will, and has the power to, to" Panting for breath, the old man stammered for a word; and in that instant checked the torrent of his wrath, and changed his whole demeanour. A moment before, his clenched hands had grasped the air; his eyes had dilated; and his face grown livid with passion; but now, he shrunk into a chair, and, cowering together, trembled with the apprehension of having himself disclosed some hidden villainy. After a short silence, he ventured to look round at his companion. He appeared somewhat reassured, on beholding her in the same listless attitude from which he had first roused her. "Nancy, dear!" croaked the Jew, in his usual voice. "Did you mind me, dear?" "Don't worry me now, Fagin!" replied the girl, raising her head languidly. "If Bill has not done it this time, he will another. He has done many a good job for you, and will do many more when he can; and when he can't he won't; so no more about that." "Regarding this boy, my dear?" said the Jew, rubbing the palms of his hands nervously together. "The boy must take his chance with the rest," interrupted Nancy, hastily; "and I say again, I hope he is dead, and out of harm's way, and out of yours, that is, if Bill comes to no harm. And if Toby got clear off, Bill's pretty sure to be safe; for Bill's worth two of Toby any time." "And about what I was saying, my dear?" observed the Jew, keeping his glistening eye steadily upon her. "You must say it all over again, if it's anything you want me to do," rejoined Nancy; "and if it is, you had better wait till to-morrow. You put me up for a minute; but now I'm stupid again." Fagin put several other questions: all with the same drift of ascertaining whether the girl had profited by his unguarded hints; but, she answered them so readily, and was withal so utterly unmoved by his searching looks, that his original impression of her being more than a trifle in liquor, was confirmed. Nancy, indeed, was not exempt from a failing which was very common among the Jew's female pupils; and in which, in their tenderer years, they were rather encouraged than checked. Her disordered appearance, and a wholesale perfume of Geneva which pervaded the apartment, afforded strong confirmatory evidence of the justice of the Jew's supposition; and when, after indulging in the temporary display of violence above described, she subsided, first into dullness, and afterwards into a compound of feelings: under the influence of which she shed tears one minute, and in the next gave utterance to various exclamations of "Never say die!" and divers calculations as to what might be the amount of the odds so long as a lady or gentleman was happy, Mr. Fagin, who had had considerable experience of such matters in his time, saw, with great satisfaction, that she was very far gone indeed. Having eased his mind by this discovery; and having accomplished his twofold object of imparting to the girl what he had, that night, heard, and of ascertaining, with his own eyes, that Sikes had not returned, Mr. Fagin again turned his face homeward: leaving his young friend asleep, with her head upon the table. It was within an hour of midnight. The weather being dark, and piercing cold, he had no great temptation to loiter. The sharp wind that scoured the streets, seemed to have cleared them of passengers, as of dust and mud, for few people were abroad, and they were to all appearance hastening fast home. It blew from the right quarter for the Jew, however, and straight before it he went: trembling, and shivering, as every fresh gust drove him rudely on his way. He had reached the corner of his own street, and was already fumbling in his pocket for the door-key, when a dark figure emerged from a projecting entrance which lay in deep shadow, and, crossing the road, glided up to him unperceived. "Fagin!" whispered a voice close to his ear.<|quote|>"Ah!"</|quote|>said the Jew, turning quickly round, "is that" "Yes!" interrupted the stranger. "I have been lingering here these two hours. Where the devil have you been?" "On your business, my dear," replied the Jew, glancing uneasily at his companion, and slackening his pace as he spoke. "On your business all night." "Oh, of course!" said the stranger, with a sneer. "Well; and what's come of it?" "Nothing good," said the Jew. "Nothing bad, I hope?" said the stranger, stopping short, and turning a startled look on his companion. The Jew shook his head, and was about to reply, when the stranger, interrupting him, motioned to the house, before which they had by this time arrived: remarking, that he had better say what he had got to say, under cover: for his blood was chilled with standing about so long, and the wind blew through him. Fagin looked as if he could have willingly excused himself from taking home a visitor at that unseasonable hour; and, indeed, muttered something about having no fire; but his companion repeating his request in a peremptory manner, he unlocked the door, and requested him to close it softly, while he got a light. "It's as dark as the grave," said the man, groping forward a few steps. "Make haste!" "Shut the door," whispered Fagin from the end of the passage. As he spoke, it closed with a loud noise. "That wasn't my doing," said the other man, feeling his way. "The wind blew it to, or it shut of its own accord: one or the other. Look sharp with the light, or I shall knock my brains out against something in this confounded hole." Fagin stealthily descended the kitchen stairs. After a short absence, he returned with a lighted candle, and the intelligence that Toby Crackit was asleep in the back room below, and that the boys were in the front one. Beckoning the man to follow him, he led the way upstairs. "We can say the few words we've got to say in here, my dear," said the Jew, throwing open a door on the first floor; "and as there are holes in the shutters, and we never show lights to our neighbours, we'll set the candle on the stairs. There!" With those words, the Jew, stooping down, placed the candle on an upper flight of stairs, exactly opposite to the room door. This done, he led the way into the apartment; which was destitute of all movables save a broken arm-chair, and an old couch or sofa without covering, which stood behind the door. Upon this piece of furniture, the stranger sat himself with the air of a weary man; and the Jew, drawing up the arm-chair opposite, they sat face to face. It was not quite dark; the door was partially open; and the candle outside, threw a feeble reflection on the opposite wall. They conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the conversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that the latter was in a state of considerable irritation. They might have been talking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or more, when Monks by which name the Jew had designated the strange man several times in the course of their colloquy said, raising his voice a little, "I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?" "Only hear him!" exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "Why, do you mean to say you couldn't have done it, if you had chosen?" demanded Monks, sternly. "Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?" "Whose turn would that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine," replied Monks. "But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?" "What then?" demanded Monks. "I saw it was not easy to train him to the business," replied the Jew; "he was not like other boys in the same circumstances." "Curse him, no!" muttered the man, "or he would have been a thief, long ago." "I had no hold upon him to make him worse," pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. "His hand was not in. I had nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have | after indulging in the temporary display of violence above described, she subsided, first into dullness, and afterwards into a compound of feelings: under the influence of which she shed tears one minute, and in the next gave utterance to various exclamations of "Never say die!" and divers calculations as to what might be the amount of the odds so long as a lady or gentleman was happy, Mr. Fagin, who had had considerable experience of such matters in his time, saw, with great satisfaction, that she was very far gone indeed. Having eased his mind by this discovery; and having accomplished his twofold object of imparting to the girl what he had, that night, heard, and of ascertaining, with his own eyes, that Sikes had not returned, Mr. Fagin again turned his face homeward: leaving his young friend asleep, with her head upon the table. It was within an hour of midnight. The weather being dark, and piercing cold, he had no great temptation to loiter. The sharp wind that scoured the streets, seemed to have cleared them of passengers, as of dust and mud, for few people were abroad, and they were to all appearance hastening fast home. It blew from the right quarter for the Jew, however, and straight before it he went: trembling, and shivering, as every fresh gust drove him rudely on his way. He had reached the corner of his own street, and was already fumbling in his pocket for the door-key, when a dark figure emerged from a projecting entrance which lay in deep shadow, and, crossing the road, glided up to him unperceived. "Fagin!" whispered a voice close to his ear.<|quote|>"Ah!"</|quote|>said the Jew, turning quickly round, "is that" "Yes!" interrupted the stranger. "I have been lingering here these two hours. Where the devil have you been?" "On your business, my dear," replied the Jew, glancing uneasily at his companion, and slackening his pace as he spoke. "On your business all night." "Oh, of course!" said the stranger, with a sneer. "Well; and what's come of it?" "Nothing good," said the Jew. "Nothing bad, I hope?" said the stranger, stopping short, and turning a startled look on his companion. The Jew shook his head, and was about to reply, when the stranger, interrupting him, motioned to the house, before which they had by this time arrived: remarking, that he had better say what he had got to say, under cover: for his blood was chilled with standing about so long, and the wind blew through him. Fagin looked as if he could have willingly excused himself from taking home a visitor at that unseasonable hour; and, indeed, muttered something about having no fire; but his companion repeating his request in a peremptory manner, he unlocked the door, and requested him to close it softly, while he got a light. "It's as dark as the grave," said the man, groping forward a few steps. "Make haste!" "Shut the door," whispered Fagin from the end of the passage. As he spoke, it closed with a loud noise. "That wasn't my doing," said the other man, feeling his way. "The wind blew it to, or it shut of its own accord: one or the other. Look sharp with the light, or I shall knock my brains out against something in this confounded hole." Fagin stealthily descended the kitchen stairs. After a short absence, he returned with a lighted candle, and the intelligence that Toby Crackit was asleep in the back room below, and that the boys were in the front one. Beckoning the man to follow him, he led the way upstairs. "We can say the few words we've got to say in here, my dear," said the Jew, throwing open a door on the first floor; "and as there are holes in the shutters, and we never show lights to our neighbours, we'll set the candle on the stairs. There!" With those words, the Jew, stooping down, placed the candle on an upper flight of stairs, exactly opposite to the room door. This done, he led the way into the apartment; which was destitute of all movables save a broken arm-chair, and an old couch or sofa without covering, which stood behind the door. Upon this piece of furniture, the stranger sat himself with the air of a weary man; and the Jew, drawing up the arm-chair opposite, they sat face to face. It was not quite dark; the door was partially open; and the candle outside, threw a feeble reflection on the opposite wall. They conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the conversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that the latter was in a state of considerable irritation. They might have | Oliver Twist |
"Yes, dear?" | Margaret | odd of Helen! Mr. Wilcox--"<|quote|>"Yes, dear?"</|quote|>"Can he spare you?" Henry | you are well." "How very odd of Helen! Mr. Wilcox--"<|quote|>"Yes, dear?"</|quote|>"Can he spare you?" Henry wished her to come, and | hideous. "Important--Margaret dear, take the Lulworth when Helen comes." "Helen won t be able to stop, Aunt Juley. She has telegraphed that she can only get away just to see you. She must go back to Germany as soon as you are well." "How very odd of Helen! Mr. Wilcox--"<|quote|>"Yes, dear?"</|quote|>"Can he spare you?" Henry wished her to come, and had been very kind. Yet again Margaret said so. Mrs. Munt did not die. Quite outside her will, a more dignified power took hold of her and checked her on the downward slope. She returned, without emotion, as fidgety as | should be the cause of Helen s return. The nurses seemed to think such interests quite natural, and perhaps hers was an average approach to the Great Gate. But Margaret saw Death stripped of any false romance; whatever the idea of Death may contain, the process can be trivial and hideous. "Important--Margaret dear, take the Lulworth when Helen comes." "Helen won t be able to stop, Aunt Juley. She has telegraphed that she can only get away just to see you. She must go back to Germany as soon as you are well." "How very odd of Helen! Mr. Wilcox--"<|quote|>"Yes, dear?"</|quote|>"Can he spare you?" Henry wished her to come, and had been very kind. Yet again Margaret said so. Mrs. Munt did not die. Quite outside her will, a more dignified power took hold of her and checked her on the downward slope. She returned, without emotion, as fidgety as ever. On the fourth day she was out of danger. "Margaret--important," it went on: "I should like you to have some companion to take walks with. Do try Miss Conder." "I have been for a little walk with Miss Conder." "But she is not really interesting. If only you had | laughs and apologies for having stopped in it so long. She was very weak; she could not rise to the occasion, or realise the great mystery which all agree must await her; it only seemed to her that she was quite done up--more done up than ever before; that she saw and heard and felt less every moment; and that, unless something changed, she would soon feel nothing. Her spare strength she devoted to plans: could not Margaret take some steamer expeditions? were mackerel cooked as Tibby liked them? She worried herself about Helen s absence, and also that she should be the cause of Helen s return. The nurses seemed to think such interests quite natural, and perhaps hers was an average approach to the Great Gate. But Margaret saw Death stripped of any false romance; whatever the idea of Death may contain, the process can be trivial and hideous. "Important--Margaret dear, take the Lulworth when Helen comes." "Helen won t be able to stop, Aunt Juley. She has telegraphed that she can only get away just to see you. She must go back to Germany as soon as you are well." "How very odd of Helen! Mr. Wilcox--"<|quote|>"Yes, dear?"</|quote|>"Can he spare you?" Henry wished her to come, and had been very kind. Yet again Margaret said so. Mrs. Munt did not die. Quite outside her will, a more dignified power took hold of her and checked her on the downward slope. She returned, without emotion, as fidgety as ever. On the fourth day she was out of danger. "Margaret--important," it went on: "I should like you to have some companion to take walks with. Do try Miss Conder." "I have been for a little walk with Miss Conder." "But she is not really interesting. If only you had Helen." "I have Tibby, Aunt Juley." "No, but he has to do his Chinese. Some real companion is what you need. Really, Helen is odd." "Helen is odd, very," agreed Margaret. "Not content with going abroad, why does she want to go back there at once?" "No doubt she will change her mind when she sees us. She has not the least balance." That was the stock criticism about Helen, but Margaret s voice trembled as she made it. By now she was deeply pained at her sister s behaviour. It may be unbalanced to fly out of England, but | in London after all. But before this could be done an unexpected trouble fell upon her. CHAPTER XXXIV It was not unexpected entirely. Aunt Juley s health had been bad all winter. She had had a long series of colds and coughs, and had been too busy to get rid of them. She had scarcely promised her niece "to really take my tiresome chest in hand," when she caught a chill and developed acute pneumonia. Margaret and Tibby went down to Swanage. Helen was telegraphed for, and that spring party that after all gathered in that hospitable house had all the pathos of fair memories. On a perfect day, when the sky seemed blue porcelain, and the waves of the discreet little bay beat gentlest of tattoos upon the sand, Margaret hurried up through the rhododendrons, confronted again by the senselessness of Death. One death may explain itself, but it throws no light upon another; the groping inquiry must begin anew. Preachers or scientists may generalise, but we know that no generality is possible about those whom we love; not one heaven awaits them, not even one oblivion. Aunt Juley, incapable of tragedy, slipped out of life with odd little laughs and apologies for having stopped in it so long. She was very weak; she could not rise to the occasion, or realise the great mystery which all agree must await her; it only seemed to her that she was quite done up--more done up than ever before; that she saw and heard and felt less every moment; and that, unless something changed, she would soon feel nothing. Her spare strength she devoted to plans: could not Margaret take some steamer expeditions? were mackerel cooked as Tibby liked them? She worried herself about Helen s absence, and also that she should be the cause of Helen s return. The nurses seemed to think such interests quite natural, and perhaps hers was an average approach to the Great Gate. But Margaret saw Death stripped of any false romance; whatever the idea of Death may contain, the process can be trivial and hideous. "Important--Margaret dear, take the Lulworth when Helen comes." "Helen won t be able to stop, Aunt Juley. She has telegraphed that she can only get away just to see you. She must go back to Germany as soon as you are well." "How very odd of Helen! Mr. Wilcox--"<|quote|>"Yes, dear?"</|quote|>"Can he spare you?" Henry wished her to come, and had been very kind. Yet again Margaret said so. Mrs. Munt did not die. Quite outside her will, a more dignified power took hold of her and checked her on the downward slope. She returned, without emotion, as fidgety as ever. On the fourth day she was out of danger. "Margaret--important," it went on: "I should like you to have some companion to take walks with. Do try Miss Conder." "I have been for a little walk with Miss Conder." "But she is not really interesting. If only you had Helen." "I have Tibby, Aunt Juley." "No, but he has to do his Chinese. Some real companion is what you need. Really, Helen is odd." "Helen is odd, very," agreed Margaret. "Not content with going abroad, why does she want to go back there at once?" "No doubt she will change her mind when she sees us. She has not the least balance." That was the stock criticism about Helen, but Margaret s voice trembled as she made it. By now she was deeply pained at her sister s behaviour. It may be unbalanced to fly out of England, but to stay away eight months argues that the heart is awry as well as the head. A sick-bed could recall Helen, but she was deaf to more human calls; after a glimpse at her aunt, she would retire into her nebulous life behind some poste restante. She scarcely existed; her letters had become dull and infrequent; she had no wants and no curiosity. And it was all put down to poor Henry s account! Henry, long pardoned by his wife, was still too infamous to be greeted by his sister-in-law. It was morbid, and, to her alarm, Margaret fancied that she could trace the growth of morbidity back in Helen s life for nearly four years. The flight from Oniton; the unbalanced patronage of the Basts; the explosion of grief up on the Downs--all connected with Paul, an insignificant boy whose lips had kissed hers for a fraction of time. Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox had feared that they might kiss again. Foolishly--the real danger was reaction. Reaction against the Wilcoxes had eaten into her life until she was scarcely sane. At twenty-five she had an idee fixe. What hope was there for her as an old woman? The more Margaret | n nothing," said Miss Avery, and turned to the wych-elm. On their way back to the farm she spoke of her old friend much more clearly than before. In the house Margaret had wondered whether she quite distinguished the first wife from the second. Now she said: "I never saw much of Ruth after her grandmother died, but we stayed civil. It was a very civil family. Old Mrs. Howard never spoke against anybody, nor let any one be turned away without food. Then it was never Trespassers will be prosecuted in their land, but would people please not come in? Mrs. Howard was never created to run a farm." "Had they no men to help them?" Margaret asked. Miss Avery replied: "Things went on until there were no men." "Until Mr. Wilcox came along," corrected Margaret, anxious that her husband should receive his dues. "I suppose so; but Ruth should have married a--no disrespect to you to say this, for I take it you were intended to get Wilcox any way, whether she got him first or no." "Whom should she have married?" "A soldier!" exclaimed the old woman. "Some real soldier." Margaret was silent. It was a criticism of Henry s character far more trenchant than any of her own. She felt dissatisfied. "But that s all over," she went on. "A better time is coming now, though you ve kept me long enough waiting. In a couple of weeks I ll see your light shining through the hedge of an evening. Have you ordered in coals?" "We are not coming," said Margaret firmly. She respected Miss Avery too much to humour her. "No. Not coming. Never coming. It has all been a mistake. The furniture must be repacked at once, and I am very sorry, but I am making other arrangements, and must ask you to give me the keys." "Certainly, Mrs. Wilcox," said Miss Avery, and resigned her duties with a smile. Relieved at this conclusion, and having sent her compliments to Madge, Margaret walked back to the station. She had intended to go to the furniture warehouse and give directions for removal, but the muddle had turned out more extensive than she expected, so she decided to consult Henry. It was as well that she did this. He was strongly against employing the local man whom he had previously recommended, and advised her to store in London after all. But before this could be done an unexpected trouble fell upon her. CHAPTER XXXIV It was not unexpected entirely. Aunt Juley s health had been bad all winter. She had had a long series of colds and coughs, and had been too busy to get rid of them. She had scarcely promised her niece "to really take my tiresome chest in hand," when she caught a chill and developed acute pneumonia. Margaret and Tibby went down to Swanage. Helen was telegraphed for, and that spring party that after all gathered in that hospitable house had all the pathos of fair memories. On a perfect day, when the sky seemed blue porcelain, and the waves of the discreet little bay beat gentlest of tattoos upon the sand, Margaret hurried up through the rhododendrons, confronted again by the senselessness of Death. One death may explain itself, but it throws no light upon another; the groping inquiry must begin anew. Preachers or scientists may generalise, but we know that no generality is possible about those whom we love; not one heaven awaits them, not even one oblivion. Aunt Juley, incapable of tragedy, slipped out of life with odd little laughs and apologies for having stopped in it so long. She was very weak; she could not rise to the occasion, or realise the great mystery which all agree must await her; it only seemed to her that she was quite done up--more done up than ever before; that she saw and heard and felt less every moment; and that, unless something changed, she would soon feel nothing. Her spare strength she devoted to plans: could not Margaret take some steamer expeditions? were mackerel cooked as Tibby liked them? She worried herself about Helen s absence, and also that she should be the cause of Helen s return. The nurses seemed to think such interests quite natural, and perhaps hers was an average approach to the Great Gate. But Margaret saw Death stripped of any false romance; whatever the idea of Death may contain, the process can be trivial and hideous. "Important--Margaret dear, take the Lulworth when Helen comes." "Helen won t be able to stop, Aunt Juley. She has telegraphed that she can only get away just to see you. She must go back to Germany as soon as you are well." "How very odd of Helen! Mr. Wilcox--"<|quote|>"Yes, dear?"</|quote|>"Can he spare you?" Henry wished her to come, and had been very kind. Yet again Margaret said so. Mrs. Munt did not die. Quite outside her will, a more dignified power took hold of her and checked her on the downward slope. She returned, without emotion, as fidgety as ever. On the fourth day she was out of danger. "Margaret--important," it went on: "I should like you to have some companion to take walks with. Do try Miss Conder." "I have been for a little walk with Miss Conder." "But she is not really interesting. If only you had Helen." "I have Tibby, Aunt Juley." "No, but he has to do his Chinese. Some real companion is what you need. Really, Helen is odd." "Helen is odd, very," agreed Margaret. "Not content with going abroad, why does she want to go back there at once?" "No doubt she will change her mind when she sees us. She has not the least balance." That was the stock criticism about Helen, but Margaret s voice trembled as she made it. By now she was deeply pained at her sister s behaviour. It may be unbalanced to fly out of England, but to stay away eight months argues that the heart is awry as well as the head. A sick-bed could recall Helen, but she was deaf to more human calls; after a glimpse at her aunt, she would retire into her nebulous life behind some poste restante. She scarcely existed; her letters had become dull and infrequent; she had no wants and no curiosity. And it was all put down to poor Henry s account! Henry, long pardoned by his wife, was still too infamous to be greeted by his sister-in-law. It was morbid, and, to her alarm, Margaret fancied that she could trace the growth of morbidity back in Helen s life for nearly four years. The flight from Oniton; the unbalanced patronage of the Basts; the explosion of grief up on the Downs--all connected with Paul, an insignificant boy whose lips had kissed hers for a fraction of time. Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox had feared that they might kiss again. Foolishly--the real danger was reaction. Reaction against the Wilcoxes had eaten into her life until she was scarcely sane. At twenty-five she had an idee fixe. What hope was there for her as an old woman? The more Margaret thought about it the more alarmed she became. For many months she had put the subject away, but it was too big to be slighted now. There was almost a taint of madness. Were all Helen s actions to be governed by a tiny mishap, such as may happen to any young man or woman? Can human nature be constructed on lines so insignificant? The blundering little encounter at Howards End was vital. It propagated itself where graver intercourse lay barren; it was stronger than sisterly intimacy, stronger than reason or books. In one of her moods Helen had confessed that she still "enjoyed" it in a certain sense. Paul had faded, but the magic of his caress endured. And where there is enjoyment of the past there may also be reaction--propagation at both ends. Well, it is odd and sad that our minds should be such seed-beds, and we without power to choose the seed. But man is an odd, sad creature as yet, intent on pilfering the earth, and heedless of the growths within himself. He cannot be bored about psychology. He leaves it to the specialist, which is as if he should leave his dinner to be eaten by a steam-engine. He cannot be bothered to digest his own soul. Margaret and Helen have been more patient, and it is suggested that Margaret has succeeded--so far as success is yet possible. She does understand herself, she has some rudimentary control over her own growth. Whether Helen has succeeded one cannot say. The day that Mrs. Munt rallied Helen s letter arrived. She had posted it at Munich, and would be in London herself on the morrow. It was a disquieting letter, though the opening was affectionate and sane. "DEAREST MEG, "Give Helen s love to Aunt Juley. Tell her that I love, and have loved her ever since I can remember. I shall be in London Thursday. "My address will be care of the bankers. I have not yet settled on a hotel, so write or wire to me there and give me detailed news. If Aunt Juley is much better, or if, for a terrible reason, it would be no good my coming down to Swanage, you must not think it odd if I do not come. I have all sorts of plans in my head. I am living abroad at present, and want to get | In a couple of weeks I ll see your light shining through the hedge of an evening. Have you ordered in coals?" "We are not coming," said Margaret firmly. She respected Miss Avery too much to humour her. "No. Not coming. Never coming. It has all been a mistake. The furniture must be repacked at once, and I am very sorry, but I am making other arrangements, and must ask you to give me the keys." "Certainly, Mrs. Wilcox," said Miss Avery, and resigned her duties with a smile. Relieved at this conclusion, and having sent her compliments to Madge, Margaret walked back to the station. She had intended to go to the furniture warehouse and give directions for removal, but the muddle had turned out more extensive than she expected, so she decided to consult Henry. It was as well that she did this. He was strongly against employing the local man whom he had previously recommended, and advised her to store in London after all. But before this could be done an unexpected trouble fell upon her. CHAPTER XXXIV It was not unexpected entirely. Aunt Juley s health had been bad all winter. She had had a long series of colds and coughs, and had been too busy to get rid of them. She had scarcely promised her niece "to really take my tiresome chest in hand," when she caught a chill and developed acute pneumonia. Margaret and Tibby went down to Swanage. Helen was telegraphed for, and that spring party that after all gathered in that hospitable house had all the pathos of fair memories. On a perfect day, when the sky seemed blue porcelain, and the waves of the discreet little bay beat gentlest of tattoos upon the sand, Margaret hurried up through the rhododendrons, confronted again by the senselessness of Death. One death may explain itself, but it throws no light upon another; the groping inquiry must begin anew. Preachers or scientists may generalise, but we know that no generality is possible about those whom we love; not one heaven awaits them, not even one oblivion. Aunt Juley, incapable of tragedy, slipped out of life with odd little laughs and apologies for having stopped in it so long. She was very weak; she could not rise to the occasion, or realise the great mystery which all agree must await her; it only seemed to her that she was quite done up--more done up than ever before; that she saw and heard and felt less every moment; and that, unless something changed, she would soon feel nothing. Her spare strength she devoted to plans: could not Margaret take some steamer expeditions? were mackerel cooked as Tibby liked them? She worried herself about Helen s absence, and also that she should be the cause of Helen s return. The nurses seemed to think such interests quite natural, and perhaps hers was an average approach to the Great Gate. But Margaret saw Death stripped of any false romance; whatever the idea of Death may contain, the process can be trivial and hideous. "Important--Margaret dear, take the Lulworth when Helen comes." "Helen won t be able to stop, Aunt Juley. She has telegraphed that she can only get away just to see you. She must go back to Germany as soon as you are well." "How very odd of Helen! Mr. Wilcox--"<|quote|>"Yes, dear?"</|quote|>"Can he spare you?" Henry wished her to come, and had been very kind. Yet again Margaret said so. Mrs. Munt did not die. Quite outside her will, a more dignified power took hold of her and checked her on the downward slope. She returned, without emotion, as fidgety as ever. On the fourth day she was out of danger. "Margaret--important," it went on: "I should like you to have some companion to take walks with. Do try Miss Conder." "I have been for a little walk with Miss Conder." "But she is not really interesting. If only you had Helen." "I have Tibby, Aunt Juley." "No, but he has to do his Chinese. Some real companion is what you need. Really, Helen is odd." "Helen is odd, very," agreed Margaret. "Not content with going abroad, why does she want to go back there at once?" "No doubt she will change her mind when she sees us. She has not the least balance." That was the stock criticism about Helen, but Margaret s voice trembled as she made it. By now she was deeply pained at her sister s behaviour. It may be unbalanced to fly out of England, but to stay away eight months argues that the heart is awry as well as the head. A sick-bed could recall Helen, but she was deaf to more human calls; after a glimpse at her aunt, she would retire into her nebulous life behind some poste restante. She scarcely existed; her letters had become dull and infrequent; she had no wants and no curiosity. And it was all put down to poor Henry s account! Henry, long pardoned by his wife, was still too infamous to be greeted by his sister-in-law. It was morbid, and, to her alarm, Margaret fancied that she could trace the growth of morbidity back in Helen s life for nearly four years. The flight from Oniton; the unbalanced patronage of the Basts; the explosion of grief up on the Downs--all connected with Paul, an insignificant boy whose lips had kissed hers for a fraction of time. Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox had feared that they might kiss again. Foolishly--the real danger was reaction. Reaction against the Wilcoxes had eaten into her life until she was scarcely sane. At twenty-five she had an idee fixe. What hope was there for her as an old woman? The more Margaret thought about it the more alarmed she became. For many months she had put the subject away, but it was too big to be slighted now. There was almost a taint of madness. Were all Helen s actions to be governed by a tiny mishap, such as may happen to any young man or woman? Can human nature be constructed on lines so insignificant? The blundering little encounter at Howards End was | Howards End |
the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. | No speaker | "A fine day, your Majesty!"<|quote|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice.</|quote|>"Now, I give you fair | folded, frowning like a thunderstorm. "A fine day, your Majesty!"<|quote|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice.</|quote|>"Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping | the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm. "A fine day, your Majesty!"<|quote|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice.</|quote|>"Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the | the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. "I've a right to think," said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. "Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs have to fly; and the m--" But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm. "A fine day, your Majesty!"<|quote|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice.</|quote|>"Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to | understand that better," Alice said very politely, "if I had it written down: but I can't quite follow it as you say it." "That's nothing to what I could say if I chose," the Duchess replied, in a pleased tone. "Pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that," said Alice. "Oh, don't talk about trouble!" said the Duchess. "I make you a present of everything I've said as yet." "A cheap sort of present!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they don't give birthday presents like that!" But she did not venture to say it out loud. "Thinking again?" the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. "I've a right to think," said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. "Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs have to fly; and the m--" But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm. "A fine day, your Majesty!"<|quote|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice.</|quote|>"Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting "Off with his head!" or "Off with her head!" Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. | the experiment?" "He might bite," Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious to have the experiment tried. "Very true," said the Duchess: "flamingoes and mustard both bite. And the moral of that is--'Birds of a feather flock together.'" "Only mustard isn't a bird," Alice remarked. "Right, as usual," said the Duchess: "what a clear way you have of putting things!" "It's a mineral, I _think_," said Alice. "Of course it is," said the Duchess, who seemed ready to agree to everything that Alice said; "there's a large mustard-mine near here. And the moral of that is--'The more there is of mine, the less there is of yours.'" "Oh, I know!" exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this last remark, "it's a vegetable. It doesn't look like one, but it is." "I quite agree with you," said the Duchess; "and the moral of that is--'Be what you would seem to be'--or if you'd like it put more simply--'Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.'" "I think I should understand that better," Alice said very politely, "if I had it written down: but I can't quite follow it as you say it." "That's nothing to what I could say if I chose," the Duchess replied, in a pleased tone. "Pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that," said Alice. "Oh, don't talk about trouble!" said the Duchess. "I make you a present of everything I've said as yet." "A cheap sort of present!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they don't give birthday presents like that!" But she did not venture to say it out loud. "Thinking again?" the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. "I've a right to think," said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. "Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs have to fly; and the m--" But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm. "A fine day, your Majesty!"<|quote|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice.</|quote|>"Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting "Off with his head!" or "Off with her head!" Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, "Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?" "No," said Alice. "I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is." "It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from," said the Queen. "I never saw one, or heard of one," said Alice. "Come on, then," said the Queen, "and he shall tell you his history," As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice, to the company generally, "You are all pardoned." "Come, _that's_ a good thing!" she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered. They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun. (If you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) "Up, lazy thing!" said the Queen, "and take this young lady to see the Mock Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some executions I have ordered;" and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on the whole she thought it would be | temper, and thought to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so savage when they met in the kitchen. "When _I'm_ a Duchess," she said to herself, (not in a very hopeful tone though), "I won't have any pepper in my kitchen _at all_. Soup does very well without--Maybe it's always pepper that makes people hot-tempered," she went on, very much pleased at having found out a new kind of rule, "and vinegar that makes them sour--and camomile that makes them bitter--and--and barley-sugar and such things that make children sweet-tempered. I only wish people knew _that_: then they wouldn't be so stingy about it, you know--" She had quite forgotten the Duchess by this time, and was a little startled when she heard her voice close to her ear. "You're thinking about something, my dear, and that makes you forget to talk. I can't tell you just now what the moral of that is, but I shall remember it in a bit." "Perhaps it hasn't one," Alice ventured to remark. "Tut, tut, child!" said the Duchess. "Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it." And she squeezed herself up closer to Alice's side as she spoke. Alice did not much like keeping so close to her: first, because the Duchess was _very_ ugly; and secondly, because she was exactly the right height to rest her chin upon Alice's shoulder, and it was an uncomfortably sharp chin. However, she did not like to be rude, so she bore it as well as she could. "The game's going on rather better now," she said, by way of keeping up the conversation a little. "'Tis so," said the Duchess: "and the moral of that is--'Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love, that makes the world go round!'" "Somebody said," Alice whispered, "that it's done by everybody minding their own business!" "Ah, well! It means much the same thing," said the Duchess, digging her sharp little chin into Alice's shoulder as she added, "and the moral of _that_ is--'Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves.'" "How fond she is of finding morals in things!" Alice thought to herself. "I dare say you're wondering why I don't put my arm round your waist," the Duchess said after a pause: "the reason is, that I'm doubtful about the temper of your flamingo. Shall I try the experiment?" "He might bite," Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious to have the experiment tried. "Very true," said the Duchess: "flamingoes and mustard both bite. And the moral of that is--'Birds of a feather flock together.'" "Only mustard isn't a bird," Alice remarked. "Right, as usual," said the Duchess: "what a clear way you have of putting things!" "It's a mineral, I _think_," said Alice. "Of course it is," said the Duchess, who seemed ready to agree to everything that Alice said; "there's a large mustard-mine near here. And the moral of that is--'The more there is of mine, the less there is of yours.'" "Oh, I know!" exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this last remark, "it's a vegetable. It doesn't look like one, but it is." "I quite agree with you," said the Duchess; "and the moral of that is--'Be what you would seem to be'--or if you'd like it put more simply--'Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.'" "I think I should understand that better," Alice said very politely, "if I had it written down: but I can't quite follow it as you say it." "That's nothing to what I could say if I chose," the Duchess replied, in a pleased tone. "Pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that," said Alice. "Oh, don't talk about trouble!" said the Duchess. "I make you a present of everything I've said as yet." "A cheap sort of present!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they don't give birthday presents like that!" But she did not venture to say it out loud. "Thinking again?" the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. "I've a right to think," said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. "Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs have to fly; and the m--" But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm. "A fine day, your Majesty!"<|quote|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice.</|quote|>"Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting "Off with his head!" or "Off with her head!" Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, "Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?" "No," said Alice. "I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is." "It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from," said the Queen. "I never saw one, or heard of one," said Alice. "Come on, then," said the Queen, "and he shall tell you his history," As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice, to the company generally, "You are all pardoned." "Come, _that's_ a good thing!" she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered. They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun. (If you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) "Up, lazy thing!" said the Queen, "and take this young lady to see the Mock Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some executions I have ordered;" and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it as to go after that savage Queen: so she waited. The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled. "What fun!" said the Gryphon, half to itself, half to Alice. "What _is_ the fun?" said Alice. "Why, _she_," said the Gryphon. "It's all her fancy, that: they never executes nobody, you know. Come on!" "Everybody says 'come on!' here," thought Alice, as she went slowly after it: "I never was so ordered about in all my life, never!" They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break. She pitied him deeply. "What is his sorrow?" she asked the Gryphon, and the Gryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before, "It's all his fancy, that: he hasn't got no sorrow, you know. Come on!" So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with large eyes full of tears, but said nothing. "This here young lady," said the Gryphon, "she wants for to know your history, she do." "I'll tell it her," said the Mock Turtle in a deep, hollow tone: "sit down, both of you, and don't speak a word till I've finished." So they sat down, and nobody spoke for some minutes. Alice thought to herself, "I don't see how he can _ever_ finish, if he doesn't begin." But she waited patiently. "Once," said the Mock Turtle at last, with a deep sigh, "I was a real Turtle." These words were followed by a very long silence, broken only by an occasional exclamation of "Hjckrrh!" from the Gryphon, and the constant heavy sobbing of the Mock Turtle. Alice was very nearly getting up and saying, "Thank you, sir, for your interesting story," but she could not help thinking there _must_ be more to come, so she sat still and said nothing. "When we were little," the Mock Turtle went on at last, more calmly, though still sobbing a little now and then, "we went to school in the sea. The master was an old Turtle--we used to call him Tortoise--" "Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one?" Alice asked. "We | so close to her: first, because the Duchess was _very_ ugly; and secondly, because she was exactly the right height to rest her chin upon Alice's shoulder, and it was an uncomfortably sharp chin. However, she did not like to be rude, so she bore it as well as she could. "The game's going on rather better now," she said, by way of keeping up the conversation a little. "'Tis so," said the Duchess: "and the moral of that is--'Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love, that makes the world go round!'" "Somebody said," Alice whispered, "that it's done by everybody minding their own business!" "Ah, well! It means much the same thing," said the Duchess, digging her sharp little chin into Alice's shoulder as she added, "and the moral of _that_ is--'Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves.'" "How fond she is of finding morals in things!" Alice thought to herself. "I dare say you're wondering why I don't put my arm round your waist," the Duchess said after a pause: "the reason is, that I'm doubtful about the temper of your flamingo. Shall I try the experiment?" "He might bite," Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious to have the experiment tried. "Very true," said the Duchess: "flamingoes and mustard both bite. And the moral of that is--'Birds of a feather flock together.'" "Only mustard isn't a bird," Alice remarked. "Right, as usual," said the Duchess: "what a clear way you have of putting things!" "It's a mineral, I _think_," said Alice. "Of course it is," said the Duchess, who seemed ready to agree to everything that Alice said; "there's a large mustard-mine near here. And the moral of that is--'The more there is of mine, the less there is of yours.'" "Oh, I know!" exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this last remark, "it's a vegetable. It doesn't look like one, but it is." "I quite agree with you," said the Duchess; "and the moral of that is--'Be what you would seem to be'--or if you'd like it put more simply--'Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.'" "I think I should understand that better," Alice said very politely, "if I had it written down: but I can't quite follow it as you say it." "That's nothing to what I could say if I chose," the Duchess replied, in a pleased tone. "Pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that," said Alice. "Oh, don't talk about trouble!" said the Duchess. "I make you a present of everything I've said as yet." "A cheap sort of present!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they don't give birthday presents like that!" But she did not venture to say it out loud. "Thinking again?" the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. "I've a right to think," said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. "Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs have to fly; and the m--" But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm. "A fine day, your Majesty!"<|quote|>the Duchess began in a low, weak voice.</|quote|>"Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting "Off with his head!" or "Off with her head!" Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, "Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?" "No," said Alice. "I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is." "It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from," said the Queen. "I never saw one, or heard of one," said Alice. "Come on, then," said the Queen, "and he shall tell you his history," As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice, to the company generally, "You are all pardoned." "Come, _that's_ a good thing!" she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered. They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun. (If you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) "Up, lazy thing!" said the Queen, "and take this young lady to see the Mock Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some executions I have ordered;" and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it as to go after that savage Queen: so she waited. The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled. "What fun!" said the Gryphon, half to itself, half to Alice. "What _is_ the fun?" said Alice. "Why, _she_," said the Gryphon. "It's all her fancy, that: they never executes nobody, you know. Come on!" "Everybody says 'come on!' here," thought Alice, as she went slowly after it: "I never was so ordered about in all my life, never!" They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of | Alices Adventures In Wonderland |
"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you, that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it." | Elizabeth | induce you to accept me."<|quote|>"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you, that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it."</|quote|>Darcy mentioned his letter. "Did | any possible way, that would induce you to accept me."<|quote|>"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you, that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it."</|quote|>Darcy mentioned his letter. "Did it," said he, "did it | way." "I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way, that would induce you to accept me."<|quote|>"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you, that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it."</|quote|>Darcy mentioned his letter. "Did it," said he, "did it _soon_ make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?" She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed. "I knew," said | scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;--though it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice." "I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way." "I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way, that would induce you to accept me."<|quote|>"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you, that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it."</|quote|>Darcy mentioned his letter. "Did it," said he, "did it _soon_ make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?" She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed. "I knew," said he, "that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly make you | will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that evening," said Elizabeth. "The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved in civility." "I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget:" 'had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.' "Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;--though it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice." "I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way." "I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way, that would induce you to accept me."<|quote|>"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you, that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it."</|quote|>Darcy mentioned his letter. "Did it," said he, "did it _soon_ make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?" She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed. "I knew," said he, "that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly make you hate me." "The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies." "When I wrote that letter," replied Darcy, "I believed myself perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit." "The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings of | there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on every expression of the latter, which, in her ladyship's apprehension, peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance, in the belief that such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from her nephew, which _she_ had refused to give. But, unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise. "It taught me to hope," said he, "as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain, that, had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly." Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, "Yes, you know enough of my _frankness_ to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all your relations." "What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour to you at the time, had merited the severest reproof. It was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence." "We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that evening," said Elizabeth. "The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved in civility." "I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget:" 'had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.' "Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;--though it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice." "I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way." "I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way, that would induce you to accept me."<|quote|>"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you, that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it."</|quote|>Darcy mentioned his letter. "Did it," said he, "did it _soon_ make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?" She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed. "I knew," said he, "that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly make you hate me." "The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies." "When I wrote that letter," replied Darcy, "I believed myself perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit." "The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance attending it, ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure." "I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. _Your_ retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment arising from them, is not of philosophy, but what is much better, of ignorance. But with _me_, it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude, which cannot, which ought not to be repelled. I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was _right_, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. Unfortunately an only son, (for many years an only _child_) I was spoilt by my parents, who though good themselves, (my father particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable,) allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond my own family circle, to | I did not think Mrs. Gardiner was so little to be trusted." "You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering them." "If you _will_ thank me," he replied, "let it be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you, might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your _family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe, I thought only of _you_." Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause, her companion added, "You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_ affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever." Elizabeth feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand, that her sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude and pleasure, his present assurances. The happiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the expression of heart-felt delight, diffused over his face, became him; but, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of feelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable. They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to be thought; and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, who _did_ call on him in her return through London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on every expression of the latter, which, in her ladyship's apprehension, peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance, in the belief that such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from her nephew, which _she_ had refused to give. But, unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise. "It taught me to hope," said he, "as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain, that, had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly." Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, "Yes, you know enough of my _frankness_ to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all your relations." "What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour to you at the time, had merited the severest reproof. It was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence." "We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that evening," said Elizabeth. "The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved in civility." "I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget:" 'had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.' "Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;--though it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice." "I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way." "I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way, that would induce you to accept me."<|quote|>"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you, that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it."</|quote|>Darcy mentioned his letter. "Did it," said he, "did it _soon_ make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?" She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed. "I knew," said he, "that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly make you hate me." "The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies." "When I wrote that letter," replied Darcy, "I believed myself perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit." "The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance attending it, ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure." "I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. _Your_ retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment arising from them, is not of philosophy, but what is much better, of ignorance. But with _me_, it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude, which cannot, which ought not to be repelled. I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was _right_, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. Unfortunately an only son, (for many years an only _child_) I was spoilt by my parents, who though good themselves, (my father particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable,) allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond my own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to _wish_ at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You shewed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased." "Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?" "Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be wishing, expecting my addresses." "My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally I assure you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me wrong. How you must have hated me after _that_ evening?" "Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take a proper direction." "I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me; when we met at Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?" "No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise." "Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ in being noticed by you. My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I confess that I did not expect to receive _more_ than my due." "My object _then_," replied Darcy, "was to shew you, by every civility in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an hour after I had seen you." He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of her disappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading to the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of following her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister, had been formed before he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness there, had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must comprehend. She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject | _did_ call on him in her return through London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on every expression of the latter, which, in her ladyship's apprehension, peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance, in the belief that such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from her nephew, which _she_ had refused to give. But, unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise. "It taught me to hope," said he, "as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain, that, had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly." Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, "Yes, you know enough of my _frankness_ to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all your relations." "What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour to you at the time, had merited the severest reproof. It was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence." "We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that evening," said Elizabeth. "The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved in civility." "I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget:" 'had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.' "Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;--though it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice." "I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way." "I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way, that would induce you to accept me."<|quote|>"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you, that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it."</|quote|>Darcy mentioned his letter. "Did it," said he, "did it _soon_ make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?" She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed. "I knew," said he, "that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly make you hate me." "The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies." "When I wrote that letter," replied Darcy, "I believed myself perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit." "The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance attending it, ought to be forgotten. You must | Pride And Prejudice |
"She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier." | Winnie | her mother was still asleep.<|quote|>"She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier."</|quote|>"Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." | had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep.<|quote|>"She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier."</|quote|>"Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time | won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep.<|quote|>"She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier."</|quote|>"Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat | will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes, in the dining-room with Winnie." "But, Mr Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants." "Well, I didn't like to wake Milly." "She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep.<|quote|>"She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier."</|quote|>"Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and | breakfasted downstairs at eight o'clock on Sunday morning. It took a long time before anything could be got ready. There were no ices, much to Winnie's annoyance. She ate grapefruit and kippers and scrambled eggs on toast, complaining fitfully about her wet clothing. After breakfast Tony sent her upstairs to change and himself smoked a pipe in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers. Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop. "We missed you last night," he said. "We went to a party." "You shouldn't have done that--not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes, in the dining-room with Winnie." "But, Mr Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants." "Well, I didn't like to wake Milly." "She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep.<|quote|>"She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier."</|quote|>"Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony | the hall where aproned waiters were piling up the furniture and brushing the carpets. A keen wind met them as they emerged from the swing door. The asphalt promenade was wet with spray and rain. Two or three female figures were scudding along, bowed to the wind, prayer-books clutched in their gloved hands. Four or five rugged old men were hobbling down to bathe, hissing like ostlers. "Oh, come on," said Winnie. They went down to the beach and stumbled painfully across the shingle to the margin of the sea. Winnie threw some stones. The bathers were in the water now; some of them had dogs who swam snorting beside them. "Why don't you bathe?" asked Winnie. "Far too cold." "But _they're_ bathing. I want to." "You must ask your mother." "I believe you're afraid. Can you swim?" "Yes." "Well, why don't you? Bet you can't." "All right. I can't." "Then why did you say you could. Fibber." They walked along the shingle. Winnie slithered about astride a backwater. "Now my knickers are wet," she said. "Better come back and change." "It feels horrible. Let's go and have breakfast." The hotel did not, as a rule, cater for guests who breakfasted downstairs at eight o'clock on Sunday morning. It took a long time before anything could be got ready. There were no ices, much to Winnie's annoyance. She ate grapefruit and kippers and scrambled eggs on toast, complaining fitfully about her wet clothing. After breakfast Tony sent her upstairs to change and himself smoked a pipe in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers. Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop. "We missed you last night," he said. "We went to a party." "You shouldn't have done that--not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes, in the dining-room with Winnie." "But, Mr Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants." "Well, I didn't like to wake Milly." "She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep.<|quote|>"She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier."</|quote|>"Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl," they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie | sofa with Dan, who said, "Nice kid, Milly." "Yes." "I'll tell you a thing I've noticed about her. She attracts quite a different type from the other girls. People like you and me." "Yes." "You wouldn't think she had a daughter of eight, would you?" "No, it's very surprising." "I didn't know for ages. Then I was taking her to Dieppe for the week-end and she wanted to bring the child along too. Of course that put the kybosh on it, but I've always liked Milly just the same. You can trust her to behave anywhere." He said this with a sour glance towards Baby, who was full of the right stuff and showing it. It was after three before the party broke up. Dan's friend renewed his invitation to come again when the roses were out. "I doubt if you'll find a better show of roses anywhere in the south of England," he said. Dan drove them back to the hotel. Baby sat beside him in front, disposed to be quarrelsome. "Where were you?" she kept asking. "Never saw you all the evening. Where did you get to? Where were you hiding? I call it a lousy way to take a girl out." Tony and Milly sat at the back. From habit and exhaustion she put her head on his shoulder and her hand in his. When they reached their rooms, however, she said, "Go quietly. We don't want to wake Winnie." For an hour or so Tony lay in the warm little bedroom, reviewing over and over again the incidents of the last three months; then he too fell asleep. * * * * * He was awakened by Winnie. "Mother's still asleep," she said. Tony looked at his watch. "So I should think," he said. It was a quarter-past seven. "Go back to bed." "No, I'm dressed. Let's go out." She went to the window and pulled back the curtains, filling the room with glacial, morning light. "It's hardly raining at all," she said. "What do you want to do?" "I want to go on the pier." "It won't be open yet." "Well, I want to go down to the sea. Come on." Tony knew that he would not get to sleep again that morning. "All right. You go and wait while I dress." "I'll wait here. Mother snores so." Twenty minutes later they went downstairs into the hall where aproned waiters were piling up the furniture and brushing the carpets. A keen wind met them as they emerged from the swing door. The asphalt promenade was wet with spray and rain. Two or three female figures were scudding along, bowed to the wind, prayer-books clutched in their gloved hands. Four or five rugged old men were hobbling down to bathe, hissing like ostlers. "Oh, come on," said Winnie. They went down to the beach and stumbled painfully across the shingle to the margin of the sea. Winnie threw some stones. The bathers were in the water now; some of them had dogs who swam snorting beside them. "Why don't you bathe?" asked Winnie. "Far too cold." "But _they're_ bathing. I want to." "You must ask your mother." "I believe you're afraid. Can you swim?" "Yes." "Well, why don't you? Bet you can't." "All right. I can't." "Then why did you say you could. Fibber." They walked along the shingle. Winnie slithered about astride a backwater. "Now my knickers are wet," she said. "Better come back and change." "It feels horrible. Let's go and have breakfast." The hotel did not, as a rule, cater for guests who breakfasted downstairs at eight o'clock on Sunday morning. It took a long time before anything could be got ready. There were no ices, much to Winnie's annoyance. She ate grapefruit and kippers and scrambled eggs on toast, complaining fitfully about her wet clothing. After breakfast Tony sent her upstairs to change and himself smoked a pipe in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers. Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop. "We missed you last night," he said. "We went to a party." "You shouldn't have done that--not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes, in the dining-room with Winnie." "But, Mr Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants." "Well, I didn't like to wake Milly." "She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep.<|quote|>"She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier."</|quote|>"Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl," they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie with skee-ball. Tony's conduct confirmed the view of human nature derived from the weekly newspapers which they had all been reading that morning. * * * * * "Well," said Brenda's solicitor. "We have our case now, all quite regular and complete. I don't think it can come on until next term--there's a great rush at the moment, but there's no harm in you having your own evidence ready. I've got it typed out for you. You'd better keep it by you and get it clear in your mind." "_...My marriage was an ideally happy one_," she read "_until shortly before Christmas last year when I began to suspect that my husband's attitude had changed towards me. He always remained in the country when my studies took me to London. I realized that he no longer cared for me as he used to. He began to drink heavily and on one occasion made a disturbance at our flat in London, constantly ringing up when drunk and sending a drunken friend round to knock on the door._ "Is that necessary?" "Not strictly, but it is advisable to put it in. A great deal depends on psychological impression. Judges in their more lucid moments sometimes wonder why perfectly respectable, happily married men go off for week-ends to the seaside with women they do not know. It is always helpful to offer evidence of general degeneracy." "I see," said Brenda. "_From then onwards I had him watched by private agents and as a result of what they told me, I left my husband's house on April 5th._ "Yes, that all seems quite clear." [III] Lady St Cloud preserved an atavistic faith in the authority and preternatural good judgment of the Head of the Family; accordingly, her first act, on learning from Marjorie of Brenda's wayward behaviour, was to cable for Reggie's return from Tunisia where he was occupied in desecrating some tombs. His departure, like all his movements, was leisurely. He did not take the first available boat or the second, but eventually he arrived in London on the Monday after Tony's visit to Brighton. He held a family conclave in his library, consisting of his mother, Brenda, Marjorie, Allan and the solicitor; later he discussed the question fully with each of them severally; he took Beaver out to luncheon; he dined with Jock; he even called on Tony's Aunt Frances. Finally, on | to the margin of the sea. Winnie threw some stones. The bathers were in the water now; some of them had dogs who swam snorting beside them. "Why don't you bathe?" asked Winnie. "Far too cold." "But _they're_ bathing. I want to." "You must ask your mother." "I believe you're afraid. Can you swim?" "Yes." "Well, why don't you? Bet you can't." "All right. I can't." "Then why did you say you could. Fibber." They walked along the shingle. Winnie slithered about astride a backwater. "Now my knickers are wet," she said. "Better come back and change." "It feels horrible. Let's go and have breakfast." The hotel did not, as a rule, cater for guests who breakfasted downstairs at eight o'clock on Sunday morning. It took a long time before anything could be got ready. There were no ices, much to Winnie's annoyance. She ate grapefruit and kippers and scrambled eggs on toast, complaining fitfully about her wet clothing. After breakfast Tony sent her upstairs to change and himself smoked a pipe in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers. Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop. "We missed you last night," he said. "We went to a party." "You shouldn't have done that--not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes, in the dining-room with Winnie." "But, Mr Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants." "Well, I didn't like to wake Milly." "She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep.<|quote|>"She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier."</|quote|>"Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said | A Handful Of Dust |
"You're such infants, both of you." | Brenda | wish I'd thought of that."<|quote|>"You're such infants, both of you."</|quote|>"You aren't really in a | just arrived from Jock." "I wish I'd thought of that."<|quote|>"You're such infants, both of you."</|quote|>"You aren't really in a rage?" "Of course I'm not, | "You were." "Are you in a rage?" "Well, I was last night. What made you do it, Tony, grown up men like you two?" "We felt low." "I bet you feel lower this morning... A box of white roses has just arrived from Jock." "I wish I'd thought of that."<|quote|>"You're such infants, both of you."</|quote|>"You aren't really in a rage?" "Of course I'm not, darling. Now just you go straight back to the country. You'll feel all right again to-morrow." "Am I not going to see you?" "Not to-day, I'm afraid. I've got lectures all the morning and I'm lunching out. But I'll be | ring Brenda up when the difficulty was solved by her ringing him. "Well, Tony, how do you feel?" "Awful. I _was_ tight." "You were." "I'm feeling pretty guilty too." "I'm not surprised." "I don't remember everything very clearly but I have the impression that Jock and I were rather bores." "You were." "Are you in a rage?" "Well, I was last night. What made you do it, Tony, grown up men like you two?" "We felt low." "I bet you feel lower this morning... A box of white roses has just arrived from Jock." "I wish I'd thought of that."<|quote|>"You're such infants, both of you."</|quote|>"You aren't really in a rage?" "Of course I'm not, darling. Now just you go straight back to the country. You'll feel all right again to-morrow." "Am I not going to see you?" "Not to-day, I'm afraid. I've got lectures all the morning and I'm lunching out. But I'll be coming down on Friday evening or anyway Saturday morning." "I see. You couldn't possibly chuck lunch or one of the lectures?" "Not possibly, darling." "I see. You are an angel to be so sweet about last night." "Nothing could have been more fortunate," Brenda said. "If I know Tony, he'll | I'll do. I go almost past her door, so I'll ring the bell a bit just in case she's awake and still waiting up for us." "Yes, you do that. What a good friend you are, Jock." "Oh, I'm fond of Brenda... a grand girl." "Grand girl... I wish I didn't feel ill." Tony was awake at eight next morning, miserably articulating in his mind the fragmentary memories of the preceding night. The more he remembered, the baser his conduct appeared to him. At nine he had his bath and some tea. At ten he was wondering whether he should ring Brenda up when the difficulty was solved by her ringing him. "Well, Tony, how do you feel?" "Awful. I _was_ tight." "You were." "I'm feeling pretty guilty too." "I'm not surprised." "I don't remember everything very clearly but I have the impression that Jock and I were rather bores." "You were." "Are you in a rage?" "Well, I was last night. What made you do it, Tony, grown up men like you two?" "We felt low." "I bet you feel lower this morning... A box of white roses has just arrived from Jock." "I wish I'd thought of that."<|quote|>"You're such infants, both of you."</|quote|>"You aren't really in a rage?" "Of course I'm not, darling. Now just you go straight back to the country. You'll feel all right again to-morrow." "Am I not going to see you?" "Not to-day, I'm afraid. I've got lectures all the morning and I'm lunching out. But I'll be coming down on Friday evening or anyway Saturday morning." "I see. You couldn't possibly chuck lunch or one of the lectures?" "Not possibly, darling." "I see. You are an angel to be so sweet about last night." "Nothing could have been more fortunate," Brenda said. "If I know Tony, he'll be tortured with guilt for weeks to come. It was maddening last night but it was worth it. He's put himself so much in the wrong now that he won't dare to _feel_ resentful, let alone say anything, whatever I do. And he hasn't really enjoyed himself at all, the poor sweet, so _that's_ a good thing too. He had to learn not to make surprise visits." "You are one for making people learn things," said Beaver. Tony emerged from the 3.18 feeling cold, tired, and heavy with guilt. John Andrew had come in the car to meet him. "Hullo, | again?" "Perhaps we ought. She sounded annoyed with us." "Let's go now and ring her up on the way out." "Aren't you coming home with us?" said Babs. "Not to-night, I'm afraid." "Be a sport," said Milly. "No, we can't really." "All right. Well, how about a little present? We're professional dancing partners, you know," said Babs. "Oh yes, sorry, how much?" "Oh, we leave that to the gentlemen." Tony gave them a pound. "You might make it a bit more," said Babs. "We've sat with you two hours." Jock gave another pound. "Come and see us again one evening when you've got more time," said Milly. "I'm feeling rather ill," said Tony on the way upstairs. "Don't think I shall bother to ring up Brenda." "Send a message." "That's a good idea... Look here," he said to the seedy commissionaire. "Will you ring up this Sloane number and speak to her ladyship and say Mr Grant-Menzies and Mr Last are very sorry but they cannot call this evening? Got that?" He gave the man half a crown and they sauntered out into Sink Street. "Brenda can't expect us to do more than that," he said. "I tell you what I'll do. I go almost past her door, so I'll ring the bell a bit just in case she's awake and still waiting up for us." "Yes, you do that. What a good friend you are, Jock." "Oh, I'm fond of Brenda... a grand girl." "Grand girl... I wish I didn't feel ill." Tony was awake at eight next morning, miserably articulating in his mind the fragmentary memories of the preceding night. The more he remembered, the baser his conduct appeared to him. At nine he had his bath and some tea. At ten he was wondering whether he should ring Brenda up when the difficulty was solved by her ringing him. "Well, Tony, how do you feel?" "Awful. I _was_ tight." "You were." "I'm feeling pretty guilty too." "I'm not surprised." "I don't remember everything very clearly but I have the impression that Jock and I were rather bores." "You were." "Are you in a rage?" "Well, I was last night. What made you do it, Tony, grown up men like you two?" "We felt low." "I bet you feel lower this morning... A box of white roses has just arrived from Jock." "I wish I'd thought of that."<|quote|>"You're such infants, both of you."</|quote|>"You aren't really in a rage?" "Of course I'm not, darling. Now just you go straight back to the country. You'll feel all right again to-morrow." "Am I not going to see you?" "Not to-day, I'm afraid. I've got lectures all the morning and I'm lunching out. But I'll be coming down on Friday evening or anyway Saturday morning." "I see. You couldn't possibly chuck lunch or one of the lectures?" "Not possibly, darling." "I see. You are an angel to be so sweet about last night." "Nothing could have been more fortunate," Brenda said. "If I know Tony, he'll be tortured with guilt for weeks to come. It was maddening last night but it was worth it. He's put himself so much in the wrong now that he won't dare to _feel_ resentful, let alone say anything, whatever I do. And he hasn't really enjoyed himself at all, the poor sweet, so _that's_ a good thing too. He had to learn not to make surprise visits." "You are one for making people learn things," said Beaver. Tony emerged from the 3.18 feeling cold, tired, and heavy with guilt. John Andrew had come in the car to meet him. "Hullo, daddy, had a good time in London? You didn't mind me coming to the station, did you? I _made_ nanny let me." "Very pleased to see you, John." "How was mummy?" "She sounded very well. I didn't see her." "But you _said_ you were going to see her." "Yes, I thought I was, but I turned out to be wrong. I talked to her several times on the telephone." "But you can telephone her from here, can't you, daddy? Why did you go all the way to London to telephone her?... _Why_, daddy?" "It would take too long to explain." "Well tell me some of it... _Why_, daddy?" "Look here, I'm tired. If you don't stop asking questions I shan't let you ever come and meet the train again." John Andrew's face began to pucker. "I thought you'd _like_ me to come and meet you." "If you cry I shall put you in front with Dawson. It's absurd to cry at your age." "I'd _sooner_ go in front with Dawson," said John Andrew between his tears. Tony picked up the speaking-tube to tell the chauffeur to stop, but he could not make him hear. So he hitched the mouthpiece back | tell you what I must do is to telephone. Where is it?" "D'you mean really the telephone or the gentlemen's?" Milly asked. "No, the telephone." "Upstairs in the office." Tony rang up Brenda. It was some time before she answered, then, "Yes, who is it?" "I have a message here from Mr Anthony Last and Mr Jocelyn Grant-Menzies." "Oh, it's you, Tony. Well, what do you want?" "You recognized my voice?" "I did." "Well, I only wanted to give a message but as I am speaking to you I can give it myself, can't I?" "Yes." "Well, Jock and I are terribly sorry but we can't come round this evening after all." "Oh." "You don't think it very rude, I hope, but we have a lot to attend to." "That's all right, Tony." "Did I wake you up by any chance?" "That's all right, Tony." "Well, good night." Tony went down to the table. "I've been talking to Brenda. She sounded rather annoyed. D'you think we _ought_ to go round there?" "We promised we would," said Jock. "You should never disappoint a lady," said Milly. "Oh, it's too late now." Babs said, "You two are officers, aren't you?" "No, why?" "I thought you were." Milly said, "I like business gentlemen best, myself. They've more to say." "What d'you do?" "I design postmen's hats," said Jock. "Oh, go on." "And my friend here trains sea-lions." "Tell us another." Babs said, "I've got a gentleman friend who works on a newspaper." After a time Jock said, "I say, ought we to do something about Brenda?" "I told her we weren't coming, didn't I?" "Yes... but she might still be _hoping_." "I tell you what, you go and ring her up and find out if she really wants us." "All right." He came back ten minutes later. "_I_ thought she sounded rather annoyed," he reported. "But I said in the end we wouldn't come." "She may be tired," said Tony. "Has to get up early to do economics. Now I come to think of it someone _did_ say she was tired, earlier on in the evening." "I say, what's this frightful piece of fish?" "The waiter said you ordered it." "Perhaps I did." "I'll give it to the club cat," said Babs. "She's a dear called Blackberry." They danced once or twice. Then Jock said, "D'you think we ought to ring up Brenda again?" "Perhaps we ought. She sounded annoyed with us." "Let's go now and ring her up on the way out." "Aren't you coming home with us?" said Babs. "Not to-night, I'm afraid." "Be a sport," said Milly. "No, we can't really." "All right. Well, how about a little present? We're professional dancing partners, you know," said Babs. "Oh yes, sorry, how much?" "Oh, we leave that to the gentlemen." Tony gave them a pound. "You might make it a bit more," said Babs. "We've sat with you two hours." Jock gave another pound. "Come and see us again one evening when you've got more time," said Milly. "I'm feeling rather ill," said Tony on the way upstairs. "Don't think I shall bother to ring up Brenda." "Send a message." "That's a good idea... Look here," he said to the seedy commissionaire. "Will you ring up this Sloane number and speak to her ladyship and say Mr Grant-Menzies and Mr Last are very sorry but they cannot call this evening? Got that?" He gave the man half a crown and they sauntered out into Sink Street. "Brenda can't expect us to do more than that," he said. "I tell you what I'll do. I go almost past her door, so I'll ring the bell a bit just in case she's awake and still waiting up for us." "Yes, you do that. What a good friend you are, Jock." "Oh, I'm fond of Brenda... a grand girl." "Grand girl... I wish I didn't feel ill." Tony was awake at eight next morning, miserably articulating in his mind the fragmentary memories of the preceding night. The more he remembered, the baser his conduct appeared to him. At nine he had his bath and some tea. At ten he was wondering whether he should ring Brenda up when the difficulty was solved by her ringing him. "Well, Tony, how do you feel?" "Awful. I _was_ tight." "You were." "I'm feeling pretty guilty too." "I'm not surprised." "I don't remember everything very clearly but I have the impression that Jock and I were rather bores." "You were." "Are you in a rage?" "Well, I was last night. What made you do it, Tony, grown up men like you two?" "We felt low." "I bet you feel lower this morning... A box of white roses has just arrived from Jock." "I wish I'd thought of that."<|quote|>"You're such infants, both of you."</|quote|>"You aren't really in a rage?" "Of course I'm not, darling. Now just you go straight back to the country. You'll feel all right again to-morrow." "Am I not going to see you?" "Not to-day, I'm afraid. I've got lectures all the morning and I'm lunching out. But I'll be coming down on Friday evening or anyway Saturday morning." "I see. You couldn't possibly chuck lunch or one of the lectures?" "Not possibly, darling." "I see. You are an angel to be so sweet about last night." "Nothing could have been more fortunate," Brenda said. "If I know Tony, he'll be tortured with guilt for weeks to come. It was maddening last night but it was worth it. He's put himself so much in the wrong now that he won't dare to _feel_ resentful, let alone say anything, whatever I do. And he hasn't really enjoyed himself at all, the poor sweet, so _that's_ a good thing too. He had to learn not to make surprise visits." "You are one for making people learn things," said Beaver. Tony emerged from the 3.18 feeling cold, tired, and heavy with guilt. John Andrew had come in the car to meet him. "Hullo, daddy, had a good time in London? You didn't mind me coming to the station, did you? I _made_ nanny let me." "Very pleased to see you, John." "How was mummy?" "She sounded very well. I didn't see her." "But you _said_ you were going to see her." "Yes, I thought I was, but I turned out to be wrong. I talked to her several times on the telephone." "But you can telephone her from here, can't you, daddy? Why did you go all the way to London to telephone her?... _Why_, daddy?" "It would take too long to explain." "Well tell me some of it... _Why_, daddy?" "Look here, I'm tired. If you don't stop asking questions I shan't let you ever come and meet the train again." John Andrew's face began to pucker. "I thought you'd _like_ me to come and meet you." "If you cry I shall put you in front with Dawson. It's absurd to cry at your age." "I'd _sooner_ go in front with Dawson," said John Andrew between his tears. Tony picked up the speaking-tube to tell the chauffeur to stop, but he could not make him hear. So he hitched the mouthpiece back on its hook and they drove on in silence, John Andrew leaning against the window and snivelling slightly. When they got to the house he said, "Nanny, I don't want John to come to the station in future unless her ladyship or I specially say he can." "No, sir, I wouldn't have let him go to-day, only he went on so. Come along now, John, and take off your coat. Goodness, child, where's your handkerchief?" Tony went and sat alone in front of the library fire. "Two men of thirty," he said to himself, "behaving as if they were up for the night from Sandhurst--getting drunk and ringing people up and dancing with tarts at the Old Hundredth... And it makes it all the worse that Brenda was so nice about it." He dozed a little; then he went up to change. At dinner he said, "Ambrose, when I'm alone I think in future I'll have dinner in the library." Afterwards he sat with a book in front of the fire but he was unable to read. At ten o'clock he scattered the logs in the fireplace before going upstairs. He fastened the library windows and turned out the lights. That night he went into Brenda's empty room to sleep. [II] That was Wednesday; on Thursday Tony felt well again. He had a meeting of the county council in the morning. In the afternoon he went down to the home farm and discussed a new kind of tractor with his agent. From then onwards he was able to say to himself, "This time to-morrow Brenda and Jock will be here." He dined in front of the fire in the library. He had given up the diet some weeks ago. (" "Ambrose, when I'm alone I don't really need a long dinner. In future I'll just have two courses." ") He looked over some accounts his agent had left for him and then went to bed, saying to himself, "When I wake up it will be the week-end." But there was a telegram for him next morning from Jock, saying, _Week end impossible have to go to constituency how about one after next_. He wired back, _Delighted any time always here_. "I suppose he's made it up with that girl," Tony reflected. There was also a note from Brenda, written in pencil: Coming Sat. with Polly and a friend of Polly's | "I say, what's this frightful piece of fish?" "The waiter said you ordered it." "Perhaps I did." "I'll give it to the club cat," said Babs. "She's a dear called Blackberry." They danced once or twice. Then Jock said, "D'you think we ought to ring up Brenda again?" "Perhaps we ought. She sounded annoyed with us." "Let's go now and ring her up on the way out." "Aren't you coming home with us?" said Babs. "Not to-night, I'm afraid." "Be a sport," said Milly. "No, we can't really." "All right. Well, how about a little present? We're professional dancing partners, you know," said Babs. "Oh yes, sorry, how much?" "Oh, we leave that to the gentlemen." Tony gave them a pound. "You might make it a bit more," said Babs. "We've sat with you two hours." Jock gave another pound. "Come and see us again one evening when you've got more time," said Milly. "I'm feeling rather ill," said Tony on the way upstairs. "Don't think I shall bother to ring up Brenda." "Send a message." "That's a good idea... Look here," he said to the seedy commissionaire. "Will you ring up this Sloane number and speak to her ladyship and say Mr Grant-Menzies and Mr Last are very sorry but they cannot call this evening? Got that?" He gave the man half a crown and they sauntered out into Sink Street. "Brenda can't expect us to do more than that," he said. "I tell you what I'll do. I go almost past her door, so I'll ring the bell a bit just in case she's awake and still waiting up for us." "Yes, you do that. What a good friend you are, Jock." "Oh, I'm fond of Brenda... a grand girl." "Grand girl... I wish I didn't feel ill." Tony was awake at eight next morning, miserably articulating in his mind the fragmentary memories of the preceding night. The more he remembered, the baser his conduct appeared to him. At nine he had his bath and some tea. At ten he was wondering whether he should ring Brenda up when the difficulty was solved by her ringing him. "Well, Tony, how do you feel?" "Awful. I _was_ tight." "You were." "I'm feeling pretty guilty too." "I'm not surprised." "I don't remember everything very clearly but I have the impression that Jock and I were rather bores." "You were." "Are you in a rage?" "Well, I was last night. What made you do it, Tony, grown up men like you two?" "We felt low." "I bet you feel lower this morning... A box of white roses has just arrived from Jock." "I wish I'd thought of that."<|quote|>"You're such infants, both of you."</|quote|>"You aren't really in a rage?" "Of course I'm not, darling. Now just you go straight back to the country. You'll feel all right again to-morrow." "Am I not going to see you?" "Not to-day, I'm afraid. I've got lectures all the morning and I'm lunching out. But I'll be coming down on Friday evening or anyway Saturday morning." "I see. You couldn't possibly chuck lunch or one of the lectures?" "Not possibly, darling." "I see. You are an angel to be so sweet about last night." "Nothing could have been more fortunate," Brenda said. "If I know Tony, he'll be tortured with guilt for weeks to come. It was maddening last night but it was worth it. He's put himself so much in the wrong now that he won't dare to _feel_ resentful, let alone say anything, whatever I do. And he hasn't really enjoyed himself at all, the poor sweet, so _that's_ a good thing too. He had to learn not to make surprise visits." "You are one for making people learn things," said Beaver. Tony emerged from the 3.18 feeling cold, tired, and heavy with guilt. John Andrew had come in the car to meet him. "Hullo, daddy, had a good time in London? You didn't mind me coming to the station, did you? I _made_ nanny let me." "Very pleased to see you, John." "How was mummy?" "She sounded very well. I didn't see her." "But you _said_ you were going to see her." "Yes, I thought I was, but I turned out to be wrong. I talked to her several times on the telephone." "But you can telephone her from here, can't you, daddy? Why did you go all the way to London to telephone her?... _Why_, daddy?" "It would take too long to explain." "Well tell me some of it... _Why_, | A Handful Of Dust |
"For heaven s sake! Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there." | Isabella Thorpe | friend prevented her, by saying,<|quote|>"For heaven s sake! Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there."</|quote|>Away they walked to the | Laurentina s skeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying,<|quote|>"For heaven s sake! Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there."</|quote|>Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined | too much. Let us drop the subject." Catherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few moments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her at that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina s skeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying,<|quote|>"For heaven s sake! Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there."</|quote|>Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it was Catherine s employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming young men. "They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if | eyes, and as to complexion do you know I like a sallow better than any other. You must not betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance answering that description." "Betray you! What do you mean?" "Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop the subject." Catherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few moments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her at that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina s skeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying,<|quote|>"For heaven s sake! Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there."</|quote|>Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it was Catherine s employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming young men. "They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am determined I will not look up." In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her that she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the pump-room. "And which way are they gone?" said Isabella, turning hastily round. "One was a | the world, and think themselves of so much importance! By the by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always forgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you like them best dark or fair?" "I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both, I think. Brown not fair, and and not very dark." "Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your description of Mr. Tilney a brown skin, with dark eyes, and rather dark hair. Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes, and as to complexion do you know I like a sallow better than any other. You must not betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance answering that description." "Betray you! What do you mean?" "Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop the subject." Catherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few moments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her at that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina s skeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying,<|quote|>"For heaven s sake! Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there."</|quote|>Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it was Catherine s employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming young men. "They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am determined I will not look up." In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her that she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the pump-room. "And which way are they gone?" said Isabella, turning hastily round. "One was a very good-looking young man." "They went towards the church-yard." "Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what say you to going to Edgar s Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? You said you should like to see it." Catherine readily agreed. "Only," she added, "perhaps we may overtake the two young men." "Oh! Never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them presently, and I am dying to show you my hat." "But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of our seeing | so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho before; but I suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels." "No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself; but new books do not fall in our way." "Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I remember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume." "It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very entertaining." "Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable. But, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head tonight? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you. The men take notice of _that_ sometimes, you know." "But it does not signify if they do," said Catherine, very innocently. "Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say. They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with spirit, and make them keep their distance." "Are they? Well, I never observed _that_. They always behave very well to me." "Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited creatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance! By the by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always forgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you like them best dark or fair?" "I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both, I think. Brown not fair, and and not very dark." "Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your description of Mr. Tilney a brown skin, with dark eyes, and rather dark hair. Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes, and as to complexion do you know I like a sallow better than any other. You must not betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance answering that description." "Betray you! What do you mean?" "Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop the subject." Catherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few moments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her at that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina s skeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying,<|quote|>"For heaven s sake! Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there."</|quote|>Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it was Catherine s employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming young men. "They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am determined I will not look up." In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her that she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the pump-room. "And which way are they gone?" said Isabella, turning hastily round. "One was a very good-looking young man." "They went towards the church-yard." "Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what say you to going to Edgar s Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? You said you should like to see it." Catherine readily agreed. "Only," she added, "perhaps we may overtake the two young men." "Oh! Never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them presently, and I am dying to show you my hat." "But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of our seeing them at all." "I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have no notion of treating men with such respect. _That_ is the way to spoil them." Catherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning; and therefore, to show the independence of Miss Thorpe, and her resolution of humbling the sex, they set off immediately as fast as they could walk, in pursuit of the two young men. CHAPTER 7 Half a minute conducted them through the pump-yard to the archway, opposite Union Passage; but here they were stopped. Everybody acquainted with Bath may remember the difficulties of crossing Cheap Street at this point; it is indeed a street of so impertinent a nature, so unfortunately connected with the great London and Oxford roads, and the principal inn of the city, that a day never passes in which parties of ladies, however important their business, whether in quest of pastry, millinery, or even (as in the present case) of young men, are not detained on one side or other by carriages, horsemen, or carts. This evil had been felt and lamented, at least three times a day, by Isabella since her residence in Bath; and she | her?" "Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for _you_ are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men." "Oh, dear!" cried Catherine, colouring. "How can you say so?" "I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly I am sure he is in love with you." Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella laughed. "It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody s admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you" speaking more seriously "your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend your feelings." "But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr. Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again." "Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so!" "No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very much pleased with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina s skeleton behind it." "It is so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho before; but I suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels." "No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself; but new books do not fall in our way." "Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I remember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume." "It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very entertaining." "Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable. But, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head tonight? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you. The men take notice of _that_ sometimes, you know." "But it does not signify if they do," said Catherine, very innocently. "Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say. They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with spirit, and make them keep their distance." "Are they? Well, I never observed _that_. They always behave very well to me." "Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited creatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance! By the by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always forgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you like them best dark or fair?" "I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both, I think. Brown not fair, and and not very dark." "Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your description of Mr. Tilney a brown skin, with dark eyes, and rather dark hair. Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes, and as to complexion do you know I like a sallow better than any other. You must not betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance answering that description." "Betray you! What do you mean?" "Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop the subject." Catherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few moments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her at that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina s skeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying,<|quote|>"For heaven s sake! Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there."</|quote|>Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it was Catherine s employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming young men. "They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am determined I will not look up." In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her that she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the pump-room. "And which way are they gone?" said Isabella, turning hastily round. "One was a very good-looking young man." "They went towards the church-yard." "Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what say you to going to Edgar s Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? You said you should like to see it." Catherine readily agreed. "Only," she added, "perhaps we may overtake the two young men." "Oh! Never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them presently, and I am dying to show you my hat." "But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of our seeing them at all." "I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have no notion of treating men with such respect. _That_ is the way to spoil them." Catherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning; and therefore, to show the independence of Miss Thorpe, and her resolution of humbling the sex, they set off immediately as fast as they could walk, in pursuit of the two young men. CHAPTER 7 Half a minute conducted them through the pump-yard to the archway, opposite Union Passage; but here they were stopped. Everybody acquainted with Bath may remember the difficulties of crossing Cheap Street at this point; it is indeed a street of so impertinent a nature, so unfortunately connected with the great London and Oxford roads, and the principal inn of the city, that a day never passes in which parties of ladies, however important their business, whether in quest of pastry, millinery, or even (as in the present case) of young men, are not detained on one side or other by carriages, horsemen, or carts. This evil had been felt and lamented, at least three times a day, by Isabella since her residence in Bath; and she was now fated to feel and lament it once more, for at the very moment of coming opposite to Union Passage, and within view of the two gentlemen who were proceeding through the crowds, and threading the gutters of that interesting alley, they were prevented crossing by the approach of a gig, driven along on bad pavement by a most knowing-looking coachman with all the vehemence that could most fitly endanger the lives of himself, his companion, and his horse. "Oh, these odious gigs!" said Isabella, looking up. "How I detest them." But this detestation, though so just, was of short duration, for she looked again and exclaimed, "Delightful! Mr. Morland and my brother!" "Good heaven! Tis James!" was uttered at the same moment by Catherine; and, on catching the young men s eyes, the horse was immediately checked with a violence which almost threw him on his haunches, and the servant having now scampered up, the gentlemen jumped out, and the equipage was delivered to his care. Catherine, by whom this meeting was wholly unexpected, received her brother with the liveliest pleasure; and he, being of a very amiable disposition, and sincerely attached to her, gave every proof on his side of equal satisfaction, which he could have leisure to do, while the bright eyes of Miss Thorpe were incessantly challenging his notice; and to her his devoirs were speedily paid, with a mixture of joy and embarrassment which might have informed Catherine, had she been more expert in the development of other people s feelings, and less simply engrossed by her own, that her brother thought her friend quite as pretty as she could do herself. John Thorpe, who in the meantime had been giving orders about the horses, soon joined them, and from him she directly received the amends which were her due; for while he slightly and carelessly touched the hand of Isabella, on her he bestowed a whole scrape and half a short bow. He was a stout young man of middling height, who, with a plain face and ungraceful form, seemed fearful of being too handsome unless he wore the dress of a groom, and too much like a gentleman unless he were easy where he ought to be civil, and impudent where he might be allowed to be easy. He took out his watch: "How long do you think we have been running | Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume." "It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very entertaining." "Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable. But, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head tonight? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you. The men take notice of _that_ sometimes, you know." "But it does not signify if they do," said Catherine, very innocently. "Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say. They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with spirit, and make them keep their distance." "Are they? Well, I never observed _that_. They always behave very well to me." "Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited creatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance! By the by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always forgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you like them best dark or fair?" "I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both, I think. Brown not fair, and and not very dark." "Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your description of Mr. Tilney a brown skin, with dark eyes, and rather dark hair. Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes, and as to complexion do you know I like a sallow better than any other. You must not betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance answering that description." "Betray you! What do you mean?" "Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop the subject." Catherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few moments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her at that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina s skeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying,<|quote|>"For heaven s sake! Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there."</|quote|>Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it was Catherine s employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming young men. "They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am determined I will not look up." In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her that she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the pump-room. "And which way are they gone?" said Isabella, turning hastily round. "One was a very good-looking young man." "They went towards the church-yard." "Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what say you to going to Edgar s Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? You said you should like to see it." Catherine readily agreed. "Only," she added, "perhaps we may overtake the two young men." "Oh! Never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them presently, and I am dying to show you my hat." "But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of our seeing them at all." "I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have no notion of treating men with such respect. _That_ is the way to spoil them." Catherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning; and therefore, to show the independence of Miss Thorpe, and her resolution of humbling the sex, they set off immediately as fast as they could walk, in pursuit of the two young men. CHAPTER 7 Half a minute conducted them through the pump-yard to the archway, opposite Union Passage; but here they were stopped. Everybody acquainted with Bath may remember the difficulties of crossing Cheap Street at this point; it is indeed a street of so impertinent a nature, so unfortunately connected with the great London and Oxford roads, and the principal inn of the city, that a day never passes in which parties of ladies, however important their business, whether in quest of pastry, millinery, or even (as in the present case) of young men, are | Northanger Abbey |
"I hope it does not proceed from--I hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?" | Emma | however." After another short hesitation,<|quote|>"I hope it does not proceed from--I hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?"</|quote|>"Mr. Elton indeed!" cried Harriet | that I shall never change, however." After another short hesitation,<|quote|>"I hope it does not proceed from--I hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?"</|quote|>"Mr. Elton indeed!" cried Harriet indignantly.--" "Oh! no" "--and Emma | serious tone, "I shall never marry." Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a moment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied, "Never marry!--This is a new resolution." "It is one that I shall never change, however." After another short hesitation,<|quote|>"I hope it does not proceed from--I hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?"</|quote|>"Mr. Elton indeed!" cried Harriet indignantly.--" "Oh! no" "--and Emma could just catch the words, "so superior to Mr. Elton!" She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no farther?--should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?--Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if | moment, which made the information she received more valuable. She merely said, in the course of some trivial chat, "Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and so"--and thought no more of it, till after a minute's silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, "I shall never marry." Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a moment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied, "Never marry!--This is a new resolution." "It is one that I shall never change, however." After another short hesitation,<|quote|>"I hope it does not proceed from--I hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?"</|quote|>"Mr. Elton indeed!" cried Harriet indignantly.--" "Oh! no" "--and Emma could just catch the words, "so superior to Mr. Elton!" She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no farther?--should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?--Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly resolved.--She believed it would be | happier to burn it," replied Harriet. "It has a disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.--There it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton." "And when," thought Emma, "will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?" She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had _told_ no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's.--About a fortnight after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the information she received more valuable. She merely said, in the course of some trivial chat, "Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and so"--and thought no more of it, till after a minute's silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, "I shall never marry." Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a moment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied, "Never marry!--This is a new resolution." "It is one that I shall never change, however." After another short hesitation,<|quote|>"I hope it does not proceed from--I hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?"</|quote|>"Mr. Elton indeed!" cried Harriet indignantly.--" "Oh! no" "--and Emma could just catch the words, "so superior to Mr. Elton!" She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no farther?--should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?--Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly resolved.--She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at once, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always best. She had previously determined how far she would proceed, on any application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.--She was decided, and thus spoke-- "Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly your superior | both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I have an idea he was standing just here." "Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.--It is very odd, but I cannot recollect.--Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I am now." "-- "Well, go on." "Oh! that's all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say--except that I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see me do it." "My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in treasuring up these things?" "Yes, simpleton as I was!--but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was--but had not resolution enough to part with them." "But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?--I have not a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be useful." "I shall be happier to burn it," replied Harriet. "It has a disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.--There it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton." "And when," thought Emma, "will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?" She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had _told_ no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's.--About a fortnight after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the information she received more valuable. She merely said, in the course of some trivial chat, "Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and so"--and thought no more of it, till after a minute's silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, "I shall never marry." Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a moment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied, "Never marry!--This is a new resolution." "It is one that I shall never change, however." After another short hesitation,<|quote|>"I hope it does not proceed from--I hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?"</|quote|>"Mr. Elton indeed!" cried Harriet indignantly.--" "Oh! no" "--and Emma could just catch the words, "so superior to Mr. Elton!" She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no farther?--should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?--Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly resolved.--She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at once, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always best. She had previously determined how far she would proceed, on any application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.--She was decided, and thus spoke-- "Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly your superior in situation to think of you. Is not it so?" "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose-- Indeed I am not so mad.--But it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a distance--and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so proper, in me especially." "I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you was enough to warm your heart." "Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!--The very recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time--when I saw him coming--his noble look--and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In one moment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!" "It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.--Yes, honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.--But that it will be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise. I do not advise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage for its being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be wisest in you to check | never to be used, and looked at it now and then as a great treat." "My dearest Harriet!" cried Emma, putting her hand before her face, and jumping up, "you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear. Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this relic--I knew nothing of that till this moment--but the cutting the finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about me!--Oh! my sins, my sins!--And I had plenty all the while in my pocket!--One of my senseless tricks!--I deserve to be under a continual blush all the rest of my life.--Well--" (sitting down again) "--go on--what else?" "And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected it, you did it so naturally." "And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!" said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, "Lord bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I never was equal to this." "Here," resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, "here is something still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister never did." Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an old pencil,--the part without any lead. "This was really his," said Harriet.--" "Do not you remember one morning?--no, I dare say you do not. But one morning--I forget exactly the day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_ _evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment." "I do remember it," cried Emma; "I perfectly remember it.--Talking about spruce-beer.--Oh! yes--Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I have an idea he was standing just here." "Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.--It is very odd, but I cannot recollect.--Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I am now." "-- "Well, go on." "Oh! that's all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say--except that I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see me do it." "My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in treasuring up these things?" "Yes, simpleton as I was!--but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was--but had not resolution enough to part with them." "But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?--I have not a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be useful." "I shall be happier to burn it," replied Harriet. "It has a disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.--There it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton." "And when," thought Emma, "will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?" She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had _told_ no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's.--About a fortnight after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the information she received more valuable. She merely said, in the course of some trivial chat, "Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and so"--and thought no more of it, till after a minute's silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, "I shall never marry." Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a moment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied, "Never marry!--This is a new resolution." "It is one that I shall never change, however." After another short hesitation,<|quote|>"I hope it does not proceed from--I hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?"</|quote|>"Mr. Elton indeed!" cried Harriet indignantly.--" "Oh! no" "--and Emma could just catch the words, "so superior to Mr. Elton!" She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no farther?--should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?--Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly resolved.--She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at once, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always best. She had previously determined how far she would proceed, on any application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.--She was decided, and thus spoke-- "Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly your superior in situation to think of you. Is not it so?" "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose-- Indeed I am not so mad.--But it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a distance--and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so proper, in me especially." "I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you was enough to warm your heart." "Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!--The very recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time--when I saw him coming--his noble look--and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In one moment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!" "It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.--Yes, honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.--But that it will be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise. I do not advise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage for its being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be wisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not let them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be observant of him. Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I give you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on the subject. I am determined against all interference. Henceforward I know nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass our lips. We were very wrong before; we will be cautious now.--He is your superior, no doubt, and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature; but yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there have been matches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I would not have you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured your raising your thoughts to _him_, is a mark of good taste which I shall always know how to value." Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend. Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind--and it must be saving her from the danger of degradation. CHAPTER V In this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance, June opened upon Hartfield. To Highbury in general it brought no material change. The Eltons were still talking of a visit from the Sucklings, and of the use to be made of their barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her grandmother's; and as the return of the Campbells from Ireland was again delayed, and August, instead of Midsummer, fixed for it, she was likely to remain there full two months longer, provided at least she were able to defeat Mrs. Elton's activity in her service, and save herself from being hurried into a delightful situation against her will. Mr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to himself, had certainly taken an early dislike to Frank Churchill, was only growing to dislike him more. He began to suspect him of some double dealing in his pursuit of Emma. That Emma was his object appeared indisputable. Every thing declared it; his own attentions, his father's hints, his mother-in-law's guarded silence; it was all in unison; words, conduct, discretion, and indiscretion, told the same story. But while so many were devoting him to Emma, and Emma herself making him over to | as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment." "I do remember it," cried Emma; "I perfectly remember it.--Talking about spruce-beer.--Oh! yes--Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I have an idea he was standing just here." "Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.--It is very odd, but I cannot recollect.--Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I am now." "-- "Well, go on." "Oh! that's all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say--except that I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see me do it." "My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in treasuring up these things?" "Yes, simpleton as I was!--but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was--but had not resolution enough to part with them." "But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?--I have not a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be useful." "I shall be happier to burn it," replied Harriet. "It has a disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.--There it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton." "And when," thought Emma, "will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?" She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had _told_ no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's.--About a fortnight after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the information she received more valuable. She merely said, in the course of some trivial chat, "Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and so"--and thought no more of it, till after a minute's silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, "I shall never marry." Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a moment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied, "Never marry!--This is a new resolution." "It is one that I shall never change, however." After another short hesitation,<|quote|>"I hope it does not proceed from--I hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?"</|quote|>"Mr. Elton indeed!" cried Harriet indignantly.--" "Oh! no" "--and Emma could just catch the words, "so superior to Mr. Elton!" She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no farther?--should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?--Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly resolved.--She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at once, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always best. She had previously determined how far she would proceed, on any application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.--She was decided, and thus spoke-- "Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly your superior in situation to think of you. Is not it so?" "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose-- Indeed I am not so mad.--But it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a distance--and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so proper, in me especially." "I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you was enough to warm your heart." "Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!--The very recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time--when I saw him coming--his noble look--and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In one moment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!" "It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.--Yes, honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.--But that it will be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise. I do not advise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage for its being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be wisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not let them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be observant of him. Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I give you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on the subject. I am determined against all interference. Henceforward I know nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass our lips. We were very wrong before; we will be cautious now.--He is your superior, no doubt, and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature; but yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there have been matches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I would not | Emma |
"Cheer up, John!" | Mr. Hastings | nothing. Pretty thick, isn't it?"<|quote|>"Cheer up, John!"</|quote|>I said soothingly. "It can't | that can be seen for nothing. Pretty thick, isn't it?"<|quote|>"Cheer up, John!"</|quote|>I said soothingly. "It can't last for ever." "Can't it, | turn up next. Screaming headlines in every paper in the country damn all journalists, I say! Do you know there was a whole crowd staring in at the lodge gates this morning. Sort of Madame Tussaud's chamber of horrors business that can be seen for nothing. Pretty thick, isn't it?"<|quote|>"Cheer up, John!"</|quote|>I said soothingly. "It can't last for ever." "Can't it, though? It can last long enough for us never to be able to hold up our heads again." "No, no, you're getting morbid on the subject." "Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastly journalists and stared | well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What a rotten world it is, though!" "You find it so?" I asked. "Good Lord, yes! There's this terrible business to start with. Scotland Yard men in and out of the house like a jack-in-the-box! Never know where they won't turn up next. Screaming headlines in every paper in the country damn all journalists, I say! Do you know there was a whole crowd staring in at the lodge gates this morning. Sort of Madame Tussaud's chamber of horrors business that can be seen for nothing. Pretty thick, isn't it?"<|quote|>"Cheer up, John!"</|quote|>I said soothingly. "It can't last for ever." "Can't it, though? It can last long enough for us never to be able to hold up our heads again." "No, no, you're getting morbid on the subject." "Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastly journalists and stared at by gaping moon-faced idiots, wherever he goes! But there's worse than that." "What?" John lowered his voice: "Have you ever thought, Hastings it's a nightmare to me who did it? I can't help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident. Because because who could have done it? Now | quietly from his arm, and spoke over her shoulder. "Perhaps," she said; and then swiftly passed out of the little glade, leaving John standing there as though he had been turned to stone. Rather ostentatiously, I stepped forward, crackling some dead branches with my feet as I did so. John turned. Luckily, he took it for granted that I had only just come upon the scene. "Hullo, Hastings. Have you seen the little fellow safely back to his cottage? Quaint little chap! Is he any good, though, really?" "He was considered one of the finest detectives of his day." "Oh, well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What a rotten world it is, though!" "You find it so?" I asked. "Good Lord, yes! There's this terrible business to start with. Scotland Yard men in and out of the house like a jack-in-the-box! Never know where they won't turn up next. Screaming headlines in every paper in the country damn all journalists, I say! Do you know there was a whole crowd staring in at the lodge gates this morning. Sort of Madame Tussaud's chamber of horrors business that can be seen for nothing. Pretty thick, isn't it?"<|quote|>"Cheer up, John!"</|quote|>I said soothingly. "It can't last for ever." "Can't it, though? It can last long enough for us never to be able to hold up our heads again." "No, no, you're getting morbid on the subject." "Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastly journalists and stared at by gaping moon-faced idiots, wherever he goes! But there's worse than that." "What?" John lowered his voice: "Have you ever thought, Hastings it's a nightmare to me who did it? I can't help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident. Because because who could have done it? Now Inglethorp's out of the way, there's no one else; no one, I mean, except one of us." Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us? Yes, surely it must be so, unless - A new idea suggested itself to my mind. Rapidly, I considered it. The light increased. Poirot's mysterious doings, his hints they all fitted in. Fool that I was not to have thought of this possibility before, and what a relief for us all. "No, John," I said, "it isn't one of us. How could it be?" "I know, but, still, who else is | "Am I to understand that you will continue to see Bauerstein against my express wishes?" "If I choose." "You defy me?" "No, but I deny your right to criticize my actions. Have _you_ no friends of whom I should disapprove?" John fell back a pace. The colour ebbed slowly from his face. "What do you mean?" he said, in an unsteady voice. "You see!" said Mary quietly. "You _do_ see, don't you, that _you_ have no right to dictate to _me_ as to the choice of my friends?" John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face. "No right? Have I _no_ right, Mary?" he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. "Mary" For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away. "None!" She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by the arm. "Mary" his voice was very quiet now "are you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?" She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strange expression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally young about it. So might some Egyptian sphinx have smiled. She freed herself quietly from his arm, and spoke over her shoulder. "Perhaps," she said; and then swiftly passed out of the little glade, leaving John standing there as though he had been turned to stone. Rather ostentatiously, I stepped forward, crackling some dead branches with my feet as I did so. John turned. Luckily, he took it for granted that I had only just come upon the scene. "Hullo, Hastings. Have you seen the little fellow safely back to his cottage? Quaint little chap! Is he any good, though, really?" "He was considered one of the finest detectives of his day." "Oh, well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What a rotten world it is, though!" "You find it so?" I asked. "Good Lord, yes! There's this terrible business to start with. Scotland Yard men in and out of the house like a jack-in-the-box! Never know where they won't turn up next. Screaming headlines in every paper in the country damn all journalists, I say! Do you know there was a whole crowd staring in at the lodge gates this morning. Sort of Madame Tussaud's chamber of horrors business that can be seen for nothing. Pretty thick, isn't it?"<|quote|>"Cheer up, John!"</|quote|>I said soothingly. "It can't last for ever." "Can't it, though? It can last long enough for us never to be able to hold up our heads again." "No, no, you're getting morbid on the subject." "Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastly journalists and stared at by gaping moon-faced idiots, wherever he goes! But there's worse than that." "What?" John lowered his voice: "Have you ever thought, Hastings it's a nightmare to me who did it? I can't help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident. Because because who could have done it? Now Inglethorp's out of the way, there's no one else; no one, I mean, except one of us." Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us? Yes, surely it must be so, unless - A new idea suggested itself to my mind. Rapidly, I considered it. The light increased. Poirot's mysterious doings, his hints they all fitted in. Fool that I was not to have thought of this possibility before, and what a relief for us all. "No, John," I said, "it isn't one of us. How could it be?" "I know, but, still, who else is there?" "Can't you guess?" "No." I looked cautiously round, and lowered my voice. "Dr. Bauerstein!" I whispered. "Impossible!" "Not at all." "But what earthly interest could he have in my mother's death?" "That I don't see," I confessed, "but I'll tell you this: Poirot thinks so." "Poirot? Does he? How do you know?" I told him of Poirot's intense excitement on hearing that Dr. Bauerstein had been at Styles on the fatal night, and added: "He said twice:" That alters everything.' "And I've been thinking. You know Inglethorp said he had put down the coffee in the hall? Well, it was just then that Bauerstein arrived. Isn't it possible that, as Inglethorp brought him through the hall, the doctor dropped something into the coffee in passing?" "H'm," said John. "It would have been very risky." "Yes, but it was possible." "And then, how could he know it was her coffee? No, old fellow, I don't think that will wash." But I had remembered something else. "You're quite right. That wasn't how it was done. Listen." And I then told him of the cocoa sample which Poirot had taken to be analysed. John interrupted just as I had done. "But, look | "I wondered. That is all. Will you come in?" We had reached the cottage. "No. I think I'll be getting back. I shall go round the long way through the woods." The woods round Styles were very beautiful. After the walk across the open park, it was pleasant to saunter lazily through the cool glades. There was hardly a breath of wind, the very chirp of the birds was faint and subdued. I strolled on a little way, and finally flung myself down at the foot of a grand old beech-tree. My thoughts of mankind were kindly and charitable. I even forgave Poirot for his absurd secrecy. In fact, I was at peace with the world. Then I yawned. I thought about the crime, and it struck me as being very unreal and far off. I yawned again. Probably, I thought, it really never happened. Of course, it was all a bad dream. The truth of the matter was that it was Lawrence who had murdered Alfred Inglethorp with a croquet mallet. But it was absurd of John to make such a fuss about it, and to go shouting out: "I tell you I won't have it!" I woke up with a start. At once I realized that I was in a very awkward predicament. For, about twelve feet away from me, John and Mary Cavendish were standing facing each other, and they were evidently quarrelling. And, quite as evidently, they were unaware of my vicinity, for before I could move or speak John repeated the words which had aroused me from my dream. "I tell you, Mary, I won't have it." Mary's voice came, cool and liquid: "Have _you_ any right to criticize my actions?" "It will be the talk of the village! My mother was only buried on Saturday, and here you are gadding about with the fellow." "Oh," she shrugged her shoulders, "if it is only village gossip that you mind!" "But it isn't. I've had enough of the fellow hanging about. He's a Polish Jew, anyway." "A tinge of Jewish blood is not a bad thing. It leavens the" she looked at him "stolid stupidity of the ordinary Englishman." Fire in her eyes, ice in her voice. I did not wonder that the blood rose to John's face in a crimson tide. "Mary!" "Well?" Her tone did not change. The pleading died out of his voice. "Am I to understand that you will continue to see Bauerstein against my express wishes?" "If I choose." "You defy me?" "No, but I deny your right to criticize my actions. Have _you_ no friends of whom I should disapprove?" John fell back a pace. The colour ebbed slowly from his face. "What do you mean?" he said, in an unsteady voice. "You see!" said Mary quietly. "You _do_ see, don't you, that _you_ have no right to dictate to _me_ as to the choice of my friends?" John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face. "No right? Have I _no_ right, Mary?" he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. "Mary" For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away. "None!" She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by the arm. "Mary" his voice was very quiet now "are you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?" She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strange expression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally young about it. So might some Egyptian sphinx have smiled. She freed herself quietly from his arm, and spoke over her shoulder. "Perhaps," she said; and then swiftly passed out of the little glade, leaving John standing there as though he had been turned to stone. Rather ostentatiously, I stepped forward, crackling some dead branches with my feet as I did so. John turned. Luckily, he took it for granted that I had only just come upon the scene. "Hullo, Hastings. Have you seen the little fellow safely back to his cottage? Quaint little chap! Is he any good, though, really?" "He was considered one of the finest detectives of his day." "Oh, well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What a rotten world it is, though!" "You find it so?" I asked. "Good Lord, yes! There's this terrible business to start with. Scotland Yard men in and out of the house like a jack-in-the-box! Never know where they won't turn up next. Screaming headlines in every paper in the country damn all journalists, I say! Do you know there was a whole crowd staring in at the lodge gates this morning. Sort of Madame Tussaud's chamber of horrors business that can be seen for nothing. Pretty thick, isn't it?"<|quote|>"Cheer up, John!"</|quote|>I said soothingly. "It can't last for ever." "Can't it, though? It can last long enough for us never to be able to hold up our heads again." "No, no, you're getting morbid on the subject." "Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastly journalists and stared at by gaping moon-faced idiots, wherever he goes! But there's worse than that." "What?" John lowered his voice: "Have you ever thought, Hastings it's a nightmare to me who did it? I can't help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident. Because because who could have done it? Now Inglethorp's out of the way, there's no one else; no one, I mean, except one of us." Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us? Yes, surely it must be so, unless - A new idea suggested itself to my mind. Rapidly, I considered it. The light increased. Poirot's mysterious doings, his hints they all fitted in. Fool that I was not to have thought of this possibility before, and what a relief for us all. "No, John," I said, "it isn't one of us. How could it be?" "I know, but, still, who else is there?" "Can't you guess?" "No." I looked cautiously round, and lowered my voice. "Dr. Bauerstein!" I whispered. "Impossible!" "Not at all." "But what earthly interest could he have in my mother's death?" "That I don't see," I confessed, "but I'll tell you this: Poirot thinks so." "Poirot? Does he? How do you know?" I told him of Poirot's intense excitement on hearing that Dr. Bauerstein had been at Styles on the fatal night, and added: "He said twice:" That alters everything.' "And I've been thinking. You know Inglethorp said he had put down the coffee in the hall? Well, it was just then that Bauerstein arrived. Isn't it possible that, as Inglethorp brought him through the hall, the doctor dropped something into the coffee in passing?" "H'm," said John. "It would have been very risky." "Yes, but it was possible." "And then, how could he know it was her coffee? No, old fellow, I don't think that will wash." But I had remembered something else. "You're quite right. That wasn't how it was done. Listen." And I then told him of the cocoa sample which Poirot had taken to be analysed. John interrupted just as I had done. "But, look here, Bauerstein had had it analysed already?" "Yes, yes, that's the point. I didn't see it either until now. Don't you understand? Bauerstein had it analysed that's just it! If Bauerstein's the murderer, nothing could be simpler than for him to substitute some ordinary cocoa for his sample, and send that to be tested. And of course they would find no strychnine! But no one would dream of suspecting Bauerstein, or think of taking another sample except Poirot," I added, with belated recognition. "Yes, but what about the bitter taste that cocoa won't disguise?" "Well, we've only his word for that. And there are other possibilities. He's admittedly one of the world's greatest toxicologists" "One of the world's greatest what? Say it again." "He knows more about poisons than almost anybody," I explained. "Well, my idea is, that perhaps he's found some way of making strychnine tasteless. Or it may not have been strychnine at all, but some obscure drug no one has ever heard of, which produces much the same symptoms." "H'm, yes, that might be," said John. "But look here, how could he have got at the cocoa? That wasn't downstairs?" "No, it wasn't," I admitted reluctantly. And then, suddenly, a dreadful possibility flashed through my mind. I hoped and prayed it would not occur to John also. I glanced sideways at him. He was frowning perplexedly, and I drew a deep breath of relief, for the terrible thought that had flashed across my mind was this: that Dr. Bauerstein might have had an accomplice. Yet surely it could not be! Surely no woman as beautiful as Mary Cavendish could be a murderess. Yet beautiful women had been known to poison. And suddenly I remembered that first conversation at tea on the day of my arrival, and the gleam in her eyes as she had said that poison was a woman's weapon. How agitated she had been on that fatal Tuesday evening! Had Mrs. Inglethorp discovered something between her and Bauerstein, and threatened to tell her husband? Was it to stop that denunciation that the crime had been committed? Then I remembered that enigmatical conversation between Poirot and Evelyn Howard. Was this what they had meant? Was this the monstrous possibility that Evelyn had tried not to believe? Yes, it all fitted in. No wonder Miss Howard had suggested "hushing it up." Now I understood that unfinished sentence | look on his face. "No right? Have I _no_ right, Mary?" he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. "Mary" For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away. "None!" She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by the arm. "Mary" his voice was very quiet now "are you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?" She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strange expression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally young about it. So might some Egyptian sphinx have smiled. She freed herself quietly from his arm, and spoke over her shoulder. "Perhaps," she said; and then swiftly passed out of the little glade, leaving John standing there as though he had been turned to stone. Rather ostentatiously, I stepped forward, crackling some dead branches with my feet as I did so. John turned. Luckily, he took it for granted that I had only just come upon the scene. "Hullo, Hastings. Have you seen the little fellow safely back to his cottage? Quaint little chap! Is he any good, though, really?" "He was considered one of the finest detectives of his day." "Oh, well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What a rotten world it is, though!" "You find it so?" I asked. "Good Lord, yes! There's this terrible business to start with. Scotland Yard men in and out of the house like a jack-in-the-box! Never know where they won't turn up next. Screaming headlines in every paper in the country damn all journalists, I say! Do you know there was a whole crowd staring in at the lodge gates this morning. Sort of Madame Tussaud's chamber of horrors business that can be seen for nothing. Pretty thick, isn't it?"<|quote|>"Cheer up, John!"</|quote|>I said soothingly. "It can't last for ever." "Can't it, though? It can last long enough for us never to be able to hold up our heads again." "No, no, you're getting morbid on the subject." "Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastly journalists and stared at by gaping moon-faced idiots, wherever he goes! But there's worse than that." "What?" John lowered his voice: "Have you ever thought, Hastings it's a nightmare to me who did it? I can't help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident. Because because who could have done it? Now Inglethorp's out of the way, there's no one else; no one, I mean, except one of us." Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us? Yes, surely it must be so, unless - A new idea suggested itself to my mind. Rapidly, I considered it. The light increased. Poirot's mysterious doings, his hints they all fitted in. Fool that I was not to have thought of this possibility before, and what a relief for us all. "No, John," I said, "it isn't one of us. How could it be?" "I know, but, still, who else is there?" "Can't you guess?" "No." I looked cautiously round, and lowered my voice. "Dr. Bauerstein!" I whispered. "Impossible!" "Not at all." "But what earthly interest could he have in my mother's death?" "That I don't see," I confessed, "but I'll tell you this: Poirot thinks so." "Poirot? Does he? How do you know?" I told him of Poirot's intense excitement on hearing that Dr. Bauerstein had been at Styles on the fatal night, and added: "He said twice:" That alters everything.' "And I've been thinking. You know Inglethorp said he had put down the coffee in the hall? Well, it was just then that Bauerstein arrived. Isn't it possible that, as Inglethorp brought him through the hall, the doctor dropped something into the coffee in passing?" "H'm," said John. "It would have been very risky." "Yes, but it was possible." "And then, how could he know it was her coffee? No, old fellow, I don't think that will wash." But I had remembered something else. "You're quite right. That wasn't how it was done. Listen." And I then told him of the cocoa sample which Poirot had taken to be analysed. John interrupted just as I had done. "But, look here, Bauerstein had had it analysed already?" "Yes, yes, that's the point. I didn't see it either until now. Don't you understand? Bauerstein had it analysed that's just it! If Bauerstein's the murderer, nothing could be simpler than for him to substitute some ordinary cocoa for his sample, and send that to be tested. And of course they would find no | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
"I certainly do think there has been by far too much trouble taken to procure the acquaintance. I suppose" | Anne Elliot | to be answered, she added,<|quote|>"I certainly do think there has been by far too much trouble taken to procure the acquaintance. I suppose"</|quote|>(smiling) "I have more pride | recollecting herself, and not wishing to be answered, she added,<|quote|>"I certainly do think there has been by far too much trouble taken to procure the acquaintance. I suppose"</|quote|>(smiling) "I have more pride than any of you; but | to them will have its use in fixing your family (our family let me say) in that degree of consideration which we must all wish for." "Yes," sighed Anne, "we shall, indeed, be known to be related to them!" then recollecting herself, and not wishing to be answered, she added,<|quote|>"I certainly do think there has been by far too much trouble taken to procure the acquaintance. I suppose"</|quote|>(smiling) "I have more pride than any of you; but I confess it does vex me, that we should be so solicitous to have the relationship acknowledged, which we may be very sure is a matter of perfect indifference to them." "Pardon me, dear cousin, you are unjust in your | accept the society of those good ladies in Laura Place, and enjoy all the advantages of the connexion as far as possible? You may depend upon it, that they will move in the first set in Bath this winter, and as rank is rank, your being known to be related to them will have its use in fixing your family (our family let me say) in that degree of consideration which we must all wish for." "Yes," sighed Anne, "we shall, indeed, be known to be related to them!" then recollecting herself, and not wishing to be answered, she added,<|quote|>"I certainly do think there has been by far too much trouble taken to procure the acquaintance. I suppose"</|quote|>(smiling) "I have more pride than any of you; but I confess it does vex me, that we should be so solicitous to have the relationship acknowledged, which we may be very sure is a matter of perfect indifference to them." "Pardon me, dear cousin, you are unjust in your own claims. In London, perhaps, in your present quiet style of living, it might be as you say: but in Bath; Sir Walter Elliot and his family will always be worth knowing: always acceptable as acquaintance." "Well," said Anne, "I certainly am proud, too proud to enjoy a welcome which | company; that is the best. Good company requires only birth, education, and manners, and with regard to education is not very nice. Birth and good manners are essential; but a little learning is by no means a dangerous thing in good company; on the contrary, it will do very well. My cousin Anne shakes her head. She is not satisfied. She is fastidious. My dear cousin" (sitting down by her), "you have a better right to be fastidious than almost any other woman I know; but will it answer? Will it make you happy? Will it not be wiser to accept the society of those good ladies in Laura Place, and enjoy all the advantages of the connexion as far as possible? You may depend upon it, that they will move in the first set in Bath this winter, and as rank is rank, your being known to be related to them will have its use in fixing your family (our family let me say) in that degree of consideration which we must all wish for." "Yes," sighed Anne, "we shall, indeed, be known to be related to them!" then recollecting herself, and not wishing to be answered, she added,<|quote|>"I certainly do think there has been by far too much trouble taken to procure the acquaintance. I suppose"</|quote|>(smiling) "I have more pride than any of you; but I confess it does vex me, that we should be so solicitous to have the relationship acknowledged, which we may be very sure is a matter of perfect indifference to them." "Pardon me, dear cousin, you are unjust in your own claims. In London, perhaps, in your present quiet style of living, it might be as you say: but in Bath; Sir Walter Elliot and his family will always be worth knowing: always acceptable as acquaintance." "Well," said Anne, "I certainly am proud, too proud to enjoy a welcome which depends so entirely upon place." "I love your indignation," said he; "it is very natural. But here you are in Bath, and the object is to be established here with all the credit and dignity which ought to belong to Sir Walter Elliot. You talk of being proud; I am called proud, I know, and I shall not wish to believe myself otherwise; for our pride, if investigated, would have the same object, I have no doubt, though the kind may seem a little different. In one point, I am sure, my dear cousin," (he continued, speaking lower, though there | Place,"--"Our cousin, Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret," were talked of to everybody. Anne was ashamed. Had Lady Dalrymple and her daughter even been very agreeable, she would still have been ashamed of the agitation they created, but they were nothing. There was no superiority of manner, accomplishment, or understanding. Lady Dalrymple had acquired the name of "a charming woman," because she had a smile and a civil answer for everybody. Miss Carteret, with still less to say, was so plain and so awkward, that she would never have been tolerated in Camden Place but for her birth. Lady Russell confessed she had expected something better; but yet "it was an acquaintance worth having;" and when Anne ventured to speak her opinion of them to Mr Elliot, he agreed to their being nothing in themselves, but still maintained that, as a family connexion, as good company, as those who would collect good company around them, they had their value. Anne smiled and said, "My idea of good company, Mr Elliot, is the company of clever, well-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation; that is what I call good company." "You are mistaken," said he gently, "that is not good company; that is the best. Good company requires only birth, education, and manners, and with regard to education is not very nice. Birth and good manners are essential; but a little learning is by no means a dangerous thing in good company; on the contrary, it will do very well. My cousin Anne shakes her head. She is not satisfied. She is fastidious. My dear cousin" (sitting down by her), "you have a better right to be fastidious than almost any other woman I know; but will it answer? Will it make you happy? Will it not be wiser to accept the society of those good ladies in Laura Place, and enjoy all the advantages of the connexion as far as possible? You may depend upon it, that they will move in the first set in Bath this winter, and as rank is rank, your being known to be related to them will have its use in fixing your family (our family let me say) in that degree of consideration which we must all wish for." "Yes," sighed Anne, "we shall, indeed, be known to be related to them!" then recollecting herself, and not wishing to be answered, she added,<|quote|>"I certainly do think there has been by far too much trouble taken to procure the acquaintance. I suppose"</|quote|>(smiling) "I have more pride than any of you; but I confess it does vex me, that we should be so solicitous to have the relationship acknowledged, which we may be very sure is a matter of perfect indifference to them." "Pardon me, dear cousin, you are unjust in your own claims. In London, perhaps, in your present quiet style of living, it might be as you say: but in Bath; Sir Walter Elliot and his family will always be worth knowing: always acceptable as acquaintance." "Well," said Anne, "I certainly am proud, too proud to enjoy a welcome which depends so entirely upon place." "I love your indignation," said he; "it is very natural. But here you are in Bath, and the object is to be established here with all the credit and dignity which ought to belong to Sir Walter Elliot. You talk of being proud; I am called proud, I know, and I shall not wish to believe myself otherwise; for our pride, if investigated, would have the same object, I have no doubt, though the kind may seem a little different. In one point, I am sure, my dear cousin," (he continued, speaking lower, though there was no one else in the room) "in one point, I am sure, we must feel alike. We must feel that every addition to your father's society, among his equals or superiors, may be of use in diverting his thoughts from those who are beneath him." He looked, as he spoke, to the seat which Mrs Clay had been lately occupying: a sufficient explanation of what he particularly meant; and though Anne could not believe in their having the same sort of pride, she was pleased with him for not liking Mrs Clay; and her conscience admitted that his wishing to promote her father's getting great acquaintance was more than excusable in the view of defeating her. Chapter 17 While Sir Walter and Elizabeth were assiduously pushing their good fortune in Laura Place, Anne was renewing an acquaintance of a very different description. She had called on her former governess, and had heard from her of there being an old school-fellow in Bath, who had the two strong claims on her attention of past kindness and present suffering. Miss Hamilton, now Mrs Smith, had shewn her kindness in one of those periods of her life when it had been most | disappointed. She had hoped better things from their high ideas of their own situation in life, and was reduced to form a wish which she had never foreseen; a wish that they had more pride; for "our cousins Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret;" "our cousins, the Dalrymples," sounded in her ears all day long. Sir Walter had once been in company with the late viscount, but had never seen any of the rest of the family; and the difficulties of the case arose from there having been a suspension of all intercourse by letters of ceremony, ever since the death of that said late viscount, when, in consequence of a dangerous illness of Sir Walter's at the same time, there had been an unlucky omission at Kellynch. No letter of condolence had been sent to Ireland. The neglect had been visited on the head of the sinner; for when poor Lady Elliot died herself, no letter of condolence was received at Kellynch, and, consequently, there was but too much reason to apprehend that the Dalrymples considered the relationship as closed. How to have this anxious business set to rights, and be admitted as cousins again, was the question: and it was a question which, in a more rational manner, neither Lady Russell nor Mr Elliot thought unimportant. "Family connexions were always worth preserving, good company always worth seeking; Lady Dalrymple had taken a house, for three months, in Laura Place, and would be living in style. She had been at Bath the year before, and Lady Russell had heard her spoken of as a charming woman. It was very desirable that the connexion should be renewed, if it could be done, without any compromise of propriety on the side of the Elliots." Sir Walter, however, would choose his own means, and at last wrote a very fine letter of ample explanation, regret, and entreaty, to his right honourable cousin. Neither Lady Russell nor Mr Elliot could admire the letter; but it did all that was wanted, in bringing three lines of scrawl from the Dowager Viscountess. "She was very much honoured, and should be happy in their acquaintance." The toils of the business were over, the sweets began. They visited in Laura Place, they had the cards of Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple, and the Honourable Miss Carteret, to be arranged wherever they might be most visible: and "Our cousins in Laura Place,"--"Our cousin, Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret," were talked of to everybody. Anne was ashamed. Had Lady Dalrymple and her daughter even been very agreeable, she would still have been ashamed of the agitation they created, but they were nothing. There was no superiority of manner, accomplishment, or understanding. Lady Dalrymple had acquired the name of "a charming woman," because she had a smile and a civil answer for everybody. Miss Carteret, with still less to say, was so plain and so awkward, that she would never have been tolerated in Camden Place but for her birth. Lady Russell confessed she had expected something better; but yet "it was an acquaintance worth having;" and when Anne ventured to speak her opinion of them to Mr Elliot, he agreed to their being nothing in themselves, but still maintained that, as a family connexion, as good company, as those who would collect good company around them, they had their value. Anne smiled and said, "My idea of good company, Mr Elliot, is the company of clever, well-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation; that is what I call good company." "You are mistaken," said he gently, "that is not good company; that is the best. Good company requires only birth, education, and manners, and with regard to education is not very nice. Birth and good manners are essential; but a little learning is by no means a dangerous thing in good company; on the contrary, it will do very well. My cousin Anne shakes her head. She is not satisfied. She is fastidious. My dear cousin" (sitting down by her), "you have a better right to be fastidious than almost any other woman I know; but will it answer? Will it make you happy? Will it not be wiser to accept the society of those good ladies in Laura Place, and enjoy all the advantages of the connexion as far as possible? You may depend upon it, that they will move in the first set in Bath this winter, and as rank is rank, your being known to be related to them will have its use in fixing your family (our family let me say) in that degree of consideration which we must all wish for." "Yes," sighed Anne, "we shall, indeed, be known to be related to them!" then recollecting herself, and not wishing to be answered, she added,<|quote|>"I certainly do think there has been by far too much trouble taken to procure the acquaintance. I suppose"</|quote|>(smiling) "I have more pride than any of you; but I confess it does vex me, that we should be so solicitous to have the relationship acknowledged, which we may be very sure is a matter of perfect indifference to them." "Pardon me, dear cousin, you are unjust in your own claims. In London, perhaps, in your present quiet style of living, it might be as you say: but in Bath; Sir Walter Elliot and his family will always be worth knowing: always acceptable as acquaintance." "Well," said Anne, "I certainly am proud, too proud to enjoy a welcome which depends so entirely upon place." "I love your indignation," said he; "it is very natural. But here you are in Bath, and the object is to be established here with all the credit and dignity which ought to belong to Sir Walter Elliot. You talk of being proud; I am called proud, I know, and I shall not wish to believe myself otherwise; for our pride, if investigated, would have the same object, I have no doubt, though the kind may seem a little different. In one point, I am sure, my dear cousin," (he continued, speaking lower, though there was no one else in the room) "in one point, I am sure, we must feel alike. We must feel that every addition to your father's society, among his equals or superiors, may be of use in diverting his thoughts from those who are beneath him." He looked, as he spoke, to the seat which Mrs Clay had been lately occupying: a sufficient explanation of what he particularly meant; and though Anne could not believe in their having the same sort of pride, she was pleased with him for not liking Mrs Clay; and her conscience admitted that his wishing to promote her father's getting great acquaintance was more than excusable in the view of defeating her. Chapter 17 While Sir Walter and Elizabeth were assiduously pushing their good fortune in Laura Place, Anne was renewing an acquaintance of a very different description. She had called on her former governess, and had heard from her of there being an old school-fellow in Bath, who had the two strong claims on her attention of past kindness and present suffering. Miss Hamilton, now Mrs Smith, had shewn her kindness in one of those periods of her life when it had been most valuable. Anne had gone unhappy to school, grieving for the loss of a mother whom she had dearly loved, feeling her separation from home, and suffering as a girl of fourteen, of strong sensibility and not high spirits, must suffer at such a time; and Miss Hamilton, three years older than herself, but still from the want of near relations and a settled home, remaining another year at school, had been useful and good to her in a way which had considerably lessened her misery, and could never be remembered with indifference. Miss Hamilton had left school, had married not long afterwards, was said to have married a man of fortune, and this was all that Anne had known of her, till now that their governess's account brought her situation forward in a more decided but very different form. She was a widow and poor. Her husband had been extravagant; and at his death, about two years before, had left his affairs dreadfully involved. She had had difficulties of every sort to contend with, and in addition to these distresses had been afflicted with a severe rheumatic fever, which, finally settling in her legs, had made her for the present a cripple. She had come to Bath on that account, and was now in lodgings near the hot baths, living in a very humble way, unable even to afford herself the comfort of a servant, and of course almost excluded from society. Their mutual friend answered for the satisfaction which a visit from Miss Elliot would give Mrs Smith, and Anne therefore lost no time in going. She mentioned nothing of what she had heard, or what she intended, at home. It would excite no proper interest there. She only consulted Lady Russell, who entered thoroughly into her sentiments, and was most happy to convey her as near to Mrs Smith's lodgings in Westgate Buildings, as Anne chose to be taken. The visit was paid, their acquaintance re-established, their interest in each other more than re-kindled. The first ten minutes had its awkwardness and its emotion. Twelve years were gone since they had parted, and each presented a somewhat different person from what the other had imagined. Twelve years had changed Anne from the blooming, silent, unformed girl of fifteen, to the elegant little woman of seven-and-twenty, with every beauty except bloom, and with manners as consciously right as they | to be arranged wherever they might be most visible: and "Our cousins in Laura Place,"--"Our cousin, Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret," were talked of to everybody. Anne was ashamed. Had Lady Dalrymple and her daughter even been very agreeable, she would still have been ashamed of the agitation they created, but they were nothing. There was no superiority of manner, accomplishment, or understanding. Lady Dalrymple had acquired the name of "a charming woman," because she had a smile and a civil answer for everybody. Miss Carteret, with still less to say, was so plain and so awkward, that she would never have been tolerated in Camden Place but for her birth. Lady Russell confessed she had expected something better; but yet "it was an acquaintance worth having;" and when Anne ventured to speak her opinion of them to Mr Elliot, he agreed to their being nothing in themselves, but still maintained that, as a family connexion, as good company, as those who would collect good company around them, they had their value. Anne smiled and said, "My idea of good company, Mr Elliot, is the company of clever, well-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation; that is what I call good company." "You are mistaken," said he gently, "that is not good company; that is the best. Good company requires only birth, education, and manners, and with regard to education is not very nice. Birth and good manners are essential; but a little learning is by no means a dangerous thing in good company; on the contrary, it will do very well. My cousin Anne shakes her head. She is not satisfied. She is fastidious. My dear cousin" (sitting down by her), "you have a better right to be fastidious than almost any other woman I know; but will it answer? Will it make you happy? Will it not be wiser to accept the society of those good ladies in Laura Place, and enjoy all the advantages of the connexion as far as possible? You may depend upon it, that they will move in the first set in Bath this winter, and as rank is rank, your being known to be related to them will have its use in fixing your family (our family let me say) in that degree of consideration which we must all wish for." "Yes," sighed Anne, "we shall, indeed, be known to be related to them!" then recollecting herself, and not wishing to be answered, she added,<|quote|>"I certainly do think there has been by far too much trouble taken to procure the acquaintance. I suppose"</|quote|>(smiling) "I have more pride than any of you; but I confess it does vex me, that we should be so solicitous to have the relationship acknowledged, which we may be very sure is a matter of perfect indifference to them." "Pardon me, dear cousin, you are unjust in your own claims. In London, perhaps, in your present quiet style of living, it might be as you say: but in Bath; Sir Walter Elliot and his family will always be worth knowing: always acceptable as acquaintance." "Well," said Anne, "I certainly am proud, too proud to enjoy a welcome which depends so entirely upon place." "I love your indignation," said he; "it is very natural. But here you are in Bath, and the object is to be established here with all the credit and dignity which ought to belong to Sir Walter Elliot. You talk of being proud; I am called proud, I know, and I shall not wish to believe myself otherwise; for our pride, if investigated, would have the same object, I have no doubt, though the kind may seem a little different. In one point, I am sure, my dear cousin," (he continued, speaking lower, though there was no one else in the room) "in one point, I am sure, we must feel alike. We must feel that every addition to your father's society, among his equals or superiors, may be of use in diverting his thoughts from those who are beneath him." He looked, as he spoke, to the seat which Mrs Clay had been lately occupying: a sufficient explanation of what he particularly meant; and though Anne could not believe in their having the same sort of pride, she was pleased with him for not liking Mrs Clay; and her conscience admitted that his wishing to promote her father's getting great acquaintance was more than excusable in the view of defeating her. Chapter 17 While Sir Walter and Elizabeth were assiduously pushing their good fortune in Laura Place, Anne was renewing an acquaintance of a very different description. She had called on her former governess, and had heard from her of there being an old school-fellow in Bath, who had the two strong claims on her attention of past kindness and present suffering. Miss Hamilton, now Mrs Smith, had shewn her kindness in one of those periods of her life when it had been most valuable. Anne had gone unhappy to school, grieving for the loss of a mother whom she had dearly loved, feeling her separation from home, and suffering as a girl of fourteen, of strong sensibility and not high spirits, must suffer at such a time; and Miss Hamilton, three years older than herself, but still from the want of near relations and a settled home, remaining another year at school, had been useful and good to her in a way which had considerably lessened her misery, and could never be remembered with indifference. Miss Hamilton had left school, had married not long afterwards, was said to have married a man of fortune, and this was all that Anne had known of her, till now that their governess's account brought her situation forward in a more decided but very different form. She was a widow and poor. Her husband had been extravagant; and at his death, about two years before, had left his affairs dreadfully involved. She had had difficulties of every sort to contend with, and in addition to these distresses had been afflicted with a severe rheumatic fever, which, | Persuasion |
"Ours?" | Mrs. Lesley | _is_ a tonga," she cried.<|quote|>"Ours?"</|quote|>enquired the second, also seeing | instinctively away. "Mrs. Lesley, it _is_ a tonga," she cried.<|quote|>"Ours?"</|quote|>enquired the second, also seeing Aziz, and doing likewise. "Take | was a message, and that the man was withholding it out of revenge. While they argued, the people came out. Both were ladies. Aziz lifted his hat. The first, who was in evening dress, glanced at the Indian and turned instinctively away. "Mrs. Lesley, it _is_ a tonga," she cried.<|quote|>"Ours?"</|quote|>enquired the second, also seeing Aziz, and doing likewise. "Take the gifts the gods provide, anyhow," she screeched, and both jumped in. "O Tonga wallah, club, club. Why doesn't the fool go?" "Go, I will pay you to-morrow," said Aziz to the driver, and as they went off he called | Civil Surgeon was out. "But the sahib has left me some message?" The servant returned an indifferent "No." Aziz was in despair. It was a servant whom he had forgotten to tip, and he could do nothing now because there were people in the hall. He was convinced that there was a message, and that the man was withholding it out of revenge. While they argued, the people came out. Both were ladies. Aziz lifted his hat. The first, who was in evening dress, glanced at the Indian and turned instinctively away. "Mrs. Lesley, it _is_ a tonga," she cried.<|quote|>"Ours?"</|quote|>enquired the second, also seeing Aziz, and doing likewise. "Take the gifts the gods provide, anyhow," she screeched, and both jumped in. "O Tonga wallah, club, club. Why doesn't the fool go?" "Go, I will pay you to-morrow," said Aziz to the driver, and as they went off he called courteously, "You are most welcome, ladies." They did not reply, being full of their own affairs. So it had come, the usual thing just as Mahmoud Ali said. The inevitable snub his bow ignored, his carriage taken. It might have been worse, for it comforted him somehow that Mesdames Callendar | approaching the bungalow on foot, and this not because his soul was servile but because his feelings the sensitive edges of him feared a gross snub. There had been a "case" last year an Indian gentleman had driven up to an official's house and been turned back by the servants and been told to approach more suitably only one case among thousands of visits to hundreds of officials, but its fame spread wide. The young man shrank from a repetition of it. He compromised, and stopped the driver just outside the flood of light that fell across the verandah. The Civil Surgeon was out. "But the sahib has left me some message?" The servant returned an indifferent "No." Aziz was in despair. It was a servant whom he had forgotten to tip, and he could do nothing now because there were people in the hall. He was convinced that there was a message, and that the man was withholding it out of revenge. While they argued, the people came out. Both were ladies. Aziz lifted his hat. The first, who was in evening dress, glanced at the Indian and turned instinctively away. "Mrs. Lesley, it _is_ a tonga," she cried.<|quote|>"Ours?"</|quote|>enquired the second, also seeing Aziz, and doing likewise. "Take the gifts the gods provide, anyhow," she screeched, and both jumped in. "O Tonga wallah, club, club. Why doesn't the fool go?" "Go, I will pay you to-morrow," said Aziz to the driver, and as they went off he called courteously, "You are most welcome, ladies." They did not reply, being full of their own affairs. So it had come, the usual thing just as Mahmoud Ali said. The inevitable snub his bow ignored, his carriage taken. It might have been worse, for it comforted him somehow that Mesdames Callendar and Lesley should both be fat and weigh the tonga down behind. Beautiful women would have pained him. He turned to the servant, gave him a couple of rupees, and asked again whether there was a message. The man, now very civil, returned the same answer. Major Callendar had driven away half an hour before. "Saying nothing?" He had as a matter of fact said, "Damn Aziz" words that the servant understood, but was too polite to repeat. One can tip too much as well as too little, indeed the coin that buys the exact truth has not yet been | the ewer, dried them, fitted on his green felt hat, and then with unexpected energy whizzed out of Hamidullah's compound. "Aziz, Aziz, imprudent boy. . . ." But he was far down the bazaar, riding furiously. He had neither light nor bell nor had he a brake, but what use are such adjuncts in a land where the cyclist's only hope is to coast from face to face, and just before he collides with each it vanishes? And the city was fairly empty at this hour. When his tyre went flat, he leapt off and shouted for a tonga. He did not at first find one, and he had also to dispose of his bicycle at a friend's house. He dallied furthermore to clean his teeth. But at last he was rattling towards the civil lines, with a vivid sense of speed. As he entered their arid tidiness, depression suddenly seized him. The roads, named after victorious generals and intersecting at right angles, were symbolic of the net Great Britain had thrown over India. He felt caught in their meshes. When he turned into Major Callendar's compound he could with difficulty restrain himself from getting down from the tonga and approaching the bungalow on foot, and this not because his soul was servile but because his feelings the sensitive edges of him feared a gross snub. There had been a "case" last year an Indian gentleman had driven up to an official's house and been turned back by the servants and been told to approach more suitably only one case among thousands of visits to hundreds of officials, but its fame spread wide. The young man shrank from a repetition of it. He compromised, and stopped the driver just outside the flood of light that fell across the verandah. The Civil Surgeon was out. "But the sahib has left me some message?" The servant returned an indifferent "No." Aziz was in despair. It was a servant whom he had forgotten to tip, and he could do nothing now because there were people in the hall. He was convinced that there was a message, and that the man was withholding it out of revenge. While they argued, the people came out. Both were ladies. Aziz lifted his hat. The first, who was in evening dress, glanced at the Indian and turned instinctively away. "Mrs. Lesley, it _is_ a tonga," she cried.<|quote|>"Ours?"</|quote|>enquired the second, also seeing Aziz, and doing likewise. "Take the gifts the gods provide, anyhow," she screeched, and both jumped in. "O Tonga wallah, club, club. Why doesn't the fool go?" "Go, I will pay you to-morrow," said Aziz to the driver, and as they went off he called courteously, "You are most welcome, ladies." They did not reply, being full of their own affairs. So it had come, the usual thing just as Mahmoud Ali said. The inevitable snub his bow ignored, his carriage taken. It might have been worse, for it comforted him somehow that Mesdames Callendar and Lesley should both be fat and weigh the tonga down behind. Beautiful women would have pained him. He turned to the servant, gave him a couple of rupees, and asked again whether there was a message. The man, now very civil, returned the same answer. Major Callendar had driven away half an hour before. "Saying nothing?" He had as a matter of fact said, "Damn Aziz" words that the servant understood, but was too polite to repeat. One can tip too much as well as too little, indeed the coin that buys the exact truth has not yet been minted. "Then I will write him a letter." He was offered the use of the house, but was too dignified to enter it. Paper and ink were brought on to the verandah. He began: "Dear Sir, At your express command I have hastened as a subordinate should " and then stopped. "Tell him I have called, that is sufficient," he said, tearing the protest up. "Here is my card. Call me a tonga." "Huzoor, all are at the club." "Then telephone for one down to the railway station." And since the man hastened to do this he said, "Enough, enough, I prefer to walk." He commandeered a match and lit a cigarette. These attentions, though purchased, soothed him. They would last as long as he had rupees, which is something. But to shake the dust of Anglo-India off his feet! To escape from the net and be back among manners and gestures that he knew! He began a walk, an unwonted exercise. He was an athletic little man, daintily put together, but really very strong. Nevertheless walking fatigued him, as it fatigues everyone in India except the new-comer. There is something hostile in that soil. It either yields, and the | the richness of the food. A gentle, happy and dishonest old man; all his life he had never done a stroke of work. So long as some one of his relatives had a house he was sure of a home, and it was unlikely that so large a family would all go bankrupt. His wife led a similar existence some hundreds of miles away he did not visit her, owing to the expense of the railway ticket. Presently Aziz chaffed him, also the servants, and then began quoting poetry, Persian, Urdu, a little Arabic. His memory was good, and for so young a man he had read largely; the themes he preferred were the decay of Islam and the brevity of love. They listened delighted, for they took the public view of poetry, not the private which obtains in England. It never bored them to hear words, words; they breathed them with the cool night air, never stopping to analyse; the name of the poet, Hafiz, Hali, Iqbal, was sufficient guarantee. India a hundred Indias whispered outside beneath the indifferent moon, but for the time India seemed one and their own, and they regained their departed greatness by hearing its departure lamented, they felt young again because reminded that youth must fly. A servant in scarlet interrupted him; he was the chuprassi of the Civil Surgeon, and he handed Aziz a note. "Old Callendar wants to see me at his bungalow," he said, not rising. "He might have the politeness to say why." "Some case, I daresay." "I daresay not, I daresay nothing. He has found out our dinner hour, that's all, and chooses to interrupt us every time, in order to show his power." "On the one hand he always does this, on the other it may be a serious case, and you cannot know," said Hamidullah, considerately paving the way towards obedience. "Had you not better clean your teeth after pan?" "If my teeth are to be cleaned, I don't go at all. I am an Indian, it is an Indian habit to take pan. The Civil Surgeon must put up with it. Mohammed Latif, my bike, please." The poor relation got up. Slightly immersed in the realms of matter, he laid his hand on the bicycle's saddle, while a servant did the actual wheeling. Between them they took it over a tintack. Aziz held his hands under the ewer, dried them, fitted on his green felt hat, and then with unexpected energy whizzed out of Hamidullah's compound. "Aziz, Aziz, imprudent boy. . . ." But he was far down the bazaar, riding furiously. He had neither light nor bell nor had he a brake, but what use are such adjuncts in a land where the cyclist's only hope is to coast from face to face, and just before he collides with each it vanishes? And the city was fairly empty at this hour. When his tyre went flat, he leapt off and shouted for a tonga. He did not at first find one, and he had also to dispose of his bicycle at a friend's house. He dallied furthermore to clean his teeth. But at last he was rattling towards the civil lines, with a vivid sense of speed. As he entered their arid tidiness, depression suddenly seized him. The roads, named after victorious generals and intersecting at right angles, were symbolic of the net Great Britain had thrown over India. He felt caught in their meshes. When he turned into Major Callendar's compound he could with difficulty restrain himself from getting down from the tonga and approaching the bungalow on foot, and this not because his soul was servile but because his feelings the sensitive edges of him feared a gross snub. There had been a "case" last year an Indian gentleman had driven up to an official's house and been turned back by the servants and been told to approach more suitably only one case among thousands of visits to hundreds of officials, but its fame spread wide. The young man shrank from a repetition of it. He compromised, and stopped the driver just outside the flood of light that fell across the verandah. The Civil Surgeon was out. "But the sahib has left me some message?" The servant returned an indifferent "No." Aziz was in despair. It was a servant whom he had forgotten to tip, and he could do nothing now because there were people in the hall. He was convinced that there was a message, and that the man was withholding it out of revenge. While they argued, the people came out. Both were ladies. Aziz lifted his hat. The first, who was in evening dress, glanced at the Indian and turned instinctively away. "Mrs. Lesley, it _is_ a tonga," she cried.<|quote|>"Ours?"</|quote|>enquired the second, also seeing Aziz, and doing likewise. "Take the gifts the gods provide, anyhow," she screeched, and both jumped in. "O Tonga wallah, club, club. Why doesn't the fool go?" "Go, I will pay you to-morrow," said Aziz to the driver, and as they went off he called courteously, "You are most welcome, ladies." They did not reply, being full of their own affairs. So it had come, the usual thing just as Mahmoud Ali said. The inevitable snub his bow ignored, his carriage taken. It might have been worse, for it comforted him somehow that Mesdames Callendar and Lesley should both be fat and weigh the tonga down behind. Beautiful women would have pained him. He turned to the servant, gave him a couple of rupees, and asked again whether there was a message. The man, now very civil, returned the same answer. Major Callendar had driven away half an hour before. "Saying nothing?" He had as a matter of fact said, "Damn Aziz" words that the servant understood, but was too polite to repeat. One can tip too much as well as too little, indeed the coin that buys the exact truth has not yet been minted. "Then I will write him a letter." He was offered the use of the house, but was too dignified to enter it. Paper and ink were brought on to the verandah. He began: "Dear Sir, At your express command I have hastened as a subordinate should " and then stopped. "Tell him I have called, that is sufficient," he said, tearing the protest up. "Here is my card. Call me a tonga." "Huzoor, all are at the club." "Then telephone for one down to the railway station." And since the man hastened to do this he said, "Enough, enough, I prefer to walk." He commandeered a match and lit a cigarette. These attentions, though purchased, soothed him. They would last as long as he had rupees, which is something. But to shake the dust of Anglo-India off his feet! To escape from the net and be back among manners and gestures that he knew! He began a walk, an unwonted exercise. He was an athletic little man, daintily put together, but really very strong. Nevertheless walking fatigued him, as it fatigues everyone in India except the new-comer. There is something hostile in that soil. It either yields, and the foot sinks into a depression, or else it is unexpectedly rigid and sharp, pressing stones or crystals against the tread. A series of these little surprises exhausts; and he was wearing pumps, a poor preparation for any country. At the edge of the civil station he turned into a mosque to rest. He had always liked this mosque. It was gracious, and the arrangement pleased him. The courtyard entered through a ruined gate contained an ablution tank of fresh clear water, which was always in motion, being indeed part of a conduit that supplied the city. The courtyard was paved with broken slabs. The covered part of the mosque was deeper than is usual; its effect was that of an English parish church whose side has been taken out. Where he sat, he looked into three arcades whose darkness was illuminated by a small hanging lamp and by the moon. The front in full moonlight had the appearance of marble, and the ninety-nine names of God on the frieze stood out black, as the frieze stood out white against the sky. The contest between this dualism and the contention of shadows within pleased Aziz, and he tried to symbolize the whole into some truth of religion or love. A mosque by winning his approval let loose his imagination. The temple of another creed, Hindu, Christian, or Greek, would have bored him and failed to awaken his sense of beauty. Here was Islam, his own country, more than a Faith, more than a battle-cry, more, much more . . . Islam, an attitude towards life both exquisite and durable, where his body and his thoughts found their home. His seat was the low wall that bounded the courtyard on the left. The ground fell away beneath him towards the city, visible as a blur of trees, and in the stillness he heard many small sounds. On the right, over in the club, the English community contributed an amateur orchestra. Elsewhere some Hindus were drumming he knew they were Hindus, because the rhythm was uncongenial to him, and others were bewailing a corpse he knew whose, having certified it in the afternoon. There were owls, the Punjab mail . . . and flowers smelt deliciously in the station-master's garden. But the mosque that alone signified, and he returned to it from the complex appeal of the night, and decked it with meanings | poor relation got up. Slightly immersed in the realms of matter, he laid his hand on the bicycle's saddle, while a servant did the actual wheeling. Between them they took it over a tintack. Aziz held his hands under the ewer, dried them, fitted on his green felt hat, and then with unexpected energy whizzed out of Hamidullah's compound. "Aziz, Aziz, imprudent boy. . . ." But he was far down the bazaar, riding furiously. He had neither light nor bell nor had he a brake, but what use are such adjuncts in a land where the cyclist's only hope is to coast from face to face, and just before he collides with each it vanishes? And the city was fairly empty at this hour. When his tyre went flat, he leapt off and shouted for a tonga. He did not at first find one, and he had also to dispose of his bicycle at a friend's house. He dallied furthermore to clean his teeth. But at last he was rattling towards the civil lines, with a vivid sense of speed. As he entered their arid tidiness, depression suddenly seized him. The roads, named after victorious generals and intersecting at right angles, were symbolic of the net Great Britain had thrown over India. He felt caught in their meshes. When he turned into Major Callendar's compound he could with difficulty restrain himself from getting down from the tonga and approaching the bungalow on foot, and this not because his soul was servile but because his feelings the sensitive edges of him feared a gross snub. There had been a "case" last year an Indian gentleman had driven up to an official's house and been turned back by the servants and been told to approach more suitably only one case among thousands of visits to hundreds of officials, but its fame spread wide. The young man shrank from a repetition of it. He compromised, and stopped the driver just outside the flood of light that fell across the verandah. The Civil Surgeon was out. "But the sahib has left me some message?" The servant returned an indifferent "No." Aziz was in despair. It was a servant whom he had forgotten to tip, and he could do nothing now because there were people in the hall. He was convinced that there was a message, and that the man was withholding it out of revenge. While they argued, the people came out. Both were ladies. Aziz lifted his hat. The first, who was in evening dress, glanced at the Indian and turned instinctively away. "Mrs. Lesley, it _is_ a tonga," she cried.<|quote|>"Ours?"</|quote|>enquired the second, also seeing Aziz, and doing likewise. "Take the gifts the gods provide, anyhow," she screeched, and both jumped in. "O Tonga wallah, club, club. Why doesn't the fool go?" "Go, I will pay you to-morrow," said Aziz to the driver, and as they went off he called courteously, "You are most welcome, ladies." They did not reply, being full of their own affairs. So it had come, the usual thing just as Mahmoud Ali said. The inevitable snub his bow ignored, his carriage taken. It might have been worse, for it comforted him somehow that Mesdames Callendar and Lesley should both be fat and weigh the tonga down behind. Beautiful women would have pained him. He turned to the servant, gave him a couple of rupees, and asked again whether there was a message. The man, now very civil, returned the same answer. Major Callendar had driven away half an hour before. "Saying nothing?" He had as a matter of fact said, "Damn Aziz" words that the servant understood, but was too polite to repeat. One can tip too much as well as too little, indeed the coin that buys the exact truth has not yet been minted. "Then I will write him a letter." He was offered the use of the house, but was too dignified to enter it. Paper and ink were brought on to the verandah. He began: "Dear Sir, At your express command I have hastened as a subordinate should " and then stopped. "Tell him I have called, that is sufficient," he said, tearing the protest up. "Here is my card. Call me a tonga." "Huzoor, all are at the club." "Then telephone for one down to the railway station." And since the man hastened to do this he said, "Enough, enough, I prefer to walk." He commandeered a match and lit a cigarette. These attentions, though purchased, soothed him. They would last as long as he had rupees, which is something. But to shake the dust of Anglo-India off his feet! To escape from the net and be back among manners and gestures that he knew! He began a walk, an unwonted exercise. He was an athletic little man, daintily put together, but really very strong. Nevertheless walking fatigued him, as it fatigues everyone in India except the new-comer. There is something hostile in that soil. It either yields, and the foot sinks into a depression, or else it is unexpectedly rigid and sharp, pressing stones or crystals against the tread. A series of these little surprises exhausts; and he was wearing pumps, a poor preparation for any country. At the edge of the civil station he turned into a mosque to rest. He had always liked this mosque. It was gracious, and the arrangement pleased him. The courtyard entered through a ruined gate contained an ablution tank of fresh clear water, which was always in motion, being indeed part of a conduit that supplied the city. The courtyard was paved with broken slabs. The covered part of the mosque was deeper than is usual; its effect was that of an English parish church whose side has been taken out. Where he sat, he looked into three arcades whose darkness was illuminated | A Passage To India |
"Stake four thousand g lden upon the red." | Antonida Vassilievna Tarassevitcha | with that zero!" she exclaimed.<|quote|>"Stake four thousand g lden upon the red."</|quote|>"But, Madame, that will be | the scheme. "To the devil with that zero!" she exclaimed.<|quote|>"Stake four thousand g lden upon the red."</|quote|>"But, Madame, that will be so much to venture!" I | see, you see," whispered the old lady. "We have now recovered almost all that we staked. Try zero again. Let us do so another ten times, and then leave off." By the fifth round, however, the Grandmother was weary of the scheme. "To the devil with that zero!" she exclaimed.<|quote|>"Stake four thousand g lden upon the red."</|quote|>"But, Madame, that will be so much to venture!" I remonstrated. "Suppose the red should not turn up?" The Grandmother almost struck me in her excitement. Her agitation was rapidly making her quarrelsome. Consequently, there was nothing for it but to stake the whole four thousand g lden as she | turn up until nightfall." "Never mind," she interrupted. "Keep on staking upon zero, and also stake a thousand g lden upon rouge. Here is a banknote with which to do so." The red turned up, but zero missed again, and we only got our thousand g lden back. "But you see, you see," whispered the old lady. "We have now recovered almost all that we staked. Try zero again. Let us do so another ten times, and then leave off." By the fifth round, however, the Grandmother was weary of the scheme. "To the devil with that zero!" she exclaimed.<|quote|>"Stake four thousand g lden upon the red."</|quote|>"But, Madame, that will be so much to venture!" I remonstrated. "Suppose the red should not turn up?" The Grandmother almost struck me in her excitement. Her agitation was rapidly making her quarrelsome. Consequently, there was nothing for it but to stake the whole four thousand g lden as she had directed. The wheel revolved while the Grandmother sat as bolt upright, and with as proud and quiet a mien, as though she had not the least doubt of winning. "Zero!" cried the croupier. At first the old lady failed to understand the situation; but, as soon as she saw | to look upon the Grandmother as their lawful prey whereafter there befell what our party had foretold. It happened thus: As soon as ever we arrived the Grandmother ordered me to stake twelve ten-g lden pieces in succession upon zero. Once, twice, and thrice I did so, yet zero never turned up. "Stake again," said the old lady with an impatient nudge of my elbow, and I obeyed. "How many times have we lost?" she inquired actually grinding her teeth in her excitement. "We have lost 144 ten-g lden pieces," I replied. "I tell you, Madame, that zero may not turn up until nightfall." "Never mind," she interrupted. "Keep on staking upon zero, and also stake a thousand g lden upon rouge. Here is a banknote with which to do so." The red turned up, but zero missed again, and we only got our thousand g lden back. "But you see, you see," whispered the old lady. "We have now recovered almost all that we staked. Try zero again. Let us do so another ten times, and then leave off." By the fifth round, however, the Grandmother was weary of the scheme. "To the devil with that zero!" she exclaimed.<|quote|>"Stake four thousand g lden upon the red."</|quote|>"But, Madame, that will be so much to venture!" I remonstrated. "Suppose the red should not turn up?" The Grandmother almost struck me in her excitement. Her agitation was rapidly making her quarrelsome. Consequently, there was nothing for it but to stake the whole four thousand g lden as she had directed. The wheel revolved while the Grandmother sat as bolt upright, and with as proud and quiet a mien, as though she had not the least doubt of winning. "Zero!" cried the croupier. At first the old lady failed to understand the situation; but, as soon as she saw the croupier raking in her four thousand g lden, together with everything else that happened to be lying on the table, and recognised that the zero which had been so long turning up, and on which we had lost nearly two hundred ten-g lden pieces, had at length, as though of set purpose, made a sudden reappearance why, the poor old lady fell to cursing it, and to throwing herself about, and wailing and gesticulating at the company at large. Indeed, some people in our vicinity actually burst out laughing. "To think that that accursed zero should have turned up | at times her abstraction was interrupted by sallies and fits of sharp, impatient fidgeting. Again, when I pointed out to her the Baron and Baroness Burmergelm walking to the Casino, she merely looked at them in an absent-minded sort of way, and said with complete indifference, "Ah!" Then, turning sharply to Potapitch and Martha, who were walking behind us, she rapped out: "Why have _you_ attached yourselves to the party? We are not going to take you with us every time. Go home at once." Then, when the servants had pulled hasty bows and departed, she added to me: "You are all the escort I need." At the Casino the Grandmother seemed to be expected, for no time was lost in procuring her former place beside the croupier. It is my opinion that though croupiers seem such ordinary, humdrum officials men who care nothing whether the bank wins or loses they are, in reality, anything but indifferent to the bank s losing, and are given instructions to attract players, and to keep a watch over the bank s interests; as also, that for such services, these officials are awarded prizes and premiums. At all events, the croupiers of Roulettenberg seemed to look upon the Grandmother as their lawful prey whereafter there befell what our party had foretold. It happened thus: As soon as ever we arrived the Grandmother ordered me to stake twelve ten-g lden pieces in succession upon zero. Once, twice, and thrice I did so, yet zero never turned up. "Stake again," said the old lady with an impatient nudge of my elbow, and I obeyed. "How many times have we lost?" she inquired actually grinding her teeth in her excitement. "We have lost 144 ten-g lden pieces," I replied. "I tell you, Madame, that zero may not turn up until nightfall." "Never mind," she interrupted. "Keep on staking upon zero, and also stake a thousand g lden upon rouge. Here is a banknote with which to do so." The red turned up, but zero missed again, and we only got our thousand g lden back. "But you see, you see," whispered the old lady. "We have now recovered almost all that we staked. Try zero again. Let us do so another ten times, and then leave off." By the fifth round, however, the Grandmother was weary of the scheme. "To the devil with that zero!" she exclaimed.<|quote|>"Stake four thousand g lden upon the red."</|quote|>"But, Madame, that will be so much to venture!" I remonstrated. "Suppose the red should not turn up?" The Grandmother almost struck me in her excitement. Her agitation was rapidly making her quarrelsome. Consequently, there was nothing for it but to stake the whole four thousand g lden as she had directed. The wheel revolved while the Grandmother sat as bolt upright, and with as proud and quiet a mien, as though she had not the least doubt of winning. "Zero!" cried the croupier. At first the old lady failed to understand the situation; but, as soon as she saw the croupier raking in her four thousand g lden, together with everything else that happened to be lying on the table, and recognised that the zero which had been so long turning up, and on which we had lost nearly two hundred ten-g lden pieces, had at length, as though of set purpose, made a sudden reappearance why, the poor old lady fell to cursing it, and to throwing herself about, and wailing and gesticulating at the company at large. Indeed, some people in our vicinity actually burst out laughing. "To think that that accursed zero should have turned up _now!_" she sobbed. "The accursed, accursed thing! And, it is all _your_ fault," she added, rounding upon me in a frenzy. "It was _you_ who persuaded me to cease staking upon it." "But, Madame, I only explained the game to you. How am _I_ to answer for every mischance which may occur in it?" "You and your mischances!" she whispered threateningly. "Go! Away at once!" "Farewell, then, Madame." And I turned to depart. "No stay," she put in hastily. "Where are you going to? Why should you leave me? You fool! No, no... stay here. It is _I_ who was the fool. Tell me what I ought to do." "I cannot take it upon myself to advise you, for you will only blame me if I do so. Play at your own discretion. Say exactly what you wish staked, and I will stake it." "Very well. Stake another four thousand g lden upon the red. Take this banknote to do it with. I have still got twenty thousand roubles in actual cash." "But," I whispered, "such a quantity of money" "Never mind. I cannot rest until I have won back my losses. Stake!" I staked, and we lost. "Stake again, | a bewitching smile, and seized and pressed my hands. Devil take it, but how that devilish visage of hers could change! At the present moment it was a visage full of supplication, and as gentle in its expression as that of a smiling, roguish infant. Stealthily, she drew me apart from the rest as though the more completely to separate me from them; and, though no harm came of her doing so for it was merely a stupid manoeuvre, and no more I found the situation very unpleasant. The General hastened to lend her his support. "Alexis Ivanovitch," he began, "pray pardon me for having said what I did just now for having said more than I meant to do. I beg and beseech you, I kiss the hem of your garment, as our Russian saying has it, for you, and only you, can save us. I and Mlle. de Cominges, we all of us beg of you But you understand, do you not? Surely you understand?" and with his eyes he indicated Mlle. Blanche. Truly he was cutting a pitiful figure! At this moment three low, respectful knocks sounded at the door; which, on being opened, revealed a chambermaid, with Potapitch behind her come from the Grandmother to request that I should attend her in her rooms. "She is in a bad humour," added Potapitch. The time was half-past three. "My mistress was unable to sleep," explained Potapitch; "so, after tossing about for a while, she suddenly rose, called for her chair, and sent me to look for you. She is now in the verandah." "Quelle m g re!" exclaimed De Griers. True enough, I found Madame in the hotel verandah much put about at my delay, for she had been unable to contain herself until four o clock. "Lift me up," she cried to the bearers, and once more we set out for the roulette-salons. XII The Grandmother was in an impatient, irritable frame of mind. Without doubt the roulette had turned her head, for she appeared to be indifferent to everything else, and, in general, seemed much distraught. For instance, she asked me no questions about objects _en route_, except that, when a sumptuous barouche passed us and raised a cloud of dust, she lifted her hand for a moment, and inquired, "What was that?" Yet even then she did not appear to hear my reply, although at times her abstraction was interrupted by sallies and fits of sharp, impatient fidgeting. Again, when I pointed out to her the Baron and Baroness Burmergelm walking to the Casino, she merely looked at them in an absent-minded sort of way, and said with complete indifference, "Ah!" Then, turning sharply to Potapitch and Martha, who were walking behind us, she rapped out: "Why have _you_ attached yourselves to the party? We are not going to take you with us every time. Go home at once." Then, when the servants had pulled hasty bows and departed, she added to me: "You are all the escort I need." At the Casino the Grandmother seemed to be expected, for no time was lost in procuring her former place beside the croupier. It is my opinion that though croupiers seem such ordinary, humdrum officials men who care nothing whether the bank wins or loses they are, in reality, anything but indifferent to the bank s losing, and are given instructions to attract players, and to keep a watch over the bank s interests; as also, that for such services, these officials are awarded prizes and premiums. At all events, the croupiers of Roulettenberg seemed to look upon the Grandmother as their lawful prey whereafter there befell what our party had foretold. It happened thus: As soon as ever we arrived the Grandmother ordered me to stake twelve ten-g lden pieces in succession upon zero. Once, twice, and thrice I did so, yet zero never turned up. "Stake again," said the old lady with an impatient nudge of my elbow, and I obeyed. "How many times have we lost?" she inquired actually grinding her teeth in her excitement. "We have lost 144 ten-g lden pieces," I replied. "I tell you, Madame, that zero may not turn up until nightfall." "Never mind," she interrupted. "Keep on staking upon zero, and also stake a thousand g lden upon rouge. Here is a banknote with which to do so." The red turned up, but zero missed again, and we only got our thousand g lden back. "But you see, you see," whispered the old lady. "We have now recovered almost all that we staked. Try zero again. Let us do so another ten times, and then leave off." By the fifth round, however, the Grandmother was weary of the scheme. "To the devil with that zero!" she exclaimed.<|quote|>"Stake four thousand g lden upon the red."</|quote|>"But, Madame, that will be so much to venture!" I remonstrated. "Suppose the red should not turn up?" The Grandmother almost struck me in her excitement. Her agitation was rapidly making her quarrelsome. Consequently, there was nothing for it but to stake the whole four thousand g lden as she had directed. The wheel revolved while the Grandmother sat as bolt upright, and with as proud and quiet a mien, as though she had not the least doubt of winning. "Zero!" cried the croupier. At first the old lady failed to understand the situation; but, as soon as she saw the croupier raking in her four thousand g lden, together with everything else that happened to be lying on the table, and recognised that the zero which had been so long turning up, and on which we had lost nearly two hundred ten-g lden pieces, had at length, as though of set purpose, made a sudden reappearance why, the poor old lady fell to cursing it, and to throwing herself about, and wailing and gesticulating at the company at large. Indeed, some people in our vicinity actually burst out laughing. "To think that that accursed zero should have turned up _now!_" she sobbed. "The accursed, accursed thing! And, it is all _your_ fault," she added, rounding upon me in a frenzy. "It was _you_ who persuaded me to cease staking upon it." "But, Madame, I only explained the game to you. How am _I_ to answer for every mischance which may occur in it?" "You and your mischances!" she whispered threateningly. "Go! Away at once!" "Farewell, then, Madame." And I turned to depart. "No stay," she put in hastily. "Where are you going to? Why should you leave me? You fool! No, no... stay here. It is _I_ who was the fool. Tell me what I ought to do." "I cannot take it upon myself to advise you, for you will only blame me if I do so. Play at your own discretion. Say exactly what you wish staked, and I will stake it." "Very well. Stake another four thousand g lden upon the red. Take this banknote to do it with. I have still got twenty thousand roubles in actual cash." "But," I whispered, "such a quantity of money" "Never mind. I cannot rest until I have won back my losses. Stake!" I staked, and we lost. "Stake again, stake again eight thousand at a stroke!" "I cannot, Madame. The largest stake allowed is four thousand g lden." "Well, then; stake four thousand." This time we won, and the Grandmother recovered herself a little. "You see, you see!" she exclaimed as she nudged me. "Stake another four thousand." I did so, and lost. Again, and yet again, we lost. "Madame, your twelve thousand g lden are now gone," at length I reported. "I see they are," she replied with, as it were, the calmness of despair. "I see they are," she muttered again as she gazed straight in front of her, like a person lost in thought. "Ah well, I do not mean to rest until I have staked another four thousand." "But you have no money with which to do it, Madame. In this satchel I can see only a few five percent bonds and some transfers no actual cash." "And in the purse?" "A mere trifle." "But there is a money-changer s office here, is there not? They told me I should be able to get any sort of paper security changed!" "Quite so; to any amount you please. But you will lose on the transaction what would frighten even a Jew." "Rubbish! I am _determined_ to retrieve my losses. Take me away, and call those fools of bearers." I wheeled the chair out of the throng, and, the bearers making their appearance, we left the Casino. "Hurry, hurry!" commanded the Grandmother. "Show me the nearest way to the money-changer s. Is it far?" "A couple of steps, Madame." At the turning from the square into the Avenue we came face to face with the whole of our party the General, De Griers, Mlle. Blanche, and her mother. Only Polina and Mr. Astley were absent. "Well, well, well!" exclaimed the Grandmother. "But we have no time to stop. What do you want? I can t talk to you here." I dropped behind a little, and immediately was pounced upon by De Griers. "She has lost this morning s winnings," I whispered, "and also twelve thousand g lden of her original money. At the present moment we are going to get some bonds changed." De Griers stamped his foot with vexation, and hastened to communicate the tidings to the General. Meanwhile we continued to wheel the old lady along. "Stop her, stop her," whispered the General in consternation. | At all events, the croupiers of Roulettenberg seemed to look upon the Grandmother as their lawful prey whereafter there befell what our party had foretold. It happened thus: As soon as ever we arrived the Grandmother ordered me to stake twelve ten-g lden pieces in succession upon zero. Once, twice, and thrice I did so, yet zero never turned up. "Stake again," said the old lady with an impatient nudge of my elbow, and I obeyed. "How many times have we lost?" she inquired actually grinding her teeth in her excitement. "We have lost 144 ten-g lden pieces," I replied. "I tell you, Madame, that zero may not turn up until nightfall." "Never mind," she interrupted. "Keep on staking upon zero, and also stake a thousand g lden upon rouge. Here is a banknote with which to do so." The red turned up, but zero missed again, and we only got our thousand g lden back. "But you see, you see," whispered the old lady. "We have now recovered almost all that we staked. Try zero again. Let us do so another ten times, and then leave off." By the fifth round, however, the Grandmother was weary of the scheme. "To the devil with that zero!" she exclaimed.<|quote|>"Stake four thousand g lden upon the red."</|quote|>"But, Madame, that will be so much to venture!" I remonstrated. "Suppose the red should not turn up?" The Grandmother almost struck me in her excitement. Her agitation was rapidly making her quarrelsome. Consequently, there was nothing for it but to stake the whole four thousand g lden as she had directed. The wheel revolved while the Grandmother sat as bolt upright, and with as proud and quiet a mien, as though she had not the least doubt of winning. "Zero!" cried the croupier. At first the old lady failed to understand the situation; but, as soon as she saw the croupier raking in her four thousand g lden, together with everything else that happened to be lying on the table, and recognised that the zero which had been so long turning up, and on which we had lost nearly two hundred ten-g lden pieces, had at length, as though of set purpose, made a sudden reappearance why, the poor old lady fell to cursing it, and to throwing herself about, and wailing and gesticulating at the company at large. Indeed, some people in our vicinity actually burst out laughing. "To think that that accursed zero should have turned up _now!_" she sobbed. "The accursed, accursed thing! And, it is all _your_ fault," she added, rounding upon me in a frenzy. "It was _you_ who persuaded me to cease staking upon it." "But, Madame, I only explained the game to you. How am _I_ to answer for every mischance which may occur in it?" "You and your mischances!" she whispered threateningly. "Go! Away at once!" "Farewell, then, Madame." And I turned to depart. "No stay," she put in hastily. "Where are you going to? Why should you leave me? You fool! No, no... stay here. It is _I_ who was the fool. Tell me what I ought to do." "I cannot take it upon myself to advise you, for you will only blame me if I do so. Play at your own discretion. Say exactly what you wish staked, and I will stake it." "Very well. Stake another four thousand g lden upon the red. Take this banknote to do it with. I have still got twenty thousand roubles in actual cash." "But," I whispered, "such a quantity of money" "Never mind. I cannot rest until I have won back my losses. Stake!" I staked, and we lost. "Stake again, stake again eight thousand at a stroke!" "I cannot, Madame. The largest stake allowed is four thousand g lden." "Well, then; stake four thousand." This time we won, and the Grandmother recovered herself a little. "You see, you see!" she exclaimed as she nudged me. "Stake another four thousand." I did so, and lost. Again, and yet again, we lost. "Madame, your twelve thousand g lden are now gone," | The Gambler |
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. | No speaker | to _that_ master’s natural modesty,”<|quote|>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.</|quote|>“I guess this gentleman at | “Because you can’t do violence to _that_ master’s natural modesty,”<|quote|>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.</|quote|>“I guess this gentleman at any rate can tell you.” | _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,”<|quote|>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.</|quote|>“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. | 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,”<|quote|>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.</|quote|>“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 | 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,”<|quote|>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.</|quote|>“I guess this gentleman at any rate can tell you.” VIII Hugh Crimble had come back from his voyage of discovery, and it was visible as he stood there flushed and quite radiant that he had caught in his approach Lord Theign’s last inquiry and Mr. Bender’s reply to it. You would have imputed to him on the spot the lively possession of a new idea, the sustaining sense of a message important enough to justify his irruption. He looked from one to the other of the three men, scattered a little by the sight of him, but attached eyes of recognition then to Lord Theign’s, whom he remained an instant longer communicatively smiling at. After which, as you might have gathered, he all confidently plunged, taking up the talk where the others had left it. “I should say, Lord Theign, if you’ll allow me, in regard to what you appear to have been discussing, that it depends a good deal on just that question--of what your Moretto, at any rate, may be presumed or proved to ‘be.’ Let me thank you,” he cheerfully went on, “for your kind leave to go over your treasures.” The personage he so addressed | 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,”<|quote|>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.</|quote|>“I guess this gentleman at any rate can tell you.” VIII Hugh Crimble had come back from his voyage of discovery, and it was visible as he stood there flushed and quite radiant that he had caught in his approach Lord Theign’s last inquiry and Mr. Bender’s reply to it. You would have imputed to him on the spot the lively possession of a new idea, the sustaining sense of a message important enough to justify his irruption. He looked from one to the other of the three men, scattered a little by the sight of him, but attached eyes of recognition then to Lord Theign’s, whom he remained an instant longer communicatively smiling at. After which, as you might have gathered, he all confidently plunged, taking up the talk where the others had left it. “I should say, Lord Theign, if you’ll allow me, in regard to what you appear to have been discussing, that it depends a good deal on just that question--of what your Moretto, at any rate, may be presumed or proved to ‘be.’ Let me thank you,” he cheerfully went on, “for your kind leave to go over your treasures.” The personage he so addressed was, as we know, nothing if not generally affable; yet if that was just then apparent it was through a shade of coolness for the slightly heated familiarity of so plain, or at least so free, a young man in eye-glasses, now for the first time definitely apprehended. “Oh, I’ve scarcely ‘treasures’--but I’ve some things of interest.” Hugh, however, entering the opulent circle, as it were, clearly took account of no breath of a chill. “I think possible, my lord, that you’ve a great treasure--if you’ve really so high a rarity as a splendid Manto-vano.” “A ‘Mantovano’?” You wouldn’t have been sure that his lordship didn’t pronounce the word for the first time in his life. “There have been supposed to be only _seven_ real examples about the world; so that if by an extraordinary chance you find yourself the possessor of a magnificent eighth----” But Lord John had already broken in. “Why, there you _are_, Mr. Bender!” “Oh, Mr. Bender, with whom I’ve made acquaintance,” Hugh returned, “was there as it began to work in me--” “That your Moretto, Lord Theign” --Mr. Bender took their informant up-- “isn’t, after all, a Moretto at all.” And he continued amusedly to | want to. I’m different from most people--I can love or not as I like. The trouble with that Moretto,” Mr. Bender continued, “is that it ain’t what I’m after.” His “after” had somehow, for the ear, the vividness of a sharp whack on the resisting surface of things, and was concerned doubtless in Lord John’s speaking again across to their host. “The worst he can do for me, you see, is to refuse it.” Lord Theign, who practically had his back turned and was fairly dandling about in his impatience, tossed out to the terrace the cigarette he had but just lighted. Yet he faced round to reply: “It’s the very first time in the history of this house (a long one, Mr. Bender) that a picture, or anything else in it, has been offered----!” It was not imperceptible that even if he hadn’t dropped Mr. Bender mightn’t have been markedly impressed. “Then it must be the very first time such an offer has failed.” “Oh, it isn’t that we in the least press it!” Lord Theign quite naturally laughed. “Ah, I beg your pardon--I press it very hard!” And Lord John, as taking from his face and manner a cue for further humorous license, went so far as to emulate, though sympathetically enough, their companion’s native form. “You don’t mean to say you don’t feel the interest of that Moretto?” Mr. Bender, quietly confident, took his time to reply. “Well, if you had seen me up on that chair you’d have thought I did.” “Then you must have stepped down from the chair properly impressed.” “I stepped down quite impressed with that young man.” “Mr. Crimble?” --it came after an instant to Lord John. “With _his_ opinion, really? Then I hope he’s aware of the picture’s value.” “You had better ask him,” Mr. Bender observed. “Oh, we don’t depend here on the Mr. Crimbles!” Lord John returned. Mr. Bender took a longer look at him. “Are you aware of the value yourself?” His friend resorted again, as for the amusement of the thing, to their entertainer. “Am I aware of the value of the Moretto?” Lord Theign, who had meanwhile lighted another cigarette, appeared, a bit extravagantly smoking, to wish to put an end to his effect of hovering aloof. “That question needn’t trouble us--when I see how much Mr. Bender himself knows about it.” “Well, Lord Theign, I only know what that young man puts it at.” And then as the others waited, “Ten thousand,” said Mr. Bender. “Ten thousand?” The owner of the work showed no emotion. “Well,” said Lord John again in Mr. Bender’s style, “what’s the matter with ten thousand?” The subject of his gay tribute considered. “There’s nothing the matter with ten thousand.” “Then,” Lord Theign asked, “is there anything the matter with the picture?” “Yes, sir--I guess there is.” It gave an upward push to his lordship’s eyebrows. “But what in the world----?” “Well, that’s just the question!” The eyebrows continued to rise. “Does he pretend there’s a question of whether it _is_ a Moretto?” “That’s what he was up there trying to find out.” “But if the value’s, according to himself, ten thousand----?” “Why, of course,” said Mr. Bender, “it’s a fine work anyway.” “Then,” Lord Theign brought good-naturedly out, “what’s the matter with _you_, Mr. Bender?” That gentleman was perfectly clear. “The matter with me, Lord Theign, is that I’ve no use for a ten thousand picture.” “‘No use?’” --the expression had an oddity. “But what’s it your idea to do with such things?” “I mean,” Mr. Bender explained, “that a picture of that rank is not what I’m after.” “The figure,” said his noble host--speaking thus, under pressure, commercially-- “is beyond what you see your way to?” But Lord John had jumped at the truth. “The matter with Mr. Bender is that he sees his way much further.” “Further?” their companion echoed. “The matter with Mr. Bender is that he wants to give millions.” Lord Theign sounded this abyss with a smile. “Well, there would be no difficulty about _that_, I think!” “Ah,” said his guest, “you know the basis, sir, on which I’m ready to pay.” “On the basis then of the Sir Joshua,” Lord John inquired, “how far would you go?” Mr. Bender indicated by a gesture that on a question reduced to a moiety by its conditional form he could give but semi-satisfaction. “Well, I’d go all the way.” “He wants, you see,” Lord John elucidated, “an _ideally_ expensive thing.” Lord Theign appeared to decide after a moment to enter into the pleasant spirit of this; which he did by addressing his younger friend. “Then why shouldn’t I make even the Moretto as expensive as he desires?” “Because you can’t do violence to _that_ master’s natural modesty,”<|quote|>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.</|quote|>“I guess this gentleman at any rate can tell you.” VIII Hugh Crimble had come back from his voyage of discovery, and it was visible as he stood there flushed and quite radiant that he had caught in his approach Lord Theign’s last inquiry and Mr. Bender’s reply to it. You would have imputed to him on the spot the lively possession of a new idea, the sustaining sense of a message important enough to justify his irruption. He looked from one to the other of the three men, scattered a little by the sight of him, but attached eyes of recognition then to Lord Theign’s, whom he remained an instant longer communicatively smiling at. After which, as you might have gathered, he all confidently plunged, taking up the talk where the others had left it. “I should say, Lord Theign, if you’ll allow me, in regard to what you appear to have been discussing, that it depends a good deal on just that question--of what your Moretto, at any rate, may be presumed or proved to ‘be.’ Let me thank you,” he cheerfully went on, “for your kind leave to go over your treasures.” The personage he so addressed was, as we know, nothing if not generally affable; yet if that was just then apparent it was through a shade of coolness for the slightly heated familiarity of so plain, or at least so free, a young man in eye-glasses, now for the first time definitely apprehended. “Oh, I’ve scarcely ‘treasures’--but I’ve some things of interest.” Hugh, however, entering the opulent circle, as it were, clearly took account of no breath of a chill. “I think possible, my lord, that you’ve a great treasure--if you’ve really so high a rarity as a splendid Manto-vano.” “A ‘Mantovano’?” You wouldn’t have been sure that his lordship didn’t pronounce the word for the first time in his life. “There have been supposed to be only _seven_ real examples about the world; so that if by an extraordinary chance you find yourself the possessor of a magnificent eighth----” But Lord John had already broken in. “Why, there you _are_, Mr. Bender!” “Oh, Mr. Bender, with whom I’ve made acquaintance,” Hugh returned, “was there as it began to work in me--” “That your Moretto, Lord Theign” --Mr. Bender took their informant up-- “isn’t, after all, a Moretto at all.” And he continued amusedly to Hugh: “It began to work in you, sir, like very strong drink!” “Do I understand you to suggest,” Lord Theign asked of the startling young man, “that my precious picture isn’t genuine?” Well, Hugh knew exactly what he suggested. “As a picture, Lord Theign, as a great portrait, one of the most genuine things in Europe. But it strikes me as probable that from far back--for reasons!--there has been a wrong attribution; that the work has been, in other words, traditionally, obstinately miscalled. It has passed for a Moretto, and at first I quite took it for one; but I suddenly, as I looked and looked and saw and saw, began to doubt, and now I know _why_ I doubted.” Lord Theign had during this speech kept his eyes on the ground; but he raised them to Mr. Crimble’s almost palpitating presence for the remark: “I’m bound to say that I hope you’ve some very good grounds!” “I’ve three or four, Lord Theign; they seem to me of the best--as yet. They made me wonder and wonder--and then light splendidly broke.” His lordship didn’t stint his attention. “Reflected, you mean, from _other_ Mantovanos--that I don’t know?” “I mean from those I know myself,” said Hugh; “and I mean from fine analogies with one in particular.” “Analogies that in all these years, these centuries, have so remarkably not been noticed?” “Well,” Hugh competently explained, “they’re a sort of thing the very sense of, the value and meaning of, are a highly modern--in fact a quite recent growth.” Lord John at this professed with cordiality that he at least quite understood. “Oh, we know a lot more about our pictures and things than ever our ancestors did!” “Well, I guess it’s enough for _me_,” Mr. Bender contributed, “that your ancestors knew enough to get ‘em!” “Ah, that doesn’t go so far,” cried Hugh, “unless we ourselves know enough to keep ‘em!” The words appeared to quicken in a manner Lord Theign’s view of the speaker. “Were _your_ ancestors, Mr. Crimble, great collectors?” Arrested, it might be, in his general assurance, Hugh wondered and smiled. “Mine--collectors? Oh, I’m afraid I haven’t any--to speak of. Only it has seemed to me for a long time,” he added, “that on that head we should all feel together.” Lord Theign looked for a moment as if these were rather large presumptions; then he put them in | 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,”<|quote|>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.</|quote|>“I guess this gentleman at any rate can tell you.” VIII Hugh Crimble had come back from his voyage of discovery, and it was visible as he stood there flushed and quite radiant that he had caught in his approach Lord Theign’s last inquiry and Mr. Bender’s reply to it. You would have imputed to him on the spot the lively possession of a new idea, the sustaining sense of a message important enough to justify his irruption. He looked from one to the other of the three men, scattered a little by the sight of him, but attached eyes of recognition then to Lord Theign’s, whom he remained an instant longer communicatively smiling at. After which, as you might have gathered, he all confidently plunged, taking up the talk where the others had left it. “I should say, Lord Theign, if you’ll allow me, in regard to what you appear to have been discussing, that it depends a good deal on just that question--of what your Moretto, at any rate, may be presumed or proved to ‘be.’ Let me thank you,” he cheerfully went on, “for your kind leave to go over your treasures.” The personage he so addressed was, as we know, nothing if not generally affable; yet if that was just then apparent it was through a shade of coolness for the slightly heated familiarity of so plain, or at least so free, a young man in eye-glasses, now for the first time definitely apprehended. “Oh, I’ve scarcely ‘treasures’--but I’ve some things of interest.” Hugh, however, entering the opulent circle, as it were, clearly took account of no breath of a chill. “I think possible, my lord, that you’ve a great treasure--if you’ve really so high a rarity as a splendid Manto-vano.” “A ‘Mantovano’?” You wouldn’t have been sure that his lordship didn’t pronounce the word for the first time in his life. “There have been supposed to be only _seven_ real examples about the world; so that if by an extraordinary chance you find yourself the possessor of a magnificent eighth----” But Lord John had already broken in. “Why, there you _are_, Mr. Bender!” “Oh, Mr. Bender, with whom I’ve made acquaintance,” Hugh returned, “was there as it began to work in me--” “That your Moretto, Lord Theign” --Mr. Bender took their informant up-- “isn’t, after all, a Moretto at all.” And he continued amusedly to Hugh: “It began to work in you, sir, like very strong drink!” “Do I understand you to suggest,” Lord Theign asked of the startling young man, “that my precious picture isn’t genuine?” Well, Hugh knew exactly what he suggested. “As a picture, Lord Theign, as a great portrait, one of the most genuine things in Europe. But it strikes me as probable that from far back--for reasons!--there has been a wrong attribution; that the work has been, in other words, traditionally, obstinately miscalled. It has passed for a Moretto, and at first I quite took it for one; but I suddenly, as I looked and looked and saw and saw, began to doubt, and now I know _why_ I doubted.” Lord Theign had during this speech kept his eyes on the ground; but he raised them to Mr. Crimble’s almost palpitating presence for the remark: “I’m bound to say that I hope | The Outcry |
said Edmund, | No speaker | hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant,"<|quote|>said Edmund,</|quote|>"in going on the barouche | on Wednesday." "There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant,"<|quote|>said Edmund,</|quote|>"in going on the barouche box." "Unpleasant!" cried Maria: "oh | handsome reason for using Mr. Crawford's," said Maria; "but the truth is, that Wilcox is a stupid old fellow, and does not know how to drive. I will answer for it that we shall find no inconvenience from narrow roads on Wednesday." "There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant,"<|quote|>said Edmund,</|quote|>"in going on the barouche box." "Unpleasant!" cried Maria: "oh dear! I believe it would be generally thought the favourite seat. There can be no comparison as to one's view of the country. Probably Miss Crawford will choose the barouche-box herself." "There can be no objection, then, to Fanny's going | is not very fond of the roads between this and Sotherton: he always complains bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching his carriage, and you know one should not like to have dear Sir Thomas, when he comes home, find all the varnish scratched off." "That would not be a very handsome reason for using Mr. Crawford's," said Maria; "but the truth is, that Wilcox is a stupid old fellow, and does not know how to drive. I will answer for it that we shall find no inconvenience from narrow roads on Wednesday." "There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant,"<|quote|>said Edmund,</|quote|>"in going on the barouche box." "Unpleasant!" cried Maria: "oh dear! I believe it would be generally thought the favourite seat. There can be no comparison as to one's view of the country. Probably Miss Crawford will choose the barouche-box herself." "There can be no objection, then, to Fanny's going with you; there can be no doubt of your having room for her." "Fanny!" repeated Mrs. Norris; "my dear Edmund, there is no idea of her going with us. She stays with her aunt. I told Mrs. Rushworth so. She is not expected." "You can have no reason, I imagine, | mentioned the other day, understand why a visit from the family were not to be made in the carriage of the family." "What!" cried Julia: "go boxed up three in a postchaise in this weather, when we may have seats in a barouche! No, my dear Edmund, that will not quite do." "Besides," said Maria, "I know that Mr. Crawford depends upon taking us. After what passed at first, he would claim it as a promise." "And, my dear Edmund," added Mrs. Norris, "taking out _two_ carriages when _one_ will do, would be trouble for nothing; and, between ourselves, coachman is not very fond of the roads between this and Sotherton: he always complains bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching his carriage, and you know one should not like to have dear Sir Thomas, when he comes home, find all the varnish scratched off." "That would not be a very handsome reason for using Mr. Crawford's," said Maria; "but the truth is, that Wilcox is a stupid old fellow, and does not know how to drive. I will answer for it that we shall find no inconvenience from narrow roads on Wednesday." "There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant,"<|quote|>said Edmund,</|quote|>"in going on the barouche box." "Unpleasant!" cried Maria: "oh dear! I believe it would be generally thought the favourite seat. There can be no comparison as to one's view of the country. Probably Miss Crawford will choose the barouche-box herself." "There can be no objection, then, to Fanny's going with you; there can be no doubt of your having room for her." "Fanny!" repeated Mrs. Norris; "my dear Edmund, there is no idea of her going with us. She stays with her aunt. I told Mrs. Rushworth so. She is not expected." "You can have no reason, I imagine, madam," said he, addressing his mother, "for wishing Fanny _not_ to be of the party, but as it relates to yourself, to your own comfort. If you could do without her, you would not wish to keep her at home?" "To be sure not, but I _cannot_ do without her." "You can, if I stay at home with you, as I mean to do." There was a general cry out at this. "Yes," he continued, "there is no necessity for my going, and I mean to stay at home. Fanny has a great desire to see Sotherton. I know she | invitation; and though Mrs. Grant, who had not been at the trouble of visiting Mrs. Rushworth, on her coming into the neighbourhood, civilly declined it on her own account, she was glad to secure any pleasure for her sister; and Mary, properly pressed and persuaded, was not long in accepting her share of the civility. Mr. Rushworth came back from the Parsonage successful; and Edmund made his appearance just in time to learn what had been settled for Wednesday, to attend Mrs. Rushworth to her carriage, and walk half-way down the park with the two other ladies. On his return to the breakfast-room, he found Mrs. Norris trying to make up her mind as to whether Miss Crawford's being of the party were desirable or not, or whether her brother's barouche would not be full without her. The Miss Bertrams laughed at the idea, assuring her that the barouche would hold four perfectly well, independent of the box, on which _one_ might go with him. "But why is it necessary," said Edmund, "that Crawford's carriage, or his _only_, should be employed? Why is no use to be made of my mother's chaise? I could not, when the scheme was first mentioned the other day, understand why a visit from the family were not to be made in the carriage of the family." "What!" cried Julia: "go boxed up three in a postchaise in this weather, when we may have seats in a barouche! No, my dear Edmund, that will not quite do." "Besides," said Maria, "I know that Mr. Crawford depends upon taking us. After what passed at first, he would claim it as a promise." "And, my dear Edmund," added Mrs. Norris, "taking out _two_ carriages when _one_ will do, would be trouble for nothing; and, between ourselves, coachman is not very fond of the roads between this and Sotherton: he always complains bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching his carriage, and you know one should not like to have dear Sir Thomas, when he comes home, find all the varnish scratched off." "That would not be a very handsome reason for using Mr. Crawford's," said Maria; "but the truth is, that Wilcox is a stupid old fellow, and does not know how to drive. I will answer for it that we shall find no inconvenience from narrow roads on Wednesday." "There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant,"<|quote|>said Edmund,</|quote|>"in going on the barouche box." "Unpleasant!" cried Maria: "oh dear! I believe it would be generally thought the favourite seat. There can be no comparison as to one's view of the country. Probably Miss Crawford will choose the barouche-box herself." "There can be no objection, then, to Fanny's going with you; there can be no doubt of your having room for her." "Fanny!" repeated Mrs. Norris; "my dear Edmund, there is no idea of her going with us. She stays with her aunt. I told Mrs. Rushworth so. She is not expected." "You can have no reason, I imagine, madam," said he, addressing his mother, "for wishing Fanny _not_ to be of the party, but as it relates to yourself, to your own comfort. If you could do without her, you would not wish to keep her at home?" "To be sure not, but I _cannot_ do without her." "You can, if I stay at home with you, as I mean to do." There was a general cry out at this. "Yes," he continued, "there is no necessity for my going, and I mean to stay at home. Fanny has a great desire to see Sotherton. I know she wishes it very much. She has not often a gratification of the kind, and I am sure, ma'am, you would be glad to give her the pleasure now?" "Oh yes! very glad, if your aunt sees no objection." Mrs. Norris was very ready with the only objection which could remain their having positively assured Mrs. Rushworth that Fanny could not go, and the very strange appearance there would consequently be in taking her, which seemed to her a difficulty quite impossible to be got over. It must have the strangest appearance! It would be something so very unceremonious, so bordering on disrespect for Mrs. Rushworth, whose own manners were such a pattern of good-breeding and attention, that she really did not feel equal to it. Mrs. Norris had no affection for Fanny, and no wish of procuring her pleasure at any time; but her opposition to Edmund _now_, arose more from partiality for her own scheme, because it _was_ her own, than from anything else. She felt that she had arranged everything extremely well, and that any alteration must be for the worse. When Edmund, therefore, told her in reply, as he did when she would give him the hearing, | him or not. Before his return Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford came in. Having been out some time, and taken a different route to the house, they had not met him. Comfortable hopes, however, were given that he would find Mr. Crawford at home. The Sotherton scheme was mentioned of course. It was hardly possible, indeed, that anything else should be talked of, for Mrs. Norris was in high spirits about it; and Mrs. Rushworth, a well-meaning, civil, prosing, pompous woman, who thought nothing of consequence, but as it related to her own and her son's concerns, had not yet given over pressing Lady Bertram to be of the party. Lady Bertram constantly declined it; but her placid manner of refusal made Mrs. Rushworth still think she wished to come, till Mrs. Norris's more numerous words and louder tone convinced her of the truth. "The fatigue would be too much for my sister, a great deal too much, I assure you, my dear Mrs. Rushworth. Ten miles there, and ten back, you know. You must excuse my sister on this occasion, and accept of our two dear girls and myself without her. Sotherton is the only place that could give her a _wish_ to go so far, but it cannot be, indeed. She will have a companion in Fanny Price, you know, so it will all do very well; and as for Edmund, as he is not here to speak for himself, I will answer for his being most happy to join the party. He can go on horseback, you know." Mrs. Rushworth being obliged to yield to Lady Bertram's staying at home, could only be sorry. "The loss of her ladyship's company would be a great drawback, and she should have been extremely happy to have seen the young lady too, Miss Price, who had never been at Sotherton yet, and it was a pity she should not see the place." "You are very kind, you are all kindness, my dear madam," cried Mrs. Norris; "but as to Fanny, she will have opportunities in plenty of seeing Sotherton. She has time enough before her; and her going now is quite out of the question. Lady Bertram could not possibly spare her." "Oh no! I cannot do without Fanny." Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the conviction that everybody must be wanting to see Sotherton, to include Miss Crawford in the invitation; and though Mrs. Grant, who had not been at the trouble of visiting Mrs. Rushworth, on her coming into the neighbourhood, civilly declined it on her own account, she was glad to secure any pleasure for her sister; and Mary, properly pressed and persuaded, was not long in accepting her share of the civility. Mr. Rushworth came back from the Parsonage successful; and Edmund made his appearance just in time to learn what had been settled for Wednesday, to attend Mrs. Rushworth to her carriage, and walk half-way down the park with the two other ladies. On his return to the breakfast-room, he found Mrs. Norris trying to make up her mind as to whether Miss Crawford's being of the party were desirable or not, or whether her brother's barouche would not be full without her. The Miss Bertrams laughed at the idea, assuring her that the barouche would hold four perfectly well, independent of the box, on which _one_ might go with him. "But why is it necessary," said Edmund, "that Crawford's carriage, or his _only_, should be employed? Why is no use to be made of my mother's chaise? I could not, when the scheme was first mentioned the other day, understand why a visit from the family were not to be made in the carriage of the family." "What!" cried Julia: "go boxed up three in a postchaise in this weather, when we may have seats in a barouche! No, my dear Edmund, that will not quite do." "Besides," said Maria, "I know that Mr. Crawford depends upon taking us. After what passed at first, he would claim it as a promise." "And, my dear Edmund," added Mrs. Norris, "taking out _two_ carriages when _one_ will do, would be trouble for nothing; and, between ourselves, coachman is not very fond of the roads between this and Sotherton: he always complains bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching his carriage, and you know one should not like to have dear Sir Thomas, when he comes home, find all the varnish scratched off." "That would not be a very handsome reason for using Mr. Crawford's," said Maria; "but the truth is, that Wilcox is a stupid old fellow, and does not know how to drive. I will answer for it that we shall find no inconvenience from narrow roads on Wednesday." "There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant,"<|quote|>said Edmund,</|quote|>"in going on the barouche box." "Unpleasant!" cried Maria: "oh dear! I believe it would be generally thought the favourite seat. There can be no comparison as to one's view of the country. Probably Miss Crawford will choose the barouche-box herself." "There can be no objection, then, to Fanny's going with you; there can be no doubt of your having room for her." "Fanny!" repeated Mrs. Norris; "my dear Edmund, there is no idea of her going with us. She stays with her aunt. I told Mrs. Rushworth so. She is not expected." "You can have no reason, I imagine, madam," said he, addressing his mother, "for wishing Fanny _not_ to be of the party, but as it relates to yourself, to your own comfort. If you could do without her, you would not wish to keep her at home?" "To be sure not, but I _cannot_ do without her." "You can, if I stay at home with you, as I mean to do." There was a general cry out at this. "Yes," he continued, "there is no necessity for my going, and I mean to stay at home. Fanny has a great desire to see Sotherton. I know she wishes it very much. She has not often a gratification of the kind, and I am sure, ma'am, you would be glad to give her the pleasure now?" "Oh yes! very glad, if your aunt sees no objection." Mrs. Norris was very ready with the only objection which could remain their having positively assured Mrs. Rushworth that Fanny could not go, and the very strange appearance there would consequently be in taking her, which seemed to her a difficulty quite impossible to be got over. It must have the strangest appearance! It would be something so very unceremonious, so bordering on disrespect for Mrs. Rushworth, whose own manners were such a pattern of good-breeding and attention, that she really did not feel equal to it. Mrs. Norris had no affection for Fanny, and no wish of procuring her pleasure at any time; but her opposition to Edmund _now_, arose more from partiality for her own scheme, because it _was_ her own, than from anything else. She felt that she had arranged everything extremely well, and that any alteration must be for the worse. When Edmund, therefore, told her in reply, as he did when she would give him the hearing, that she need not distress herself on Mrs. Rushworth's account, because he had taken the opportunity, as he walked with her through the hall, of mentioning Miss Price as one who would probably be of the party, and had directly received a very sufficient invitation for his cousin, Mrs. Norris was too much vexed to submit with a very good grace, and would only say, "Very well, very well, just as you chuse, settle it your own way, I am sure I do not care about it." "It seems very odd," said Maria, "that you should be staying at home instead of Fanny." "I am sure she ought to be very much obliged to you," added Julia, hastily leaving the room as she spoke, from a consciousness that she ought to offer to stay at home herself. "Fanny will feel quite as grateful as the occasion requires," was Edmund's only reply, and the subject dropt. Fanny's gratitude, when she heard the plan, was, in fact, much greater than her pleasure. She felt Edmund's kindness with all, and more than all, the sensibility which he, unsuspicious of her fond attachment, could be aware of; but that he should forego any enjoyment on her account gave her pain, and her own satisfaction in seeing Sotherton would be nothing without him. The next meeting of the two Mansfield families produced another alteration in the plan, and one that was admitted with general approbation. Mrs. Grant offered herself as companion for the day to Lady Bertram in lieu of her son, and Dr. Grant was to join them at dinner. Lady Bertram was very well pleased to have it so, and the young ladies were in spirits again. Even Edmund was very thankful for an arrangement which restored him to his share of the party; and Mrs. Norris thought it an excellent plan, and had it at her tongue's end, and was on the point of proposing it, when Mrs. Grant spoke. Wednesday was fine, and soon after breakfast the barouche arrived, Mr. Crawford driving his sisters; and as everybody was ready, there was nothing to be done but for Mrs. Grant to alight and the others to take their places. The place of all places, the envied seat, the post of honour, was unappropriated. To whose happy lot was it to fall? While each of the Miss Bertrams were meditating how best, and | are all kindness, my dear madam," cried Mrs. Norris; "but as to Fanny, she will have opportunities in plenty of seeing Sotherton. She has time enough before her; and her going now is quite out of the question. Lady Bertram could not possibly spare her." "Oh no! I cannot do without Fanny." Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the conviction that everybody must be wanting to see Sotherton, to include Miss Crawford in the invitation; and though Mrs. Grant, who had not been at the trouble of visiting Mrs. Rushworth, on her coming into the neighbourhood, civilly declined it on her own account, she was glad to secure any pleasure for her sister; and Mary, properly pressed and persuaded, was not long in accepting her share of the civility. Mr. Rushworth came back from the Parsonage successful; and Edmund made his appearance just in time to learn what had been settled for Wednesday, to attend Mrs. Rushworth to her carriage, and walk half-way down the park with the two other ladies. On his return to the breakfast-room, he found Mrs. Norris trying to make up her mind as to whether Miss Crawford's being of the party were desirable or not, or whether her brother's barouche would not be full without her. The Miss Bertrams laughed at the idea, assuring her that the barouche would hold four perfectly well, independent of the box, on which _one_ might go with him. "But why is it necessary," said Edmund, "that Crawford's carriage, or his _only_, should be employed? Why is no use to be made of my mother's chaise? I could not, when the scheme was first mentioned the other day, understand why a visit from the family were not to be made in the carriage of the family." "What!" cried Julia: "go boxed up three in a postchaise in this weather, when we may have seats in a barouche! No, my dear Edmund, that will not quite do." "Besides," said Maria, "I know that Mr. Crawford depends upon taking us. After what passed at first, he would claim it as a promise." "And, my dear Edmund," added Mrs. Norris, "taking out _two_ carriages when _one_ will do, would be trouble for nothing; and, between ourselves, coachman is not very fond of the roads between this and Sotherton: he always complains bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching his carriage, and you know one should not like to have dear Sir Thomas, when he comes home, find all the varnish scratched off." "That would not be a very handsome reason for using Mr. Crawford's," said Maria; "but the truth is, that Wilcox is a stupid old fellow, and does not know how to drive. I will answer for it that we shall find no inconvenience from narrow roads on Wednesday." "There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant,"<|quote|>said Edmund,</|quote|>"in going on the barouche box." "Unpleasant!" cried Maria: "oh dear! I believe it would be generally thought the favourite seat. There can be no comparison as to one's view of the country. Probably Miss Crawford will choose the barouche-box herself." "There can be no objection, then, to Fanny's going with you; there can be no doubt of your having room for her." "Fanny!" repeated Mrs. Norris; "my dear Edmund, there is no idea of her going with us. She stays with her aunt. I told Mrs. Rushworth so. She is not expected." "You can have no reason, I imagine, madam," said he, addressing his mother, "for wishing Fanny _not_ to be of the party, but as it relates to yourself, to your own comfort. If you could do without her, you would not wish to keep her at home?" "To be sure not, but I _cannot_ do without her." "You can, if I stay at home with you, as I mean to do." There was a general cry out at this. "Yes," he continued, "there is no necessity for my going, and I mean to stay at home. Fanny has a great desire to see Sotherton. I know she wishes it very much. She has not often a gratification of the kind, and I am sure, ma'am, you would be glad to give her the pleasure now?" "Oh yes! very glad, if your aunt sees no objection." Mrs. Norris was very ready with the only objection which could remain their having positively assured Mrs. Rushworth that Fanny could not go, and the very strange appearance there would consequently be in taking her, which seemed to her a difficulty quite impossible to be got over. It must have the strangest appearance! It would be something so very unceremonious, so bordering on disrespect for Mrs. Rushworth, whose own manners were such a pattern of good-breeding and attention, that she really did not feel equal to it. Mrs. Norris had no affection for Fanny, and no wish of procuring her pleasure at any time; but her opposition to Edmund _now_, arose more from partiality for her own scheme, because it _was_ her own, than | Mansfield Park |
She recovered herself, but not before Charles had observed her. Stupid and attentive, he was watching the scene. | No speaker | see?--I don t mean that."<|quote|>She recovered herself, but not before Charles had observed her. Stupid and attentive, he was watching the scene.</|quote|>"I was meaning that when | together." "No, Henry--can t you see?--I don t mean that."<|quote|>She recovered herself, but not before Charles had observed her. Stupid and attentive, he was watching the scene.</|quote|>"I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the | know?" A senseless spasm of annoyance came over her. "You know quite well that Helen never sins against affection," she said. "You must have noticed that much in her, surely." "Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together." "No, Henry--can t you see?--I don t mean that."<|quote|>She recovered herself, but not before Charles had observed her. Stupid and attentive, he was watching the scene.</|quote|>"I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the past, one could trace it back to the heart in the long-run. She behaved oddly because she cared for some one, or wanted to help them. There s no possible excuse for her now. She is grieving us deeply, and | give us her address. She refuses to answer questions. Margaret finds her letters colourless. There are other facts, but these are the most striking." "She has never behaved like this before, then?" asked Henry. "Of course not!" said his wife, with a frown. "Well, my dear, how am I to know?" A senseless spasm of annoyance came over her. "You know quite well that Helen never sins against affection," she said. "You must have noticed that much in her, surely." "Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together." "No, Henry--can t you see?--I don t mean that."<|quote|>She recovered herself, but not before Charles had observed her. Stupid and attentive, he was watching the scene.</|quote|>"I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the past, one could trace it back to the heart in the long-run. She behaved oddly because she cared for some one, or wanted to help them. There s no possible excuse for her now. She is grieving us deeply, and that is why I am sure that she is not well. Mad is too terrible a word, but she is not well. I shall never believe it. I shouldn t discuss my sister with you if I thought she was well--trouble you about her, I mean." Henry began to grow | he obeyed her. "Margaret s point is this," he said. "Our sister may be mad." Charles, who was working in the inner room, looked round. "Come in, Charles," said Margaret kindly. "Could you help us at all? We are again in trouble." "I m afraid I cannot. What are the facts? We are all mad more or less, you know, in these days." "The facts are as follows," replied Tibby, who had at times a pedantic lucidity. "The facts are that she has been in England for three days and will not see us. She has forbidden the bankers to give us her address. She refuses to answer questions. Margaret finds her letters colourless. There are other facts, but these are the most striking." "She has never behaved like this before, then?" asked Henry. "Of course not!" said his wife, with a frown. "Well, my dear, how am I to know?" A senseless spasm of annoyance came over her. "You know quite well that Helen never sins against affection," she said. "You must have noticed that much in her, surely." "Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together." "No, Henry--can t you see?--I don t mean that."<|quote|>She recovered herself, but not before Charles had observed her. Stupid and attentive, he was watching the scene.</|quote|>"I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the past, one could trace it back to the heart in the long-run. She behaved oddly because she cared for some one, or wanted to help them. There s no possible excuse for her now. She is grieving us deeply, and that is why I am sure that she is not well. Mad is too terrible a word, but she is not well. I shall never believe it. I shouldn t discuss my sister with you if I thought she was well--trouble you about her, I mean." Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him something perfectly definite. Generally well himself, he could not realise that we sink to it by slow gradations. The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; one could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was seized, he had promised to take her down into Hertfordshire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home instead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that he sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning as it was, drew its ethics from the wolf-pack. "You want to get hold of her?" he said. "That s the problem, | they told him of their search, he only chaffed Tibby and the Schlegels generally, and declared that it was "just like Helen" to lead her relatives a dance. "That is what we all say," replied Margaret. "But why should it be just like Helen? Why should she be allowed to be so queer, and to grow queerer?" "Don t ask me. I m a plain man of business. I live and let live. My advice to you both is, don t worry. Margaret, you ve got black marks again under your eyes. You know that s strictly forbidden. First your aunt--then your sister. No, we aren t going to have it. Are we, Theobald?" He rang the bell. "I ll give you some tea, and then you go straight to Ducie Street. I can t have my girl looking as old as her husband." "All the same, you have not quite seen our point," said Tibby. Mr. Wilcox, who was in good spirits, retorted, "I don t suppose I ever shall." He leant back, laughing at the gifted but ridiculous family, while the fire flickered over the map of Africa. Margaret motioned to her brother to go on. Rather diffident, he obeyed her. "Margaret s point is this," he said. "Our sister may be mad." Charles, who was working in the inner room, looked round. "Come in, Charles," said Margaret kindly. "Could you help us at all? We are again in trouble." "I m afraid I cannot. What are the facts? We are all mad more or less, you know, in these days." "The facts are as follows," replied Tibby, who had at times a pedantic lucidity. "The facts are that she has been in England for three days and will not see us. She has forbidden the bankers to give us her address. She refuses to answer questions. Margaret finds her letters colourless. There are other facts, but these are the most striking." "She has never behaved like this before, then?" asked Henry. "Of course not!" said his wife, with a frown. "Well, my dear, how am I to know?" A senseless spasm of annoyance came over her. "You know quite well that Helen never sins against affection," she said. "You must have noticed that much in her, surely." "Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together." "No, Henry--can t you see?--I don t mean that."<|quote|>She recovered herself, but not before Charles had observed her. Stupid and attentive, he was watching the scene.</|quote|>"I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the past, one could trace it back to the heart in the long-run. She behaved oddly because she cared for some one, or wanted to help them. There s no possible excuse for her now. She is grieving us deeply, and that is why I am sure that she is not well. Mad is too terrible a word, but she is not well. I shall never believe it. I shouldn t discuss my sister with you if I thought she was well--trouble you about her, I mean." Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him something perfectly definite. Generally well himself, he could not realise that we sink to it by slow gradations. The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; one could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was seized, he had promised to take her down into Hertfordshire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home instead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that he sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning as it was, drew its ethics from the wolf-pack. "You want to get hold of her?" he said. "That s the problem, isn t it? She has got to see a doctor." "For all I know she has seen one already." "Yes, yes; don t interrupt." He rose to his feet and thought intently. The genial, tentative host disappeared, and they saw instead the man who had carved money out of Greece and Africa, and bought forests from the natives for a few bottles of gin. "I ve got it," he said at last. "It s perfectly easy. Leave it to me. We ll send her down to Howards End." "How will you do that?" "After her books. Tell her that she must unpack them herself. Then you can meet her there." "But, Henry, that s just what she won t let me do. It s part of her--whatever it is--never to see me." "Of course you won t tell her you re going. When she is there, looking at the cases, you ll just stroll in. If nothing is wrong with her, so much the better. But there ll be the motor round the corner, and we can run her to a specialist in no time." Margaret shook her head. "It s quite impossible." "Why?" "It doesn t seem impossible to | of the furniture, as she would now return at once. Margaret replied, "Certainly not; meet me at the bankers at four." She and Tibby went up to London. Helen was not at the bankers , and they were refused her address. Helen had passed into chaos. Margaret put her arm round her brother. He was all that she had left, and never had he seemed more unsubstantial. "Tibby love, what next?" He replied: "It is extraordinary." "Dear, your judgment s often clearer than mine. Have you any notion what s at the back?" "None, unless it s something mental." "Oh--that!" said Margaret. "Quite impossible." But the suggestion had been uttered, and in a few minutes she took it up herself. Nothing else explained. And London agreed with Tibby. The mask fell off the city, and she saw it for what it really is--a caricature of infinity. The familiar barriers, the streets along which she moved, the houses between which she had made her little journeys for so many years, became negligible suddenly. Helen seemed one with grimy trees and the traffic and the slowly-flowing slabs of mud. She had accomplished a hideous act of renunciation and returned to the One. Margaret s own faith held firm. She knew the human soul will be merged, if it be merged at all, with the stars and the sea. Yet she felt that her sister had been going amiss for many years. It was symbolic the catastrophe should come now, on a London afternoon, while rain fell slowly. Henry was the only hope. Henry was definite. He might know of some paths in the chaos that were hidden from them, and she determined to take Tibby s advice and lay the whole matter in his hands. They must call at his office. He could not well make it worse. She went for a few moments into St. Paul s, whose dome stands out of the welter so bravely, as if preaching the gospel of form. But within, St. Paul s is as its surroundings--echoes and whispers, inaudible songs, invisible mosaics, wet footmarks, crossing and recrossing the floor. Si monumentum requiris, circumspice; it points us back to London. There was no hope of Helen here. Henry was unsatisfactory at first. That she had expected. He was overjoyed to see her back from Swanage, and slow to admit the growth of a new trouble. When they told him of their search, he only chaffed Tibby and the Schlegels generally, and declared that it was "just like Helen" to lead her relatives a dance. "That is what we all say," replied Margaret. "But why should it be just like Helen? Why should she be allowed to be so queer, and to grow queerer?" "Don t ask me. I m a plain man of business. I live and let live. My advice to you both is, don t worry. Margaret, you ve got black marks again under your eyes. You know that s strictly forbidden. First your aunt--then your sister. No, we aren t going to have it. Are we, Theobald?" He rang the bell. "I ll give you some tea, and then you go straight to Ducie Street. I can t have my girl looking as old as her husband." "All the same, you have not quite seen our point," said Tibby. Mr. Wilcox, who was in good spirits, retorted, "I don t suppose I ever shall." He leant back, laughing at the gifted but ridiculous family, while the fire flickered over the map of Africa. Margaret motioned to her brother to go on. Rather diffident, he obeyed her. "Margaret s point is this," he said. "Our sister may be mad." Charles, who was working in the inner room, looked round. "Come in, Charles," said Margaret kindly. "Could you help us at all? We are again in trouble." "I m afraid I cannot. What are the facts? We are all mad more or less, you know, in these days." "The facts are as follows," replied Tibby, who had at times a pedantic lucidity. "The facts are that she has been in England for three days and will not see us. She has forbidden the bankers to give us her address. She refuses to answer questions. Margaret finds her letters colourless. There are other facts, but these are the most striking." "She has never behaved like this before, then?" asked Henry. "Of course not!" said his wife, with a frown. "Well, my dear, how am I to know?" A senseless spasm of annoyance came over her. "You know quite well that Helen never sins against affection," she said. "You must have noticed that much in her, surely." "Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together." "No, Henry--can t you see?--I don t mean that."<|quote|>She recovered herself, but not before Charles had observed her. Stupid and attentive, he was watching the scene.</|quote|>"I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the past, one could trace it back to the heart in the long-run. She behaved oddly because she cared for some one, or wanted to help them. There s no possible excuse for her now. She is grieving us deeply, and that is why I am sure that she is not well. Mad is too terrible a word, but she is not well. I shall never believe it. I shouldn t discuss my sister with you if I thought she was well--trouble you about her, I mean." Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him something perfectly definite. Generally well himself, he could not realise that we sink to it by slow gradations. The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; one could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was seized, he had promised to take her down into Hertfordshire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home instead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that he sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning as it was, drew its ethics from the wolf-pack. "You want to get hold of her?" he said. "That s the problem, isn t it? She has got to see a doctor." "For all I know she has seen one already." "Yes, yes; don t interrupt." He rose to his feet and thought intently. The genial, tentative host disappeared, and they saw instead the man who had carved money out of Greece and Africa, and bought forests from the natives for a few bottles of gin. "I ve got it," he said at last. "It s perfectly easy. Leave it to me. We ll send her down to Howards End." "How will you do that?" "After her books. Tell her that she must unpack them herself. Then you can meet her there." "But, Henry, that s just what she won t let me do. It s part of her--whatever it is--never to see me." "Of course you won t tell her you re going. When she is there, looking at the cases, you ll just stroll in. If nothing is wrong with her, so much the better. But there ll be the motor round the corner, and we can run her to a specialist in no time." Margaret shook her head. "It s quite impossible." "Why?" "It doesn t seem impossible to me," said Tibby; "it is surely a very tippy plan." "It is impossible, because--" She looked at her husband sadly. "It s not the particular language that Helen and I talk, if you see my meaning. It would do splendidly for other people, whom I don t blame." "But Helen doesn t talk," said Tibby. "That s our whole difficulty. She won t talk your particular language, and on that account you think she s ill." "No, Henry; it s sweet of you, but I couldn t." "I see," he said; "you have scruples." "I suppose so." "And sooner than go against them you would have your sister suffer. You could have got her down to Swanage by a word, but you had scruples. And scruples are all very well. I am as scrupulous as any man alive, I hope; but when it is a case like this, when there is a question of madness--" "I deny it s madness." "You said just now--" "It s madness when I say it, but not when you say it." Henry shrugged his shoulders. "Margaret! Margaret!" he groaned. "No education can teach a woman logic. Now, my dear, my time is valuable. Do you want me to help you or not?" "Not in that way." "Answer my question. Plain question, plain answer. Do--" Charles surprised them by interrupting. "Pater, we may as well keep Howards End out of it," he said. "Why, Charles?" Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as if, over tremendous distance, a salutation had passed between them. "The whole house is at sixes and sevens," he said crossly. "We don t want any more mess." "Who s we ?" asked his father. "My boy, pray who s we ?" "I am sure I beg your pardon," said Charles. "I appear always to be intruding." By now Margaret wished she had never mentioned her trouble to her husband. Retreat was impossible. He was determined to push the matter to a satisfactory conclusion, and Helen faded as he talked. Her fair, flying hair and eager eyes counted for nothing, for she was ill, without rights, and any of her friends might hunt her. Sick at heart, Margaret joined in the chase. She wrote her sister a lying letter, at her husband s dictation; she said the furniture was all at Howards End, but could be seen on Monday next at | He was overjoyed to see her back from Swanage, and slow to admit the growth of a new trouble. When they told him of their search, he only chaffed Tibby and the Schlegels generally, and declared that it was "just like Helen" to lead her relatives a dance. "That is what we all say," replied Margaret. "But why should it be just like Helen? Why should she be allowed to be so queer, and to grow queerer?" "Don t ask me. I m a plain man of business. I live and let live. My advice to you both is, don t worry. Margaret, you ve got black marks again under your eyes. You know that s strictly forbidden. First your aunt--then your sister. No, we aren t going to have it. Are we, Theobald?" He rang the bell. "I ll give you some tea, and then you go straight to Ducie Street. I can t have my girl looking as old as her husband." "All the same, you have not quite seen our point," said Tibby. Mr. Wilcox, who was in good spirits, retorted, "I don t suppose I ever shall." He leant back, laughing at the gifted but ridiculous family, while the fire flickered over the map of Africa. Margaret motioned to her brother to go on. Rather diffident, he obeyed her. "Margaret s point is this," he said. "Our sister may be mad." Charles, who was working in the inner room, looked round. "Come in, Charles," said Margaret kindly. "Could you help us at all? We are again in trouble." "I m afraid I cannot. What are the facts? We are all mad more or less, you know, in these days." "The facts are as follows," replied Tibby, who had at times a pedantic lucidity. "The facts are that she has been in England for three days and will not see us. She has forbidden the bankers to give us her address. She refuses to answer questions. Margaret finds her letters colourless. There are other facts, but these are the most striking." "She has never behaved like this before, then?" asked Henry. "Of course not!" said his wife, with a frown. "Well, my dear, how am I to know?" A senseless spasm of annoyance came over her. "You know quite well that Helen never sins against affection," she said. "You must have noticed that much in her, surely." "Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together." "No, Henry--can t you see?--I don t mean that."<|quote|>She recovered herself, but not before Charles had observed her. Stupid and attentive, he was watching the scene.</|quote|>"I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the past, one could trace it back to the heart in the long-run. She behaved oddly because she cared for some one, or wanted to help them. There s no possible excuse for her now. She is grieving us deeply, and that is why I am sure that she is not well. Mad is too terrible a word, but she is not well. I shall never believe it. I shouldn t discuss my sister with you if I thought she was well--trouble you about her, I mean." Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him something perfectly definite. Generally well himself, he could not realise that we sink to it by slow gradations. The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; one could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was seized, he had promised to take her down into Hertfordshire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home instead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that he sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning as it was, drew its ethics from the wolf-pack. "You want to get hold of her?" he said. "That s the problem, isn t it? She has got to see a doctor." "For all I know she has seen one already." "Yes, yes; don t interrupt." He rose to his feet and thought intently. The genial, tentative host disappeared, and they saw instead the man who had carved money out of Greece and Africa, and bought forests from the natives for a few bottles of gin. "I ve got it," he said at last. "It s perfectly easy. Leave it to me. We ll send her down to Howards End." "How will you do that?" "After her books. Tell her that she must unpack them herself. Then you can meet her there." "But, Henry, that s just what she won t let me do. It s part of her--whatever it is--never to see me." "Of course you won t tell her you re going. When she is there, looking at the cases, you ll just stroll in. If nothing is wrong with her, so much the better. But there ll be the motor round the corner, and we can run her to a specialist in no time." Margaret shook her head. "It s quite impossible." "Why?" "It doesn t seem impossible to me," said Tibby; "it is surely a very tippy plan." "It is impossible, because--" She looked at her husband sadly. "It s not the particular language that Helen and I talk, if you see my meaning. It would do splendidly for other people, whom I don t blame." "But Helen doesn t talk," said Tibby. "That s our whole difficulty. She won t talk your particular language, and on that account you think she s ill." "No, Henry; it s sweet of you, but I couldn t." "I see," he said; "you have scruples." "I suppose so." "And sooner than go against them you would have your sister suffer. You could have got her down to Swanage by a word, but you had scruples. And scruples are all very well. I am as scrupulous as any man alive, I hope; but when it is a case like this, when there is a question of madness--" "I deny it s madness." "You said just now--" "It s madness | Howards End |
"And how are you?" | Winnie-the-pooh | a gloomy manner to him.<|quote|>"And how are you?"</|quote|>said Winnie-the-Pooh. Eeyore shook his | "How do you do?" in a gloomy manner to him.<|quote|>"And how are you?"</|quote|>said Winnie-the-Pooh. Eeyore shook his head from side to side. | 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.<|quote|>"And how are you?"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"And how are you?"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"And how are you?"</|quote|>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," said Eeyore, and he turned slowly round to the place where his tail had been a little while ago, and then, finding that he couldn't catch it up, he 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 | "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.<|quote|>"And how are you?"</|quote|>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," said Eeyore, and he turned slowly round to the place where his tail had been a little while ago, and then, finding that he couldn't catch it up, he 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 | 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!" cried Piglet. "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.<|quote|>"And how are you?"</|quote|>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," said Eeyore, and he turned slowly round to the place where his tail had been a little while ago, and then, finding that he couldn't catch it up, he 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, | 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.<|quote|>"And how are you?"</|quote|>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," said Eeyore, and he turned slowly round to the place where his tail had been a little while ago, and then, finding that he couldn't catch it up, he 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 | Winnie The Pooh |
"What shall we do there?" | Edna Pontellier | Robert in a low voice.<|quote|>"What shall we do there?"</|quote|>"Climb up the hill to | to Grande Terre to-morrow?" said Robert in a low voice.<|quote|>"What shall we do there?"</|quote|>"Climb up the hill to the old fort and look | her sails. Robert spoke to her incessantly; he no longer noticed Mariequita. The girl had shrimps in her bamboo basket. They were covered with Spanish moss. She beat the moss down impatiently, and muttered to herself sullenly. "Let us go to Grande Terre to-morrow?" said Robert in a low voice.<|quote|>"What shall we do there?"</|quote|>"Climb up the hill to the old fort and look at the little wriggling gold snakes, and watch the lizards sun themselves." She gazed away toward Grande Terre and thought she would like to be alone there with Robert, in the sun, listening to the ocean's roar and watching the | bay to the _Ch ni re Caminada_, Edna felt as if she were being borne away from some anchorage which had held her fast, whose chains had been loosening had snapped the night before when the mystic spirit was abroad, leaving her free to drift whithersoever she chose to set her sails. Robert spoke to her incessantly; he no longer noticed Mariequita. The girl had shrimps in her bamboo basket. They were covered with Spanish moss. She beat the moss down impatiently, and muttered to herself sullenly. "Let us go to Grande Terre to-morrow?" said Robert in a low voice.<|quote|>"What shall we do there?"</|quote|>"Climb up the hill to the old fort and look at the little wriggling gold snakes, and watch the lizards sun themselves." She gazed away toward Grande Terre and thought she would like to be alone there with Robert, in the sun, listening to the ocean's roar and watching the slimy lizards writhe in and out among the ruins of the old fort. "And the next day or the next we can sail to the Bayou Brulow," he went on. "What shall we do there?" "Anything cast bait for fish." "No; we'll go back to Grande Terre. Let the fish | each other?" "Of course not," laughed Robert. "Of course not," echoed Mariequita, with a serious, confirmatory bob of the head. The sun was high up and beginning to bite. The swift breeze seemed to Edna to bury the sting of it into the pores of her face and hands. Robert held his umbrella over her. As they went cutting sidewise through the water, the sails bellied taut, with the wind filling and overflowing them. Old Monsieur Farival laughed sardonically at something as he looked at the sails, and Beaudelet swore at the old man under his breath. Sailing across the bay to the _Ch ni re Caminada_, Edna felt as if she were being borne away from some anchorage which had held her fast, whose chains had been loosening had snapped the night before when the mystic spirit was abroad, leaving her free to drift whithersoever she chose to set her sails. Robert spoke to her incessantly; he no longer noticed Mariequita. The girl had shrimps in her bamboo basket. They were covered with Spanish moss. She beat the moss down impatiently, and muttered to herself sullenly. "Let us go to Grande Terre to-morrow?" said Robert in a low voice.<|quote|>"What shall we do there?"</|quote|>"Climb up the hill to the old fort and look at the little wriggling gold snakes, and watch the lizards sun themselves." She gazed away toward Grande Terre and thought she would like to be alone there with Robert, in the sun, listening to the ocean's roar and watching the slimy lizards writhe in and out among the ruins of the old fort. "And the next day or the next we can sail to the Bayou Brulow," he went on. "What shall we do there?" "Anything cast bait for fish." "No; we'll go back to Grande Terre. Let the fish alone." "We'll go wherever you like," he said. "I'll have Tonie come over and help me patch and trim my boat. We shall not need Beaudelet nor any one. Are you afraid of the pirogue?" "Oh, no." "Then I'll take you some night in the pirogue when the moon shines. Maybe your Gulf spirit will whisper to you in which of these islands the treasures are hidden direct you to the very spot, perhaps." "And in a day we should be rich!" she laughed. "I'd give it all to you, the pirate gold and every bit of treasure we could | better sailor of the two. But he would not quarrel with so old a man as Monsieur Farival, so he quarreled with Mariequita. The girl was deprecatory at one moment, appealing to Robert. She was saucy the next, moving her head up and down, making "eyes" at Robert and making "mouths" at Beaudelet. The lovers were all alone. They saw nothing, they heard nothing. The lady in black was counting her beads for the third time. Old Monsieur Farival talked incessantly of what he knew about handling a boat, and of what Beaudelet did not know on the same subject. Edna liked it all. She looked Mariequita up and down, from her ugly brown toes to her pretty black eyes, and back again. "Why does she look at me like that?" inquired the girl of Robert. "Maybe she thinks you are pretty. Shall I ask her?" "No. Is she your sweetheart?" "She's a married lady, and has two children." "Oh! well! Francisco ran away with Sylvano's wife, who had four children. They took all his money and one of the children and stole his boat." "Shut up!" "Does she understand?" "Oh, hush!" "Are those two married over there leaning on each other?" "Of course not," laughed Robert. "Of course not," echoed Mariequita, with a serious, confirmatory bob of the head. The sun was high up and beginning to bite. The swift breeze seemed to Edna to bury the sting of it into the pores of her face and hands. Robert held his umbrella over her. As they went cutting sidewise through the water, the sails bellied taut, with the wind filling and overflowing them. Old Monsieur Farival laughed sardonically at something as he looked at the sails, and Beaudelet swore at the old man under his breath. Sailing across the bay to the _Ch ni re Caminada_, Edna felt as if she were being borne away from some anchorage which had held her fast, whose chains had been loosening had snapped the night before when the mystic spirit was abroad, leaving her free to drift whithersoever she chose to set her sails. Robert spoke to her incessantly; he no longer noticed Mariequita. The girl had shrimps in her bamboo basket. They were covered with Spanish moss. She beat the moss down impatiently, and muttered to herself sullenly. "Let us go to Grande Terre to-morrow?" said Robert in a low voice.<|quote|>"What shall we do there?"</|quote|>"Climb up the hill to the old fort and look at the little wriggling gold snakes, and watch the lizards sun themselves." She gazed away toward Grande Terre and thought she would like to be alone there with Robert, in the sun, listening to the ocean's roar and watching the slimy lizards writhe in and out among the ruins of the old fort. "And the next day or the next we can sail to the Bayou Brulow," he went on. "What shall we do there?" "Anything cast bait for fish." "No; we'll go back to Grande Terre. Let the fish alone." "We'll go wherever you like," he said. "I'll have Tonie come over and help me patch and trim my boat. We shall not need Beaudelet nor any one. Are you afraid of the pirogue?" "Oh, no." "Then I'll take you some night in the pirogue when the moon shines. Maybe your Gulf spirit will whisper to you in which of these islands the treasures are hidden direct you to the very spot, perhaps." "And in a day we should be rich!" she laughed. "I'd give it all to you, the pirate gold and every bit of treasure we could dig up. I think you would know how to spend it. Pirate gold isn't a thing to be hoarded or utilized. It is something to squander and throw to the four winds, for the fun of seeing the golden specks fly." "We'd share it, and scatter it together," he said. His face flushed. They all went together up to the quaint little Gothic church of Our Lady of Lourdes, gleaming all brown and yellow with paint in the sun's glare. Only Beaudelet remained behind, tinkering at his boat, and Mariequita walked away with her basket of shrimps, casting a look of childish ill humor and reproach at Robert from the corner of her eye. XIII A feeling of oppression and drowsiness overcame Edna during the service. Her head began to ache, and the lights on the altar swayed before her eyes. Another time she might have made an effort to regain her composure; but her one thought was to quit the stifling atmosphere of the church and reach the open air. She arose, climbing over Robert's feet with a muttered apology. Old Monsieur Farival, flurried, curious, stood up, but upon seeing that Robert had followed Mrs. Pontellier, he sank back | 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 I am going to the _Ch ni re_. The boat is ready; tell him to hurry." He had soon joined her. She had never sent for him before. She had never asked for him. She had never seemed to want him before. She did not appear conscious that she had done anything unusual in commanding his presence. He was apparently equally unconscious of anything extraordinary in the situation. But his face was suffused with a quiet glow when he met her. They went together back to the kitchen to drink coffee. There was no time to wait for any nicety of service. They stood outside the window and the cook passed them their coffee and a roll, which they drank and ate from the window-sill. Edna said it tasted good. She had not thought of coffee nor of anything. He told her he had often noticed that she lacked forethought. "Wasn't it enough to think of going to the _Ch ni re_ and waking you up?" she laughed. "Do I have to think of everything? as L once says when he's in a bad humor. I don't blame him; he'd never be in a bad humor if it weren't for me." They took a short cut across the sands. At a distance they could see the curious procession moving toward the wharf the lovers, shoulder to shoulder, creeping; the lady in black, gaining steadily upon them; old Monsieur Farival, losing ground inch by inch, and a young barefooted Spanish girl, with a red kerchief on her head and a basket on her arm, bringing up the rear. Robert knew the girl, and he talked to her a little in the boat. No one present understood what they said. Her name was Mariequita. She had a round, sly, piquant face and pretty black eyes. Her hands were small, and she kept them folded over the handle of her basket. Her feet were broad and coarse. She did not strive to hide them. Edna looked at her feet, and noticed the sand and slime between her brown toes. Beaudelet grumbled because Mariequita was there, taking up so much room. In reality he was annoyed at having old Monsieur Farival, who considered himself the better sailor of the two. But he would not quarrel with so old a man as Monsieur Farival, so he quarreled with Mariequita. The girl was deprecatory at one moment, appealing to Robert. She was saucy the next, moving her head up and down, making "eyes" at Robert and making "mouths" at Beaudelet. The lovers were all alone. They saw nothing, they heard nothing. The lady in black was counting her beads for the third time. Old Monsieur Farival talked incessantly of what he knew about handling a boat, and of what Beaudelet did not know on the same subject. Edna liked it all. She looked Mariequita up and down, from her ugly brown toes to her pretty black eyes, and back again. "Why does she look at me like that?" inquired the girl of Robert. "Maybe she thinks you are pretty. Shall I ask her?" "No. Is she your sweetheart?" "She's a married lady, and has two children." "Oh! well! Francisco ran away with Sylvano's wife, who had four children. They took all his money and one of the children and stole his boat." "Shut up!" "Does she understand?" "Oh, hush!" "Are those two married over there leaning on each other?" "Of course not," laughed Robert. "Of course not," echoed Mariequita, with a serious, confirmatory bob of the head. The sun was high up and beginning to bite. The swift breeze seemed to Edna to bury the sting of it into the pores of her face and hands. Robert held his umbrella over her. As they went cutting sidewise through the water, the sails bellied taut, with the wind filling and overflowing them. Old Monsieur Farival laughed sardonically at something as he looked at the sails, and Beaudelet swore at the old man under his breath. Sailing across the bay to the _Ch ni re Caminada_, Edna felt as if she were being borne away from some anchorage which had held her fast, whose chains had been loosening had snapped the night before when the mystic spirit was abroad, leaving her free to drift whithersoever she chose to set her sails. Robert spoke to her incessantly; he no longer noticed Mariequita. The girl had shrimps in her bamboo basket. They were covered with Spanish moss. She beat the moss down impatiently, and muttered to herself sullenly. "Let us go to Grande Terre to-morrow?" said Robert in a low voice.<|quote|>"What shall we do there?"</|quote|>"Climb up the hill to the old fort and look at the little wriggling gold snakes, and watch the lizards sun themselves." She gazed away toward Grande Terre and thought she would like to be alone there with Robert, in the sun, listening to the ocean's roar and watching the slimy lizards writhe in and out among the ruins of the old fort. "And the next day or the next we can sail to the Bayou Brulow," he went on. "What shall we do there?" "Anything cast bait for fish." "No; we'll go back to Grande Terre. Let the fish alone." "We'll go wherever you like," he said. "I'll have Tonie come over and help me patch and trim my boat. We shall not need Beaudelet nor any one. Are you afraid of the pirogue?" "Oh, no." "Then I'll take you some night in the pirogue when the moon shines. Maybe your Gulf spirit will whisper to you in which of these islands the treasures are hidden direct you to the very spot, perhaps." "And in a day we should be rich!" she laughed. "I'd give it all to you, the pirate gold and every bit of treasure we could dig up. I think you would know how to spend it. Pirate gold isn't a thing to be hoarded or utilized. It is something to squander and throw to the four winds, for the fun of seeing the golden specks fly." "We'd share it, and scatter it together," he said. His face flushed. They all went together up to the quaint little Gothic church of Our Lady of Lourdes, gleaming all brown and yellow with paint in the sun's glare. Only Beaudelet remained behind, tinkering at his boat, and Mariequita walked away with her basket of shrimps, casting a look of childish ill humor and reproach at Robert from the corner of her eye. XIII A feeling of oppression and drowsiness overcame Edna during the service. Her head began to ache, and the lights on the altar swayed before her eyes. Another time she might have made an effort to regain her composure; but her one thought was to quit the stifling atmosphere of the church and reach the open air. She arose, climbing over Robert's feet with a muttered apology. Old Monsieur Farival, flurried, curious, stood up, but upon seeing that Robert had followed Mrs. Pontellier, he sank back into his seat. He whispered an anxious inquiry of the lady in black, who did not notice him or reply, but kept her eyes fastened upon the pages of her velvet prayer-book. "I felt giddy and almost overcome," Edna said, lifting her hands instinctively to her head and pushing her straw hat up from her forehead. "I couldn't have stayed through the service." They were outside in the shadow of the church. Robert was full of solicitude. "It was folly to have thought of going in the first place, let alone staying. Come over to Madame Antoine's; you can rest there." He took her arm and led her away, looking anxiously and continuously down into her face. How still it was, with only the voice of the sea whispering through the reeds that grew in the salt-water pools! The long line of little gray, weather-beaten houses nestled peacefully among the orange trees. It must always have been God's day on that low, drowsy island, Edna thought. They stopped, leaning over a jagged fence made of sea-drift, to ask for water. A youth, a mild-faced Acadian, was drawing water from the cistern, which was nothing more than a rusty buoy, with an opening on one side, sunk in the ground. The water which the youth handed to them in a tin pail was not cold to taste, but it was cool to her heated face, and it greatly revived and refreshed her. Madame Antoine's cot was at the far end of the village. She welcomed them with all the native hospitality, as she would have opened her door to let the sunlight in. She was fat, and walked heavily and clumsily across the floor. She could speak no English, but when Robert made her understand that the lady who accompanied him was ill and desired to rest, she was all eagerness to make Edna feel at home and to dispose of her comfortably. The whole place was immaculately clean, and the big, four-posted bed, snow-white, invited one to repose. It stood in a small side room which looked out across a narrow grass plot toward the shed, where there was a disabled boat lying keel upward. Madame Antoine had not gone to mass. Her son Tonie had, but she supposed he would soon be back, and she invited Robert to be seated and wait for him. But he went and sat | the girl of Robert. "Maybe she thinks you are pretty. Shall I ask her?" "No. Is she your sweetheart?" "She's a married lady, and has two children." "Oh! well! Francisco ran away with Sylvano's wife, who had four children. They took all his money and one of the children and stole his boat." "Shut up!" "Does she understand?" "Oh, hush!" "Are those two married over there leaning on each other?" "Of course not," laughed Robert. "Of course not," echoed Mariequita, with a serious, confirmatory bob of the head. The sun was high up and beginning to bite. The swift breeze seemed to Edna to bury the sting of it into the pores of her face and hands. Robert held his umbrella over her. As they went cutting sidewise through the water, the sails bellied taut, with the wind filling and overflowing them. Old Monsieur Farival laughed sardonically at something as he looked at the sails, and Beaudelet swore at the old man under his breath. Sailing across the bay to the _Ch ni re Caminada_, Edna felt as if she were being borne away from some anchorage which had held her fast, whose chains had been loosening had snapped the night before when the mystic spirit was abroad, leaving her free to drift whithersoever she chose to set her sails. Robert spoke to her incessantly; he no longer noticed Mariequita. The girl had shrimps in her bamboo basket. They were covered with Spanish moss. She beat the moss down impatiently, and muttered to herself sullenly. "Let us go to Grande Terre to-morrow?" said Robert in a low voice.<|quote|>"What shall we do there?"</|quote|>"Climb up the hill to the old fort and look at the little wriggling gold snakes, and watch the lizards sun themselves." She gazed away toward Grande Terre and thought she would like to be alone there with Robert, in the sun, listening to the ocean's roar and watching the slimy lizards writhe in and out among the ruins of the old fort. "And the next day or the next we can sail to the Bayou Brulow," he went on. "What shall we do there?" "Anything cast bait for fish." "No; we'll go back to Grande Terre. Let the fish alone." "We'll go wherever you like," he said. "I'll have Tonie come over and help me patch and trim my boat. We shall not need Beaudelet nor any one. Are you afraid of the pirogue?" "Oh, no." "Then I'll take you some night in the pirogue when the moon shines. Maybe your Gulf spirit will whisper to you in which of these islands the treasures are hidden direct you to the very spot, perhaps." "And in a day we should be rich!" she laughed. "I'd give it all to you, the pirate gold and every bit of treasure we could dig up. I think you would know how to spend it. Pirate gold isn't a thing to be hoarded or utilized. It is something to squander and throw to the four winds, for the fun of seeing the golden specks fly." "We'd share it, and scatter it together," he said. His face flushed. They all went together up to the quaint little Gothic church of Our Lady of Lourdes, gleaming all brown and yellow with paint in the sun's glare. Only Beaudelet remained behind, tinkering at his boat, and Mariequita walked away with her basket of shrimps, casting a look of childish ill humor and reproach at Robert from the corner of her eye. XIII A feeling of oppression and drowsiness overcame Edna during the service. Her head began to ache, and the lights on the altar swayed before her eyes. Another time she might have made an effort to regain her composure; but her one thought was to quit the stifling atmosphere of the church and reach the open air. She arose, climbing over Robert's feet with | The Awakening |
"No." | Brett Ashley | it, yet," Brett said. "No?"<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"All right." He laughed again. | must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?"<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"All right." He laughed again. "I would like a hat | 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?"<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"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 | he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?"<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"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 | was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake. "You fight to-morrow?" I said. "Yes," he said. "Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you hear?" "No," I said. "Badly?" He shook his head. "Nothing. Here," he showed his hand. Brett reached out and spread the fingers apart. "Oh!" he said in English, "you tell fortunes?" "Sometimes. Do you mind?" "No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire." He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look," he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?" He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. "There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand," Brett said. "I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?"<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"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 | can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?" Her hand was trembling. "I'm like that all through." "You oughtn't to do it." "I can't help it. I'm a goner now, anyway. Don't you see the difference?" "No." "I've got to do something. I've got to do something I really want to do. I've lost my self-respect." "You don't have to do that." "Oh, darling, don't be difficult. What do you think it's meant to have that damned Jew about, and Mike the way he's acted?" "Sure." "I can't just stay tight all the time." "No." "Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me through this." "Sure." "I don't say it's right. It is right though for me. God knows, I've never felt such a bitch." "What do you want me to do?" "Come on," Brett said. "Let's go and find him." Together we walked down the gravel path in the park in the dark, under the trees and then out from under the trees and past the gate into the street that led into town. Pedro Romero was in the caf . He was at a table with other bull-fighters and bull-fight critics. They were smoking cigars. When we came in they looked up. Romero smiled and bowed. We sat down at a table half-way down the room. "Ask him to come over and have a drink." "Not yet. He'll come over." "I can't look at him." "He's nice to look at," I said. "I've always done just what I wanted." "I know." "I do feel such a bitch." "Well," I said. "My God!" said Brett, "the things a woman goes through." "Yes?" "Oh, I do feel such a bitch." I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands. "Won't you have a drink?" "You must have a drink with me," he said. He seated himself, asking Brett's permission without saying anything. He had very nice manners. But he kept on smoking his cigar. It went well with his face. "You like cigars?" I asked. "Oh, yes. I always smoke cigars." It was part of his system of authority. It made him seem older. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake. "You fight to-morrow?" I said. "Yes," he said. "Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you hear?" "No," I said. "Badly?" He shook his head. "Nothing. Here," he showed his hand. Brett reached out and spread the fingers apart. "Oh!" he said in English, "you tell fortunes?" "Sometimes. Do you mind?" "No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire." He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look," he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?" He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. "There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand," Brett said. "I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?"<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"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 don't know." "She was with you." "She must have gone to bed." "She's not." "I don't know where she is." His face was sallow under the light. He was standing up. "Tell me where she is." "Sit down," I said. "I don't know where she is." "The hell you don't!" "You can shut your face." "Tell me where Brett is." "I'll not tell you a damn thing." "You know where she is." "If I did I wouldn't tell you." "Oh, go to hell, Cohn," Mike called from the table. "Brett's gone off with the bull-fighter chap. They're on their honeymoon." "You shut up." "Oh, go to hell!" Mike said languidly. "Is that where she is?" Cohn turned to me. "Go to hell!" "She was with you. Is that where she is?" "Go to hell!" "I'll | saying anything. He had very nice manners. But he kept on smoking his cigar. It went well with his face. "You like cigars?" I asked. "Oh, yes. I always smoke cigars." It was part of his system of authority. It made him seem older. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake. "You fight to-morrow?" I said. "Yes," he said. "Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you hear?" "No," I said. "Badly?" He shook his head. "Nothing. Here," he showed his hand. Brett reached out and spread the fingers apart. "Oh!" he said in English, "you tell fortunes?" "Sometimes. Do you mind?" "No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire." He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look," he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?" He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. "There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand," Brett said. "I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?"<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"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 | The Sun Also Rises |
"But he don't seem to mind it so very much." | Jem Wimble | intently in the gloomy cabin.<|quote|>"But he don't seem to mind it so very much."</|quote|>"What do you say to | up sharply, watching them both intently in the gloomy cabin.<|quote|>"But he don't seem to mind it so very much."</|quote|>"What do you say to escaping without spears?" "Oh, I'm | any one ever before so unlucky as we are?" "Well, if you come to that," said Jem, "yes. Poor old Tomati, for one; and it can't be very nice for Ngati here, who has lost all his tribe." Ngati looked up sharply, watching them both intently in the gloomy cabin.<|quote|>"But he don't seem to mind it so very much."</|quote|>"What do you say to escaping without spears?" "Oh, I'm willing," replied Jem; "only I wouldn't be in too great a hurry. Those chaps wouldn't mind having a shot at us again, and this time they might hit." "What shall we do then?" "Better wait, Mas' Don. This sort o' | intention of recapturing the escaped prisoners. "If we could only get the guns and spears, Jem," said Don one evening for the hundredth time. "Yes, and I'd precious soon have them," replied Jem; "only they're always on the watch." "Yes, they're too cunning to leave them for a moment. Was any one ever before so unlucky as we are?" "Well, if you come to that," said Jem, "yes. Poor old Tomati, for one; and it can't be very nice for Ngati here, who has lost all his tribe." Ngati looked up sharply, watching them both intently in the gloomy cabin.<|quote|>"But he don't seem to mind it so very much."</|quote|>"What do you say to escaping without spears?" "Oh, I'm willing," replied Jem; "only I wouldn't be in too great a hurry. Those chaps wouldn't mind having a shot at us again, and this time they might hit." "What shall we do then?" "Better wait, Mas' Don. This sort o' thing can't last. We shall soon eat up all the fruit, and then they'll make a move, and we may have a better chance." Don sighed and lay with his eyes half-closed, watching one particular star which shone in through the doorway. But not for long. The star seemed to | They did wait, day after day, working hard, ill fed, and suffering endless abuse, and often blows, which would have been resented by Ngati, but for a look from Don; and night by night, as they gathered together in their little lean-to hut, with a thick heap of fern leaves for their bed their conversation was on the same subject--how could they get the muskets and spears, and escape. There was no further alarm on the part of the Maoris, who seemed, after they had been discouraged in their pursuit, and startled by the guns, to have given up all intention of recapturing the escaped prisoners. "If we could only get the guns and spears, Jem," said Don one evening for the hundredth time. "Yes, and I'd precious soon have them," replied Jem; "only they're always on the watch." "Yes, they're too cunning to leave them for a moment. Was any one ever before so unlucky as we are?" "Well, if you come to that," said Jem, "yes. Poor old Tomati, for one; and it can't be very nice for Ngati here, who has lost all his tribe." Ngati looked up sharply, watching them both intently in the gloomy cabin.<|quote|>"But he don't seem to mind it so very much."</|quote|>"What do you say to escaping without spears?" "Oh, I'm willing," replied Jem; "only I wouldn't be in too great a hurry. Those chaps wouldn't mind having a shot at us again, and this time they might hit." "What shall we do then?" "Better wait, Mas' Don. This sort o' thing can't last. We shall soon eat up all the fruit, and then they'll make a move, and we may have a better chance." Don sighed and lay with his eyes half-closed, watching one particular star which shone in through the doorway. But not for long. The star seemed to grow misty as if veiled by a cloud; then it darkened altogether; so it seemed to Don, for the simple reason that he had fallen fast asleep. It appeared only a minute since he was gazing at the star before he felt a hand pressed across his mouth, and with a horrible dread of being smothered, he uttered a hoarse, stifled cry, and struggled to get free; but another hand was pressed upon his chest, and it seemed as if the end had come. CHAPTER FIFTY ONE. NGATI'S GOAL. Just as in the case of a dream, a long space | to the bush." "Oh, do you?" said Mike, grinning. "Well, never mind; I'm here, and you're there, and you've got to make the best of it." To make the best of it was not easy. The three convicts, after compelling their prisoners to make the resting-place they occupied more weather-proof and warm, set them to make a lean-to for themselves, to which they were relegated, but without arms, Mike Bannock having on the first day they were at work taken possession of their weapons. "You won't want them," he said, with an ugly grin; "we'll do the hunting and fighting, and you three shall do the work." Jem uttered a low growl, at which Mike let the handle of one of the spears fall upon his shoulder, and as Jem fiercely seized it, three muskets were presented at his head. "Oh, all right," growled Jem, with a menacing look. "Yes, it's all right, Jem Wimble. But look here, don't you or either of you cut up rough; for if you do, things may go very awkward." "I should like to make it awkward for them, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as the convicts turned away; "but never mind, I can wait." They did wait, day after day, working hard, ill fed, and suffering endless abuse, and often blows, which would have been resented by Ngati, but for a look from Don; and night by night, as they gathered together in their little lean-to hut, with a thick heap of fern leaves for their bed their conversation was on the same subject--how could they get the muskets and spears, and escape. There was no further alarm on the part of the Maoris, who seemed, after they had been discouraged in their pursuit, and startled by the guns, to have given up all intention of recapturing the escaped prisoners. "If we could only get the guns and spears, Jem," said Don one evening for the hundredth time. "Yes, and I'd precious soon have them," replied Jem; "only they're always on the watch." "Yes, they're too cunning to leave them for a moment. Was any one ever before so unlucky as we are?" "Well, if you come to that," said Jem, "yes. Poor old Tomati, for one; and it can't be very nice for Ngati here, who has lost all his tribe." Ngati looked up sharply, watching them both intently in the gloomy cabin.<|quote|>"But he don't seem to mind it so very much."</|quote|>"What do you say to escaping without spears?" "Oh, I'm willing," replied Jem; "only I wouldn't be in too great a hurry. Those chaps wouldn't mind having a shot at us again, and this time they might hit." "What shall we do then?" "Better wait, Mas' Don. This sort o' thing can't last. We shall soon eat up all the fruit, and then they'll make a move, and we may have a better chance." Don sighed and lay with his eyes half-closed, watching one particular star which shone in through the doorway. But not for long. The star seemed to grow misty as if veiled by a cloud; then it darkened altogether; so it seemed to Don, for the simple reason that he had fallen fast asleep. It appeared only a minute since he was gazing at the star before he felt a hand pressed across his mouth, and with a horrible dread of being smothered, he uttered a hoarse, stifled cry, and struggled to get free; but another hand was pressed upon his chest, and it seemed as if the end had come. CHAPTER FIFTY ONE. NGATI'S GOAL. Just as in the case of a dream, a long space of time in the face of a terrible danger seems to pass in what is really but a few moments. Don, in an agony of apprehension, was struggling against the hands which held him, when a deep voice whispered in his ear,-- "My pakeha." "Ngati!" Don caught the hands in his, and sat up slowly, while the chief awakened Jem in the same manner, and with precisely the same result. "Why, I thought it was Mike Bannock trying to smother me," grumbled Jem, sitting up. "What's the matter?" "I don't know, Jem. Ngati just woke me in the dark, and--Oh! Ngati!" His hands trembled, and a curious feeling of excitement coursed through his veins, as at that moment he felt the stock of a gun pressed into his hands, Jem exclaiming the next moment as he too clasped a gun. "But there arn't no powder and--Yes, there is." Jem ceased speaking, for he had suddenly felt that there was a belt and pouch attached to the gun-barrel, and without another word he slipped the belt over his shoulder. "What do you mean, Ngati?" whispered Don hastily. "Go!" was the laconic reply; and in an instant the lad realised that the | This was in answer to something said in a low voice by Ngati, who looked from one to the other inquiringly. Ngati spoke again, and then struck his fist into his hand with a look of rage and despair. "Yes, I feel the same," said Don, laying his hand upon the great fellow's arm. "I'd give anything to be able to understand what you say, Ngati." The chief smiled, as if he quite comprehended; and grasped Don's hand with a friendly grip, offering the other to Jem. "It's all right, old boy," said the latter. "We can't understand each other's lingo, but we know each other's hearts. We've got to wait a bit and see." A week passed rapidly away, during which, in his rougher moods, Mike treated his prisoners as if they were slaves, calling upon Ngati to perform the most menial offices for the little camp, all of which were patiently performed after an appealing look at Don, who for the sake of gaining time gave up in every way. Jem grumbled, but he did what he was told, for the slightest appearance of resistance was met by a threatening movement with the muskets, which never left the men's hands. They were fairly supplied with food; fish from the streams and from a good-sized lake, Ngati proving himself to be an adept at capturing the large eels, and at discovering fresh supplies of fruit and roots. But in a quiet way, as he watched his English companions like a dog, he always seemed to comprehend their wishes, and to be waiting the time when they should call upon him to fly at their tyrants and then help them to escape. "Didn't know I was coming out to look after you, did you, young Don?" said Mike one evening. "King sent me out o' purpose. Told one of the judges to send me out here, and here I am; and I've found you, and I ought to take you home, but I won't. You always liked furrin countries, and I'm going to keep you here." "What for?" said Don. "To make you do for me what I used to do for you. I was your sarvant; now you're mine. Ups and downs in life we see. Now you're down and I'm up; and what d'yer think o' that, Jem Wimble?" "Think as you was transported, and that you've took to the bush." "Oh, do you?" said Mike, grinning. "Well, never mind; I'm here, and you're there, and you've got to make the best of it." To make the best of it was not easy. The three convicts, after compelling their prisoners to make the resting-place they occupied more weather-proof and warm, set them to make a lean-to for themselves, to which they were relegated, but without arms, Mike Bannock having on the first day they were at work taken possession of their weapons. "You won't want them," he said, with an ugly grin; "we'll do the hunting and fighting, and you three shall do the work." Jem uttered a low growl, at which Mike let the handle of one of the spears fall upon his shoulder, and as Jem fiercely seized it, three muskets were presented at his head. "Oh, all right," growled Jem, with a menacing look. "Yes, it's all right, Jem Wimble. But look here, don't you or either of you cut up rough; for if you do, things may go very awkward." "I should like to make it awkward for them, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as the convicts turned away; "but never mind, I can wait." They did wait, day after day, working hard, ill fed, and suffering endless abuse, and often blows, which would have been resented by Ngati, but for a look from Don; and night by night, as they gathered together in their little lean-to hut, with a thick heap of fern leaves for their bed their conversation was on the same subject--how could they get the muskets and spears, and escape. There was no further alarm on the part of the Maoris, who seemed, after they had been discouraged in their pursuit, and startled by the guns, to have given up all intention of recapturing the escaped prisoners. "If we could only get the guns and spears, Jem," said Don one evening for the hundredth time. "Yes, and I'd precious soon have them," replied Jem; "only they're always on the watch." "Yes, they're too cunning to leave them for a moment. Was any one ever before so unlucky as we are?" "Well, if you come to that," said Jem, "yes. Poor old Tomati, for one; and it can't be very nice for Ngati here, who has lost all his tribe." Ngati looked up sharply, watching them both intently in the gloomy cabin.<|quote|>"But he don't seem to mind it so very much."</|quote|>"What do you say to escaping without spears?" "Oh, I'm willing," replied Jem; "only I wouldn't be in too great a hurry. Those chaps wouldn't mind having a shot at us again, and this time they might hit." "What shall we do then?" "Better wait, Mas' Don. This sort o' thing can't last. We shall soon eat up all the fruit, and then they'll make a move, and we may have a better chance." Don sighed and lay with his eyes half-closed, watching one particular star which shone in through the doorway. But not for long. The star seemed to grow misty as if veiled by a cloud; then it darkened altogether; so it seemed to Don, for the simple reason that he had fallen fast asleep. It appeared only a minute since he was gazing at the star before he felt a hand pressed across his mouth, and with a horrible dread of being smothered, he uttered a hoarse, stifled cry, and struggled to get free; but another hand was pressed upon his chest, and it seemed as if the end had come. CHAPTER FIFTY ONE. NGATI'S GOAL. Just as in the case of a dream, a long space of time in the face of a terrible danger seems to pass in what is really but a few moments. Don, in an agony of apprehension, was struggling against the hands which held him, when a deep voice whispered in his ear,-- "My pakeha." "Ngati!" Don caught the hands in his, and sat up slowly, while the chief awakened Jem in the same manner, and with precisely the same result. "Why, I thought it was Mike Bannock trying to smother me," grumbled Jem, sitting up. "What's the matter?" "I don't know, Jem. Ngati just woke me in the dark, and--Oh! Ngati!" His hands trembled, and a curious feeling of excitement coursed through his veins, as at that moment he felt the stock of a gun pressed into his hands, Jem exclaiming the next moment as he too clasped a gun. "But there arn't no powder and--Yes, there is." Jem ceased speaking, for he had suddenly felt that there was a belt and pouch attached to the gun-barrel, and without another word he slipped the belt over his shoulder. "What do you mean, Ngati?" whispered Don hastily. "Go!" was the laconic reply; and in an instant the lad realised that the Maori had partly comprehended his words that evening, had thought out the full meaning, and then crept silently to the convicts' den, and secured the arms. Don rose excitedly to his feet. "The time has come, Jem," he whispered. "Yes, and I dursen't shout hooroar!" Ngati was already outside, waiting in the starlight; and as Don stepped out quickly with his heart beating and a sense of suffocation at the throat, he could just make out that the Maori held the third musket, and had also three spears under his arm. He handed one of the latter to each, and then stood listening for a few moments with his head bent in the direction of the convicts' resting-place. The steam jet hissed, and the vapour rose like a dim spectral form; the water gurgled and splashed faintly, but there was no other sound, and, going softly in the direction of the opening, Ngati led the way. "We must leave it to him, Jem, and go where he takes us," whispered Don. "Can't do better," whispered back Jem. "Wait just a moment till I get this strap o' the gun over my shoulder. It's awkward to carry both gun and spear." "Wait till we get farther away, Jem." _Crash_! A flash of fire, and a report which echoed like thunder from the face of the rocks. Jem, in passing the sling of the musket over his head, had let it fall upon the stones with disastrous effect. "Run, Mas' Don; never mind me." "Are you hurt?" "Dunno." Jem was in a stooping posture as he spoke, but he rose directly, as there was a rush heard in the direction of the convicts' lair, and catching Don's hand they ran off stealthily after Ngati, who had returned, and then led the way once more. Not a word was spoken, and after the first rush and the scramble and panting of men making for the rocks, all was very still. Ngati led on, passing in and out among tree and bush, and mass of rock, as if his eyes were quite accustomed to the darkness, while, big as he was, his bare feet made no more sound than the paws of a cat. Both Don and Jem followed as silently as they could, but they could not help catching against the various obstacles, and making noises which produced a warning "Hssh!" from their | "we'll do the hunting and fighting, and you three shall do the work." Jem uttered a low growl, at which Mike let the handle of one of the spears fall upon his shoulder, and as Jem fiercely seized it, three muskets were presented at his head. "Oh, all right," growled Jem, with a menacing look. "Yes, it's all right, Jem Wimble. But look here, don't you or either of you cut up rough; for if you do, things may go very awkward." "I should like to make it awkward for them, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as the convicts turned away; "but never mind, I can wait." They did wait, day after day, working hard, ill fed, and suffering endless abuse, and often blows, which would have been resented by Ngati, but for a look from Don; and night by night, as they gathered together in their little lean-to hut, with a thick heap of fern leaves for their bed their conversation was on the same subject--how could they get the muskets and spears, and escape. There was no further alarm on the part of the Maoris, who seemed, after they had been discouraged in their pursuit, and startled by the guns, to have given up all intention of recapturing the escaped prisoners. "If we could only get the guns and spears, Jem," said Don one evening for the hundredth time. "Yes, and I'd precious soon have them," replied Jem; "only they're always on the watch." "Yes, they're too cunning to leave them for a moment. Was any one ever before so unlucky as we are?" "Well, if you come to that," said Jem, "yes. Poor old Tomati, for one; and it can't be very nice for Ngati here, who has lost all his tribe." Ngati looked up sharply, watching them both intently in the gloomy cabin.<|quote|>"But he don't seem to mind it so very much."</|quote|>"What do you say to escaping without spears?" "Oh, I'm willing," replied Jem; "only I wouldn't be in too great a hurry. Those chaps wouldn't mind having a shot at us again, and this time they might hit." "What shall we do then?" "Better wait, Mas' Don. This sort o' thing can't last. We shall soon eat up all the fruit, and then they'll make a move, and we may have a better chance." Don sighed and lay with his eyes half-closed, watching one particular star which shone in through the doorway. But not for long. The star seemed to grow misty as if veiled by a cloud; then it darkened altogether; so it seemed to Don, for the simple reason that he had fallen fast asleep. It appeared only a minute since he was gazing at the star before he felt a hand pressed across his mouth, and with a horrible dread of being smothered, he uttered a hoarse, stifled cry, and struggled to get free; but another hand was pressed upon his chest, and it seemed as if the end had come. CHAPTER FIFTY ONE. NGATI'S GOAL. Just as in the case of a dream, a long space of time in the face of a terrible danger seems to pass in what is really but a few moments. Don, in an agony of apprehension, was struggling against the hands which held him, when a deep voice whispered in his ear,-- "My pakeha." "Ngati!" Don caught the hands in his, and sat up slowly, while the chief awakened Jem in the same manner, and with precisely the same result. "Why, I thought it was Mike Bannock trying to smother me," grumbled Jem, sitting up. "What's the matter?" "I don't know, Jem. Ngati just woke me in the dark, and--Oh! Ngati!" His hands trembled, and a curious feeling of excitement coursed through his veins, as at that moment he felt the stock of a gun pressed into his hands, Jem exclaiming the next moment as he too clasped a gun. "But there arn't no powder and--Yes, there is." Jem ceased speaking, for he had suddenly felt that there was a belt and pouch attached to the gun-barrel, and without another word he slipped the belt over his shoulder. "What do you mean, Ngati?" whispered Don hastily. "Go!" was the laconic reply; and in an instant the lad realised that the Maori had partly comprehended his words that evening, had thought out the full meaning, and then crept silently to the convicts' den, and secured the arms. Don rose excitedly to his feet. "The time has come, Jem," he whispered. "Yes, and I dursen't shout hooroar!" Ngati was already outside, waiting in the starlight; and as Don stepped out quickly with his heart beating and a sense of suffocation at the throat, he could just make out | Don Lavington |
he added looking angrily at the March Hare. | No speaker | butter wouldn't suit the works!"<|quote|>he added looking angrily at the March Hare.</|quote|>"It was the _best_ butter," | the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!"<|quote|>he added looking angrily at the March Hare.</|quote|>"It was the _best_ butter," the March Hare meekly replied. | he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!" sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!"<|quote|>he added looking angrily at the March Hare.</|quote|>"It was the _best_ butter," the March Hare meekly replied. "Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well," the Hatter grumbled: "you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife." The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup | Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. "What day of the month is it?" he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!" sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!"<|quote|>he added looking angrily at the March Hare.</|quote|>"It was the _best_ butter," the March Hare meekly replied. "Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well," the Hatter grumbled: "you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife." The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, "It was the _best_ butter, you know." Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. "What a funny watch!" she remarked. "It tells the day of the month, | know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!" "You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe'!" "It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. "What day of the month is it?" he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!" sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!"<|quote|>he added looking angrily at the March Hare.</|quote|>"It was the _best_ butter," the March Hare meekly replied. "Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well," the Hatter grumbled: "you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife." The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, "It was the _best_ butter, you know." Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. "What a funny watch!" she remarked. "It tells the day of the month, and doesn't tell what o'clock it is!" "Why should it?" muttered the Hatter. "Does _your_ watch tell you what year it is?" "Of course not," Alice replied very readily: "but that's because it stays the same year for such a long time together." "Which is just the case with _mine_," said the Hatter. Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter's remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. "I don't quite understand you," she said, as politely as she could. "The Dormouse is asleep again," said the Hatter, and he poured a little | "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare. "Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it," said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity; "it's very rude." The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!" "You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe'!" "It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. "What day of the month is it?" he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!" sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!"<|quote|>he added looking angrily at the March Hare.</|quote|>"It was the _best_ butter," the March Hare meekly replied. "Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well," the Hatter grumbled: "you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife." The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, "It was the _best_ butter, you know." Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. "What a funny watch!" she remarked. "It tells the day of the month, and doesn't tell what o'clock it is!" "Why should it?" muttered the Hatter. "Does _your_ watch tell you what year it is?" "Of course not," Alice replied very readily: "but that's because it stays the same year for such a long time together." "Which is just the case with _mine_," said the Hatter. Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter's remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. "I don't quite understand you," she said, as politely as she could. "The Dormouse is asleep again," said the Hatter, and he poured a little hot tea upon its nose. The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its eyes, "Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself." "Have you guessed the riddle yet?" the Hatter said, turning to Alice again. "No, I give it up," Alice replied: "what's the answer?" "I haven't the slightest idea," said the Hatter. "Nor I," said the March Hare. Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers." "If you knew Time as well as I do," said the Hatter, "you wouldn't talk about wasting _it_. It's _him_." "I don't know what you mean," said Alice. "Of course you don't!" the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. "I dare say you never even spoke to Time!" "Perhaps not," Alice cautiously replied: "but I know I have to beat time when I learn music." "Ah! that accounts for it," said the Hatter. "He won't stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to | said to herself; "the March Hare will be much the most interesting, and perhaps as this is May it won't be raving mad--at least not so mad as it was in March." As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat again, sitting on a branch of a tree. "Did you say pig, or fig?" said the Cat. "I said pig," replied Alice; "and I wish you wouldn't keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy." "All right," said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone. "Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin," thought Alice; "but a grin without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!" She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house of the March Hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. It was so large a house, that she did not like to go nearer till she had nibbled some more of the lefthand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying to herself "Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost wish I'd gone to see the Hatter instead!" CHAPTER VII. A Mad Tea-Party There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind." The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare. "Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it," said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity; "it's very rude." The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!" "You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe'!" "It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. "What day of the month is it?" he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!" sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!"<|quote|>he added looking angrily at the March Hare.</|quote|>"It was the _best_ butter," the March Hare meekly replied. "Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well," the Hatter grumbled: "you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife." The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, "It was the _best_ butter, you know." Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. "What a funny watch!" she remarked. "It tells the day of the month, and doesn't tell what o'clock it is!" "Why should it?" muttered the Hatter. "Does _your_ watch tell you what year it is?" "Of course not," Alice replied very readily: "but that's because it stays the same year for such a long time together." "Which is just the case with _mine_," said the Hatter. Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter's remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. "I don't quite understand you," she said, as politely as she could. "The Dormouse is asleep again," said the Hatter, and he poured a little hot tea upon its nose. The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its eyes, "Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself." "Have you guessed the riddle yet?" the Hatter said, turning to Alice again. "No, I give it up," Alice replied: "what's the answer?" "I haven't the slightest idea," said the Hatter. "Nor I," said the March Hare. Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers." "If you knew Time as well as I do," said the Hatter, "you wouldn't talk about wasting _it_. It's _him_." "I don't know what you mean," said Alice. "Of course you don't!" the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. "I dare say you never even spoke to Time!" "Perhaps not," Alice cautiously replied: "but I know I have to beat time when I learn music." "Ah! that accounts for it," said the Hatter. "He won't stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!" (" "I only wish it was," the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) "That would be grand, certainly," said Alice thoughtfully: "but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know." "Not at first, perhaps," said the Hatter: "but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked." "Is that the way _you_ manage?" Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. "Not I!" he replied. "We quarrelled last March--just before _he_ went mad, you know--" (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) "--it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing" 'Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at!' "You know the song, perhaps?" "I've heard something like it," said Alice. "It goes on, you know," the Hatter continued, "in this way:--" 'Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--'" Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep "_Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle_--" and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. "Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse," said the Hatter, "when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, 'He's murdering the time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice. "And ever since that," the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now." A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles." "Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice. "Exactly so," said the Hatter: "as the things get used up." "But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask. "Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." "I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. "Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried. "Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. | their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind." The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare. "Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it," said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity; "it's very rude." The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!" "You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe'!" "It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. "What day of the month is it?" he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!" sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!"<|quote|>he added looking angrily at the March Hare.</|quote|>"It was the _best_ butter," the March Hare meekly replied. "Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well," the Hatter grumbled: "you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife." The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, "It was the _best_ butter, you know." Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. "What a funny watch!" she remarked. "It tells the day of the month, and doesn't tell what o'clock it is!" "Why should it?" muttered the Hatter. "Does _your_ watch tell you what year it is?" "Of course not," Alice replied very readily: "but that's because it stays the same year for such a long time together." "Which is just the case with _mine_," said the Hatter. Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter's remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. "I don't quite understand you," she said, as politely as she could. "The Dormouse is asleep again," said the Hatter, and he poured a little hot tea upon its nose. The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its eyes, "Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself." "Have you guessed the riddle yet?" the Hatter said, turning to Alice again. "No, I give it up," Alice replied: "what's the answer?" "I haven't the slightest idea," said the Hatter. "Nor I," said the March Hare. Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers." "If you knew Time as well as I do," said the Hatter, "you wouldn't talk about wasting _it_. It's _him_." "I don't know what you mean," said Alice. "Of course you don't!" the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. "I dare say you never even spoke to Time!" "Perhaps not," Alice cautiously replied: "but I know I have to beat time when I learn music." "Ah! that accounts for it," said the Hatter. "He won't stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!" (" "I only wish it was," the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) "That would be | Alices Adventures In Wonderland |
cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be silent, | No speaker | him what it might." "Then,"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be silent,</|quote|>"he has acted like an | would stand to it, cost him what it might." "Then,"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be silent,</|quote|>"he has acted like an honest man! I beg your | remembered her promises, and forbore. "All this, however," he continued, "was urged in vain. Edward said very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner. Nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would stand to it, cost him what it might." "Then,"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be silent,</|quote|>"he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr. Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a rascal. I have some little concern in the business, as well as yourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not | it."" Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands together, and cried, "Gracious God! can this be possible!" "Well may you wonder, Marianne," replied her brother, "at the obstinacy which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is very natural." Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and forbore. "All this, however," he continued, "was urged in vain. Edward said very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner. Nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would stand to it, cost him what it might." "Then,"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be silent,</|quote|>"he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr. Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a rascal. I have some little concern in the business, as well as yourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good husband." John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not open to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially anybody of good fortune. He therefore replied, without any resentment, "I would | clear of land-tax, brings in a good thousand a-year; offered even, when matters grew desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he still persisted in this low connection, represented to him the certain penury that must attend the match. His own two thousand pounds she protested should be his all; she would never see him again; and so far would she be from affording him the smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into any profession with a view of better support, she would do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it."" Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands together, and cried, "Gracious God! can this be possible!" "Well may you wonder, Marianne," replied her brother, "at the obstinacy which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is very natural." Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and forbore. "All this, however," he continued, "was urged in vain. Edward said very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner. Nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would stand to it, cost him what it might." "Then,"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be silent,</|quote|>"he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr. Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a rascal. I have some little concern in the business, as well as yourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good husband." John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not open to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially anybody of good fortune. He therefore replied, without any resentment, "I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours, madam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman, but in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible. And to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under her uncle s care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little extraordinary. In short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish her extremely happy; | be thanked; which being done, he went on. "What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her, is not to be described. While she with the truest affection had been planning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that he could be all the time secretly engaged to another person! such a suspicion could never have entered her head! If she suspected _any_ prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in _that_ quarter." _There_, to be sure, "said she," I might have thought myself safe. "She was quite in an agony. We consulted together, however, as to what should be done, and at last she determined to send for Edward. He came. But I am sorry to relate what ensued. All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to make him put an end to the engagement, assisted too as you may well suppose by my arguments, and Fanny s entreaties, was of no avail. Duty, affection, every thing was disregarded. I never thought Edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before. His mother explained to him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss Morton; told him she would settle on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax, brings in a good thousand a-year; offered even, when matters grew desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he still persisted in this low connection, represented to him the certain penury that must attend the match. His own two thousand pounds she protested should be his all; she would never see him again; and so far would she be from affording him the smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into any profession with a view of better support, she would do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it."" Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands together, and cried, "Gracious God! can this be possible!" "Well may you wonder, Marianne," replied her brother, "at the obstinacy which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is very natural." Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and forbore. "All this, however," he continued, "was urged in vain. Edward said very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner. Nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would stand to it, cost him what it might." "Then,"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be silent,</|quote|>"he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr. Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a rascal. I have some little concern in the business, as well as yourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good husband." John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not open to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially anybody of good fortune. He therefore replied, without any resentment, "I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours, madam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman, but in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible. And to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under her uncle s care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little extraordinary. In short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish her extremely happy; and Mrs. Ferrars s conduct throughout the whole, has been such as every conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt. It has been dignified and liberal. Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear it will be a bad one." Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor s heart wrung for the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother s threats, for a woman who could not reward him. "Well, sir," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did it end?" "I am sorry to say, ma am, in a most unhappy rupture: Edward is dismissed for ever from his mother s notice. He left her house yesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do not know; for _we_ of course can make no inquiry." "Poor young man! and what is to become of him?" "What, indeed, ma am! It is a melancholy consideration. Born to the prospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more deplorable. The interest of two thousand pounds how can a man live on it? and when to that is added the recollection, that he might, but for his own folly, within three months have been | that she had injured, no reparation could be too much for her to make. She performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration. She attended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with an unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard three times to say, "Yes, ma am." She listened to her praise of Lucy with only moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings talked of Edward s affection, it cost her only a spasm in her throat. Such advances towards heroism in her sister, made Elinor feel equal to any thing herself. The next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful affair, and bring them news of his wife. "You have heard, I suppose," said he with great solemnity, as soon as he was seated, "of the very shocking discovery that took place under our roof yesterday." They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech. "Your sister," he continued, "has suffered dreadfully. Mrs. Ferrars too in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress but I will hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of us quite overcome. Poor Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday. But I would not alarm you too much. Donavan says there is nothing materially to be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her resolution equal to any thing. She has borne it all, with the fortitude of an angel! She says she never shall think well of anybody again; and one cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived! meeting with such ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shown, so much confidence had been placed! It was quite out of the benevolence of her heart, that she had asked these young women to her house; merely because she thought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved girls, and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we both wished very much to have invited you and Marianne to be with us, while your kind friend there, was attending her daughter. And now to be so rewarded!" I wish, with all my heart, "says poor Fanny in her affectionate way," that we had asked your sisters instead of them. " Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on. "What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her, is not to be described. While she with the truest affection had been planning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that he could be all the time secretly engaged to another person! such a suspicion could never have entered her head! If she suspected _any_ prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in _that_ quarter." _There_, to be sure, "said she," I might have thought myself safe. "She was quite in an agony. We consulted together, however, as to what should be done, and at last she determined to send for Edward. He came. But I am sorry to relate what ensued. All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to make him put an end to the engagement, assisted too as you may well suppose by my arguments, and Fanny s entreaties, was of no avail. Duty, affection, every thing was disregarded. I never thought Edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before. His mother explained to him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss Morton; told him she would settle on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax, brings in a good thousand a-year; offered even, when matters grew desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he still persisted in this low connection, represented to him the certain penury that must attend the match. His own two thousand pounds she protested should be his all; she would never see him again; and so far would she be from affording him the smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into any profession with a view of better support, she would do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it."" Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands together, and cried, "Gracious God! can this be possible!" "Well may you wonder, Marianne," replied her brother, "at the obstinacy which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is very natural." Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and forbore. "All this, however," he continued, "was urged in vain. Edward said very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner. Nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would stand to it, cost him what it might." "Then,"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be silent,</|quote|>"he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr. Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a rascal. I have some little concern in the business, as well as yourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good husband." John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not open to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially anybody of good fortune. He therefore replied, without any resentment, "I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours, madam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman, but in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible. And to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under her uncle s care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little extraordinary. In short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish her extremely happy; and Mrs. Ferrars s conduct throughout the whole, has been such as every conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt. It has been dignified and liberal. Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear it will be a bad one." Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor s heart wrung for the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother s threats, for a woman who could not reward him. "Well, sir," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did it end?" "I am sorry to say, ma am, in a most unhappy rupture: Edward is dismissed for ever from his mother s notice. He left her house yesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do not know; for _we_ of course can make no inquiry." "Poor young man! and what is to become of him?" "What, indeed, ma am! It is a melancholy consideration. Born to the prospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more deplorable. The interest of two thousand pounds how can a man live on it? and when to that is added the recollection, that he might, but for his own folly, within three months have been in the receipt of two thousand, five hundred a-year (for Miss Morton has thirty thousand pounds,) I cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition. We must all feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out of our power to assist him." "Poor young man!" cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure he should be very welcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him if I could see him. It is not fit that he should be living about at his own charge now, at lodgings and taverns." Elinor s heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though she could not forbear smiling at the form of it. "If he would only have done as well by himself," said John Dashwood, "as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been in his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing. But as it is, it must be out of anybody s power to assist him. And there is one thing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all his mother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle _that_ estate upon Robert immediately, which might have been Edward s, on proper conditions. I left her this morning with her lawyer, talking over the business." "Well!" said Mrs. Jennings, "that is _her_ revenge. Everybody has a way of their own. But I don t think mine would be, to make one son independent, because another had plagued me." Marianne got up and walked about the room. "Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man," continued John, "than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which might have been his own? Poor Edward! I feel for him sincerely." A few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his visit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really believed there was no material danger in Fanny s indisposition, and that they need not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away; leaving the three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present occasion, as far at least as it regarded Mrs. Ferrars s conduct, the Dashwoods , and Edward s. Marianne s indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and as her vehemence made reserve impossible in | women to her house; merely because she thought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved girls, and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we both wished very much to have invited you and Marianne to be with us, while your kind friend there, was attending her daughter. And now to be so rewarded!" I wish, with all my heart, "says poor Fanny in her affectionate way," that we had asked your sisters instead of them. " Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on. "What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her, is not to be described. While she with the truest affection had been planning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that he could be all the time secretly engaged to another person! such a suspicion could never have entered her head! If she suspected _any_ prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in _that_ quarter." _There_, to be sure, "said she," I might have thought myself safe. "She was quite in an agony. We consulted together, however, as to what should be done, and at last she determined to send for Edward. He came. But I am sorry to relate what ensued. All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to make him put an end to the engagement, assisted too as you may well suppose by my arguments, and Fanny s entreaties, was of no avail. Duty, affection, every thing was disregarded. I never thought Edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before. His mother explained to him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss Morton; told him she would settle on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax, brings in a good thousand a-year; offered even, when matters grew desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he still persisted in this low connection, represented to him the certain penury that must attend the match. His own two thousand pounds she protested should be his all; she would never see him again; and so far would she be from affording him the smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into any profession with a view of better support, she would do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it."" Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands together, and cried, "Gracious God! can this be possible!" "Well may you wonder, Marianne," replied her brother, "at the obstinacy which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is very natural." Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and forbore. "All this, however," he continued, "was urged in vain. Edward said very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner. Nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would stand to it, cost him what it might." "Then,"<|quote|>cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be silent,</|quote|>"he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr. Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a rascal. I have some little concern in the business, as well as yourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good husband." John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not open to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially anybody of good fortune. He therefore replied, without any resentment, "I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours, madam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman, but in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible. And to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under her uncle s care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little extraordinary. In short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish her extremely happy; and Mrs. Ferrars s conduct throughout the whole, has been such as every conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt. It has been dignified and liberal. Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear it will be a bad one." Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor s heart wrung for the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother s threats, for a woman who could not reward him. "Well, sir," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did it end?" "I am sorry to say, ma am, in a most unhappy rupture: Edward is dismissed for ever from his mother s notice. He left her house yesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do not know; for _we_ of course can make no inquiry." "Poor young man! and what is to become of him?" "What, indeed, ma am! It is a melancholy consideration. Born to the prospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more deplorable. The interest of two thousand pounds how can a man live on it? and when to that is added the recollection, that he might, but for his own folly, within three months have been in the receipt of two thousand, five hundred a-year (for Miss Morton has thirty thousand pounds,) I cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition. We must all feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out of our power to assist him." "Poor young man!" | Sense And Sensibility |
The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily. | No speaker | are really a bit worried."<|quote|>The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily.</|quote|>"You are a very clever | apart from all that you are really a bit worried."<|quote|>The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily.</|quote|>"You are a very clever fellow," he said, "it is | leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried."<|quote|>The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily.</|quote|>"You are a very clever fellow," he said, "it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face," and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice | when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can't help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried."<|quote|>The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily.</|quote|>"You are a very clever fellow," he said, "it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face," and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is lifted." After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands "It | fork. "I know," he said, "because you talked to him in a dark room." Professor de Worms nodded and drained his glass. CHAPTER IX. THE MAN IN SPECTACLES "Burgundy is a jolly thing," said the Professor sadly, as he set his glass down. "You don't look as if it were," said Syme; "you drink it as if it were medicine." "You must excuse my manner," said the Professor dismally, "my position is rather a curious one. Inside I am really bursting with boyish merriment; but I acted the paralytic Professor so well, that now I can't leave off. So that when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can't help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried."<|quote|>The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily.</|quote|>"You are a very clever fellow," he said, "it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face," and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is lifted." After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands "It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter." "Thank you," said Syme, "you flatter me." "Listen to me," said the other, "and remember whom we have to see tomorrow. You and I are going tomorrow to attempt something which is very much more dangerous than trying to steal the Crown Jewels out of the Tower. We are trying to steal a secret from a very sharp, very strong, and very wicked man. I believe there is no man, except the President, of course, who is so seriously startling and formidable as that little grinning fellow in | enormous policeman. He told me I was wanted. I struck a sort of paralytic attitude, and cried in a high German accent," Yes, I am wanted by the oppressed of the world. You are arresting me on the charge of being the great anarchist, Professor de Worms.' "The policeman impassively consulted a paper in his hand," No, sir,' "he said civilly," at least, not exactly, sir. I am arresting you on the charge of not being the celebrated anarchist, Professor de Worms.' "This charge, if it was criminal at all, was certainly the lighter of the two, and I went along with the man, doubtful, but not greatly dismayed. I was shown into a number of rooms, and eventually into the presence of a police officer, who explained that a serious campaign had been opened against the centres of anarchy, and that this, my successful masquerade, might be of considerable value to the public safety. He offered me a good salary and this little blue card. Though our conversation was short, he struck me as a man of very massive common sense and humour; but I cannot tell you much about him personally, because" Syme laid down his knife and fork. "I know," he said, "because you talked to him in a dark room." Professor de Worms nodded and drained his glass. CHAPTER IX. THE MAN IN SPECTACLES "Burgundy is a jolly thing," said the Professor sadly, as he set his glass down. "You don't look as if it were," said Syme; "you drink it as if it were medicine." "You must excuse my manner," said the Professor dismally, "my position is rather a curious one. Inside I am really bursting with boyish merriment; but I acted the paralytic Professor so well, that now I can't leave off. So that when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can't help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried."<|quote|>The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily.</|quote|>"You are a very clever fellow," he said, "it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face," and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is lifted." After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands "It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter." "Thank you," said Syme, "you flatter me." "Listen to me," said the other, "and remember whom we have to see tomorrow. You and I are going tomorrow to attempt something which is very much more dangerous than trying to steal the Crown Jewels out of the Tower. We are trying to steal a secret from a very sharp, very strong, and very wicked man. I believe there is no man, except the President, of course, who is so seriously startling and formidable as that little grinning fellow in goggles. He has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary. But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is almost a redeeming trait. But the little Doctor has a brutal sanity that is more shocking than the Secretary's disease. Don't you notice his detestable virility and vitality. He bounces like an india-rubber ball. Depend on it, Sunday was not asleep (I wonder if he ever sleeps?) when he locked up all the plans of this outrage in the round, black head of Dr. Bull." "And you think," said Syme, "that this unique monster will be soothed if I play the piano to him?" "Don't be an ass," said his mentor. "I mentioned the piano because it gives one quick and independent fingers. Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see. I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers like this, see," and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table "B A D, bad, a word we may frequently | he really had paralysis, and working within this definite limitation, he couldn't be so jolly paralytic as I was. Then he tried to blast my claims intellectually. I countered that by a very simple dodge. Whenever he said something that nobody but he could understand, I replied with something which I could not even understand myself." I don't fancy,' "he said," that you could have worked out the principle that evolution is only negation, since there inheres in it the introduction of lacuna, which are an essential of differentiation.' "I replied quite scornfully," You read all that up in Pinckwerts; the notion that involution functioned eugenically was exposed long ago by Glumpe.' "It is unnecessary for me to say that there never were such people as Pinckwerts and Glumpe. But the people all round (rather to my surprise) seemed to remember them quite well, and the Professor, finding that the learned and mysterious method left him rather at the mercy of an enemy slightly deficient in scruples, fell back upon a more popular form of wit." I see,' "he sneered," you prevail like the false pig in sop.' And you fail,' "I answered, smiling," like the hedgehog in Montaigne.' "Need I say that there is no hedgehog in Montaigne?" Your claptrap comes off,' "he said;" so would your beard.' "I had no intelligent answer to this, which was quite true and rather witty. But I laughed heartily, answered," Like the Pantheist's boots,' "at random, and turned on my heel with all the honours of victory. The real Professor was thrown out, but not with violence, though one man tried very patiently to pull off his nose. He is now, I believe, received everywhere in Europe as a delightful impostor. His apparent earnestness and anger, you see, make him all the more entertaining." "Well," said Syme, "I can understand your putting on his dirty old beard for a night's practical joke, but I don't understand your never taking it off again." "That is the rest of the story," said the impersonator. "When I myself left the company, followed by reverent applause, I went limping down the dark street, hoping that I should soon be far enough away to be able to walk like a human being. To my astonishment, as I was turning the corner, I felt a touch on the shoulder, and turning, found myself under the shadow of an enormous policeman. He told me I was wanted. I struck a sort of paralytic attitude, and cried in a high German accent," Yes, I am wanted by the oppressed of the world. You are arresting me on the charge of being the great anarchist, Professor de Worms.' "The policeman impassively consulted a paper in his hand," No, sir,' "he said civilly," at least, not exactly, sir. I am arresting you on the charge of not being the celebrated anarchist, Professor de Worms.' "This charge, if it was criminal at all, was certainly the lighter of the two, and I went along with the man, doubtful, but not greatly dismayed. I was shown into a number of rooms, and eventually into the presence of a police officer, who explained that a serious campaign had been opened against the centres of anarchy, and that this, my successful masquerade, might be of considerable value to the public safety. He offered me a good salary and this little blue card. Though our conversation was short, he struck me as a man of very massive common sense and humour; but I cannot tell you much about him personally, because" Syme laid down his knife and fork. "I know," he said, "because you talked to him in a dark room." Professor de Worms nodded and drained his glass. CHAPTER IX. THE MAN IN SPECTACLES "Burgundy is a jolly thing," said the Professor sadly, as he set his glass down. "You don't look as if it were," said Syme; "you drink it as if it were medicine." "You must excuse my manner," said the Professor dismally, "my position is rather a curious one. Inside I am really bursting with boyish merriment; but I acted the paralytic Professor so well, that now I can't leave off. So that when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can't help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried."<|quote|>The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily.</|quote|>"You are a very clever fellow," he said, "it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face," and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is lifted." After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands "It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter." "Thank you," said Syme, "you flatter me." "Listen to me," said the other, "and remember whom we have to see tomorrow. You and I are going tomorrow to attempt something which is very much more dangerous than trying to steal the Crown Jewels out of the Tower. We are trying to steal a secret from a very sharp, very strong, and very wicked man. I believe there is no man, except the President, of course, who is so seriously startling and formidable as that little grinning fellow in goggles. He has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary. But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is almost a redeeming trait. But the little Doctor has a brutal sanity that is more shocking than the Secretary's disease. Don't you notice his detestable virility and vitality. He bounces like an india-rubber ball. Depend on it, Sunday was not asleep (I wonder if he ever sleeps?) when he locked up all the plans of this outrage in the round, black head of Dr. Bull." "And you think," said Syme, "that this unique monster will be soothed if I play the piano to him?" "Don't be an ass," said his mentor. "I mentioned the piano because it gives one quick and independent fingers. Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see. I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers like this, see," and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table "B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require." Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee. But wine and companionship had always the effect of inspiring him to a farcical ingenuity, and the Professor soon found himself struggling with the too vast energy of the new language, as it passed through the heated brain of Syme. "We must have several word-signs," said Syme seriously "words that we are likely to want, fine shades of meaning. My favourite word is coeval'. What's yours?" "Do stop playing the goat," said the Professor plaintively. "You don't know how serious this is." "Lush' too," said Syme, shaking his head sagaciously, "we must have lush' word applied to grass, don't you know?" "Do you imagine," asked the Professor furiously, "that we are going to talk to Dr. Bull about grass?" "There are several ways in which the subject could be approached," said Syme reflectively, "and the word introduced without appearing forced. We might say, Dr. Bull, as a revolutionist, you remember that a tyrant once advised us to eat grass; and indeed many of us, looking on the fresh lush grass of summer...'" "Do you understand," said the other, "that this is a tragedy?" "Perfectly," replied Syme; "always be comic in a tragedy. What the deuce else can you do? I wish this language of yours had a wider scope. I suppose we could not extend it from the fingers to the toes? That would involve pulling off our boots and socks during the conversation, which however unobtrusively performed" "Syme," said his friend with a stern simplicity, "go to bed!" Syme, however, sat up in bed for a considerable time mastering the new code. He was awakened next morning while the east was still sealed with darkness, and found his grey-bearded ally standing like a ghost beside his bed. Syme sat up in bed blinking; then slowly collected his thoughts, threw off the bed-clothes, and stood up. It seemed to him in some curious way that all the safety and sociability of the night before fell with the bedclothes off him, and he stood up in an air of cold danger. He still | attitude, and cried in a high German accent," Yes, I am wanted by the oppressed of the world. You are arresting me on the charge of being the great anarchist, Professor de Worms.' "The policeman impassively consulted a paper in his hand," No, sir,' "he said civilly," at least, not exactly, sir. I am arresting you on the charge of not being the celebrated anarchist, Professor de Worms.' "This charge, if it was criminal at all, was certainly the lighter of the two, and I went along with the man, doubtful, but not greatly dismayed. I was shown into a number of rooms, and eventually into the presence of a police officer, who explained that a serious campaign had been opened against the centres of anarchy, and that this, my successful masquerade, might be of considerable value to the public safety. He offered me a good salary and this little blue card. Though our conversation was short, he struck me as a man of very massive common sense and humour; but I cannot tell you much about him personally, because" Syme laid down his knife and fork. "I know," he said, "because you talked to him in a dark room." Professor de Worms nodded and drained his glass. CHAPTER IX. THE MAN IN SPECTACLES "Burgundy is a jolly thing," said the Professor sadly, as he set his glass down. "You don't look as if it were," said Syme; "you drink it as if it were medicine." "You must excuse my manner," said the Professor dismally, "my position is rather a curious one. Inside I am really bursting with boyish merriment; but I acted the paralytic Professor so well, that now I can't leave off. So that when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can't help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried."<|quote|>The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily.</|quote|>"You are a very clever fellow," he said, "it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face," and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is lifted." After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands "It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter." "Thank you," said Syme, "you flatter me." "Listen to me," said the other, "and remember whom we have to see tomorrow. You and I are going tomorrow to attempt something which is very much more dangerous than trying to steal the Crown Jewels out of the Tower. We are trying to steal a secret from a very sharp, very strong, and very wicked man. I believe there is no man, except the President, of course, who is so seriously startling and formidable as that little grinning fellow in goggles. He has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary. But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is almost a redeeming trait. But the little Doctor has a brutal sanity that is more shocking than the Secretary's disease. Don't you notice his detestable virility and vitality. He bounces like an india-rubber ball. Depend on it, Sunday was not asleep (I wonder if he ever sleeps?) when he locked up all the plans of this outrage in the round, black head of Dr. Bull." "And you think," said Syme, "that this unique monster will be soothed if I play the piano to him?" "Don't be an ass," said his mentor. "I mentioned the piano because it gives one quick and independent fingers. Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we | The Man Who Was Thursday |
screamed the Pigeon. | No speaker | violently with its wings. "Serpent!"<|quote|>screamed the Pigeon.</|quote|>"I'm _not_ a serpent!" said | face, and was beating her violently with its wings. "Serpent!"<|quote|>screamed the Pigeon.</|quote|>"I'm _not_ a serpent!" said Alice indignantly. "Let me alone!" | in among the leaves, which she found to be nothing but the tops of the trees under which she had been wandering, when a sharp hiss made her draw back in a hurry: a large pigeon had flown into her face, and was beating her violently with its wings. "Serpent!"<|quote|>screamed the Pigeon.</|quote|>"I'm _not_ a serpent!" said Alice indignantly. "Let me alone!" "Serpent, I say again!" repeated the Pigeon, but in a more subdued tone, and added with a kind of sob, "I've tried every way, and nothing seems to suit them!" "I haven't the least idea what you're talking about," said | her hands up to her head, she tried to get her head down to them, and was delighted to find that her neck would bend about easily in any direction, like a serpent. She had just succeeded in curving it down into a graceful zigzag, and was going to dive in among the leaves, which she found to be nothing but the tops of the trees under which she had been wandering, when a sharp hiss made her draw back in a hurry: a large pigeon had flown into her face, and was beating her violently with its wings. "Serpent!"<|quote|>screamed the Pigeon.</|quote|>"I'm _not_ a serpent!" said Alice indignantly. "Let me alone!" "Serpent, I say again!" repeated the Pigeon, but in a more subdued tone, and added with a kind of sob, "I've tried every way, and nothing seems to suit them!" "I haven't the least idea what you're talking about," said Alice. "I've tried the roots of trees, and I've tried banks, and I've tried hedges," the Pigeon went on, without attending to her; "but those serpents! There's no pleasing them!" Alice was more and more puzzled, but she thought there was no use in saying anything more till the Pigeon | her shoulders were nowhere to be found: all she could see, when she looked down, was an immense length of neck, which seemed to rise like a stalk out of a sea of green leaves that lay far below her. "What _can_ all that green stuff be?" said Alice. "And where _have_ my shoulders got to? And oh, my poor hands, how is it I can't see you?" She was moving them about as she spoke, but no result seemed to follow, except a little shaking among the distant green leaves. As there seemed to be no chance of getting her hands up to her head, she tried to get her head down to them, and was delighted to find that her neck would bend about easily in any direction, like a serpent. She had just succeeded in curving it down into a graceful zigzag, and was going to dive in among the leaves, which she found to be nothing but the tops of the trees under which she had been wandering, when a sharp hiss made her draw back in a hurry: a large pigeon had flown into her face, and was beating her violently with its wings. "Serpent!"<|quote|>screamed the Pigeon.</|quote|>"I'm _not_ a serpent!" said Alice indignantly. "Let me alone!" "Serpent, I say again!" repeated the Pigeon, but in a more subdued tone, and added with a kind of sob, "I've tried every way, and nothing seems to suit them!" "I haven't the least idea what you're talking about," said Alice. "I've tried the roots of trees, and I've tried banks, and I've tried hedges," the Pigeon went on, without attending to her; "but those serpents! There's no pleasing them!" Alice was more and more puzzled, but she thought there was no use in saying anything more till the Pigeon had finished. "As if it wasn't trouble enough hatching the eggs," said the Pigeon; "but I must be on the look-out for serpents night and day! Why, I haven't had a wink of sleep these three weeks!" "I'm very sorry you've been annoyed," said Alice, who was beginning to see its meaning. "And just as I'd taken the highest tree in the wood," continued the Pigeon, raising its voice to a shriek, "and just as I was thinking I should be free of them at last, they must needs come wriggling down from the sky! Ugh, Serpent!" "But I'm _not_ | the two sides of it; and as it was perfectly round, she found this a very difficult question. However, at last she stretched her arms round it as far as they would go, and broke off a bit of the edge with each hand. "And now which is which?" she said to herself, and nibbled a little of the right-hand bit to try the effect: the next moment she felt a violent blow underneath her chin: it had struck her foot! She was a good deal frightened by this very sudden change, but she felt that there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking rapidly; so she set to work at once to eat some of the other bit. Her chin was pressed so closely against her foot, that there was hardly room to open her mouth; but she did it at last, and managed to swallow a morsel of the lefthand bit. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Come, my head's free at last!" said Alice in a tone of delight, which changed into alarm in another moment, when she found that her shoulders were nowhere to be found: all she could see, when she looked down, was an immense length of neck, which seemed to rise like a stalk out of a sea of green leaves that lay far below her. "What _can_ all that green stuff be?" said Alice. "And where _have_ my shoulders got to? And oh, my poor hands, how is it I can't see you?" She was moving them about as she spoke, but no result seemed to follow, except a little shaking among the distant green leaves. As there seemed to be no chance of getting her hands up to her head, she tried to get her head down to them, and was delighted to find that her neck would bend about easily in any direction, like a serpent. She had just succeeded in curving it down into a graceful zigzag, and was going to dive in among the leaves, which she found to be nothing but the tops of the trees under which she had been wandering, when a sharp hiss made her draw back in a hurry: a large pigeon had flown into her face, and was beating her violently with its wings. "Serpent!"<|quote|>screamed the Pigeon.</|quote|>"I'm _not_ a serpent!" said Alice indignantly. "Let me alone!" "Serpent, I say again!" repeated the Pigeon, but in a more subdued tone, and added with a kind of sob, "I've tried every way, and nothing seems to suit them!" "I haven't the least idea what you're talking about," said Alice. "I've tried the roots of trees, and I've tried banks, and I've tried hedges," the Pigeon went on, without attending to her; "but those serpents! There's no pleasing them!" Alice was more and more puzzled, but she thought there was no use in saying anything more till the Pigeon had finished. "As if it wasn't trouble enough hatching the eggs," said the Pigeon; "but I must be on the look-out for serpents night and day! Why, I haven't had a wink of sleep these three weeks!" "I'm very sorry you've been annoyed," said Alice, who was beginning to see its meaning. "And just as I'd taken the highest tree in the wood," continued the Pigeon, raising its voice to a shriek, "and just as I was thinking I should be free of them at last, they must needs come wriggling down from the sky! Ugh, Serpent!" "But I'm _not_ a serpent, I tell you!" said Alice. "I'm a--I'm a--" "Well! _What_ are you?" said the Pigeon. "I can see you're trying to invent something!" "I--I'm a little girl," said Alice, rather doubtfully, as she remembered the number of changes she had gone through that day. "A likely story indeed!" said the Pigeon in a tone of the deepest contempt. "I've seen a good many little girls in my time, but never _one_ with such a neck as that! No, no! You're a serpent; and there's no use denying it. I suppose you'll be telling me next that you never tasted an egg!" "I _have_ tasted eggs, certainly," said Alice, who was a very truthful child; "but little girls eat eggs quite as much as serpents do, you know." "I don't believe it," said the Pigeon; "but if they do, why then they're a kind of serpent, that's all I can say." This was such a new idea to Alice, that she was quite silent for a minute or two, which gave the Pigeon the opportunity of adding, "You're looking for eggs, I know _that_ well enough; and what does it matter to me whether you're a little girl or | my life." "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- What made you so awfully clever?" "I have answered three questions, and that is enough," Said his father; "don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!" "That is not said right," said the Caterpillar. "Not _quite_ right, I'm afraid," said Alice, timidly; "some of the words have got altered." "It is wrong from beginning to end," said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes. The Caterpillar was the first to speak. "What size do you want to be?" it asked. "Oh, I'm not particular as to size," Alice hastily replied; "only one doesn't like changing so often, you know." "I _don't_ know," said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper. "Are you content now?" said the Caterpillar. "Well, I should like to be a _little_ larger, sir, if you wouldn't mind," said Alice: "three inches is such a wretched height to be." "It is a very good height indeed!" said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high). "But I'm not used to it!" pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And she thought of herself, "I wish the creatures wouldn't be so easily offended!" "You'll get used to it in time," said the Caterpillar; and it put the hookah into its mouth and began smoking again. This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. In a minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the mushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely remarking as it went, "One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter." "One side of _what?_ The other side of _what?_" thought Alice to herself. "Of the mushroom," said the Caterpillar, just as if she had asked it aloud; and in another moment it was out of sight. Alice remained looking thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute, trying to make out which were the two sides of it; and as it was perfectly round, she found this a very difficult question. However, at last she stretched her arms round it as far as they would go, and broke off a bit of the edge with each hand. "And now which is which?" she said to herself, and nibbled a little of the right-hand bit to try the effect: the next moment she felt a violent blow underneath her chin: it had struck her foot! She was a good deal frightened by this very sudden change, but she felt that there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking rapidly; so she set to work at once to eat some of the other bit. Her chin was pressed so closely against her foot, that there was hardly room to open her mouth; but she did it at last, and managed to swallow a morsel of the lefthand bit. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Come, my head's free at last!" said Alice in a tone of delight, which changed into alarm in another moment, when she found that her shoulders were nowhere to be found: all she could see, when she looked down, was an immense length of neck, which seemed to rise like a stalk out of a sea of green leaves that lay far below her. "What _can_ all that green stuff be?" said Alice. "And where _have_ my shoulders got to? And oh, my poor hands, how is it I can't see you?" She was moving them about as she spoke, but no result seemed to follow, except a little shaking among the distant green leaves. As there seemed to be no chance of getting her hands up to her head, she tried to get her head down to them, and was delighted to find that her neck would bend about easily in any direction, like a serpent. She had just succeeded in curving it down into a graceful zigzag, and was going to dive in among the leaves, which she found to be nothing but the tops of the trees under which she had been wandering, when a sharp hiss made her draw back in a hurry: a large pigeon had flown into her face, and was beating her violently with its wings. "Serpent!"<|quote|>screamed the Pigeon.</|quote|>"I'm _not_ a serpent!" said Alice indignantly. "Let me alone!" "Serpent, I say again!" repeated the Pigeon, but in a more subdued tone, and added with a kind of sob, "I've tried every way, and nothing seems to suit them!" "I haven't the least idea what you're talking about," said Alice. "I've tried the roots of trees, and I've tried banks, and I've tried hedges," the Pigeon went on, without attending to her; "but those serpents! There's no pleasing them!" Alice was more and more puzzled, but she thought there was no use in saying anything more till the Pigeon had finished. "As if it wasn't trouble enough hatching the eggs," said the Pigeon; "but I must be on the look-out for serpents night and day! Why, I haven't had a wink of sleep these three weeks!" "I'm very sorry you've been annoyed," said Alice, who was beginning to see its meaning. "And just as I'd taken the highest tree in the wood," continued the Pigeon, raising its voice to a shriek, "and just as I was thinking I should be free of them at last, they must needs come wriggling down from the sky! Ugh, Serpent!" "But I'm _not_ a serpent, I tell you!" said Alice. "I'm a--I'm a--" "Well! _What_ are you?" said the Pigeon. "I can see you're trying to invent something!" "I--I'm a little girl," said Alice, rather doubtfully, as she remembered the number of changes she had gone through that day. "A likely story indeed!" said the Pigeon in a tone of the deepest contempt. "I've seen a good many little girls in my time, but never _one_ with such a neck as that! No, no! You're a serpent; and there's no use denying it. I suppose you'll be telling me next that you never tasted an egg!" "I _have_ tasted eggs, certainly," said Alice, who was a very truthful child; "but little girls eat eggs quite as much as serpents do, you know." "I don't believe it," said the Pigeon; "but if they do, why then they're a kind of serpent, that's all I can say." This was such a new idea to Alice, that she was quite silent for a minute or two, which gave the Pigeon the opportunity of adding, "You're looking for eggs, I know _that_ well enough; and what does it matter to me whether you're a little girl or a serpent?" "It matters a good deal to _me_," said Alice hastily; "but I'm not looking for eggs, as it happens; and if I was, I shouldn't want _yours_: I don't like them raw." "Well, be off, then!" said the Pigeon in a sulky tone, as it settled down again into its nest. Alice crouched down among the trees as well as she could, for her neck kept getting entangled among the branches, and every now and then she had to stop and untwist it. After a while she remembered that she still held the pieces of mushroom in her hands, and she set to work very carefully, nibbling first at one and then at the other, and growing sometimes taller and sometimes shorter, until she had succeeded in bringing herself down to her usual height. It was so long since she had been anything near the right size, that it felt quite strange at first; but she got used to it in a few minutes, and began talking to herself, as usual. "Come, there's half my plan done now! How puzzling all these changes are! I'm never sure what I'm going to be, from one minute to another! However, I've got back to my right size: the next thing is, to get into that beautiful garden--how _is_ that to be done, I wonder?" As she said this, she came suddenly upon an open place, with a little house in it about four feet high. "Whoever lives there," thought Alice, "it'll never do to come upon them _this_ size: why, I should frighten them out of their wits!" So she began nibbling at the righthand bit again, and did not venture to go near the house till she had brought herself down to nine inches high. CHAPTER VI. Pig and Pepper For a minute or two she stood looking at the house, and wondering what to do next, when suddenly a footman in livery came running out of the wood--(she considered him to be a footman because he was in livery: otherwise, judging by his face only, she would have called him a fish)--and rapped loudly at the door with his knuckles. It was opened by another footman in livery, with a round face, and large eyes like a frog; and both footmen, Alice noticed, had powdered hair that curled all over their heads. She felt very curious to know | underneath her chin: it had struck her foot! She was a good deal frightened by this very sudden change, but she felt that there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking rapidly; so she set to work at once to eat some of the other bit. Her chin was pressed so closely against her foot, that there was hardly room to open her mouth; but she did it at last, and managed to swallow a morsel of the lefthand bit. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Come, my head's free at last!" said Alice in a tone of delight, which changed into alarm in another moment, when she found that her shoulders were nowhere to be found: all she could see, when she looked down, was an immense length of neck, which seemed to rise like a stalk out of a sea of green leaves that lay far below her. "What _can_ all that green stuff be?" said Alice. "And where _have_ my shoulders got to? And oh, my poor hands, how is it I can't see you?" She was moving them about as she spoke, but no result seemed to follow, except a little shaking among the distant green leaves. As there seemed to be no chance of getting her hands up to her head, she tried to get her head down to them, and was delighted to find that her neck would bend about easily in any direction, like a serpent. She had just succeeded in curving it down into a graceful zigzag, and was going to dive in among the leaves, which she found to be nothing but the tops of the trees under which she had been wandering, when a sharp hiss made her draw back in a hurry: a large pigeon had flown into her face, and was beating her violently with its wings. "Serpent!"<|quote|>screamed the Pigeon.</|quote|>"I'm _not_ a serpent!" said Alice indignantly. "Let me alone!" "Serpent, I say again!" repeated the Pigeon, but in a more subdued tone, and added with a kind of sob, "I've tried every way, and nothing seems to suit them!" "I haven't the least idea what you're talking about," said Alice. "I've tried the roots of trees, and I've tried banks, and I've tried hedges," the Pigeon went on, without attending to her; "but those serpents! There's no pleasing them!" Alice was more and more puzzled, but she thought there was no use in saying anything more till the Pigeon had finished. "As if it wasn't trouble enough hatching the eggs," said the Pigeon; "but I must be on the look-out for serpents night and day! Why, I haven't had a wink of sleep these three weeks!" "I'm very sorry you've been annoyed," said Alice, who was beginning to see its meaning. "And just as I'd taken the highest tree in the wood," continued the Pigeon, raising its voice to a shriek, "and just as I was thinking I should be free of them at last, they must needs come wriggling down from the sky! Ugh, Serpent!" "But I'm _not_ a serpent, I tell you!" said Alice. "I'm a--I'm a--" "Well! _What_ are you?" said the Pigeon. "I | Alices Adventures In Wonderland |
said the tattooed Englishman. | No speaker | the mouth." "Ah! You're rusty,"<|quote|>said the tattooed Englishman.</|quote|>"Man always is when he's | I shall hit him in the mouth." "Ah! You're rusty,"<|quote|>said the tattooed Englishman.</|quote|>"Man always is when he's been under water." "I dunno | you two." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" cried the chief. "Lookye here," cried Jem, speaking in the irritable fashion of those just rescued from drowning; "if that there chief keeps on saying, `_My pakeha_' at me in that there aggravating way, I shall hit him in the mouth." "Ah! You're rusty,"<|quote|>said the tattooed Englishman.</|quote|>"Man always is when he's been under water." "I dunno what you mean by being rusty," said Jem snappishly. "What I say is, leave a man alone." "All right!" said the Englishman. "I'll let you alone. How's your young mate?" "My head aches dreadfully," said Don; "and there's a horrible | shake, and slowly rising. "Jem! Where's Jem?" "Here! All right, Mas' Don. We're in the canoe." "Hah!" ejaculated Don; and he shuddered as if chilled. "Where are the boats?" "Miles away," said the tattooed Englishman. "But look here, I'm only on board. This is Ngati's doing. I know nothing about you two." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" cried the chief. "Lookye here," cried Jem, speaking in the irritable fashion of those just rescued from drowning; "if that there chief keeps on saying, `_My pakeha_' at me in that there aggravating way, I shall hit him in the mouth." "Ah! You're rusty,"<|quote|>said the tattooed Englishman.</|quote|>"Man always is when he's been under water." "I dunno what you mean by being rusty," said Jem snappishly. "What I say is, leave a man alone." "All right!" said the Englishman. "I'll let you alone. How's your young mate?" "My head aches dreadfully," said Don; "and there's a horrible pain at the back of my neck." "Oh, that'll soon go off, my lad. And now what are you going to do?" "Do?" interrupted Jem. "Why, you don't mean to give us up, do you?" "I don't mean to do anything or know anything," said the man. "Your skipper'll come | it would," said the owner of the gruff voice. "There's three boats out after you." "And shall you give us up?" "Give you up? Not I. I've nothing to do with it; you must talk to him." "My pakeha!" cried the big chief excitedly. "That isn't his name, is it?" said Jem. "No. Nonsense! Pakeha means white man. I was a pakeha once." "Let me help him up," said Jem eagerly. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" said the chief, as if putting in a personal claim, and ready to resist Jem's interference. The difficulty was ended by Don giving himself a shake, and slowly rising. "Jem! Where's Jem?" "Here! All right, Mas' Don. We're in the canoe." "Hah!" ejaculated Don; and he shuddered as if chilled. "Where are the boats?" "Miles away," said the tattooed Englishman. "But look here, I'm only on board. This is Ngati's doing. I know nothing about you two." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" cried the chief. "Lookye here," cried Jem, speaking in the irritable fashion of those just rescued from drowning; "if that there chief keeps on saying, `_My pakeha_' at me in that there aggravating way, I shall hit him in the mouth." "Ah! You're rusty,"<|quote|>said the tattooed Englishman.</|quote|>"Man always is when he's been under water." "I dunno what you mean by being rusty," said Jem snappishly. "What I say is, leave a man alone." "All right!" said the Englishman. "I'll let you alone. How's your young mate?" "My head aches dreadfully," said Don; "and there's a horrible pain at the back of my neck." "Oh, that'll soon go off, my lad. And now what are you going to do?" "Do?" interrupted Jem. "Why, you don't mean to give us up, do you?" "I don't mean to do anything or know anything," said the man. "Your skipper'll come to me to-morrow if he don't think you're drowned, or--I say, did you feel anything of 'em?" "Feel anything--of what?" said Don. "Sharks, my lad. The shallow waters here swarm with them." "Sharks!" cried Don and Jem in a breath. "Yes. Didn't you know?" "I'd forgotten all about the sharks, Jem," said Don. "So had I, my lad, or I dursen't have swum for it as we did. Of course I thought about 'em at first starting, but I forgot all about 'em afterwards." "Jem," said Don, shuddering; "what an escape!" "Well, don't get making a fuss about it now | neared when Jem slowly and wonderingly sat up. "Where's Mas' Don?" he said in a sharp ill-used tone. "Here he is," said a gruff voice, and Jem looked wonderingly in a savage's indistinctly seen face, and then down in the bottom of the long canoe, into which they had been dragged. "Mas' Don--don't say you're drowned, Mas' Don," he said pitifully, with a Somersetshire man's bold attempt at the making of an Irish bull. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" said a deep voice; and Jem became aware of the fact that the big chief he had so often seen on board the ship, and who had come to them with the present of fruit when they were guarding the boat, was kneeling down and gently rubbing Don. "Is he dead?" said Jem in a whisper. "No, not this time," said the gruff voice out of the darkness. "Pretty nigh touch, though, for both of you. Why didn't you hail sooner?" "Hail sooner?" said Jem. "Yes. We came in the canoe to fetch you, but you didn't hail, and it was too dark to see." "We couldn't hail," said Jem, sulkily. "It would have brought the boats down upon us." "Ah, so it would," said the owner of the gruff voice. "There's three boats out after you." "And shall you give us up?" "Give you up? Not I. I've nothing to do with it; you must talk to him." "My pakeha!" cried the big chief excitedly. "That isn't his name, is it?" said Jem. "No. Nonsense! Pakeha means white man. I was a pakeha once." "Let me help him up," said Jem eagerly. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" said the chief, as if putting in a personal claim, and ready to resist Jem's interference. The difficulty was ended by Don giving himself a shake, and slowly rising. "Jem! Where's Jem?" "Here! All right, Mas' Don. We're in the canoe." "Hah!" ejaculated Don; and he shuddered as if chilled. "Where are the boats?" "Miles away," said the tattooed Englishman. "But look here, I'm only on board. This is Ngati's doing. I know nothing about you two." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" cried the chief. "Lookye here," cried Jem, speaking in the irritable fashion of those just rescued from drowning; "if that there chief keeps on saying, `_My pakeha_' at me in that there aggravating way, I shall hit him in the mouth." "Ah! You're rusty,"<|quote|>said the tattooed Englishman.</|quote|>"Man always is when he's been under water." "I dunno what you mean by being rusty," said Jem snappishly. "What I say is, leave a man alone." "All right!" said the Englishman. "I'll let you alone. How's your young mate?" "My head aches dreadfully," said Don; "and there's a horrible pain at the back of my neck." "Oh, that'll soon go off, my lad. And now what are you going to do?" "Do?" interrupted Jem. "Why, you don't mean to give us up, do you?" "I don't mean to do anything or know anything," said the man. "Your skipper'll come to me to-morrow if he don't think you're drowned, or--I say, did you feel anything of 'em?" "Feel anything--of what?" said Don. "Sharks, my lad. The shallow waters here swarm with them." "Sharks!" cried Don and Jem in a breath. "Yes. Didn't you know?" "I'd forgotten all about the sharks, Jem," said Don. "So had I, my lad, or I dursen't have swum for it as we did. Of course I thought about 'em at first starting, but I forgot all about 'em afterwards." "Jem," said Don, shuddering; "what an escape!" "Well, don't get making a fuss about it now it's all over, Mas' Don. Here we are safe, but I must say you're the wussest swimmer I ever met.--Here, what are they going to do?" "Run ashore," said the Englishman, as there was a buzz of excitement among the New Zealanders, many of whom stepped over into the shallow water, and seized the sides of the boat, which was rapidly run up the dark shore, where, amidst a low gobbling noise, the two wet passengers were landed to stand shivering with cold. "There you are," said the Englishman, "safe and sound." "Well, who said we weren't?" grumbled Jem. "Not you, squire," continued the Englishman. "There; I don't know anything about you, and you'd better lie close till the ship's gone, for they may come after you." "Where shall we hide?" said Don eagerly. "Oh, you leave it to Ngati; he'll find you a place where you can lie snug." "Ngati," said the owner of the name quickly, for he had been listening intently, and trying to grasp what was said. "Ngati! My pakeha." "Oh, I say: do leave off," cried Jem testily. "Pakeha again. Say, Mas' Don, him and I's going to have a row before we've done." The | the lines of light something whose blackness was greater than the darkness of the sea or night. There was a dull low splashing, and at every splash the liquid fire seemed to fly. The double line of fire lengthened and sparkled, till it was as so much greenish golden foam reaching more and more toward where the drowning pair were struggling. Then came a low, growling, grinding sound, as if the long lines of light were made by the beating fins of the dark object, which was some habitant of the deep roused from slumbers by the light of the golden foam formed by those who drowned. And it rushed on and on to seize its prey, invisible before, but now plainly seen by the struggles and the resulting phosphorescent light. Long, low, and with its head raised high out of the water, horrent, grotesque and strange, the great sea monster glided along over the smooth sea. Full five-and-twenty fins aside made the water flash as it came on, and there was, as it were, a thin new-moon-like curve of light at its breast, while from its tail the sparkling phosphorescence spread widely as it was left behind. The low grumbling sound came again, but it was not heard by those drowning, nor was the light seen as it glided on nearer and nearer, till it reached the spot. One dart from the long raised neck, one snap of the fierce jaws--another dart and another snap, and the sea monster had its prey, and glided rapidly on, probably in search of more in its nightly hunt. Nothing of the kind! The long creature endued with life darted on, but the long neck and horned head were not darted down, but guided past those who where drowning. Everything was stiff and rigid but the playing fins. But there was another dull, low grunt, the fins seemed to cease by magic; and, instead of being snapped up by the monster's mouth, the two sufferers were drawn in over its side. Then the water flashed golden again, the monster made a curve and rushed through the water, and sped away for miles till, in obedience to another grunting sound, it turned and dashed straight for a sandy beach, resolving itself into a long New Zealand war canoe, into which Don and Jem had been drawn, to lie half insensible till the beach was neared when Jem slowly and wonderingly sat up. "Where's Mas' Don?" he said in a sharp ill-used tone. "Here he is," said a gruff voice, and Jem looked wonderingly in a savage's indistinctly seen face, and then down in the bottom of the long canoe, into which they had been dragged. "Mas' Don--don't say you're drowned, Mas' Don," he said pitifully, with a Somersetshire man's bold attempt at the making of an Irish bull. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" said a deep voice; and Jem became aware of the fact that the big chief he had so often seen on board the ship, and who had come to them with the present of fruit when they were guarding the boat, was kneeling down and gently rubbing Don. "Is he dead?" said Jem in a whisper. "No, not this time," said the gruff voice out of the darkness. "Pretty nigh touch, though, for both of you. Why didn't you hail sooner?" "Hail sooner?" said Jem. "Yes. We came in the canoe to fetch you, but you didn't hail, and it was too dark to see." "We couldn't hail," said Jem, sulkily. "It would have brought the boats down upon us." "Ah, so it would," said the owner of the gruff voice. "There's three boats out after you." "And shall you give us up?" "Give you up? Not I. I've nothing to do with it; you must talk to him." "My pakeha!" cried the big chief excitedly. "That isn't his name, is it?" said Jem. "No. Nonsense! Pakeha means white man. I was a pakeha once." "Let me help him up," said Jem eagerly. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" said the chief, as if putting in a personal claim, and ready to resist Jem's interference. The difficulty was ended by Don giving himself a shake, and slowly rising. "Jem! Where's Jem?" "Here! All right, Mas' Don. We're in the canoe." "Hah!" ejaculated Don; and he shuddered as if chilled. "Where are the boats?" "Miles away," said the tattooed Englishman. "But look here, I'm only on board. This is Ngati's doing. I know nothing about you two." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" cried the chief. "Lookye here," cried Jem, speaking in the irritable fashion of those just rescued from drowning; "if that there chief keeps on saying, `_My pakeha_' at me in that there aggravating way, I shall hit him in the mouth." "Ah! You're rusty,"<|quote|>said the tattooed Englishman.</|quote|>"Man always is when he's been under water." "I dunno what you mean by being rusty," said Jem snappishly. "What I say is, leave a man alone." "All right!" said the Englishman. "I'll let you alone. How's your young mate?" "My head aches dreadfully," said Don; "and there's a horrible pain at the back of my neck." "Oh, that'll soon go off, my lad. And now what are you going to do?" "Do?" interrupted Jem. "Why, you don't mean to give us up, do you?" "I don't mean to do anything or know anything," said the man. "Your skipper'll come to me to-morrow if he don't think you're drowned, or--I say, did you feel anything of 'em?" "Feel anything--of what?" said Don. "Sharks, my lad. The shallow waters here swarm with them." "Sharks!" cried Don and Jem in a breath. "Yes. Didn't you know?" "I'd forgotten all about the sharks, Jem," said Don. "So had I, my lad, or I dursen't have swum for it as we did. Of course I thought about 'em at first starting, but I forgot all about 'em afterwards." "Jem," said Don, shuddering; "what an escape!" "Well, don't get making a fuss about it now it's all over, Mas' Don. Here we are safe, but I must say you're the wussest swimmer I ever met.--Here, what are they going to do?" "Run ashore," said the Englishman, as there was a buzz of excitement among the New Zealanders, many of whom stepped over into the shallow water, and seized the sides of the boat, which was rapidly run up the dark shore, where, amidst a low gobbling noise, the two wet passengers were landed to stand shivering with cold. "There you are," said the Englishman, "safe and sound." "Well, who said we weren't?" grumbled Jem. "Not you, squire," continued the Englishman. "There; I don't know anything about you, and you'd better lie close till the ship's gone, for they may come after you." "Where shall we hide?" said Don eagerly. "Oh, you leave it to Ngati; he'll find you a place where you can lie snug." "Ngati," said the owner of the name quickly, for he had been listening intently, and trying to grasp what was said. "Ngati! My pakeha." "Oh, I say: do leave off," cried Jem testily. "Pakeha again. Say, Mas' Don, him and I's going to have a row before we've done." The chief said something quickly to the Englishman, who nodded and then turned to the fugitives. "Ngati says he will take you where you can dry yourselves, and put on warm things." "He won't be up to any games, will he?" said Jem. "No, no; you may trust him. You can't do better than go with him till the search is over." The Englishman turned to a tall young savage, and said some words to him, with the result that the young man placed himself behind Don, and began to carefully obliterate the footprints left by the fugitives upon the sand. Don noticed this and wondered, for in the darkness the footprints were hardly perceptible; but he appreciated the act, though he felt no one but a native would distinguish between the footprints of the two people. "My pakeha," said Ngati just then, making Jem wince and utter an angry gesticulation. "Gunpowder, gun, pow-gun, gun-pow." "Eh?" said Jem harshly. "My pakeha, powder-gun. Pow-gun, gun-pow. No?" "He says his pakeha was to have brought plenty of guns and powder, and he has not brought any." "No," said Don, shivering as he spoke. "The guns are the king's. I could not bring any." The New Zealand chief seemed to comprehend a good deal of his meaning, and nodded his head several times. Then making a sign to a couple of followers, each took one of Don's arms, and they hurried him off at a sharp run, Jem being seized in the same way and borne forward, followed by the rest of the men who were in the boat. "Here, I say. Look here," Jem kept protesting, "I arn't a cask o' sugar or a bar'l o' 'bacco. Let a man walk, can't yer? Hi! Mas' Don, they're carrying on strange games here. How are you getting on?" Don heard the question, but he was too breathless to speak, and had hard work to keep his feet, leaving everything to the guidance of his companions, who kept on for above a quarter of a mile before stopping in a shadowy gully, where the spreading ferns made the place seem black as night, and a peculiar steaming sulphurous odour arose. But a short time before Don's teeth were chattering with the cold, but the exercise circulated his blood; and now, as his eyes grew more used to the obscurity, he managed to see that they | down upon us." "Ah, so it would," said the owner of the gruff voice. "There's three boats out after you." "And shall you give us up?" "Give you up? Not I. I've nothing to do with it; you must talk to him." "My pakeha!" cried the big chief excitedly. "That isn't his name, is it?" said Jem. "No. Nonsense! Pakeha means white man. I was a pakeha once." "Let me help him up," said Jem eagerly. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" said the chief, as if putting in a personal claim, and ready to resist Jem's interference. The difficulty was ended by Don giving himself a shake, and slowly rising. "Jem! Where's Jem?" "Here! All right, Mas' Don. We're in the canoe." "Hah!" ejaculated Don; and he shuddered as if chilled. "Where are the boats?" "Miles away," said the tattooed Englishman. "But look here, I'm only on board. This is Ngati's doing. I know nothing about you two." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" cried the chief. "Lookye here," cried Jem, speaking in the irritable fashion of those just rescued from drowning; "if that there chief keeps on saying, `_My pakeha_' at me in that there aggravating way, I shall hit him in the mouth." "Ah! You're rusty,"<|quote|>said the tattooed Englishman.</|quote|>"Man always is when he's been under water." "I dunno what you mean by being rusty," said Jem snappishly. "What I say is, leave a man alone." "All right!" said the Englishman. "I'll let you alone. How's your young mate?" "My head aches dreadfully," said Don; "and there's a horrible pain at the back of my neck." "Oh, that'll soon go off, my lad. And now what are you going to do?" "Do?" interrupted Jem. "Why, you don't mean to give us up, do you?" "I don't mean to do anything or know anything," said the man. "Your skipper'll come to me to-morrow if he don't think you're drowned, or--I say, did you feel anything of 'em?" "Feel anything--of what?" said Don. "Sharks, my lad. The shallow waters here swarm with them." "Sharks!" cried Don and Jem in a breath. "Yes. Didn't you know?" "I'd forgotten all about the sharks, Jem," said Don. "So had I, my lad, or I dursen't have swum for it as we did. Of course I thought about 'em at first starting, but I forgot all about 'em afterwards." "Jem," said Don, shuddering; "what an escape!" "Well, don't get making a fuss about it now it's all over, Mas' Don. Here we are safe, but I must say you're the wussest swimmer I ever met.--Here, what are they going to do?" "Run ashore," said the Englishman, as there was a buzz of excitement among the New Zealanders, many of whom stepped over into the shallow water, and seized the sides of the boat, which was rapidly run up the dark shore, where, amidst a low gobbling noise, the two wet passengers were landed to stand shivering with cold. "There you are," said the Englishman, "safe and sound." "Well, who said we weren't?" grumbled Jem. "Not you, squire," continued the Englishman. "There; I don't know anything about you, and you'd better lie close till the ship's gone, for they may come after you." "Where shall we hide?" said Don eagerly. "Oh, you leave it to Ngati; he'll find you a place where you can lie snug." "Ngati," said the owner of the name quickly, for he had been listening intently, and trying to grasp what was said. "Ngati! My pakeha." "Oh, I say: do leave off," cried Jem testily. "Pakeha again. Say, Mas' Don, him and I's going to have a row before we've done." The chief said something quickly to the Englishman, who nodded and then turned to the fugitives. "Ngati says he will take you where you can dry yourselves, and put on warm things." "He won't be up to any games, will he?" said Jem. "No, no; you may trust him. You can't do better than go with him till the search is over." The Englishman turned to a tall young savage, and said some words to | Don Lavington |
"Well, what is it?" | Josiah Christmas | looking round eyed and staring.<|quote|>"Well, what is it?"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah. "If you | Jessie came in directly after, looking round eyed and staring.<|quote|>"Well, what is it?"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah. "If you please, sir, Mr Smithers the | don't know what I shall do yet," said the old man sternly. "I'm afraid I do not know the worst. There, go away now. Who's that?" There was a general excitement, for a loud knock was heard at the door. Jessie came in directly after, looking round eyed and staring.<|quote|>"Well, what is it?"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah. "If you please, sir, Mr Smithers the constable came, and I was to tell you that you're to be at the magistrate's office at eleven, and bring Master Don with you." "Yes," said Uncle Josiah bitterly; "at the magistrate's office at eleven, and take Lindon with me. | "But what's to become of me, sir? What shall I do without a husband?" "Go back home and wait." "But I have no home, sir, now," sobbed Sally. "You'll want the cottage for some other man." "Go back home and wait." "But you'll try and fetch him back, sir?" "I don't know what I shall do yet," said the old man sternly. "I'm afraid I do not know the worst. There, go away now. Who's that?" There was a general excitement, for a loud knock was heard at the door. Jessie came in directly after, looking round eyed and staring.<|quote|>"Well, what is it?"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah. "If you please, sir, Mr Smithers the constable came, and I was to tell you that you're to be at the magistrate's office at eleven, and bring Master Don with you." "Yes," said Uncle Josiah bitterly; "at the magistrate's office at eleven, and take Lindon with me. Well, Laura, what have you to say to that?" Mrs Lavington gave him an imploring look. "Try and find him," she whispered, "for my sake." "Try and find him!" he replied angrily, "I was willing to look over everything--to try and fight his battle and prove to the world that | will forgive him, and have him brought back." "Have him brought back!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "What can I do? The law will have him brought back now." "What? Oh, brother, don't say that!" "I must tell you the truth," said Uncle Josiah sternly. "It is the same as breaking faith, and he has given strength to that scoundrel's charge." "But what shall I do?" sobbed little Sally Wimble. "My Jem hadn't done anything. Oh, please, sir, fetch him back." "Your husband has taken his own road, my good woman," said Uncle Josiah coldly, "and he must suffer for it." "But what's to become of me, sir? What shall I do without a husband?" "Go back home and wait." "But I have no home, sir, now," sobbed Sally. "You'll want the cottage for some other man." "Go back home and wait." "But you'll try and fetch him back, sir?" "I don't know what I shall do yet," said the old man sternly. "I'm afraid I do not know the worst. There, go away now. Who's that?" There was a general excitement, for a loud knock was heard at the door. Jessie came in directly after, looking round eyed and staring.<|quote|>"Well, what is it?"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah. "If you please, sir, Mr Smithers the constable came, and I was to tell you that you're to be at the magistrate's office at eleven, and bring Master Don with you." "Yes," said Uncle Josiah bitterly; "at the magistrate's office at eleven, and take Lindon with me. Well, Laura, what have you to say to that?" Mrs Lavington gave him an imploring look. "Try and find him," she whispered, "for my sake." "Try and find him!" he replied angrily, "I was willing to look over everything--to try and fight his battle and prove to the world that the accusation was false." "Yes, yes, and you will do so now--Josiah--brother." "I cannot," said the old man sternly. "He has disgraced me, and openly declared to the world that the accusation of that scoundrel is true." CHAPTER ELEVEN. THINKING BETTER OF IT. Don stood looking at Jem Wimble for some few minutes in silence, as if the sight of some one else in trouble did him good. Then he sat down on the stock of an old anchor, to begin picking at the red rust scales as he too stared at the ships moored here and there. The tall | wicked husband who has persuaded him. Father, dear, don't let them go; pray, pray fetch them back." Uncle Josiah's brow grew more rugged, and there were hard lines about his lips, till his sister laid her hand upon his arm, when he started, and took her hand, looking sadly down in her face. "You hear what Kitty says," whispered Mrs Lavington; "pray--pray fetch them back." Little Mrs Wimble heard her words, and gave the old merchant an imploring look. But the old man's face only grew more hard. "I am afraid it must be true," he said. "Foolish boy! Woman, your husband has behaved like an idiot." "But you will send and fetch them back, Josiah." "Don't talk nonsense, Laura," said the old man angrily. "How can I fetch them back? Foolish boy! At a time like this. Is he afraid to face the truth?" "No, no, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington; "it is only that he was hurt." "Hurt? He has hurt himself. That man will be before the magistrates to-day, and I passed my word to the constable that Lindon should be present to answer the charge made against him." "Yes, dear, and he has been thoughtless. But you will forgive him, and have him brought back." "Have him brought back!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "What can I do? The law will have him brought back now." "What? Oh, brother, don't say that!" "I must tell you the truth," said Uncle Josiah sternly. "It is the same as breaking faith, and he has given strength to that scoundrel's charge." "But what shall I do?" sobbed little Sally Wimble. "My Jem hadn't done anything. Oh, please, sir, fetch him back." "Your husband has taken his own road, my good woman," said Uncle Josiah coldly, "and he must suffer for it." "But what's to become of me, sir? What shall I do without a husband?" "Go back home and wait." "But I have no home, sir, now," sobbed Sally. "You'll want the cottage for some other man." "Go back home and wait." "But you'll try and fetch him back, sir?" "I don't know what I shall do yet," said the old man sternly. "I'm afraid I do not know the worst. There, go away now. Who's that?" There was a general excitement, for a loud knock was heard at the door. Jessie came in directly after, looking round eyed and staring.<|quote|>"Well, what is it?"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah. "If you please, sir, Mr Smithers the constable came, and I was to tell you that you're to be at the magistrate's office at eleven, and bring Master Don with you." "Yes," said Uncle Josiah bitterly; "at the magistrate's office at eleven, and take Lindon with me. Well, Laura, what have you to say to that?" Mrs Lavington gave him an imploring look. "Try and find him," she whispered, "for my sake." "Try and find him!" he replied angrily, "I was willing to look over everything--to try and fight his battle and prove to the world that the accusation was false." "Yes, yes, and you will do so now--Josiah--brother." "I cannot," said the old man sternly. "He has disgraced me, and openly declared to the world that the accusation of that scoundrel is true." CHAPTER ELEVEN. THINKING BETTER OF IT. Don stood looking at Jem Wimble for some few minutes in silence, as if the sight of some one else in trouble did him good. Then he sat down on the stock of an old anchor, to begin picking at the red rust scales as he too stared at the ships moored here and there. The tall masts and rigging had a certain fascination for Don, and each vessel seemed to offer a way out of his difficulties. For once on board a ship with the sails spread, and the open sea before him, he might cross right away to one of those beautiful lands of which Mike had spoken, and then-- The thought of Mike altered the case directly, and he sat staring straight before him at the ships. Jem was the next to break the silence. "Thinking you'd like to go right away, Master Don?" "Yes, Jem." "So was I, sir. Only think how nice it would be somewhere abroad, where there was no Sally." "And no Uncle Josiah, Jem." "Ay, and no Mike to get you into trouble. Be fine, wouldn't it?" "Glorious, Jem." "Mean to go, Master Don?" "What, and be a miserable coward? No." "But you was a-thinking something of the kind, sir." "Yes, I was, Jem. Everybody is stupid sometimes, and I was stupid then. No. I've thought better of it." "And you won't go, sir?" "Go? No. Why, it would be like saying what Mike accused me of was true." "So it would, sir. Now that's just how I felt. | night." "Yes, yes, we know that," said Uncle Josiah sternly; "but how did you know?" "Know, sir? I've been sitting up for him all this dreadful night." "What, for my nephew?" "No, sir, for my Jem." "Lindon--James Wimble!" said Uncle Josiah, as he sank back in his seat. "Impossible! It can't be true." CHAPTER TEN. GONE! "Speak, woman!" cried Mrs Lavington hoarsely; and she shook little Sally by the arm. "What do you mean?" "I don't know, ma'am. I'm in such trouble," sobbed Sally. "I've been a very, very wicked girl--I mean woman. I was always finding fault, and scolding him." "Why?" asked Uncle Josiah sternly. "I don't know, sir." "But he is a quiet industrious man, and I'm sure he is a good husband." "Yes, he's the best of husbands," sobbed Sally. "Then why did you scold him?" "Because I was so wicked, I suppose. I couldn't help it, sir." "But you think he has run away?" "Yes, sir; I'm sure of it. He said he would some day if I was so cruel, and that seemed to make me more cruel, and--and--he has gone." "It is impossible!" said Uncle Josiah. "He must have met with some accident." "No, sir, he has run away and left me. He said he would. I saw him go--out of the window, and he took a bundle with him, and--and--what shall I do? What shall I do?" "Took a bundle?" said Uncle Josiah, starting. "Yes, sir, and--and I wish I was dead." "Silence, you foolish little woman! How dare you wish such a thing? Stop; listen to what I say. Did my nephew Lindon come to the yard last night?" "No, sir; but him and my Jem were talking together for ever so long in the office, and I couldn't get Jem away." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a low whistle. "Please ask Master Don what my Jem said." "Do you not understand, my good woman, that my son has not been home all night?" said Mrs Lavington, piteously. "What? Not been home?" cried Sally, sharply. "Then they're gone off together." Uncle Josiah drew a long breath. "That Master Don was always talking to my poor Jem, and he has persuaded him, and they're gone." "It is not true!" cried Kitty in a sharp voice as she stood by the table, quivering with anger. "If Cousin Don has gone away, it is your wicked husband who has persuaded him. Father, dear, don't let them go; pray, pray fetch them back." Uncle Josiah's brow grew more rugged, and there were hard lines about his lips, till his sister laid her hand upon his arm, when he started, and took her hand, looking sadly down in her face. "You hear what Kitty says," whispered Mrs Lavington; "pray--pray fetch them back." Little Mrs Wimble heard her words, and gave the old merchant an imploring look. But the old man's face only grew more hard. "I am afraid it must be true," he said. "Foolish boy! Woman, your husband has behaved like an idiot." "But you will send and fetch them back, Josiah." "Don't talk nonsense, Laura," said the old man angrily. "How can I fetch them back? Foolish boy! At a time like this. Is he afraid to face the truth?" "No, no, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington; "it is only that he was hurt." "Hurt? He has hurt himself. That man will be before the magistrates to-day, and I passed my word to the constable that Lindon should be present to answer the charge made against him." "Yes, dear, and he has been thoughtless. But you will forgive him, and have him brought back." "Have him brought back!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "What can I do? The law will have him brought back now." "What? Oh, brother, don't say that!" "I must tell you the truth," said Uncle Josiah sternly. "It is the same as breaking faith, and he has given strength to that scoundrel's charge." "But what shall I do?" sobbed little Sally Wimble. "My Jem hadn't done anything. Oh, please, sir, fetch him back." "Your husband has taken his own road, my good woman," said Uncle Josiah coldly, "and he must suffer for it." "But what's to become of me, sir? What shall I do without a husband?" "Go back home and wait." "But I have no home, sir, now," sobbed Sally. "You'll want the cottage for some other man." "Go back home and wait." "But you'll try and fetch him back, sir?" "I don't know what I shall do yet," said the old man sternly. "I'm afraid I do not know the worst. There, go away now. Who's that?" There was a general excitement, for a loud knock was heard at the door. Jessie came in directly after, looking round eyed and staring.<|quote|>"Well, what is it?"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah. "If you please, sir, Mr Smithers the constable came, and I was to tell you that you're to be at the magistrate's office at eleven, and bring Master Don with you." "Yes," said Uncle Josiah bitterly; "at the magistrate's office at eleven, and take Lindon with me. Well, Laura, what have you to say to that?" Mrs Lavington gave him an imploring look. "Try and find him," she whispered, "for my sake." "Try and find him!" he replied angrily, "I was willing to look over everything--to try and fight his battle and prove to the world that the accusation was false." "Yes, yes, and you will do so now--Josiah--brother." "I cannot," said the old man sternly. "He has disgraced me, and openly declared to the world that the accusation of that scoundrel is true." CHAPTER ELEVEN. THINKING BETTER OF IT. Don stood looking at Jem Wimble for some few minutes in silence, as if the sight of some one else in trouble did him good. Then he sat down on the stock of an old anchor, to begin picking at the red rust scales as he too stared at the ships moored here and there. The tall masts and rigging had a certain fascination for Don, and each vessel seemed to offer a way out of his difficulties. For once on board a ship with the sails spread, and the open sea before him, he might cross right away to one of those beautiful lands of which Mike had spoken, and then-- The thought of Mike altered the case directly, and he sat staring straight before him at the ships. Jem was the next to break the silence. "Thinking you'd like to go right away, Master Don?" "Yes, Jem." "So was I, sir. Only think how nice it would be somewhere abroad, where there was no Sally." "And no Uncle Josiah, Jem." "Ay, and no Mike to get you into trouble. Be fine, wouldn't it?" "Glorious, Jem." "Mean to go, Master Don?" "What, and be a miserable coward? No." "But you was a-thinking something of the kind, sir." "Yes, I was, Jem. Everybody is stupid sometimes, and I was stupid then. No. I've thought better of it." "And you won't go, sir?" "Go? No. Why, it would be like saying what Mike accused me of was true." "So it would, sir. Now that's just how I felt. I says to myself, `Jem,' I says, `don't you stand it. What you've got to do is to go right away and let Sally shift for herself; then she'd find out your vally,' I says, `and be sorry for what she's said and done,' but I knew if I did she'd begin to crow and think she'd beat me, and besides, it would be such a miserable cowardly trick. No, Mas' Don, I'm going to grin and bear it, and some day she'll come round and be as nice as she's nasty now." "Yes, that's the way to look at it, Jem; but it's a miserable world, isn't it?" "Well, I arn't seen much on it, Mas' Don. I once went for a holiday as far as Bath, and that part on it was miserable enough. My word, how it did rain! In half an hour I hadn't got a dry thread on me. Deal worse than Bristol, which isn't the most cheersome o' places when you're dull." "No, Jem, it isn't. Of course you'll be at the court to-morrow?" "I suppose so, Mas' Don. And I say they'd better ask me if I think you took that money. My! But I would give it to some on 'em straight. Can you fight, Mas' Don?" "I don't know, Jem. I never tried." "I can. You don't know what a crack I could give a man. It's my arms is so strong with moving sugar-hogsheads, I suppose. I shouldn't wish to be the man I hit if I did my best." "You mean your worst, Jem." "Course I do, Mas' Don. Well, as I was going to say, I should just like to settle that there matter with Mr Mike without the magistrates. You give him to me on a clear field for about ten minutes, and I'd make Master Mike down hisself on his knees, and say just whatever I pleased." "And what good would that do, Jem?" "Not much to him, Mas' Don, because he'd be so precious sore afterwards, but it would do me good, and I would feel afterwards what I don't feel now, and that's cheerful. Never mind, sir, it'll all come right in the end. Nothing like coming out and sitting all alone when you're crabby. Wind seems to blow it away. When you've been sitting here a bit you'll feel like a new man. | what Kitty says," whispered Mrs Lavington; "pray--pray fetch them back." Little Mrs Wimble heard her words, and gave the old merchant an imploring look. But the old man's face only grew more hard. "I am afraid it must be true," he said. "Foolish boy! Woman, your husband has behaved like an idiot." "But you will send and fetch them back, Josiah." "Don't talk nonsense, Laura," said the old man angrily. "How can I fetch them back? Foolish boy! At a time like this. Is he afraid to face the truth?" "No, no, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington; "it is only that he was hurt." "Hurt? He has hurt himself. That man will be before the magistrates to-day, and I passed my word to the constable that Lindon should be present to answer the charge made against him." "Yes, dear, and he has been thoughtless. But you will forgive him, and have him brought back." "Have him brought back!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "What can I do? The law will have him brought back now." "What? Oh, brother, don't say that!" "I must tell you the truth," said Uncle Josiah sternly. "It is the same as breaking faith, and he has given strength to that scoundrel's charge." "But what shall I do?" sobbed little Sally Wimble. "My Jem hadn't done anything. Oh, please, sir, fetch him back." "Your husband has taken his own road, my good woman," said Uncle Josiah coldly, "and he must suffer for it." "But what's to become of me, sir? What shall I do without a husband?" "Go back home and wait." "But I have no home, sir, now," sobbed Sally. "You'll want the cottage for some other man." "Go back home and wait." "But you'll try and fetch him back, sir?" "I don't know what I shall do yet," said the old man sternly. "I'm afraid I do not know the worst. There, go away now. Who's that?" There was a general excitement, for a loud knock was heard at the door. Jessie came in directly after, looking round eyed and staring.<|quote|>"Well, what is it?"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah. "If you please, sir, Mr Smithers the constable came, and I was to tell you that you're to be at the magistrate's office at eleven, and bring Master Don with you." "Yes," said Uncle Josiah bitterly; "at the magistrate's office at eleven, and take Lindon with me. Well, Laura, what have you to say to that?" Mrs Lavington gave him an imploring look. "Try and find him," she whispered, "for my sake." "Try and find him!" he replied angrily, "I was willing to look over everything--to try and fight his battle and prove to the world that the accusation was false." "Yes, yes, and you will do so now--Josiah--brother." "I cannot," said the old man sternly. "He has disgraced me, and openly declared to the world that the accusation of that scoundrel is true." CHAPTER ELEVEN. THINKING BETTER OF IT. Don stood looking at Jem Wimble for some few minutes in silence, as if the sight of some one else in trouble did him good. Then he sat down on the stock of an old anchor, to begin picking at the red rust scales as he too stared at the ships moored here and there. The tall masts and rigging had a certain fascination for Don, and each vessel seemed to offer a way out of his difficulties. For once on board a ship with the sails spread, and the open sea before him, he might cross right away to one of those beautiful lands of which Mike had spoken, and then-- The thought of Mike altered the case directly, and he sat staring straight before him at the ships. Jem was the next to break the silence. "Thinking you'd like to go right away, Master Don?" "Yes, Jem." "So was I, sir. Only think how nice it would be somewhere abroad, where there was no Sally." | Don Lavington |
"So YOU like Carlyle" | Margaret | piercing joy when Margaret said,<|quote|>"So YOU like Carlyle"</|quote|>and then the door opened, | There was a moment of piercing joy when Margaret said,<|quote|>"So YOU like Carlyle"</|quote|>and then the door opened, and "Mr. Wilcox, Miss Wilcox" | not money. How can we do justice to the pattern otherwise? And the precious minutes slipped away, and Jacky and squalor came nearer. At last he could bear it no longer, and broke in, reciting the names of books feverishly. There was a moment of piercing joy when Margaret said,<|quote|>"So YOU like Carlyle"</|quote|>and then the door opened, and "Mr. Wilcox, Miss Wilcox" entered, preceded by two prancing puppies. "Oh, the dears! Oh, Evie, how too impossibly sweet!" screamed Helen, falling on her hands and knees. "We brought the little fellows round," said Mr. Wilcox. "I bred em myself." "Oh, really! Mr. Bast, | And these were women with a theory, who held that reticence about money matters is absurd, and that life would be truer if each would state the exact size of the golden island upon which he stands, the exact stretch of warp over which he throws the woof that is not money. How can we do justice to the pattern otherwise? And the precious minutes slipped away, and Jacky and squalor came nearer. At last he could bear it no longer, and broke in, reciting the names of books feverishly. There was a moment of piercing joy when Margaret said,<|quote|>"So YOU like Carlyle"</|quote|>and then the door opened, and "Mr. Wilcox, Miss Wilcox" entered, preceded by two prancing puppies. "Oh, the dears! Oh, Evie, how too impossibly sweet!" screamed Helen, falling on her hands and knees. "We brought the little fellows round," said Mr. Wilcox. "I bred em myself." "Oh, really! Mr. Bast, come and play with puppies." "I ve got to be going now," said Leonard sourly. "But play with puppies a little first." "This is Ahab, that s Jezebel," said Evie, who was one of those who name animals after the less successful characters of Old Testament history. "I ve got | the most of his romantic hour. Minute after minute slipped away, while the ladies, with imperfect skill, discussed the subject of reinsurance or praised their anonymous friend. Leonard grew annoyed--perhaps rightly. He made vague remarks about not being one of those who minded their affairs being talked over by others, but they did not take the hint. Men might have shown more tact. Women, however tactful elsewhere, are heavy-handed here. They cannot see why we should shroud our incomes and our prospects in a veil. "How much exactly have you, and how much do you expect to have next June?" And these were women with a theory, who held that reticence about money matters is absurd, and that life would be truer if each would state the exact size of the golden island upon which he stands, the exact stretch of warp over which he throws the woof that is not money. How can we do justice to the pattern otherwise? And the precious minutes slipped away, and Jacky and squalor came nearer. At last he could bear it no longer, and broke in, reciting the names of books feverishly. There was a moment of piercing joy when Margaret said,<|quote|>"So YOU like Carlyle"</|quote|>and then the door opened, and "Mr. Wilcox, Miss Wilcox" entered, preceded by two prancing puppies. "Oh, the dears! Oh, Evie, how too impossibly sweet!" screamed Helen, falling on her hands and knees. "We brought the little fellows round," said Mr. Wilcox. "I bred em myself." "Oh, really! Mr. Bast, come and play with puppies." "I ve got to be going now," said Leonard sourly. "But play with puppies a little first." "This is Ahab, that s Jezebel," said Evie, who was one of those who name animals after the less successful characters of Old Testament history. "I ve got to be going." Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice him. "Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Ba--Must you be really? Good-bye!" "Come again," said Helen from the floor. Then Leonard s gorge arose. Why should he come again? What was the good of it? He said roundly: "No, I shan t; I knew it would be a failure." Most people would have let him go. "A little mistake. We tried knowing another class--impossible." But the Schlegels had never played with life. They had attempted friendship, and they would take the consequences. Helen retorted, "I call that a very rude remark. | can you tell me what makes a concern right or wrong ?" Leonard sat back with a sigh. "Our friend, who is also a business man, was so positive. He said before Christmas--" "And advised you to clear out of it," concluded Helen. "But I don t see why he should know better than you do." Leonard rubbed his hands. He was tempted to say that he knew nothing about the thing at all. But a commercial training was too strong for him. Nor could he say it was a bad thing, for this would be giving it away; nor yet that it was good, for this would be giving it away equally. He attempted to suggest that it was something between the two, with vast possibilities in either direction, but broke down under the gaze of four sincere eyes. And yet he scarcely distinguished between the two sisters. One was more beautiful and more lively, but "the Miss Schlegels" still remained a composite Indian god, whose waving arms and contradictory speeches were the product of a single mind. "One can but see," he remarked, adding, "as Ibsen says, things happen." He was itching to talk about books and make the most of his romantic hour. Minute after minute slipped away, while the ladies, with imperfect skill, discussed the subject of reinsurance or praised their anonymous friend. Leonard grew annoyed--perhaps rightly. He made vague remarks about not being one of those who minded their affairs being talked over by others, but they did not take the hint. Men might have shown more tact. Women, however tactful elsewhere, are heavy-handed here. They cannot see why we should shroud our incomes and our prospects in a veil. "How much exactly have you, and how much do you expect to have next June?" And these were women with a theory, who held that reticence about money matters is absurd, and that life would be truer if each would state the exact size of the golden island upon which he stands, the exact stretch of warp over which he throws the woof that is not money. How can we do justice to the pattern otherwise? And the precious minutes slipped away, and Jacky and squalor came nearer. At last he could bear it no longer, and broke in, reciting the names of books feverishly. There was a moment of piercing joy when Margaret said,<|quote|>"So YOU like Carlyle"</|quote|>and then the door opened, and "Mr. Wilcox, Miss Wilcox" entered, preceded by two prancing puppies. "Oh, the dears! Oh, Evie, how too impossibly sweet!" screamed Helen, falling on her hands and knees. "We brought the little fellows round," said Mr. Wilcox. "I bred em myself." "Oh, really! Mr. Bast, come and play with puppies." "I ve got to be going now," said Leonard sourly. "But play with puppies a little first." "This is Ahab, that s Jezebel," said Evie, who was one of those who name animals after the less successful characters of Old Testament history. "I ve got to be going." Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice him. "Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Ba--Must you be really? Good-bye!" "Come again," said Helen from the floor. Then Leonard s gorge arose. Why should he come again? What was the good of it? He said roundly: "No, I shan t; I knew it would be a failure." Most people would have let him go. "A little mistake. We tried knowing another class--impossible." But the Schlegels had never played with life. They had attempted friendship, and they would take the consequences. Helen retorted, "I call that a very rude remark. What do you want to turn on me like that for?" and suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar row. "You ask me why I turn on you?" "Yes." "What do you want to have me here for?" "To help you, you silly boy!" cried Helen. "And don t shout." "I don t want your patronage. I don t want your tea. I was quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me for?" He turned to Mr. Wilcox. "I put it to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?" Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humorous strength that he could so well command. "Are we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use, or shall we go?" But Margaret ignored him. "I m connected with a leading insurance company, sir. I receive what I take to be an invitation from these--ladies" (he drawled the word). "I come, and it s to have my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair?" "Highly unfair," said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a gasp from Evie, who knew that her father was becoming dangerous. "There, you hear that? Most unfair, the gentleman says. There! | those moustaches that always droop into tea-cups--more bother than they re worth, surely, and not fashionable either. "I quite agree, and that s why I was curious to know; is it a solid, well-established concern?" Leonard had no idea. He understood his own corner of the machine, but nothing beyond it. He desired to confess neither knowledge nor ignorance, and under these circumstances, another motion of the head seemed safest. To him, as to the British public, the Porphyrion was the Porphyrion of the advertisement--a giant, in the classical style, but draped sufficiently, who held in one hand a burning torch, and pointed with the other to St. Paul s and Windsor Castle. A large sum of money was inscribed below, and you drew your own conclusions. This giant caused Leonard to do arithmetic and write letters, to explain the regulations to new clients, and re-explain them to old ones. A giant was of an impulsive morality--one knew that much. He would pay for Mrs. Munt s hearthrug with ostentatious haste, a large claim he would repudiate quietly, and fight court by court. But his true fighting weight, his antecedents, his amours with other members of the commercial Pantheon--all these were as uncertain to ordinary mortals as were the escapades of Zeus. While the gods are powerful, we learn little about them. It is only in the days of their decadence that a strong light beats into heaven. "We were told the Porphyrion s no go," blurted Helen. "We wanted to tell you; that s why we wrote." "A friend of ours did think that it is insufficiently reinsured," said Margaret. Now Leonard had his clue. He must praise the Porphyrion. "You can tell your friend," he said, "that he s quite wrong." "Oh, good!" The young man coloured a little. In his circle to be wrong was fatal. The Miss Schlegels did not mind being wrong. They were genuinely glad that they had been misinformed. To them nothing was fatal but evil. "Wrong, so to speak," he added. "How so to speak ?" "I mean I wouldn t say he s right altogether." But this was a blunder. "Then he is right partly," said the elder woman, quick as lightning. Leonard replied that every one was right partly, if it came to that. "Mr. Bast, I don t understand business, and I dare say my questions are stupid, but can you tell me what makes a concern right or wrong ?" Leonard sat back with a sigh. "Our friend, who is also a business man, was so positive. He said before Christmas--" "And advised you to clear out of it," concluded Helen. "But I don t see why he should know better than you do." Leonard rubbed his hands. He was tempted to say that he knew nothing about the thing at all. But a commercial training was too strong for him. Nor could he say it was a bad thing, for this would be giving it away; nor yet that it was good, for this would be giving it away equally. He attempted to suggest that it was something between the two, with vast possibilities in either direction, but broke down under the gaze of four sincere eyes. And yet he scarcely distinguished between the two sisters. One was more beautiful and more lively, but "the Miss Schlegels" still remained a composite Indian god, whose waving arms and contradictory speeches were the product of a single mind. "One can but see," he remarked, adding, "as Ibsen says, things happen." He was itching to talk about books and make the most of his romantic hour. Minute after minute slipped away, while the ladies, with imperfect skill, discussed the subject of reinsurance or praised their anonymous friend. Leonard grew annoyed--perhaps rightly. He made vague remarks about not being one of those who minded their affairs being talked over by others, but they did not take the hint. Men might have shown more tact. Women, however tactful elsewhere, are heavy-handed here. They cannot see why we should shroud our incomes and our prospects in a veil. "How much exactly have you, and how much do you expect to have next June?" And these were women with a theory, who held that reticence about money matters is absurd, and that life would be truer if each would state the exact size of the golden island upon which he stands, the exact stretch of warp over which he throws the woof that is not money. How can we do justice to the pattern otherwise? And the precious minutes slipped away, and Jacky and squalor came nearer. At last he could bear it no longer, and broke in, reciting the names of books feverishly. There was a moment of piercing joy when Margaret said,<|quote|>"So YOU like Carlyle"</|quote|>and then the door opened, and "Mr. Wilcox, Miss Wilcox" entered, preceded by two prancing puppies. "Oh, the dears! Oh, Evie, how too impossibly sweet!" screamed Helen, falling on her hands and knees. "We brought the little fellows round," said Mr. Wilcox. "I bred em myself." "Oh, really! Mr. Bast, come and play with puppies." "I ve got to be going now," said Leonard sourly. "But play with puppies a little first." "This is Ahab, that s Jezebel," said Evie, who was one of those who name animals after the less successful characters of Old Testament history. "I ve got to be going." Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice him. "Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Ba--Must you be really? Good-bye!" "Come again," said Helen from the floor. Then Leonard s gorge arose. Why should he come again? What was the good of it? He said roundly: "No, I shan t; I knew it would be a failure." Most people would have let him go. "A little mistake. We tried knowing another class--impossible." But the Schlegels had never played with life. They had attempted friendship, and they would take the consequences. Helen retorted, "I call that a very rude remark. What do you want to turn on me like that for?" and suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar row. "You ask me why I turn on you?" "Yes." "What do you want to have me here for?" "To help you, you silly boy!" cried Helen. "And don t shout." "I don t want your patronage. I don t want your tea. I was quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me for?" He turned to Mr. Wilcox. "I put it to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?" Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humorous strength that he could so well command. "Are we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use, or shall we go?" But Margaret ignored him. "I m connected with a leading insurance company, sir. I receive what I take to be an invitation from these--ladies" (he drawled the word). "I come, and it s to have my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair?" "Highly unfair," said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a gasp from Evie, who knew that her father was becoming dangerous. "There, you hear that? Most unfair, the gentleman says. There! Not content with" "--pointing at Margaret--" "you can t deny it." His voice rose; he was falling into the rhythm of a scene with Jacky. "But as soon as I m useful it s a very different thing. Oh yes, send for him. Cross-question him. Pick his brains. Oh yes. Now, take me on the whole, I m a quiet fellow: I m law-abiding, I don t wish any unpleasantness; but I--I--" "You," said Margaret--" "you--you--" Laughter from Evie as at a repartee. "You are the man who tried to walk by the Pole Star." More laughter. "You saw the sunrise." Laughter. "You tried to get away from the fogs that are stifling us all--away past books and houses to the truth. You were looking for a real home." "I fail to see the connection," said Leonard, hot with stupid anger. "So do I." There was a pause. "You were that last Sunday--you are this to-day. Mr. Bast! I and my sister have talked you over. We wanted to help you; we also supposed you might help us. We did not have you here out of charity--which bores us--but because we hoped there would be a connection between last Sunday and other days. What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our daily lives? They have never entered into mine, but into yours, we thought--Haven t we all to struggle against life s daily greyness, against pettiness, against mechanical cheerfulness, against suspicion? I struggle by remembering my friends; others I have known by remembering some place--some beloved place or tree--we thought you one of these." "Of course, if there s been any misunderstanding," mumbled Leonard, "all I can do is to go. But I beg to state--" He paused. Ahab and Jezebel danced at his boots and made him look ridiculous. "You were picking my brain for official information--I can prove it--I--" He blew his nose and left them. "Can I help you now?" said Mr. Wilcox, turning to Margaret. "May I have one quiet word with him in the hall?" "Helen, go after him--do anything--anything--to make the noodle understand." Helen hesitated. "But really--" said their visitor. "Ought she to?" At once she went. He resumed. "I would have chimed in, but I felt that you could polish him off for yourselves--I didn t interfere. You were splendid, | who is also a business man, was so positive. He said before Christmas--" "And advised you to clear out of it," concluded Helen. "But I don t see why he should know better than you do." Leonard rubbed his hands. He was tempted to say that he knew nothing about the thing at all. But a commercial training was too strong for him. Nor could he say it was a bad thing, for this would be giving it away; nor yet that it was good, for this would be giving it away equally. He attempted to suggest that it was something between the two, with vast possibilities in either direction, but broke down under the gaze of four sincere eyes. And yet he scarcely distinguished between the two sisters. One was more beautiful and more lively, but "the Miss Schlegels" still remained a composite Indian god, whose waving arms and contradictory speeches were the product of a single mind. "One can but see," he remarked, adding, "as Ibsen says, things happen." He was itching to talk about books and make the most of his romantic hour. Minute after minute slipped away, while the ladies, with imperfect skill, discussed the subject of reinsurance or praised their anonymous friend. Leonard grew annoyed--perhaps rightly. He made vague remarks about not being one of those who minded their affairs being talked over by others, but they did not take the hint. Men might have shown more tact. Women, however tactful elsewhere, are heavy-handed here. They cannot see why we should shroud our incomes and our prospects in a veil. "How much exactly have you, and how much do you expect to have next June?" And these were women with a theory, who held that reticence about money matters is absurd, and that life would be truer if each would state the exact size of the golden island upon which he stands, the exact stretch of warp over which he throws the woof that is not money. How can we do justice to the pattern otherwise? And the precious minutes slipped away, and Jacky and squalor came nearer. At last he could bear it no longer, and broke in, reciting the names of books feverishly. There was a moment of piercing joy when Margaret said,<|quote|>"So YOU like Carlyle"</|quote|>and then the door opened, and "Mr. Wilcox, Miss Wilcox" entered, preceded by two prancing puppies. "Oh, the dears! Oh, Evie, how too impossibly sweet!" screamed Helen, falling on her hands and knees. "We brought the little fellows round," said Mr. Wilcox. "I bred em myself." "Oh, really! Mr. Bast, come and play with puppies." "I ve got to be going now," said Leonard sourly. "But play with puppies a little first." "This is Ahab, that s Jezebel," said Evie, who was one of those who name animals after the less successful characters of Old Testament history. "I ve got to be going." Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice him. "Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Ba--Must you be really? Good-bye!" "Come again," said Helen from the floor. Then Leonard s gorge arose. Why should he come again? What was the good of it? He said roundly: "No, I shan t; I knew it would be a failure." Most people would have let him go. "A little mistake. We tried knowing another class--impossible." But the Schlegels had never played with life. They had attempted friendship, and they would take the consequences. Helen retorted, "I call that a very rude remark. What do you want to turn on me like that for?" and suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar row. "You ask me why I turn on you?" "Yes." "What do you want to have me here for?" "To help you, you silly boy!" cried Helen. "And don t shout." "I don t want your patronage. I don t want your tea. I was quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me for?" He turned to Mr. Wilcox. "I put it to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?" Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humorous strength that he could so well command. "Are we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use, or shall we go?" But Margaret ignored him. "I m connected with a leading insurance company, sir. I receive what I take to be an invitation from these--ladies" (he drawled the word). "I come, and it s to have my brain picked. I ask you, | Howards End |
After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit. These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools: which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell. | No speaker | all you'll have to do."<|quote|>After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit. These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools: which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell.</|quote|>"Good-night, Nancy," said the Jew, | the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do."<|quote|>After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit. These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools: which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell.</|quote|>"Good-night, Nancy," said the Jew, muffling himself up as before. | nodded. "And about" "Oh, ah, it's all planned," rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. "Never mind particulars. You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do."<|quote|>After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit. These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools: which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell.</|quote|>"Good-night, Nancy," said the Jew, muffling himself up as before. "Good-night." Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no flinching about the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as Toby Crackit himself could be. The Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing | be done, Bill?" "I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow," rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, "if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy." "Good," said the Jew; "there's no moon." "No," rejoined Sikes. "It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?" asked the Jew. Sikes nodded. "And about" "Oh, ah, it's all planned," rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. "Never mind particulars. You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do."<|quote|>After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit. These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools: which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell.</|quote|>"Good-night, Nancy," said the Jew, muffling himself up as before. "Good-night." Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no flinching about the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as Toby Crackit himself could be. The Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a sly kick upon the prostrate form of Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, groped downstairs. "Always the way!" muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homeward. "The worst of these women is, that a very little thing serves to call up some long-forgotten feeling; and, the best | the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides." "When is it to be done?" asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity. "Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?" "I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow," rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, "if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy." "Good," said the Jew; "there's no moon." "No," rejoined Sikes. "It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?" asked the Jew. Sikes nodded. "And about" "Oh, ah, it's all planned," rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. "Never mind particulars. You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do."<|quote|>After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit. These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools: which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell.</|quote|>"Good-night, Nancy," said the Jew, muffling himself up as before. "Good-night." Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no flinching about the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as Toby Crackit himself could be. The Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a sly kick upon the prostrate form of Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, groped downstairs. "Always the way!" muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homeward. "The worst of these women is, that a very little thing serves to call up some long-forgotten feeling; and, the best of them is, that it never lasts. Ha! ha! The man against the child, for a bag of gold!" Beguiling the time with these pleasant reflections, Mr. Fagin wended his way, through mud and mire, to his gloomy abode: where the Dodger was sitting up, impatiently awaiting his return. "Is Oliver a-bed? I want to speak to him," was his first remark as they descended the stairs. "Hours ago," replied the Dodger, throwing open a door. "Here he is!" The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the floor; so pale with anxiety, and sadness, and the | close close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about better!" The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy. "Ours!" said Sikes. "Yours, you mean." "Perhaps I do, my dear," said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. "Mine, if you like, Bill." "And wot," said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, "wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?" "Because they're of no use to me, my dear," replied the Jew, with some confusion, "not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they get into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what I couldn't with twenty of them. Besides," said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, "he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides." "When is it to be done?" asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity. "Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?" "I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow," rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, "if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy." "Good," said the Jew; "there's no moon." "No," rejoined Sikes. "It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?" asked the Jew. Sikes nodded. "And about" "Oh, ah, it's all planned," rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. "Never mind particulars. You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do."<|quote|>After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit. These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools: which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell.</|quote|>"Good-night, Nancy," said the Jew, muffling himself up as before. "Good-night." Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no flinching about the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as Toby Crackit himself could be. The Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a sly kick upon the prostrate form of Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, groped downstairs. "Always the way!" muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homeward. "The worst of these women is, that a very little thing serves to call up some long-forgotten feeling; and, the best of them is, that it never lasts. Ha! ha! The man against the child, for a bag of gold!" Beguiling the time with these pleasant reflections, Mr. Fagin wended his way, through mud and mire, to his gloomy abode: where the Dodger was sitting up, impatiently awaiting his return. "Is Oliver a-bed? I want to speak to him," was his first remark as they descended the stairs. "Hours ago," replied the Dodger, throwing open a door. "Here he is!" The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the floor; so pale with anxiety, and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he looked like death; not death as it shows in shroud and coffin, but in the guise it wears when life has just departed; when a young and gentle spirit has, but an instant, fled to Heaven, and the gross air of the world has not had time to breathe upon the changing dust it hallowed. "Not now," said the Jew, turning softly away. "To-morrow. To-morrow." CHAPTER XX. WHEREIN OLIVER IS DELIVERED OVER TO MR. WILLIAM SIKES When Oliver awoke in the morning, he was a good deal surprised to find that a new pair of shoes, with strong thick soles, had been placed at his bedside; and that his old shoes had been removed. At first, he was pleased with the discovery: hoping that it might be the forerunner of his release; but such thoughts were quickly dispelled, on his sitting down to breakfast along with the Jew, who told him, in a tone and manner which increased his alarm, that he was to be taken to the residence of Bill Sikes that night. "To to stop there, sir?" asked Oliver, anxiously. "No, no, my dear. Not to stop there," replied the Jew. "We | table, and putting her elbows upon it. "No, no, my dear, I know you're not," said the Jew; "but" and again the old man paused. "But wot?" inquired Sikes. "I didn't know whether she mightn't p'r'aps be out of sorts, you know, my dear, as she was the other night," replied the Jew. At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into sundry exclamations of "Keep the game a-going!" "Never say die!" and the like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise. "Now, Fagin," said Nancy with a laugh. "Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!" "Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!" said the Jew, patting her on the neck. "It _was_ about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!" "What about him?" demanded Sikes. "He's the boy for you, my dear," replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully. "He!" exclaimed Sikes. "Have him, Bill!" said Nancy. "I would, if I was in your place. He mayn't be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe one, Bill." "I know he is," rejoined Fagin. "He's been in good training these last few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big." "Well, he is just the size I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating. "And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes. "It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!" said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead. "I've thought of it all," said the Jew with energy. "I've I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about better!" The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy. "Ours!" said Sikes. "Yours, you mean." "Perhaps I do, my dear," said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. "Mine, if you like, Bill." "And wot," said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, "wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?" "Because they're of no use to me, my dear," replied the Jew, with some confusion, "not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they get into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what I couldn't with twenty of them. Besides," said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, "he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides." "When is it to be done?" asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity. "Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?" "I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow," rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, "if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy." "Good," said the Jew; "there's no moon." "No," rejoined Sikes. "It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?" asked the Jew. Sikes nodded. "And about" "Oh, ah, it's all planned," rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. "Never mind particulars. You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do."<|quote|>After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit. These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools: which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell.</|quote|>"Good-night, Nancy," said the Jew, muffling himself up as before. "Good-night." Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no flinching about the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as Toby Crackit himself could be. The Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a sly kick upon the prostrate form of Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, groped downstairs. "Always the way!" muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homeward. "The worst of these women is, that a very little thing serves to call up some long-forgotten feeling; and, the best of them is, that it never lasts. Ha! ha! The man against the child, for a bag of gold!" Beguiling the time with these pleasant reflections, Mr. Fagin wended his way, through mud and mire, to his gloomy abode: where the Dodger was sitting up, impatiently awaiting his return. "Is Oliver a-bed? I want to speak to him," was his first remark as they descended the stairs. "Hours ago," replied the Dodger, throwing open a door. "Here he is!" The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the floor; so pale with anxiety, and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he looked like death; not death as it shows in shroud and coffin, but in the guise it wears when life has just departed; when a young and gentle spirit has, but an instant, fled to Heaven, and the gross air of the world has not had time to breathe upon the changing dust it hallowed. "Not now," said the Jew, turning softly away. "To-morrow. To-morrow." CHAPTER XX. WHEREIN OLIVER IS DELIVERED OVER TO MR. WILLIAM SIKES When Oliver awoke in the morning, he was a good deal surprised to find that a new pair of shoes, with strong thick soles, had been placed at his bedside; and that his old shoes had been removed. At first, he was pleased with the discovery: hoping that it might be the forerunner of his release; but such thoughts were quickly dispelled, on his sitting down to breakfast along with the Jew, who told him, in a tone and manner which increased his alarm, that he was to be taken to the residence of Bill Sikes that night. "To to stop there, sir?" asked Oliver, anxiously. "No, no, my dear. Not to stop there," replied the Jew. "We shouldn't like to lose you. Don't be afraid, Oliver, you shall come back to us again. Ha! ha! ha! We won't be so cruel as to send you away, my dear. Oh no, no!" The old man, who was stooping over the fire toasting a piece of bread, looked round as he bantered Oliver thus; and chuckled as if to show that he knew he would still be very glad to get away if he could. "I suppose," said the Jew, fixing his eyes on Oliver, "you want to know what you're going to Bill's for -eh, my dear?" Oliver coloured, involuntarily, to find that the old thief had been reading his thoughts; but boldly said, Yes, he did want to know. "Why, do you think?" inquired Fagin, parrying the question. "Indeed I don't know, sir," replied Oliver. "Bah!" said the Jew, turning away with a disappointed countenance from a close perusal of the boy's face. "Wait till Bill tells you, then." The Jew seemed much vexed by Oliver's not expressing any greater curiosity on the subject; but the truth is, that, although Oliver felt very anxious, he was too much confused by the earnest cunning of Fagin's looks, and his own speculations, to make any further inquiries just then. He had no other opportunity: for the Jew remained very surly and silent till night: when he prepared to go abroad. "You may burn a candle," said the Jew, putting one upon the table. "And here's a book for you to read, till they come to fetch you. Good-night!" "Good-night!" replied Oliver, softly. The Jew walked to the door: looking over his shoulder at the boy as he went. Suddenly stopping, he called him by his name. Oliver looked up; the Jew, pointing to the candle, motioned him to light it. He did so; and, as he placed the candlestick upon the table, saw that the Jew was gazing fixedly at him, with lowering and contracted brows, from the dark end of the room. "Take heed, Oliver! take heed!" said the old man, shaking his right hand before him in a warning manner. "He's a rough man, and thinks nothing of blood when his own is up. Whatever falls out, say nothing; and do what he bids you. Mind!" Placing a strong emphasis on the last word, he suffered his features gradually to resolve themselves into a ghastly grin, and, | for joy. "Ours!" said Sikes. "Yours, you mean." "Perhaps I do, my dear," said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. "Mine, if you like, Bill." "And wot," said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, "wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?" "Because they're of no use to me, my dear," replied the Jew, with some confusion, "not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they get into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what I couldn't with twenty of them. Besides," said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, "he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides." "When is it to be done?" asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity. "Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?" "I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow," rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, "if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy." "Good," said the Jew; "there's no moon." "No," rejoined Sikes. "It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?" asked the Jew. Sikes nodded. "And about" "Oh, ah, it's all planned," rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. "Never mind particulars. You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do."<|quote|>After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit. These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools: which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell.</|quote|>"Good-night, Nancy," said the Jew, muffling himself up as before. "Good-night." Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no flinching about the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as Toby Crackit himself could be. The Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a sly kick upon the prostrate form of Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, groped downstairs. "Always the way!" muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homeward. "The worst of these women is, that a very little thing serves to call up some long-forgotten feeling; and, the best of them is, that it never lasts. Ha! ha! The man against the child, for a bag of gold!" Beguiling the time with these pleasant reflections, Mr. Fagin wended his way, through mud and mire, to his gloomy abode: where the Dodger was sitting up, impatiently awaiting his return. "Is Oliver a-bed? I want to speak to him," was his first remark as they descended the stairs. "Hours ago," replied the Dodger, throwing open a door. "Here he is!" The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the floor; so pale with anxiety, and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he looked like death; not death as it shows in shroud and coffin, but in the guise it wears when life has just departed; when a young and gentle spirit has, but an instant, fled to Heaven, and the gross air of the world has not had time to breathe upon the changing dust it hallowed. "Not now," said the Jew, turning softly away. "To-morrow. To-morrow." CHAPTER XX. WHEREIN OLIVER IS DELIVERED OVER TO MR. WILLIAM SIKES When Oliver awoke in the morning, he was a good deal surprised to find that a | Oliver Twist |
"Shut the door," | Paul | o'clock already." Albert groans again.<|quote|>"Shut the door,"</|quote|>I snort. She is quite | innocently. "And it is seven o'clock already." Albert groans again.<|quote|>"Shut the door,"</|quote|>I snort. She is quite disconcerted. Apparently she cannot understand. | beautiful tea-cosy. "Shut the door, will you, sister?" says someone. "We are saying prayers, that is why the door is open," she responds. "But we want to go on sleeping----" "Prayer is better than sleep," she stands there and smiles innocently. "And it is seven o'clock already." Albert groans again.<|quote|>"Shut the door,"</|quote|>I snort. She is quite disconcerted. Apparently she cannot understand. "But we are saying prayers for you too." "Shut the door, anyway." She disappears leaving the door open. The intoning of the Litany proceeds. I feel savage, and say: "I'm going to count up to three. If it doesn't stop | when a man dropped off to sleep." "All the light cases are up here, that's why they do it here," he replies. Albert groans. I get furious and call out: "Be quiet out there!" A minute later a sister appears. In her black and white dress she looks like a beautiful tea-cosy. "Shut the door, will you, sister?" says someone. "We are saying prayers, that is why the door is open," she responds. "But we want to go on sleeping----" "Prayer is better than sleep," she stands there and smiles innocently. "And it is seven o'clock already." Albert groans again.<|quote|>"Shut the door,"</|quote|>I snort. She is quite disconcerted. Apparently she cannot understand. "But we are saying prayers for you too." "Shut the door, anyway." She disappears leaving the door open. The intoning of the Litany proceeds. I feel savage, and say: "I'm going to count up to three. If it doesn't stop before then I'll let something fly." "Me, too," says another. I count up to five. Then I take hold of a bottle, aim, and heave it through the door into the corridor. It smashes into a thousand pieces. The praying stops. A swarm of sisters appear and reproach us in | No one can sleep. Toward morning we doze a little. I wake up just as it grows light. The door stands open and I hear voices from the corridor. The others wake up too. One fellow, who has been there a couple of days already explains it to us: "Up here in the corridor every morning the sisters say prayers. They call it Morning Devotion. And so that you can get your share, they leave the door open." No doubt it is well meant, but it gives us aches in our head and bones. "Such an absurdity!" I say, "just when a man dropped off to sleep." "All the light cases are up here, that's why they do it here," he replies. Albert groans. I get furious and call out: "Be quiet out there!" A minute later a sister appears. In her black and white dress she looks like a beautiful tea-cosy. "Shut the door, will you, sister?" says someone. "We are saying prayers, that is why the door is open," she responds. "But we want to go on sleeping----" "Prayer is better than sleep," she stands there and smiles innocently. "And it is seven o'clock already." Albert groans again.<|quote|>"Shut the door,"</|quote|>I snort. She is quite disconcerted. Apparently she cannot understand. "But we are saying prayers for you too." "Shut the door, anyway." She disappears leaving the door open. The intoning of the Litany proceeds. I feel savage, and say: "I'm going to count up to three. If it doesn't stop before then I'll let something fly." "Me, too," says another. I count up to five. Then I take hold of a bottle, aim, and heave it through the door into the corridor. It smashes into a thousand pieces. The praying stops. A swarm of sisters appear and reproach us in concert. "Shut the door!" we yell. They withdraw. The little one who came first is the last to go. "Heathen," she chirps, but shuts the door all the same. We have won. * * At noon the hospital inspector arrives and abuses us. He threatens us with clink and all the rest of it. But a hospital inspector is just the same as a commissariat inspector, or any one else who wears a long dagger and shoulder straps, but is really a clerk, and is never considered even by a recruit as a real officer. So we let him talk. | I give it a shake. I send it up to 100.2°. But that is not enough. A match held cautiously near to it brings it up to 101.6°. As the sister comes back, I blow myself out, breathe in short gasps, goggle at her with vacant eyes, toss about restlessly, and mutter in a whisper: "I can't bear it any longer----" She notes me down on a slip of paper. I know perfectly well my plaster bandage will not be re-opened if it can be avoided. Albert and I are put off together. * * We are in the same room in a Catholic Hospital. That is a piece of luck, the Catholic infirmaries are noted for their good treatment and good food. The hospital has been filled up from our train, there are a great many bad cases amongst them. We do not get examined to-day because there are too few surgeons. The flat trolleys with the rubber wheels pass continually along the corridor, and always with someone stretched at full length upon them. A damnable position, stretched out at full length like that;--the only time it is good is when one is asleep. The night is very disturbed. No one can sleep. Toward morning we doze a little. I wake up just as it grows light. The door stands open and I hear voices from the corridor. The others wake up too. One fellow, who has been there a couple of days already explains it to us: "Up here in the corridor every morning the sisters say prayers. They call it Morning Devotion. And so that you can get your share, they leave the door open." No doubt it is well meant, but it gives us aches in our head and bones. "Such an absurdity!" I say, "just when a man dropped off to sleep." "All the light cases are up here, that's why they do it here," he replies. Albert groans. I get furious and call out: "Be quiet out there!" A minute later a sister appears. In her black and white dress she looks like a beautiful tea-cosy. "Shut the door, will you, sister?" says someone. "We are saying prayers, that is why the door is open," she responds. "But we want to go on sleeping----" "Prayer is better than sleep," she stands there and smiles innocently. "And it is seven o'clock already." Albert groans again.<|quote|>"Shut the door,"</|quote|>I snort. She is quite disconcerted. Apparently she cannot understand. "But we are saying prayers for you too." "Shut the door, anyway." She disappears leaving the door open. The intoning of the Litany proceeds. I feel savage, and say: "I'm going to count up to three. If it doesn't stop before then I'll let something fly." "Me, too," says another. I count up to five. Then I take hold of a bottle, aim, and heave it through the door into the corridor. It smashes into a thousand pieces. The praying stops. A swarm of sisters appear and reproach us in concert. "Shut the door!" we yell. They withdraw. The little one who came first is the last to go. "Heathen," she chirps, but shuts the door all the same. We have won. * * At noon the hospital inspector arrives and abuses us. He threatens us with clink and all the rest of it. But a hospital inspector is just the same as a commissariat inspector, or any one else who wears a long dagger and shoulder straps, but is really a clerk, and is never considered even by a recruit as a real officer. So we let him talk. What can they do to us, anyway---- "Who threw the bottle?" he asks. Before I can think whether I should report myself, someone says: "I did." A man with a bristling beard sits up. Everyone is excited; why should he report himself? "You?" "Yes. I was annoyed because we were waked up unnecessarily and lost my senses so that I did not know what I was doing." He talks like a book. "What is your name?" "Reinforcement-Reservist Josef Hamacher." The inspector departs. We are all curious. "But why did you say you did it? It wasn't you at all!" He grins. "That doesn't matter. I have a shooting licence." Then, of course, we all understand. Whoever has a shooting licence can do just whatever he pleases. "Yes," he explains, "I got a crack in the head and they presented me with a certificate to say that I was periodically not responsible for my actions. Ever since then I've had a grand time. No one dares to annoy me. And nobody does anything to me." "I reported myself because the shot amused me. If they open the door again to-morrow we will pitch another." We are overjoyed. With Josef Hamacher in | comes to my rescue, he is not bashful, it makes no difference to him who is upset. He calls to the sister. She turns round. "Sister, he wants----" but no more does Albert know how to express it modestly and decently. Out there we say it in a single word, but here, to such a lady---- All at once he remembers his school days and finishes hastily: "He wants to leave the room, sister." "Ah!" says the sister, "but he shouldn't climb out of his bed with his plaster bandage. What do you want then?" she says, turning to me. I am in mortal terror at this new turn, for I haven't any idea what the things are called professionally. She comes to my help. "Little or big?" This shocking business! I sweat like a pig and say shyly: "Well, only quite a little one----" At any rate, it produces the effect. I get a bottle. After a few hours I am no longer the only one, and by morning we are quite accustomed to it and ask for what we want without any false modesty. The train travels slowly. Sometimes it halts and the dead are unloaded. It halts often. Albert is feverish. I feel miserable and have a good deal of pain, but the worst of it is that apparently there are still lice under the plaster bandage. They itch terribly, and I cannot scratch myself. We sleep through the days. The country glides quietly past the window. The third night we reach Herbstal. I hear from the sister that Albert is to be put off at the next station because of his fever. "How far does the train go?" I ask. "To Cologne." "Albert," I say, "we stick together; you see." On the sister's next round I hold my breath and press it up into my head. My face swells and turns red. She stops. "Are you in pain?" "Yes," I groan, "all of a sudden." She gives me a thermometer and goes on. I would not have been under Kat's tuition if I did not know what to do now. These army thermometers are not made for old soldiers. All one has to do is to drive the quicksilver up and then it stays there without falling again. I stick the thermometer under my arm at a slant, and flip it steadily with my forefinger. Then I give it a shake. I send it up to 100.2°. But that is not enough. A match held cautiously near to it brings it up to 101.6°. As the sister comes back, I blow myself out, breathe in short gasps, goggle at her with vacant eyes, toss about restlessly, and mutter in a whisper: "I can't bear it any longer----" She notes me down on a slip of paper. I know perfectly well my plaster bandage will not be re-opened if it can be avoided. Albert and I are put off together. * * We are in the same room in a Catholic Hospital. That is a piece of luck, the Catholic infirmaries are noted for their good treatment and good food. The hospital has been filled up from our train, there are a great many bad cases amongst them. We do not get examined to-day because there are too few surgeons. The flat trolleys with the rubber wheels pass continually along the corridor, and always with someone stretched at full length upon them. A damnable position, stretched out at full length like that;--the only time it is good is when one is asleep. The night is very disturbed. No one can sleep. Toward morning we doze a little. I wake up just as it grows light. The door stands open and I hear voices from the corridor. The others wake up too. One fellow, who has been there a couple of days already explains it to us: "Up here in the corridor every morning the sisters say prayers. They call it Morning Devotion. And so that you can get your share, they leave the door open." No doubt it is well meant, but it gives us aches in our head and bones. "Such an absurdity!" I say, "just when a man dropped off to sleep." "All the light cases are up here, that's why they do it here," he replies. Albert groans. I get furious and call out: "Be quiet out there!" A minute later a sister appears. In her black and white dress she looks like a beautiful tea-cosy. "Shut the door, will you, sister?" says someone. "We are saying prayers, that is why the door is open," she responds. "But we want to go on sleeping----" "Prayer is better than sleep," she stands there and smiles innocently. "And it is seven o'clock already." Albert groans again.<|quote|>"Shut the door,"</|quote|>I snort. She is quite disconcerted. Apparently she cannot understand. "But we are saying prayers for you too." "Shut the door, anyway." She disappears leaving the door open. The intoning of the Litany proceeds. I feel savage, and say: "I'm going to count up to three. If it doesn't stop before then I'll let something fly." "Me, too," says another. I count up to five. Then I take hold of a bottle, aim, and heave it through the door into the corridor. It smashes into a thousand pieces. The praying stops. A swarm of sisters appear and reproach us in concert. "Shut the door!" we yell. They withdraw. The little one who came first is the last to go. "Heathen," she chirps, but shuts the door all the same. We have won. * * At noon the hospital inspector arrives and abuses us. He threatens us with clink and all the rest of it. But a hospital inspector is just the same as a commissariat inspector, or any one else who wears a long dagger and shoulder straps, but is really a clerk, and is never considered even by a recruit as a real officer. So we let him talk. What can they do to us, anyway---- "Who threw the bottle?" he asks. Before I can think whether I should report myself, someone says: "I did." A man with a bristling beard sits up. Everyone is excited; why should he report himself? "You?" "Yes. I was annoyed because we were waked up unnecessarily and lost my senses so that I did not know what I was doing." He talks like a book. "What is your name?" "Reinforcement-Reservist Josef Hamacher." The inspector departs. We are all curious. "But why did you say you did it? It wasn't you at all!" He grins. "That doesn't matter. I have a shooting licence." Then, of course, we all understand. Whoever has a shooting licence can do just whatever he pleases. "Yes," he explains, "I got a crack in the head and they presented me with a certificate to say that I was periodically not responsible for my actions. Ever since then I've had a grand time. No one dares to annoy me. And nobody does anything to me." "I reported myself because the shot amused me. If they open the door again to-morrow we will pitch another." We are overjoyed. With Josef Hamacher in our midst we can now risk anything. Then come the soundless, flat trollies to take us away. The bandages are stuck fast. We bellow like steers. * * There are eight men in our room. Peter, a curly black-haired fellow, has the worst injury;--a severe lung wound. Franz Wächter, alongside him, has a shot in the arm which didn't look too bad at first. But the third night he calls out to us, telling us to ring, he thinks he has a hæmorrhage. I ring loudly. The night sister does not come. We have been making rather heavy demands on her during the night, because we have all been freshly bandaged, and so have a good deal of pain. One wants his leg placed so, another so, a third wants water, a fourth wants her to shake up his pillow;--in the end the buxom old body grumbled bad temperedly and slammed the doors. Now no doubt she thinks it is something of the same sort and so she is not coming. We wait. Then Franz says: "Ring again." I do so. Still she does not put in an appearance. In our wing there is only one night sister, perhaps she has something to do in one of the other rooms. "Franz, are you quite sure you are bleeding?" I ask. "Otherwise we shall be getting cursed again." "The bandage is wet. Can't anybody make a light?" That cannot be done either. The switch is by the door and none of us can stand up. I hold my thumb against the button of the bell till it becomes numb. Perhaps the sister has fallen asleep. They certainly have a great deal to do and are all overworked day after day. And added to that is the everlasting praying. "Should we smash a bottle?" asks Josef Hamacher of the shooting licence. "She wouldn't hear that any more than the bell." At last the door opens. The old lady appears, mumbling. When she perceives Franz's trouble she begins to bustle, and says: "Why did not someone say I was wanted?" "We did ring. And none of us here can walk." He has been bleeding badly and she binds him up. In the morning we look at his face, it has become sharp and yellow, whereas the evening before he looked almost healthy. Now a sister comes oftener. * * Sometimes there are red-cross | have been under Kat's tuition if I did not know what to do now. These army thermometers are not made for old soldiers. All one has to do is to drive the quicksilver up and then it stays there without falling again. I stick the thermometer under my arm at a slant, and flip it steadily with my forefinger. Then I give it a shake. I send it up to 100.2°. But that is not enough. A match held cautiously near to it brings it up to 101.6°. As the sister comes back, I blow myself out, breathe in short gasps, goggle at her with vacant eyes, toss about restlessly, and mutter in a whisper: "I can't bear it any longer----" She notes me down on a slip of paper. I know perfectly well my plaster bandage will not be re-opened if it can be avoided. Albert and I are put off together. * * We are in the same room in a Catholic Hospital. That is a piece of luck, the Catholic infirmaries are noted for their good treatment and good food. The hospital has been filled up from our train, there are a great many bad cases amongst them. We do not get examined to-day because there are too few surgeons. The flat trolleys with the rubber wheels pass continually along the corridor, and always with someone stretched at full length upon them. A damnable position, stretched out at full length like that;--the only time it is good is when one is asleep. The night is very disturbed. No one can sleep. Toward morning we doze a little. I wake up just as it grows light. The door stands open and I hear voices from the corridor. The others wake up too. One fellow, who has been there a couple of days already explains it to us: "Up here in the corridor every morning the sisters say prayers. They call it Morning Devotion. And so that you can get your share, they leave the door open." No doubt it is well meant, but it gives us aches in our head and bones. "Such an absurdity!" I say, "just when a man dropped off to sleep." "All the light cases are up here, that's why they do it here," he replies. Albert groans. I get furious and call out: "Be quiet out there!" A minute later a sister appears. In her black and white dress she looks like a beautiful tea-cosy. "Shut the door, will you, sister?" says someone. "We are saying prayers, that is why the door is open," she responds. "But we want to go on sleeping----" "Prayer is better than sleep," she stands there and smiles innocently. "And it is seven o'clock already." Albert groans again.<|quote|>"Shut the door,"</|quote|>I snort. She is quite disconcerted. Apparently she cannot understand. "But we are saying prayers for you too." "Shut the door, anyway." She disappears leaving the door open. The intoning of the Litany proceeds. I feel savage, and say: "I'm going to count up to three. If it doesn't stop before then I'll let something fly." "Me, too," says another. I count up to five. Then I take hold of a bottle, aim, and heave it through the door into the corridor. It smashes into a thousand pieces. The praying stops. A swarm of sisters appear and reproach us in concert. "Shut the door!" we yell. They withdraw. The little one who came first is the last to go. "Heathen," she chirps, but shuts the door all the same. We have won. * * At noon the hospital inspector arrives and abuses us. He threatens us with clink and all the rest of it. But a hospital inspector is just the same as a commissariat inspector, or any one else who wears a long dagger and shoulder straps, but is really a clerk, and is never considered even by a recruit as a real officer. So we let him talk. What can they do to us, anyway---- "Who threw the bottle?" he asks. Before I can think whether I should report myself, someone says: "I did." A man with a bristling beard sits up. Everyone is excited; why should he report himself? "You?" "Yes. I was annoyed because we were waked up unnecessarily and lost my senses so that I did not know what I was doing." He talks like a book. "What is your name?" "Reinforcement-Reservist Josef Hamacher." The inspector departs. We are all curious. "But why did you say you did it? It wasn't you at all!" He grins. "That doesn't matter. I have a shooting licence." Then, of course, we all understand. Whoever has a shooting licence can do just whatever he pleases. "Yes," he explains, "I got a crack in the head and they presented me with a certificate to say that I was periodically not responsible for my actions. Ever since then I've had a grand time. No one dares to annoy me. And nobody does anything to me." "I reported myself because the shot amused me. If they open the door again to-morrow we will pitch another." We are overjoyed. With Josef Hamacher in our midst we can now risk anything. Then come the soundless, flat trollies to take us away. The bandages are stuck fast. We bellow like steers. * * There are eight men in our room. Peter, a curly black-haired fellow, has the worst injury;--a severe lung wound. Franz Wächter, alongside him, has a shot in the arm which didn't look too bad at first. But the third night he calls out to us, telling us to ring, he thinks he has a hæmorrhage. I ring loudly. The night sister does not come. We have been making rather heavy demands on her during the night, because we have all been freshly bandaged, and so have a good deal of pain. One wants his leg placed so, another so, a third wants water, | All Quiet on the Western Front |
she murmured. | No speaker | you, you would say something!"<|quote|>she murmured.</|quote|>"I told YOU!" Randolph exclaimed. | if I were to bring you, you would say something!"<|quote|>she murmured.</|quote|>"I told YOU!" Randolph exclaimed. "I tell YOU, sir!" he | lady evaded his glance, and, seating herself, fixed her eyes upon her son. "We ve got a bigger place than this," said Randolph. "It s all gold on the walls." Mrs. Miller turned uneasily in her chair. "I told you if I were to bring you, you would say something!"<|quote|>she murmured.</|quote|>"I told YOU!" Randolph exclaimed. "I tell YOU, sir!" he added jocosely, giving Winterbourne a thump on the knee. "It IS bigger, too!" Daisy had entered upon a lively conversation with her hostess; Winterbourne judged it becoming to address a few words to her mother. "I hope you have been | didn t believe it," said Miss Daisy. "I am much obliged to you," laughed the young man. "You might have come to see me!" said Daisy. "I arrived only yesterday." "I don t believe that!" the young girl declared. Winterbourne turned with a protesting smile to her mother, but this lady evaded his glance, and, seating herself, fixed her eyes upon her son. "We ve got a bigger place than this," said Randolph. "It s all gold on the walls." Mrs. Miller turned uneasily in her chair. "I told you if I were to bring you, you would say something!"<|quote|>she murmured.</|quote|>"I told YOU!" Randolph exclaimed. "I tell YOU, sir!" he added jocosely, giving Winterbourne a thump on the knee. "It IS bigger, too!" Daisy had entered upon a lively conversation with her hostess; Winterbourne judged it becoming to address a few words to her mother. "I hope you have been well since we parted at Vevey," he said. Mrs. Miller now certainly looked at him--at his chin. "Not very well, sir," she answered. "She s got the dyspepsia," said Randolph. "I ve got it too. Father s got it. I ve got it most!" This announcement, instead of embarrassing Mrs. | Randolph Miller, who stopped in the middle of the room and stood staring at Winterbourne. An instant later his pretty sister crossed the threshold; and then, after a considerable interval, Mrs. Miller slowly advanced. "I know you!" said Randolph. "I m sure you know a great many things," exclaimed Winterbourne, taking him by the hand. "How is your education coming on?" Daisy was exchanging greetings very prettily with her hostess, but when she heard Winterbourne s voice she quickly turned her head. "Well, I declare!" she said. "I told you I should come, you know," Winterbourne rejoined, smiling. "Well, I didn t believe it," said Miss Daisy. "I am much obliged to you," laughed the young man. "You might have come to see me!" said Daisy. "I arrived only yesterday." "I don t believe that!" the young girl declared. Winterbourne turned with a protesting smile to her mother, but this lady evaded his glance, and, seating herself, fixed her eyes upon her son. "We ve got a bigger place than this," said Randolph. "It s all gold on the walls." Mrs. Miller turned uneasily in her chair. "I told you if I were to bring you, you would say something!"<|quote|>she murmured.</|quote|>"I told YOU!" Randolph exclaimed. "I tell YOU, sir!" he added jocosely, giving Winterbourne a thump on the knee. "It IS bigger, too!" Daisy had entered upon a lively conversation with her hostess; Winterbourne judged it becoming to address a few words to her mother. "I hope you have been well since we parted at Vevey," he said. Mrs. Miller now certainly looked at him--at his chin. "Not very well, sir," she answered. "She s got the dyspepsia," said Randolph. "I ve got it too. Father s got it. I ve got it most!" This announcement, instead of embarrassing Mrs. Miller, seemed to relieve her. "I suffer from the liver," she said. "I think it s this climate; it s less bracing than Schenectady, especially in the winter season. I don t know whether you know we reside at Schenectady. I was saying to Daisy that I certainly hadn t found any one like Dr. Davis, and I didn t believe I should. Oh, at Schenectady he stands first; they think everything of him. He has so much to do, and yet there was nothing he wouldn t do for me. He said he never saw anything like my dyspepsia, | Daisy Miller was surrounded by half a dozen wonderful mustaches checked Winterbourne s impulse to go straightway to see her. He had, perhaps, not definitely flattered himself that he had made an ineffaceable impression upon her heart, but he was annoyed at hearing of a state of affairs so little in harmony with an image that had lately flitted in and out of his own meditations; the image of a very pretty girl looking out of an old Roman window and asking herself urgently when Mr. Winterbourne would arrive. If, however, he determined to wait a little before reminding Miss Miller of his claims to her consideration, he went very soon to call upon two or three other friends. One of these friends was an American lady who had spent several winters at Geneva, where she had placed her children at school. She was a very accomplished woman, and she lived in the Via Gregoriana. Winterbourne found her in a little crimson drawing room on a third floor; the room was filled with southern sunshine. He had not been there ten minutes when the servant came in, announcing "Madame Mila!" This announcement was presently followed by the entrance of little Randolph Miller, who stopped in the middle of the room and stood staring at Winterbourne. An instant later his pretty sister crossed the threshold; and then, after a considerable interval, Mrs. Miller slowly advanced. "I know you!" said Randolph. "I m sure you know a great many things," exclaimed Winterbourne, taking him by the hand. "How is your education coming on?" Daisy was exchanging greetings very prettily with her hostess, but when she heard Winterbourne s voice she quickly turned her head. "Well, I declare!" she said. "I told you I should come, you know," Winterbourne rejoined, smiling. "Well, I didn t believe it," said Miss Daisy. "I am much obliged to you," laughed the young man. "You might have come to see me!" said Daisy. "I arrived only yesterday." "I don t believe that!" the young girl declared. Winterbourne turned with a protesting smile to her mother, but this lady evaded his glance, and, seating herself, fixed her eyes upon her son. "We ve got a bigger place than this," said Randolph. "It s all gold on the walls." Mrs. Miller turned uneasily in her chair. "I told you if I were to bring you, you would say something!"<|quote|>she murmured.</|quote|>"I told YOU!" Randolph exclaimed. "I tell YOU, sir!" he added jocosely, giving Winterbourne a thump on the knee. "It IS bigger, too!" Daisy had entered upon a lively conversation with her hostess; Winterbourne judged it becoming to address a few words to her mother. "I hope you have been well since we parted at Vevey," he said. Mrs. Miller now certainly looked at him--at his chin. "Not very well, sir," she answered. "She s got the dyspepsia," said Randolph. "I ve got it too. Father s got it. I ve got it most!" This announcement, instead of embarrassing Mrs. Miller, seemed to relieve her. "I suffer from the liver," she said. "I think it s this climate; it s less bracing than Schenectady, especially in the winter season. I don t know whether you know we reside at Schenectady. I was saying to Daisy that I certainly hadn t found any one like Dr. Davis, and I didn t believe I should. Oh, at Schenectady he stands first; they think everything of him. He has so much to do, and yet there was nothing he wouldn t do for me. He said he never saw anything like my dyspepsia, but he was bound to cure it. I m sure there was nothing he wouldn t try. He was just going to try something new when we came off. Mr. Miller wanted Daisy to see Europe for herself. But I wrote to Mr. Miller that it seems as if I couldn t get on without Dr. Davis. At Schenectady he stands at the very top; and there s a great deal of sickness there, too. It affects my sleep." Winterbourne had a good deal of pathological gossip with Dr. Davis s patient, during which Daisy chattered unremittingly to her own companion. The young man asked Mrs. Miller how she was pleased with Rome. "Well, I must say I am disappointed," she answered. "We had heard so much about it; I suppose we had heard too much. But we couldn t help that. We had been led to expect something different." "Ah, wait a little, and you will become very fond of it," said Winterbourne. "I hate it worse and worse every day!" cried Randolph. "You are like the infant Hannibal," said Winterbourne. "No, I ain t!" Randolph declared at a venture. "You are not much like an infant," said his | with Miss Daisy Miller. "The Americans--of the courier?" asked this lady. "Ah, happily," said Winterbourne, "the courier stayed at home." "She went with you all alone?" "All alone." Mrs. Costello sniffed a little at her smelling bottle. "And that," she exclaimed, "is the young person whom you wanted me to know!" PART II Winterbourne, who had returned to Geneva the day after his excursion to Chillon, went to Rome toward the end of January. His aunt had been established there for several weeks, and he had received a couple of letters from her. "Those people you were so devoted to last summer at Vevey have turned up here, courier and all," she wrote. "They seem to have made several acquaintances, but the courier continues to be the most intime. The young lady, however, is also very intimate with some third-rate Italians, with whom she rackets about in a way that makes much talk. Bring me that pretty novel of Cherbuliez s--Paule Mere--and don t come later than the 23rd." In the natural course of events, Winterbourne, on arriving in Rome, would presently have ascertained Mrs. Miller s address at the American banker s and have gone to pay his compliments to Miss Daisy. "After what happened at Vevey, I think I may certainly call upon them," he said to Mrs. Costello. "If, after what happens--at Vevey and everywhere--you desire to keep up the acquaintance, you are very welcome. Of course a man may know everyone. Men are welcome to the privilege!" "Pray what is it that happens--here, for instance?" Winterbourne demanded. "The girl goes about alone with her foreigners. As to what happens further, you must apply elsewhere for information. She has picked up half a dozen of the regular Roman fortune hunters, and she takes them about to people s houses. When she comes to a party she brings with her a gentleman with a good deal of manner and a wonderful mustache." "And where is the mother?" "I haven t the least idea. They are very dreadful people." Winterbourne meditated a moment. "They are very ignorant--very innocent only. Depend upon it they are not bad." "They are hopelessly vulgar," said Mrs. Costello. "Whether or no being hopelessly vulgar is being bad is a question for the metaphysicians. They are bad enough to dislike, at any rate; and for this short life that is quite enough." The news that Daisy Miller was surrounded by half a dozen wonderful mustaches checked Winterbourne s impulse to go straightway to see her. He had, perhaps, not definitely flattered himself that he had made an ineffaceable impression upon her heart, but he was annoyed at hearing of a state of affairs so little in harmony with an image that had lately flitted in and out of his own meditations; the image of a very pretty girl looking out of an old Roman window and asking herself urgently when Mr. Winterbourne would arrive. If, however, he determined to wait a little before reminding Miss Miller of his claims to her consideration, he went very soon to call upon two or three other friends. One of these friends was an American lady who had spent several winters at Geneva, where she had placed her children at school. She was a very accomplished woman, and she lived in the Via Gregoriana. Winterbourne found her in a little crimson drawing room on a third floor; the room was filled with southern sunshine. He had not been there ten minutes when the servant came in, announcing "Madame Mila!" This announcement was presently followed by the entrance of little Randolph Miller, who stopped in the middle of the room and stood staring at Winterbourne. An instant later his pretty sister crossed the threshold; and then, after a considerable interval, Mrs. Miller slowly advanced. "I know you!" said Randolph. "I m sure you know a great many things," exclaimed Winterbourne, taking him by the hand. "How is your education coming on?" Daisy was exchanging greetings very prettily with her hostess, but when she heard Winterbourne s voice she quickly turned her head. "Well, I declare!" she said. "I told you I should come, you know," Winterbourne rejoined, smiling. "Well, I didn t believe it," said Miss Daisy. "I am much obliged to you," laughed the young man. "You might have come to see me!" said Daisy. "I arrived only yesterday." "I don t believe that!" the young girl declared. Winterbourne turned with a protesting smile to her mother, but this lady evaded his glance, and, seating herself, fixed her eyes upon her son. "We ve got a bigger place than this," said Randolph. "It s all gold on the walls." Mrs. Miller turned uneasily in her chair. "I told you if I were to bring you, you would say something!"<|quote|>she murmured.</|quote|>"I told YOU!" Randolph exclaimed. "I tell YOU, sir!" he added jocosely, giving Winterbourne a thump on the knee. "It IS bigger, too!" Daisy had entered upon a lively conversation with her hostess; Winterbourne judged it becoming to address a few words to her mother. "I hope you have been well since we parted at Vevey," he said. Mrs. Miller now certainly looked at him--at his chin. "Not very well, sir," she answered. "She s got the dyspepsia," said Randolph. "I ve got it too. Father s got it. I ve got it most!" This announcement, instead of embarrassing Mrs. Miller, seemed to relieve her. "I suffer from the liver," she said. "I think it s this climate; it s less bracing than Schenectady, especially in the winter season. I don t know whether you know we reside at Schenectady. I was saying to Daisy that I certainly hadn t found any one like Dr. Davis, and I didn t believe I should. Oh, at Schenectady he stands first; they think everything of him. He has so much to do, and yet there was nothing he wouldn t do for me. He said he never saw anything like my dyspepsia, but he was bound to cure it. I m sure there was nothing he wouldn t try. He was just going to try something new when we came off. Mr. Miller wanted Daisy to see Europe for herself. But I wrote to Mr. Miller that it seems as if I couldn t get on without Dr. Davis. At Schenectady he stands at the very top; and there s a great deal of sickness there, too. It affects my sleep." Winterbourne had a good deal of pathological gossip with Dr. Davis s patient, during which Daisy chattered unremittingly to her own companion. The young man asked Mrs. Miller how she was pleased with Rome. "Well, I must say I am disappointed," she answered. "We had heard so much about it; I suppose we had heard too much. But we couldn t help that. We had been led to expect something different." "Ah, wait a little, and you will become very fond of it," said Winterbourne. "I hate it worse and worse every day!" cried Randolph. "You are like the infant Hannibal," said Winterbourne. "No, I ain t!" Randolph declared at a venture. "You are not much like an infant," said his mother. "But we have seen places," she resumed, "that I should put a long way before Rome." And in reply to Winterbourne s interrogation, "There s Zurich," she concluded, "I think Zurich is lovely; and we hadn t heard half so much about it." "The best place we ve seen is the City of Richmond!" said Randolph. "He means the ship," his mother explained. "We crossed in that ship. Randolph had a good time on the City of Richmond." "It s the best place I ve seen," the child repeated. "Only it was turned the wrong way." "Well, we ve got to turn the right way some time," said Mrs. Miller with a little laugh. Winterbourne expressed the hope that her daughter at least found some gratification in Rome, and she declared that Daisy was quite carried away. "It s on account of the society--the society s splendid. She goes round everywhere; she has made a great number of acquaintances. Of course she goes round more than I do. I must say they have been very sociable; they have taken her right in. And then she knows a great many gentlemen. Oh, she thinks there s nothing like Rome. Of course, it s a great deal pleasanter for a young lady if she knows plenty of gentlemen." By this time Daisy had turned her attention again to Winterbourne. "I ve been telling Mrs. Walker how mean you were!" the young girl announced. "And what is the evidence you have offered?" asked Winterbourne, rather annoyed at Miss Miller s want of appreciation of the zeal of an admirer who on his way down to Rome had stopped neither at Bologna nor at Florence, simply because of a certain sentimental impatience. He remembered that a cynical compatriot had once told him that American women--the pretty ones, and this gave a largeness to the axiom--were at once the most exacting in the world and the least endowed with a sense of indebtedness. "Why, you were awfully mean at Vevey," said Daisy. "You wouldn t do anything. You wouldn t stay there when I asked you." "My dearest young lady," cried Winterbourne, with eloquence, "have I come all the way to Rome to encounter your reproaches?" "Just hear him say that!" said Daisy to her hostess, giving a twist to a bow on this lady s dress. "Did you ever hear anything so quaint?" | where is the mother?" "I haven t the least idea. They are very dreadful people." Winterbourne meditated a moment. "They are very ignorant--very innocent only. Depend upon it they are not bad." "They are hopelessly vulgar," said Mrs. Costello. "Whether or no being hopelessly vulgar is being bad is a question for the metaphysicians. They are bad enough to dislike, at any rate; and for this short life that is quite enough." The news that Daisy Miller was surrounded by half a dozen wonderful mustaches checked Winterbourne s impulse to go straightway to see her. He had, perhaps, not definitely flattered himself that he had made an ineffaceable impression upon her heart, but he was annoyed at hearing of a state of affairs so little in harmony with an image that had lately flitted in and out of his own meditations; the image of a very pretty girl looking out of an old Roman window and asking herself urgently when Mr. Winterbourne would arrive. If, however, he determined to wait a little before reminding Miss Miller of his claims to her consideration, he went very soon to call upon two or three other friends. One of these friends was an American lady who had spent several winters at Geneva, where she had placed her children at school. She was a very accomplished woman, and she lived in the Via Gregoriana. Winterbourne found her in a little crimson drawing room on a third floor; the room was filled with southern sunshine. He had not been there ten minutes when the servant came in, announcing "Madame Mila!" This announcement was presently followed by the entrance of little Randolph Miller, who stopped in the middle of the room and stood staring at Winterbourne. An instant later his pretty sister crossed the threshold; and then, after a considerable interval, Mrs. Miller slowly advanced. "I know you!" said Randolph. "I m sure you know a great many things," exclaimed Winterbourne, taking him by the hand. "How is your education coming on?" Daisy was exchanging greetings very prettily with her hostess, but when she heard Winterbourne s voice she quickly turned her head. "Well, I declare!" she said. "I told you I should come, you know," Winterbourne rejoined, smiling. "Well, I didn t believe it," said Miss Daisy. "I am much obliged to you," laughed the young man. "You might have come to see me!" said Daisy. "I arrived only yesterday." "I don t believe that!" the young girl declared. Winterbourne turned with a protesting smile to her mother, but this lady evaded his glance, and, seating herself, fixed her eyes upon her son. "We ve got a bigger place than this," said Randolph. "It s all gold on the walls." Mrs. Miller turned uneasily in her chair. "I told you if I were to bring you, you would say something!"<|quote|>she murmured.</|quote|>"I told YOU!" Randolph exclaimed. "I tell YOU, sir!" he added jocosely, giving Winterbourne a thump on the knee. "It IS bigger, too!" Daisy had entered upon a lively conversation with her hostess; Winterbourne judged it becoming to address a few words to her mother. "I hope you have been well since we parted at Vevey," he said. Mrs. Miller now certainly looked at him--at his chin. "Not very well, sir," she answered. "She s got the dyspepsia," said Randolph. "I ve got it too. Father s got it. I ve got it most!" This announcement, instead of embarrassing Mrs. Miller, seemed to relieve her. "I suffer from the liver," she said. "I think it s this climate; it s less bracing than Schenectady, especially in the winter season. I don t know whether you know we reside at Schenectady. I was saying to Daisy that I certainly hadn t found any one like Dr. Davis, and I didn t believe I should. Oh, at Schenectady he stands first; they think everything of him. He has so much to do, and yet there was nothing he wouldn t do for me. He said he never saw anything like my dyspepsia, but he was bound to cure it. I m sure there was nothing he wouldn t try. He was just going to try something new when we came off. Mr. Miller wanted Daisy to see Europe for herself. But I wrote to Mr. Miller that it seems as if I couldn t get on without Dr. Davis. At Schenectady he stands at the very top; and there s a | Daisy Miller |
"Not exactly." | Jock Grant-Menzies | girl?" "Yes." "Made it up?"<|quote|>"Not exactly."</|quote|>"Far better to make it | * * "Was that your girl?" "Yes." "Made it up?"<|quote|>"Not exactly."</|quote|>"Far better to make it up. Shall we have some | 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?"<|quote|>"Not exactly."</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>"Not exactly."</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>"Not exactly."</|quote|>"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." | "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?"<|quote|>"Not exactly."</|quote|>"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 | would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit." "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?"<|quote|>"Not exactly."</|quote|>"Far better to make it up. Shall we have some more brandy or go round to Brenda straight away?" "Let's have some more brandy." "Jock, you aren't still feeling low, are you? Doesn't do to feel low. _I'm_ not feeling low. I _was_, but I'm not any more." "No, I'm not feeling low." "Then we'll have some brandy and then go to Brenda's." "All right." Half an hour later they got into Jock's car. "Tell you what, I shouldn't drive if I were you." "Not drive?" "No, I shouldn't drive. They'd say you were drunk." "Who would?" "Anyone you ran over. They'd say you were drunk." "Well, so I am." "Then I shouldn't drive." "Too far to walk." "We'll take a taxi." "Oh, hell, I can drive." "Or let's not go to Brenda's at all." "We'd better go to Brenda's," said Jock. "She's expecting us." "Well, I can't walk all that way. Besides, I don't think she really wanted us to come." "She'll be pleased when she sees us." "Yes, but it's a long way. Let's go some other place." "I'd like to see Brenda," said Jock. "I'm very fond of Brenda." "She's a grand girl." "She's a grand girl." "Well, let's take a taxi to Brenda's." But half-way Jock said, "Don't let's go there. Let's go some other place. Let's go to some low joint." "All the same to me. Tell him to go to some lousy joint." "Go to some lousy joint," said Jock, putting his head through the window. The cab wheeled round and made towards Regent Street. "We can always ring Brenda from the lousy joint." "Yes, I think we ought to do that. She's a grand girl." "Grand girl." The cab turned into Golden Square and then down Sink Street, a dingy little place inhabited for the most part by Asiatics. "D'you know, I believe he's taking us to the Old Hundredth." "Can't still be open? Thought they closed it down years ago." But the door was brightly illuminated and a seedy figure in peaked cap and braided overcoat stepped out to open the taxi for them. The Old Hundredth has never been shut. For a generation, while other night clubs have sprung into being, with various names and managers, and various pretensions to respectability, have enjoyed a precarious and brief existence, and come to grief at the hands either of police or creditors, the Old Hundredth has maintained a solid front against all adversity. It has not been immune from persecution; far from it. Times out of number, magistrates have struck it off, cancelled its licence, condemned its premises; the staff and proprietor have been constantly in and out of prison; there have been questions in the House and committees of enquiry, but whatever Home Secretaries and Commissioners of Police have risen into eminence and retired discredited, the doors of the Old Hundredth have always been open from nine in the evening until four at night, and inside there has been an unimpeded flow of dubious, alcoholic preparations. A kindly young lady admitted Tony and Jock to the ramshackle building. "D'you mind signing on?" Tony and Jock inscribed fictitious names at the foot of a form which stated, _I have been invited to a Bottle Party at 100 Sink Street given by Captain Weybridge_. "That's five bob each, please." It is not an expensive club to run, because none of the staff, except the band, receive any wages; they make what they can by going through the overcoat pockets and giving the wrong change to drunks. The young ladies get in free but they have to see to it that their patrons spend money. "Last time I was here, Tony, was the bachelor party before your wedding." "Tight that night." "Stinking." "I'll tell you who else was tight that night--Reggie. Broke a fruit gum machine." "Reggie was stinking." "I say, you don't still feel low about that girl?" "I don't feel low." "Come on, we'll go downstairs." The dance-room was fairly full. An elderly man had joined the band and was trying to conduct it. "I like this joint," said Jock. "What'll we drink?" "Brandy." They had to buy the bottle. They filled in an order form to the Montmorency Wine Company and paid two pounds. When it came there was a label saying _Very Old Liqueur Fine Champagne. Imported by the Montmorency Wine Co._ The waiter brought ginger ale and four glasses. Two young ladies came and sat with them. They were called Milly and Babs. Milly said, "Are you in town for long?" Babs said, "Have you got such a thing as a cigarette?" Tony danced with Babs. She said, "Are you fond of dancing?" "No, are you?" "So-so." "Well, let's sit down." The waiter said, "Will you buy a ticket in | 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?"<|quote|>"Not exactly."</|quote|>"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 | A Handful Of Dust |
said Tomati, shivering painfully. | No speaker | joyfully. "Yes. So must you,"<|quote|>said Tomati, shivering painfully.</|quote|>"Good lads, both." "I don't | he has escaped," whispered Don joyfully. "Yes. So must you,"<|quote|>said Tomati, shivering painfully.</|quote|>"Good lads, both." "I don't like to leave you," said | and was silent for a few minutes. "You will not--leave me," he whispered, as he smiled sadly. "I--shall escape." "I am glad," whispered Don. "But Ngati?--where is Ngati?" "Crawled away up the mountain. Badly wounded, but he got away." "Then he has escaped," whispered Don joyfully. "Yes. So must you,"<|quote|>said Tomati, shivering painfully.</|quote|>"Good lads, both." "I don't like to leave you," said Don again. "Ah! That's right. Don, my lad, can you take hold--of my hand--and say--a prayer or two. I'm going--to escape." A thrill of horror ran through Don as he caught hold of the Englishman's icy hand, and the tears | place. But look here, don't stop to be taken there. Go off into the woods and journey south farther than they go. Don't stay." "Will they kill us if we stay?" whispered Don. "Yes," said Tomati, with a curious look. "Run for it--both." "But we can't leave you." Tomati smiled, and was silent for a few minutes. "You will not--leave me," he whispered, as he smiled sadly. "I--shall escape." "I am glad," whispered Don. "But Ngati?--where is Ngati?" "Crawled away up the mountain. Badly wounded, but he got away." "Then he has escaped," whispered Don joyfully. "Yes. So must you,"<|quote|>said Tomati, shivering painfully.</|quote|>"Good lads, both." "I don't like to leave you," said Don again. "Ah! That's right. Don, my lad, can you take hold--of my hand--and say--a prayer or two. I'm going--to escape." A thrill of horror ran through Don as he caught hold of the Englishman's icy hand, and the tears started to his eyes as in a broken voice he repeated the old, old words of supplication; but before his lips had formed half the beautiful old prayer and breathed it into the poor fellow's ear, Don felt his hand twitched spasmodically, and one of the chiefs shouted some order. | for a moment they were in doubt. But the doubt was soon solved, for the poor wounded fellow said with a smile,-- "Ay, my lad; I was--afraid--you were--done for." "No, no; not much hurt," said Don. "Are you badly wounded?" Tomati nodded. "Can I do anything for you?" "No," was the reply, feebly given. "It's all over with me at last; they will fight--and kill one another. I've tried--to stop it--no use." Jem exchanged glances with Don, for there was something terrible in the English chiefs aspect. "Where are they taking us?" said Don, after a pause. "Down to Werigna--their place. But look here, don't stop to be taken there. Go off into the woods and journey south farther than they go. Don't stay." "Will they kill us if we stay?" whispered Don. "Yes," said Tomati, with a curious look. "Run for it--both." "But we can't leave you." Tomati smiled, and was silent for a few minutes. "You will not--leave me," he whispered, as he smiled sadly. "I--shall escape." "I am glad," whispered Don. "But Ngati?--where is Ngati?" "Crawled away up the mountain. Badly wounded, but he got away." "Then he has escaped," whispered Don joyfully. "Yes. So must you,"<|quote|>said Tomati, shivering painfully.</|quote|>"Good lads, both." "I don't like to leave you," said Don again. "Ah! That's right. Don, my lad, can you take hold--of my hand--and say--a prayer or two. I'm going--to escape." A thrill of horror ran through Don as he caught hold of the Englishman's icy hand, and the tears started to his eyes as in a broken voice he repeated the old, old words of supplication; but before his lips had formed half the beautiful old prayer and breathed it into the poor fellow's ear, Don felt his hand twitched spasmodically, and one of the chiefs shouted some order. "Down, Mas' Don! Lie still!" whispered Jem. "They're ordering 'em into the boat again. Think we could crawl into the bush from here?" "No, Jem; it would be impossible." "So it would, lad, so it would; but as he said, poor chap, we must take to the woods. Think any of these would come with us?" Don shook his head despairingly, as he longed to look in Tomati's face again, but he dared not stir. A few minutes later they were once more in the leading canoe, which was being urged rapidly over the smooth sea, and it was a | indicated by Don. "Why, 'tis," he whispered. "Don't take no notice, lad, or they'll stop us, but let's keep on edging along till we get to him. Will you go first, or follow me?" "I'll follow you," whispered Don; and Jem began at once by changing his position a little as he went on eating. Then a little more, Don following, till they had placed a group of the miserable, apathetic-looking women between them and the warriors. These women looked at them sadly, but made no effort to speak, only sat watching them as they crept on and on till they were close upon the recumbent figure which they had taken to be the tattooed Englishman. "Why, if this is so easy, Mas' Don," said Jem, "why couldn't we get right among the trees and make for the woods?" "Hush! Some one may understand English, and then our chance would be gone. Go on." Another half-dozen yards placed them close beside the figure they had sought to reach, and as he lay beside him, Don touched the poor fellow on the breast. "Tomati!" he whispered, "is that you?" The man turned his head feebly round and stared vacantly--so changed that for a moment they were in doubt. But the doubt was soon solved, for the poor wounded fellow said with a smile,-- "Ay, my lad; I was--afraid--you were--done for." "No, no; not much hurt," said Don. "Are you badly wounded?" Tomati nodded. "Can I do anything for you?" "No," was the reply, feebly given. "It's all over with me at last; they will fight--and kill one another. I've tried--to stop it--no use." Jem exchanged glances with Don, for there was something terrible in the English chiefs aspect. "Where are they taking us?" said Don, after a pause. "Down to Werigna--their place. But look here, don't stop to be taken there. Go off into the woods and journey south farther than they go. Don't stay." "Will they kill us if we stay?" whispered Don. "Yes," said Tomati, with a curious look. "Run for it--both." "But we can't leave you." Tomati smiled, and was silent for a few minutes. "You will not--leave me," he whispered, as he smiled sadly. "I--shall escape." "I am glad," whispered Don. "But Ngati?--where is Ngati?" "Crawled away up the mountain. Badly wounded, but he got away." "Then he has escaped," whispered Don joyfully. "Yes. So must you,"<|quote|>said Tomati, shivering painfully.</|quote|>"Good lads, both." "I don't like to leave you," said Don again. "Ah! That's right. Don, my lad, can you take hold--of my hand--and say--a prayer or two. I'm going--to escape." A thrill of horror ran through Don as he caught hold of the Englishman's icy hand, and the tears started to his eyes as in a broken voice he repeated the old, old words of supplication; but before his lips had formed half the beautiful old prayer and breathed it into the poor fellow's ear, Don felt his hand twitched spasmodically, and one of the chiefs shouted some order. "Down, Mas' Don! Lie still!" whispered Jem. "They're ordering 'em into the boat again. Think we could crawl into the bush from here?" "No, Jem; it would be impossible." "So it would, lad, so it would; but as he said, poor chap, we must take to the woods. Think any of these would come with us?" Don shook his head despairingly, as he longed to look in Tomati's face again, but he dared not stir. A few minutes later they were once more in the leading canoe, which was being urged rapidly over the smooth sea, and it was a long time before Don could frame the words he wished to say. For whenever he tried to speak there was a strange choking sensation in his throat, and he ended by asking the question mutely as he gazed wildly in his companion's face. "Tomati, Mas' Don?" said Jem sadly. Don nodded. "Ah, I thought that was what you meant, my lad. Didn't you understand him when he spoke?" "No--yes--I'm afraid I did," whispered back Don. "Yes, you did, my lad. He meant it, and he knew it. He has got away." Don gazed wildly in Jem's eyes, and then bent his head low down to hide the emotion he felt, for it was nothing to him then that the English chief was an escaped convict from Norfolk Island. He had been a true friend and defender to them both; and Don in his misery, pain, and starvation could only ask himself whether that was the way that he must escape--the only open road. It was quite an hour before he spoke again, and then hardly above his breath. "Jem," he said, "shall we ever see our dear old home again?" Jem looked at him wistfully, and tried to answer cheerily, | with the moonlight on one side, and gleamed pallidly on the other as the blades stirred it; and then they grew more misty and more misty, but kept on _plash_--_plash_--_plash_, and the paddles of the line of canoes behind echoed the sound, or seemed to, as they beat the water, and Jem whispered softly in his ear,-- "Don't move, Mas' Don, my lad, I'm not tired!" But he did move, for he started up from where his head had been lying on Jem's knees, and the poor fellow smiled at him in the broad morning sunshine. Sunshine, and not moonshine; and Don stared. "Why, Jem," he said, "have I been asleep?" "S'pose so, Mas' Don. I know I have, and when I woke a bit ago, you'd got your head in my lap, and you was smiling just as if you was enjoying your bit of rest." CHAPTER FORTY TWO. TOMATI ESCAPES. "Have they been rowing--I mean paddling--all night, Jem?" said Don, as he looked back and saw the long line of canoes following the one he was in. "S'pose so, my lad. Seems to me they can go to sleep and keep on, just as old Rumble's mare used to doze away in the carrier's cart, all but her legs, which used to keep on going. Them chaps, p'r'aps, goes to sleep all but their arms." A terrible gnawing sensation was troubling Don now, as he looked eagerly about to see that they were going swiftly along the coast line; for their captors had roused themselves with the coming of day, and sent the canoes forward at a rapid rate for about an hour, until they ran their long narrow vessels in upon the beach and landed, making their prisoners do the same, close by the mouth of a swift rocky stream, whose bright waters came tumbling down over a series of cascades. Here it seemed as if a halt was to be made for resting, and after satisfying their own thirst, leave was given to the unhappy prisoners to assuage theirs, and then a certain amount of the food found in the various huts was served round. "Better than nothing, Mas' Don," said Jem, attacking his portion with the same avidity as was displayed by his fellow-prisoners. "'Tarn't good, but it'll fill up." "Look, Jem!" whispered Don; "isn't that Tomati?" Jem ceased eating, and stared in the direction indicated by Don. "Why, 'tis," he whispered. "Don't take no notice, lad, or they'll stop us, but let's keep on edging along till we get to him. Will you go first, or follow me?" "I'll follow you," whispered Don; and Jem began at once by changing his position a little as he went on eating. Then a little more, Don following, till they had placed a group of the miserable, apathetic-looking women between them and the warriors. These women looked at them sadly, but made no effort to speak, only sat watching them as they crept on and on till they were close upon the recumbent figure which they had taken to be the tattooed Englishman. "Why, if this is so easy, Mas' Don," said Jem, "why couldn't we get right among the trees and make for the woods?" "Hush! Some one may understand English, and then our chance would be gone. Go on." Another half-dozen yards placed them close beside the figure they had sought to reach, and as he lay beside him, Don touched the poor fellow on the breast. "Tomati!" he whispered, "is that you?" The man turned his head feebly round and stared vacantly--so changed that for a moment they were in doubt. But the doubt was soon solved, for the poor wounded fellow said with a smile,-- "Ay, my lad; I was--afraid--you were--done for." "No, no; not much hurt," said Don. "Are you badly wounded?" Tomati nodded. "Can I do anything for you?" "No," was the reply, feebly given. "It's all over with me at last; they will fight--and kill one another. I've tried--to stop it--no use." Jem exchanged glances with Don, for there was something terrible in the English chiefs aspect. "Where are they taking us?" said Don, after a pause. "Down to Werigna--their place. But look here, don't stop to be taken there. Go off into the woods and journey south farther than they go. Don't stay." "Will they kill us if we stay?" whispered Don. "Yes," said Tomati, with a curious look. "Run for it--both." "But we can't leave you." Tomati smiled, and was silent for a few minutes. "You will not--leave me," he whispered, as he smiled sadly. "I--shall escape." "I am glad," whispered Don. "But Ngati?--where is Ngati?" "Crawled away up the mountain. Badly wounded, but he got away." "Then he has escaped," whispered Don joyfully. "Yes. So must you,"<|quote|>said Tomati, shivering painfully.</|quote|>"Good lads, both." "I don't like to leave you," said Don again. "Ah! That's right. Don, my lad, can you take hold--of my hand--and say--a prayer or two. I'm going--to escape." A thrill of horror ran through Don as he caught hold of the Englishman's icy hand, and the tears started to his eyes as in a broken voice he repeated the old, old words of supplication; but before his lips had formed half the beautiful old prayer and breathed it into the poor fellow's ear, Don felt his hand twitched spasmodically, and one of the chiefs shouted some order. "Down, Mas' Don! Lie still!" whispered Jem. "They're ordering 'em into the boat again. Think we could crawl into the bush from here?" "No, Jem; it would be impossible." "So it would, lad, so it would; but as he said, poor chap, we must take to the woods. Think any of these would come with us?" Don shook his head despairingly, as he longed to look in Tomati's face again, but he dared not stir. A few minutes later they were once more in the leading canoe, which was being urged rapidly over the smooth sea, and it was a long time before Don could frame the words he wished to say. For whenever he tried to speak there was a strange choking sensation in his throat, and he ended by asking the question mutely as he gazed wildly in his companion's face. "Tomati, Mas' Don?" said Jem sadly. Don nodded. "Ah, I thought that was what you meant, my lad. Didn't you understand him when he spoke?" "No--yes--I'm afraid I did," whispered back Don. "Yes, you did, my lad. He meant it, and he knew it. He has got away." Don gazed wildly in Jem's eyes, and then bent his head low down to hide the emotion he felt, for it was nothing to him then that the English chief was an escaped convict from Norfolk Island. He had been a true friend and defender to them both; and Don in his misery, pain, and starvation could only ask himself whether that was the way that he must escape--the only open road. It was quite an hour before he spoke again, and then hardly above his breath. "Jem," he said, "shall we ever see our dear old home again?" Jem looked at him wistfully, and tried to answer cheerily, but the paddles were flashing in the sun, and the canoe was bearing them farther and farther away to a life of slavery, perhaps to a death of such horror that he dared not even think of it, much less speak. CHAPTER FORTY THREE. A SEARCH IN THE DARK. Two days' more water journey within easy reach of the verdant shore, past inlet, gulf, bay, and island, round jagged points, about which the waves beat and foamed; and then, amidst shouting, singing, and endless barbaric triumphal clamour, the captured canoes with their loads of prisoners and spoil were run up to a black beach, where a crowd of warriors with their women and children and those of the little conquering army eagerly awaited their coming. Utterly worn out, the two English prisoners hardly had the spirit to scan the beautiful nook, through which a foaming stream of water dashed, at whose mouth lay several large war canoes, and close by which was the large open _whare_ with its carven posts and grotesque heads, quite a village of huts being scattered around. Similarly placed to that which he had helped to defend, Don could see upon a shoulder of the hill which ran up behind the _whare_, a great strongly made _pah_, ready for the tribe to enter should they be besieged by some enemy. But the whole scene with its natural beauty, seemed accursed to Don, as he was half dragged out of the canoe, to stagger and fall upon the sands--the fate of many of the wounded prisoners, who made no resistance, but resigned themselves to their fate. A scene of rejoicing ensued, in the midst of which fires which had been lighted as soon as the canoes came in sight, were well used by the women who cooked, and before long a banquet was prepared, in which three pigs and a vast number of potatoes formed the principal dishes. But there was an abundance of fruit, and bowls of a peculiar gruel-like food, quantities of which were served out to the wretched prisoners, where they squatted together, as dismal a group as could be imagined, and compared their own state with that of the victors, whose reception was almost frantic, and whose spoil was passed from hand to hand, to be marvelled at, or laughed at with contempt. At another time Don would have turned with disgust from | fellow-prisoners. "'Tarn't good, but it'll fill up." "Look, Jem!" whispered Don; "isn't that Tomati?" Jem ceased eating, and stared in the direction indicated by Don. "Why, 'tis," he whispered. "Don't take no notice, lad, or they'll stop us, but let's keep on edging along till we get to him. Will you go first, or follow me?" "I'll follow you," whispered Don; and Jem began at once by changing his position a little as he went on eating. Then a little more, Don following, till they had placed a group of the miserable, apathetic-looking women between them and the warriors. These women looked at them sadly, but made no effort to speak, only sat watching them as they crept on and on till they were close upon the recumbent figure which they had taken to be the tattooed Englishman. "Why, if this is so easy, Mas' Don," said Jem, "why couldn't we get right among the trees and make for the woods?" "Hush! Some one may understand English, and then our chance would be gone. Go on." Another half-dozen yards placed them close beside the figure they had sought to reach, and as he lay beside him, Don touched the poor fellow on the breast. "Tomati!" he whispered, "is that you?" The man turned his head feebly round and stared vacantly--so changed that for a moment they were in doubt. But the doubt was soon solved, for the poor wounded fellow said with a smile,-- "Ay, my lad; I was--afraid--you were--done for." "No, no; not much hurt," said Don. "Are you badly wounded?" Tomati nodded. "Can I do anything for you?" "No," was the reply, feebly given. "It's all over with me at last; they will fight--and kill one another. I've tried--to stop it--no use." Jem exchanged glances with Don, for there was something terrible in the English chiefs aspect. "Where are they taking us?" said Don, after a pause. "Down to Werigna--their place. But look here, don't stop to be taken there. Go off into the woods and journey south farther than they go. Don't stay." "Will they kill us if we stay?" whispered Don. "Yes," said Tomati, with a curious look. "Run for it--both." "But we can't leave you." Tomati smiled, and was silent for a few minutes. "You will not--leave me," he whispered, as he smiled sadly. "I--shall escape." "I am glad," whispered Don. "But Ngati?--where is Ngati?" "Crawled away up the mountain. Badly wounded, but he got away." "Then he has escaped," whispered Don joyfully. "Yes. So must you,"<|quote|>said Tomati, shivering painfully.</|quote|>"Good lads, both." "I don't like to leave you," said Don again. "Ah! That's right. Don, my lad, can you take hold--of my hand--and say--a prayer or two. I'm going--to escape." A thrill of horror ran through Don as he caught hold of the Englishman's icy hand, and the tears started to his eyes as in a broken voice he repeated the old, old words of supplication; but before his lips had formed half the beautiful old prayer and breathed it into the poor fellow's ear, Don felt his hand twitched spasmodically, and one of the chiefs shouted some order. "Down, Mas' Don! Lie still!" whispered Jem. "They're ordering 'em into the boat again. Think we could crawl into the bush from here?" "No, Jem; it would be impossible." "So it would, lad, so it would; but as he said, poor chap, we must take to the woods. Think any of these would come with us?" Don shook his head despairingly, as he longed to look in Tomati's face again, but he dared not stir. A few minutes later they were once more in the leading canoe, which was being urged rapidly over the smooth sea, and it was a long time before Don could frame the words he wished to say. For whenever he tried to speak there was a strange choking sensation in his throat, and | Don Lavington |
"Your hand also, please." | Dr. Panna Lal | expressionless face to the thermometer.<|quote|>"Your hand also, please."</|quote|>He took it, gazed at | to enquire." Aziz presented an expressionless face to the thermometer.<|quote|>"Your hand also, please."</|quote|>He took it, gazed at the flies on the ceiling, | I have come to enquire by Major Callendar's orders," said the Hindu, nervous of the den of fanatics into which his curiosity had called him. "Here he lies," said Hamidullah, indicating the prostrate form. "Dr. Aziz, Dr, Aziz, I come to enquire." Aziz presented an expressionless face to the thermometer.<|quote|>"Your hand also, please."</|quote|>He took it, gazed at the flies on the ceiling, and finally announced "Some temperature." "I think not much," said Ram Chand, desirous of fomenting trouble. "Some; he should remain in bed," repeated Dr. Panna Lal, and shook the thermometer down, so that its altitude remained for ever unknown. He | into the bazaar, and Aziz drank a cup of spiced milk. Presently there was the sound of another carriage. Dr. Panna Lal had arrived, driven by horrid Mr. Ram Chand. The atmosphere of a sick-room was at once re-established, and the invalid retired under his quilt. "Gentlemen, you will excuse, I have come to enquire by Major Callendar's orders," said the Hindu, nervous of the den of fanatics into which his curiosity had called him. "Here he lies," said Hamidullah, indicating the prostrate form. "Dr. Aziz, Dr, Aziz, I come to enquire." Aziz presented an expressionless face to the thermometer.<|quote|>"Your hand also, please."</|quote|>He took it, gazed at the flies on the ceiling, and finally announced "Some temperature." "I think not much," said Ram Chand, desirous of fomenting trouble. "Some; he should remain in bed," repeated Dr. Panna Lal, and shook the thermometer down, so that its altitude remained for ever unknown. He loathed his young colleague since the disasters with Dapple, and he would have liked to do him a bad turn and report to Major Callendar that he was shamming. But he might want a day in bed himself soon, besides, though Major Callendar always believed the worst of natives, he | and the schoolboy was a scorpion. Bending down, he said, "Aziz, Aziz, my dear boy, we must be going, we are already late. Get well quickly, for I do not know what our little circle would do without you." "I shall not forget those affectionate words," replied Aziz. "Add mine to them," said the engineer. "Thank you, Mr. Syed Mohammed, I will." "And mine," "And, sir, accept mine," cried the others, stirred each according to his capacity towards goodwill. Little ineffectual unquenchable flames! The company continued to sit on the bed and to chew sugarcane, which Hassan had run for into the bazaar, and Aziz drank a cup of spiced milk. Presently there was the sound of another carriage. Dr. Panna Lal had arrived, driven by horrid Mr. Ram Chand. The atmosphere of a sick-room was at once re-established, and the invalid retired under his quilt. "Gentlemen, you will excuse, I have come to enquire by Major Callendar's orders," said the Hindu, nervous of the den of fanatics into which his curiosity had called him. "Here he lies," said Hamidullah, indicating the prostrate form. "Dr. Aziz, Dr, Aziz, I come to enquire." Aziz presented an expressionless face to the thermometer.<|quote|>"Your hand also, please."</|quote|>He took it, gazed at the flies on the ceiling, and finally announced "Some temperature." "I think not much," said Ram Chand, desirous of fomenting trouble. "Some; he should remain in bed," repeated Dr. Panna Lal, and shook the thermometer down, so that its altitude remained for ever unknown. He loathed his young colleague since the disasters with Dapple, and he would have liked to do him a bad turn and report to Major Callendar that he was shamming. But he might want a day in bed himself soon, besides, though Major Callendar always believed the worst of natives, he never believed them when they carried tales about one another. Sympathy seemed the safer course. "How is stomach?" he enquired, "how head?" And catching sight of the empty cup, he recommended a milk diet. "This is a great relief to us, it is very good of you to call, Doctor Sahib," Said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit. "It is only my duty." "We know how busy you are." "Yes, that is true." "And how much illness there is in the city." The doctor suspected a trap in this remark; if he admitted that there was or was not illness, | his local desires, and he never knew beforehand which effect would ensue: he could discover no rule for this or for anything else in life. Hamidullah had called in on his way to a worrying committee of notables, nationalist in tendency, where Hindus, Moslems, two Sikhs, two Parsis, a Jain, and a Native Christian tried to like one another more than came natural to them. As long as someone abused the English, all went well, but nothing constructive had been achieved, and if the English were to leave India, the committee would vanish also. He was glad that Aziz, whom he loved and whose family was connected with his own, took no interest in politics, which ruin the character and career, yet nothing can be achieved without them. He thought of Cambridge sadly, as of another poem that had ended. How happy he had been there, twenty years ago! Politics had not mattered in Mr. and Mrs. Bannister's rectory. There, games, work, and pleasant society had interwoven, and appeared to be sufficient substructure for a national life. Here all was wire-pulling and fear. Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq he couldn't even trust them, although they had come in his carriage, and the schoolboy was a scorpion. Bending down, he said, "Aziz, Aziz, my dear boy, we must be going, we are already late. Get well quickly, for I do not know what our little circle would do without you." "I shall not forget those affectionate words," replied Aziz. "Add mine to them," said the engineer. "Thank you, Mr. Syed Mohammed, I will." "And mine," "And, sir, accept mine," cried the others, stirred each according to his capacity towards goodwill. Little ineffectual unquenchable flames! The company continued to sit on the bed and to chew sugarcane, which Hassan had run for into the bazaar, and Aziz drank a cup of spiced milk. Presently there was the sound of another carriage. Dr. Panna Lal had arrived, driven by horrid Mr. Ram Chand. The atmosphere of a sick-room was at once re-established, and the invalid retired under his quilt. "Gentlemen, you will excuse, I have come to enquire by Major Callendar's orders," said the Hindu, nervous of the den of fanatics into which his curiosity had called him. "Here he lies," said Hamidullah, indicating the prostrate form. "Dr. Aziz, Dr, Aziz, I come to enquire." Aziz presented an expressionless face to the thermometer.<|quote|>"Your hand also, please."</|quote|>He took it, gazed at the flies on the ceiling, and finally announced "Some temperature." "I think not much," said Ram Chand, desirous of fomenting trouble. "Some; he should remain in bed," repeated Dr. Panna Lal, and shook the thermometer down, so that its altitude remained for ever unknown. He loathed his young colleague since the disasters with Dapple, and he would have liked to do him a bad turn and report to Major Callendar that he was shamming. But he might want a day in bed himself soon, besides, though Major Callendar always believed the worst of natives, he never believed them when they carried tales about one another. Sympathy seemed the safer course. "How is stomach?" he enquired, "how head?" And catching sight of the empty cup, he recommended a milk diet. "This is a great relief to us, it is very good of you to call, Doctor Sahib," Said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit. "It is only my duty." "We know how busy you are." "Yes, that is true." "And how much illness there is in the city." The doctor suspected a trap in this remark; if he admitted that there was or was not illness, either statement might be used against him. "There is always illness," he replied, "and I am always busy it is a doctor's nature." "He has not a minute, he is due double sharp at Government College now," said Ram Chand. "You attend Professor Godbole there perhaps?" The doctor looked professional and was silent. "We hope his diarrh a is ceasing." "He progresses, but not from diarrh a." "We are in some anxiety over him he and Dr. Aziz are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his complaint we should be grateful to you." After a cautious pause he said, "H morrhoids." "And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself. "Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?" Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of them ought to be discovered and punished authoritatively." "Rafi, do you hear that? Now why do you stuff us up with all this humbug?" The | "That is exactly my own view." He held up his hand, palm outward, his eyes began to glow, his heart to fill with tenderness. Issuing still farther from his quilt, he recited a poem by Ghalib. It had no connection with anything that had gone before, but it came from his heart and spoke to theirs. They were overwhelmed by its pathos; pathos, they agreed, is the highest quality in art; a poem should touch the hearer with a sense of his own weakness, and should institute some comparison between mankind and flowers. The squalid bedroom grew quiet; the silly intrigues, the gossip, the shallow discontent were stilled, while words accepted as immortal filled the indifferent air. Not as a call to battle, but as a calm assurance came the feeling that India was one; Moslem; always had been; an assurance that lasted until they looked out of the door. Whatever Ghalib had felt, he had anyhow lived in India, and this consolidated it for them: he had gone with his own tulips and roses, but tulips and roses do not go. And the sister kingdoms of the north Arabia, Persia, Ferghana, Turkestan stretched out their hands as he sang, sadly, because all beauty is sad, and greeted ridiculous Chandrapore, where every street and house was divided against itself, and told her that she was a continent and a unity. Of the company, only Hamidullah had any comprehension of poetry. The minds of the others were inferior and rough. Yet they listened with pleasure, because literature had not been divorced from their civilization. The police inspector, for instance, did not feel that Aziz had degraded himself by reciting, nor break into the cheery guffaw with which an Englishman averts the infection of beauty. He just sat with his mind empty, and when his thoughts, which were mainly ignoble, flowed back into it they had a pleasant freshness. The poem had done no "good" to anyone, but it was a passing reminder, a breath from the divine lips of beauty, a nightingale between two worlds of dust. Less explicit than the call to Krishna, it voiced our loneliness nevertheless, our isolation, our need for the Friend who never comes yet is not entirely disproved. Aziz it left thinking about women again, but in a different way: less definite, more intense. Sometimes poetry had this effect on him, sometimes it only increased his local desires, and he never knew beforehand which effect would ensue: he could discover no rule for this or for anything else in life. Hamidullah had called in on his way to a worrying committee of notables, nationalist in tendency, where Hindus, Moslems, two Sikhs, two Parsis, a Jain, and a Native Christian tried to like one another more than came natural to them. As long as someone abused the English, all went well, but nothing constructive had been achieved, and if the English were to leave India, the committee would vanish also. He was glad that Aziz, whom he loved and whose family was connected with his own, took no interest in politics, which ruin the character and career, yet nothing can be achieved without them. He thought of Cambridge sadly, as of another poem that had ended. How happy he had been there, twenty years ago! Politics had not mattered in Mr. and Mrs. Bannister's rectory. There, games, work, and pleasant society had interwoven, and appeared to be sufficient substructure for a national life. Here all was wire-pulling and fear. Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq he couldn't even trust them, although they had come in his carriage, and the schoolboy was a scorpion. Bending down, he said, "Aziz, Aziz, my dear boy, we must be going, we are already late. Get well quickly, for I do not know what our little circle would do without you." "I shall not forget those affectionate words," replied Aziz. "Add mine to them," said the engineer. "Thank you, Mr. Syed Mohammed, I will." "And mine," "And, sir, accept mine," cried the others, stirred each according to his capacity towards goodwill. Little ineffectual unquenchable flames! The company continued to sit on the bed and to chew sugarcane, which Hassan had run for into the bazaar, and Aziz drank a cup of spiced milk. Presently there was the sound of another carriage. Dr. Panna Lal had arrived, driven by horrid Mr. Ram Chand. The atmosphere of a sick-room was at once re-established, and the invalid retired under his quilt. "Gentlemen, you will excuse, I have come to enquire by Major Callendar's orders," said the Hindu, nervous of the den of fanatics into which his curiosity had called him. "Here he lies," said Hamidullah, indicating the prostrate form. "Dr. Aziz, Dr, Aziz, I come to enquire." Aziz presented an expressionless face to the thermometer.<|quote|>"Your hand also, please."</|quote|>He took it, gazed at the flies on the ceiling, and finally announced "Some temperature." "I think not much," said Ram Chand, desirous of fomenting trouble. "Some; he should remain in bed," repeated Dr. Panna Lal, and shook the thermometer down, so that its altitude remained for ever unknown. He loathed his young colleague since the disasters with Dapple, and he would have liked to do him a bad turn and report to Major Callendar that he was shamming. But he might want a day in bed himself soon, besides, though Major Callendar always believed the worst of natives, he never believed them when they carried tales about one another. Sympathy seemed the safer course. "How is stomach?" he enquired, "how head?" And catching sight of the empty cup, he recommended a milk diet. "This is a great relief to us, it is very good of you to call, Doctor Sahib," Said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit. "It is only my duty." "We know how busy you are." "Yes, that is true." "And how much illness there is in the city." The doctor suspected a trap in this remark; if he admitted that there was or was not illness, either statement might be used against him. "There is always illness," he replied, "and I am always busy it is a doctor's nature." "He has not a minute, he is due double sharp at Government College now," said Ram Chand. "You attend Professor Godbole there perhaps?" The doctor looked professional and was silent. "We hope his diarrh a is ceasing." "He progresses, but not from diarrh a." "We are in some anxiety over him he and Dr. Aziz are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his complaint we should be grateful to you." After a cautious pause he said, "H morrhoids." "And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself. "Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?" Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of them ought to be discovered and punished authoritatively." "Rafi, do you hear that? Now why do you stuff us up with all this humbug?" The schoolboy murmured that another boy had told him, also that the bad English grammar the Government obliged them to use often gave the wrong meaning for words, and so led scholars into mistakes. "That is no reason you should bring a charge against a doctor," said Ram Chand. "Exactly, exactly," agreed Hamidullah, anxious to avoid an unpleasantness. Quarrels spread so quickly and so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked cross, and ready to fly out. "You must apologize properly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it," he said. "You have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness." "It is only a boy," said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. "Even boys must learn," said Ram Chand. "Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I think," said Syed Mohammed suddenly. "Oh, indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the advantage of a relative in the Prosperity Printing Press." "Nor you the advantage of conducting their cases in the Courts any longer." Their voices rose. They attacked one another with obscure allusions and had a silly quarrel. Hamidullah and the doctor tried to make peace between them. In the midst of the din someone said, "I say! Is he ill or isn't he ill?" Mr. Fielding had entered unobserved. All rose to their feet, and Hassan, to do an Englishman honour, struck with a sugar-cane at the coil of flies. Aziz said, "Sit down," coldly. What a room! What a meeting! Squalor and ugly talk, the floor strewn with fragments of cane and nuts, and spotted with ink, the pictures crooked upon the dirty walls, no punkah! He hadn't meant to live like this or among these third-rate people. And in his confusion he thought only of the insignificant Rafi, whom he had laughed at, and allowed to be teased. The boy must be sent away happy, or hospitality would have failed, along the whole line. "It is good of Mr. Fielding to condescend to visit our friend," said the police inspector. "We are touched by this great kindness." "Don't talk to him like that, he doesn't want it, and he doesn't want three chairs; he's not three Englishmen," he flashed. "Rafi, come here. Sit down again. I'm delighted you could come with Mr. Hamidullah, my dear boy; it will help me to recover, seeing you." "Forgive my | beauty, a nightingale between two worlds of dust. Less explicit than the call to Krishna, it voiced our loneliness nevertheless, our isolation, our need for the Friend who never comes yet is not entirely disproved. Aziz it left thinking about women again, but in a different way: less definite, more intense. Sometimes poetry had this effect on him, sometimes it only increased his local desires, and he never knew beforehand which effect would ensue: he could discover no rule for this or for anything else in life. Hamidullah had called in on his way to a worrying committee of notables, nationalist in tendency, where Hindus, Moslems, two Sikhs, two Parsis, a Jain, and a Native Christian tried to like one another more than came natural to them. As long as someone abused the English, all went well, but nothing constructive had been achieved, and if the English were to leave India, the committee would vanish also. He was glad that Aziz, whom he loved and whose family was connected with his own, took no interest in politics, which ruin the character and career, yet nothing can be achieved without them. He thought of Cambridge sadly, as of another poem that had ended. How happy he had been there, twenty years ago! Politics had not mattered in Mr. and Mrs. Bannister's rectory. There, games, work, and pleasant society had interwoven, and appeared to be sufficient substructure for a national life. Here all was wire-pulling and fear. Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq he couldn't even trust them, although they had come in his carriage, and the schoolboy was a scorpion. Bending down, he said, "Aziz, Aziz, my dear boy, we must be going, we are already late. Get well quickly, for I do not know what our little circle would do without you." "I shall not forget those affectionate words," replied Aziz. "Add mine to them," said the engineer. "Thank you, Mr. Syed Mohammed, I will." "And mine," "And, sir, accept mine," cried the others, stirred each according to his capacity towards goodwill. Little ineffectual unquenchable flames! The company continued to sit on the bed and to chew sugarcane, which Hassan had run for into the bazaar, and Aziz drank a cup of spiced milk. Presently there was the sound of another carriage. Dr. Panna Lal had arrived, driven by horrid Mr. Ram Chand. The atmosphere of a sick-room was at once re-established, and the invalid retired under his quilt. "Gentlemen, you will excuse, I have come to enquire by Major Callendar's orders," said the Hindu, nervous of the den of fanatics into which his curiosity had called him. "Here he lies," said Hamidullah, indicating the prostrate form. "Dr. Aziz, Dr, Aziz, I come to enquire." Aziz presented an expressionless face to the thermometer.<|quote|>"Your hand also, please."</|quote|>He took it, gazed at the flies on the ceiling, and finally announced "Some temperature." "I think not much," said Ram Chand, desirous of fomenting trouble. "Some; he should remain in bed," repeated Dr. Panna Lal, and shook the thermometer down, so that its altitude remained for ever unknown. He loathed his young colleague since the disasters with Dapple, and he would have liked to do him a bad turn and report to Major Callendar that he was shamming. But he might want a day in bed himself soon, besides, though Major Callendar always believed the worst of natives, he never believed them when they carried tales about one another. Sympathy seemed the safer course. "How is stomach?" he enquired, "how head?" And catching sight of the empty cup, he recommended a milk diet. "This is a great relief to us, it is very good of you to call, Doctor Sahib," Said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit. "It is only my duty." "We know how busy you are." "Yes, that is true." "And how much illness there is in the city." The doctor suspected a trap in this remark; if he admitted that there was or was not illness, either statement might be used against him. "There is always illness," he replied, "and I am always busy it is a doctor's nature." "He has not a minute, he is due double sharp at Government College now," said Ram Chand. "You attend Professor Godbole there perhaps?" The doctor looked professional and was silent. "We hope his diarrh a is ceasing." "He progresses, but not from diarrh a." "We are in some anxiety over him he and Dr. Aziz are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his complaint we should be grateful to you." After a cautious pause he said, "H morrhoids." "And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself. "Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?" Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of them ought to be discovered and punished authoritatively." "Rafi, do you hear that? Now why do you stuff us up with all this humbug?" The schoolboy murmured that another boy had told him, also that the bad English grammar the Government obliged them to use often gave the wrong meaning for words, and so led scholars into mistakes. "That is no reason you should bring a charge against a doctor," said Ram Chand. "Exactly, exactly," agreed Hamidullah, anxious to avoid an unpleasantness. Quarrels spread so quickly and so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked cross, and ready to fly out. "You must apologize properly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it," he said. "You have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness." "It is only a boy," said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. "Even boys must learn," said Ram Chand. "Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I think," said Syed Mohammed suddenly. "Oh, indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the advantage | A Passage To India |
said he, suddenly boiling over with indignation, | No speaker | for the police. "In Russia,"<|quote|>said he, suddenly boiling over with indignation,</|quote|>"or in any well-ordered State | one thought being to send for the police. "In Russia,"<|quote|>said he, suddenly boiling over with indignation,</|quote|>"or in any well-ordered State where there exists a government, | existence? What could _I_ do with her?" It was in vain that I protested, for he could understand nothing that was said to him, Next he started talking about the Grandmother, but always in a disconnected sort of fashion his one thought being to send for the police. "In Russia,"<|quote|>said he, suddenly boiling over with indignation,</|quote|>"or in any well-ordered State where there exists a government, old women like my mother are placed under proper guardianship. Yes, my good sir," he went on, relapsing into a scolding tone as he leapt to his feet and started to pace the room, "do you not know this" (he | state of mind that, clasping his hands together, he actually went down upon his knees and begged me to go to Mlle. Blanche, and beseech and advise her to return to him, and to accept him in marriage. "But, General," I exclaimed, "possibly Mlle. Blanche has scarcely even remarked my existence? What could _I_ do with her?" It was in vain that I protested, for he could understand nothing that was said to him, Next he started talking about the Grandmother, but always in a disconnected sort of fashion his one thought being to send for the police. "In Russia,"<|quote|>said he, suddenly boiling over with indignation,</|quote|>"or in any well-ordered State where there exists a government, old women like my mother are placed under proper guardianship. Yes, my good sir," he went on, relapsing into a scolding tone as he leapt to his feet and started to pace the room, "do you not know this" (he seemed to be addressing some imaginary auditor in the corner) "do you not know this, that in Russia old women like her are subjected to restraint, the devil take them?" Again he threw himself down upon the sofa. A minute later, though sobbing and almost breathless, he managed to gasp | Alexis Ivanovitch! Save me, save me! Have some mercy upon me!" For a long time I could not make out what he meant, although he kept talking and talking, and constantly repeating to himself, "Have mercy, mercy!" At length, however, I divined that he was expecting me to give him something in the nature of advice or, rather, that, deserted by every one, and overwhelmed with grief and apprehension, he had bethought himself of my existence, and sent for me to relieve his feelings by talking and talking and talking. In fact, he was in such a confused and despondent state of mind that, clasping his hands together, he actually went down upon his knees and begged me to go to Mlle. Blanche, and beseech and advise her to return to him, and to accept him in marriage. "But, General," I exclaimed, "possibly Mlle. Blanche has scarcely even remarked my existence? What could _I_ do with her?" It was in vain that I protested, for he could understand nothing that was said to him, Next he started talking about the Grandmother, but always in a disconnected sort of fashion his one thought being to send for the police. "In Russia,"<|quote|>said he, suddenly boiling over with indignation,</|quote|>"or in any well-ordered State where there exists a government, old women like my mother are placed under proper guardianship. Yes, my good sir," he went on, relapsing into a scolding tone as he leapt to his feet and started to pace the room, "do you not know this" (he seemed to be addressing some imaginary auditor in the corner) "do you not know this, that in Russia old women like her are subjected to restraint, the devil take them?" Again he threw himself down upon the sofa. A minute later, though sobbing and almost breathless, he managed to gasp out that Mlle. Blanche had refused to marry him, for the reason that the Grandmother had turned up in place of a telegram, and it was therefore clear that he had no inheritance to look for. Evidently, he supposed that I had hitherto been in entire ignorance of all this. Again, when I referred to De Griers, the General made a gesture of despair. "He has gone away," he said, "and everything which I possess is mortgaged to him. I stand stripped to my skin. Even of the money which you brought me from Paris, I know not if seven | you have need of my life, write or send for me." I sealed the letter, and dispatched it by the hand of a corridor lacquey, with orders to hand it to the addressee in person. Though I expected no answer, scarcely three minutes had elapsed before the lacquey returned with "the compliments of a certain person." Next, about seven o clock, I was sent for by the General. I found him in his study, apparently preparing to go out again, for his hat and stick were lying on the sofa. When I entered he was standing in the middle of the room his feet wide apart, and his head bent down. Also, he appeared to be talking to himself. But as soon as ever he saw me at the door he came towards me in such a curious manner that involuntarily I retreated a step, and was for leaving the room; whereupon he seized me by both hands, and, drawing me towards the sofa, and seating himself thereon, he forced me to sit down on a chair opposite him. Then, without letting go of my hands, he exclaimed with quivering lips and a sparkle of tears on his eyelashes: "Oh, Alexis Ivanovitch! Save me, save me! Have some mercy upon me!" For a long time I could not make out what he meant, although he kept talking and talking, and constantly repeating to himself, "Have mercy, mercy!" At length, however, I divined that he was expecting me to give him something in the nature of advice or, rather, that, deserted by every one, and overwhelmed with grief and apprehension, he had bethought himself of my existence, and sent for me to relieve his feelings by talking and talking and talking. In fact, he was in such a confused and despondent state of mind that, clasping his hands together, he actually went down upon his knees and begged me to go to Mlle. Blanche, and beseech and advise her to return to him, and to accept him in marriage. "But, General," I exclaimed, "possibly Mlle. Blanche has scarcely even remarked my existence? What could _I_ do with her?" It was in vain that I protested, for he could understand nothing that was said to him, Next he started talking about the Grandmother, but always in a disconnected sort of fashion his one thought being to send for the police. "In Russia,"<|quote|>said he, suddenly boiling over with indignation,</|quote|>"or in any well-ordered State where there exists a government, old women like my mother are placed under proper guardianship. Yes, my good sir," he went on, relapsing into a scolding tone as he leapt to his feet and started to pace the room, "do you not know this" (he seemed to be addressing some imaginary auditor in the corner) "do you not know this, that in Russia old women like her are subjected to restraint, the devil take them?" Again he threw himself down upon the sofa. A minute later, though sobbing and almost breathless, he managed to gasp out that Mlle. Blanche had refused to marry him, for the reason that the Grandmother had turned up in place of a telegram, and it was therefore clear that he had no inheritance to look for. Evidently, he supposed that I had hitherto been in entire ignorance of all this. Again, when I referred to De Griers, the General made a gesture of despair. "He has gone away," he said, "and everything which I possess is mortgaged to him. I stand stripped to my skin. Even of the money which you brought me from Paris, I know not if seven hundred francs be left. Of course that sum will do to go on with, but, as regards the future, I know nothing, I know nothing." "Then how will you pay your hotel bill?" I cried in consternation. "And what shall you do afterwards?" He looked at me vaguely, but it was clear that he had not understood perhaps had not even heard my questions. Then I tried to get him to speak of Polina and the children, but he only returned brief answers of "Yes, yes," and again started to maunder about the Prince, and the likelihood of the latter marrying Mlle. Blanche. "What on earth am I to do?" he concluded. "What on earth am I to do? Is this not ingratitude? Is it not sheer ingratitude?" And he burst into tears. Nothing could be done with such a man. Yet to leave him alone was dangerous, for something might happen to him. I withdrew from his rooms for a little while, but warned the nursemaid to keep an eye upon him, as well as exchanged a word with the corridor lacquey (a very talkative fellow), who likewise promised to remain on the look-out. Hardly had I left the | and we had fallen into the present strange relations, which had led me to address her as I had done. At the same time, if my love was distasteful to her, why had she not _forbidden_ me to speak of it to her? But she had not so forbidden me. On the contrary, there had been occasions when she had even _invited_ me to speak. Of course, this might have been done out of sheer wantonness, for I well knew I had remarked it only too often that, after listening to what I had to say, and angering me almost beyond endurance, she loved suddenly to torture me with some fresh outburst of contempt and aloofness! Yet she must have known that I could not live without her. Three days had elapsed since the affair with the Baron, and I could bear the severance no longer. When, that afternoon, I met her near the Casino, my heart almost made me faint, it beat so violently. She too could not live without me, for had she not said that she had _need_ of me? Or had that too been spoken in jest? That she had a secret of some kind there could be no doubt. What she had said to the Grandmother had stabbed me to the heart. On a thousand occasions I had challenged her to be open with me, nor could she have been ignorant that I was ready to give my very life for her. Yet always she had kept me at a distance with that contemptuous air of hers; or else she had demanded of me, in lieu of the life which I offered to lay at her feet, such escapades as I had perpetrated with the Baron. Ah, was it not torture to me, all this? For could it be that her whole world was bound up with the Frenchman? What, too, about Mr. Astley? The affair was inexplicable throughout. My God, what distress it caused me! Arrived home, I, in a fit of frenzy, indited the following: "Polina Alexandrovna, I can see that there is approaching us an exposure which will involve you too. For the last time I ask of you have you, or have you not, any need of my life? If you have, then make such dispositions as you wish, and I shall always be discoverable in my room if required. If you have need of my life, write or send for me." I sealed the letter, and dispatched it by the hand of a corridor lacquey, with orders to hand it to the addressee in person. Though I expected no answer, scarcely three minutes had elapsed before the lacquey returned with "the compliments of a certain person." Next, about seven o clock, I was sent for by the General. I found him in his study, apparently preparing to go out again, for his hat and stick were lying on the sofa. When I entered he was standing in the middle of the room his feet wide apart, and his head bent down. Also, he appeared to be talking to himself. But as soon as ever he saw me at the door he came towards me in such a curious manner that involuntarily I retreated a step, and was for leaving the room; whereupon he seized me by both hands, and, drawing me towards the sofa, and seating himself thereon, he forced me to sit down on a chair opposite him. Then, without letting go of my hands, he exclaimed with quivering lips and a sparkle of tears on his eyelashes: "Oh, Alexis Ivanovitch! Save me, save me! Have some mercy upon me!" For a long time I could not make out what he meant, although he kept talking and talking, and constantly repeating to himself, "Have mercy, mercy!" At length, however, I divined that he was expecting me to give him something in the nature of advice or, rather, that, deserted by every one, and overwhelmed with grief and apprehension, he had bethought himself of my existence, and sent for me to relieve his feelings by talking and talking and talking. In fact, he was in such a confused and despondent state of mind that, clasping his hands together, he actually went down upon his knees and begged me to go to Mlle. Blanche, and beseech and advise her to return to him, and to accept him in marriage. "But, General," I exclaimed, "possibly Mlle. Blanche has scarcely even remarked my existence? What could _I_ do with her?" It was in vain that I protested, for he could understand nothing that was said to him, Next he started talking about the Grandmother, but always in a disconnected sort of fashion his one thought being to send for the police. "In Russia,"<|quote|>said he, suddenly boiling over with indignation,</|quote|>"or in any well-ordered State where there exists a government, old women like my mother are placed under proper guardianship. Yes, my good sir," he went on, relapsing into a scolding tone as he leapt to his feet and started to pace the room, "do you not know this" (he seemed to be addressing some imaginary auditor in the corner) "do you not know this, that in Russia old women like her are subjected to restraint, the devil take them?" Again he threw himself down upon the sofa. A minute later, though sobbing and almost breathless, he managed to gasp out that Mlle. Blanche had refused to marry him, for the reason that the Grandmother had turned up in place of a telegram, and it was therefore clear that he had no inheritance to look for. Evidently, he supposed that I had hitherto been in entire ignorance of all this. Again, when I referred to De Griers, the General made a gesture of despair. "He has gone away," he said, "and everything which I possess is mortgaged to him. I stand stripped to my skin. Even of the money which you brought me from Paris, I know not if seven hundred francs be left. Of course that sum will do to go on with, but, as regards the future, I know nothing, I know nothing." "Then how will you pay your hotel bill?" I cried in consternation. "And what shall you do afterwards?" He looked at me vaguely, but it was clear that he had not understood perhaps had not even heard my questions. Then I tried to get him to speak of Polina and the children, but he only returned brief answers of "Yes, yes," and again started to maunder about the Prince, and the likelihood of the latter marrying Mlle. Blanche. "What on earth am I to do?" he concluded. "What on earth am I to do? Is this not ingratitude? Is it not sheer ingratitude?" And he burst into tears. Nothing could be done with such a man. Yet to leave him alone was dangerous, for something might happen to him. I withdrew from his rooms for a little while, but warned the nursemaid to keep an eye upon him, as well as exchanged a word with the corridor lacquey (a very talkative fellow), who likewise promised to remain on the look-out. Hardly had I left the General, when Potapitch approached me with a summons from the Grandmother. It was now eight o clock, and she had returned from the Casino after finally losing all that she possessed. I found her sitting in her chair much distressed and evidently fatigued. Presently Martha brought her up a cup of tea and forced her to drink it; yet, even then I could detect in the old lady s tone and manner a great change. "Good evening, Alexis Ivanovitch," she said slowly, with her head drooping. "Pardon me for disturbing you again. Yes, you must pardon an old, old woman like myself, for I have left behind me all that I possess nearly a hundred thousand roubles! You did quite right in declining to come with me this evening. Now I am without money without a single groat. But I must not delay a moment; I must leave by the 9:30 train. I have sent for that English friend of yours, and am going to beg of him three thousand francs for a week. Please try and persuade him to think nothing of it, nor yet to refuse me, for I am still a rich woman who possesses three villages and a couple of mansions. Yes, the money shall be found, for I have not yet squandered _everything_. I tell you this in order that he may have no doubts about Ah, but here he is! Clearly he is a good fellow." True enough, Astley had come hot-foot on receiving the Grandmother s appeal. Scarcely stopping even to reflect, and with scarcely a word, he counted out the three thousand francs under a note of hand which she duly signed. Then, his business done, he bowed, and lost no time in taking his departure. "You too leave me, Alexis Ivanovitch," said the Grandmother. "All my bones are aching, and I still have an hour in which to rest. Do not be hard upon me, old fool that I am. Never again shall I blame young people for being frivolous. I should think it wrong even to blame that unhappy General of yours. Nevertheless, I do not mean to let him have any of my money (which is all that he desires), for the reason that I look upon him as a perfect blockhead, and consider myself, simpleton though I be, at least wiser than _he_ is. How surely does God | the following: "Polina Alexandrovna, I can see that there is approaching us an exposure which will involve you too. For the last time I ask of you have you, or have you not, any need of my life? If you have, then make such dispositions as you wish, and I shall always be discoverable in my room if required. If you have need of my life, write or send for me." I sealed the letter, and dispatched it by the hand of a corridor lacquey, with orders to hand it to the addressee in person. Though I expected no answer, scarcely three minutes had elapsed before the lacquey returned with "the compliments of a certain person." Next, about seven o clock, I was sent for by the General. I found him in his study, apparently preparing to go out again, for his hat and stick were lying on the sofa. When I entered he was standing in the middle of the room his feet wide apart, and his head bent down. Also, he appeared to be talking to himself. But as soon as ever he saw me at the door he came towards me in such a curious manner that involuntarily I retreated a step, and was for leaving the room; whereupon he seized me by both hands, and, drawing me towards the sofa, and seating himself thereon, he forced me to sit down on a chair opposite him. Then, without letting go of my hands, he exclaimed with quivering lips and a sparkle of tears on his eyelashes: "Oh, Alexis Ivanovitch! Save me, save me! Have some mercy upon me!" For a long time I could not make out what he meant, although he kept talking and talking, and constantly repeating to himself, "Have mercy, mercy!" At length, however, I divined that he was expecting me to give him something in the nature of advice or, rather, that, deserted by every one, and overwhelmed with grief and apprehension, he had bethought himself of my existence, and sent for me to relieve his feelings by talking and talking and talking. In fact, he was in such a confused and despondent state of mind that, clasping his hands together, he actually went down upon his knees and begged me to go to Mlle. Blanche, and beseech and advise her to return to him, and to accept him in marriage. "But, General," I exclaimed, "possibly Mlle. Blanche has scarcely even remarked my existence? What could _I_ do with her?" It was in vain that I protested, for he could understand nothing that was said to him, Next he started talking about the Grandmother, but always in a disconnected sort of fashion his one thought being to send for the police. "In Russia,"<|quote|>said he, suddenly boiling over with indignation,</|quote|>"or in any well-ordered State where there exists a government, old women like my mother are placed under proper guardianship. Yes, my good sir," he went on, relapsing into a scolding tone as he leapt to his feet and started to pace the room, "do you not know this" (he seemed to be addressing some imaginary auditor in the corner) "do you not know this, that in Russia old women like her are subjected to restraint, the devil take them?" Again he threw himself down upon the sofa. A minute later, though sobbing and almost breathless, he managed to gasp out that Mlle. Blanche had refused to marry him, for the reason that the Grandmother had turned up in place of a telegram, and it was therefore clear that he had no inheritance to look for. Evidently, he supposed that I had hitherto been in entire ignorance of all this. Again, when I referred to De Griers, the General made a gesture of despair. "He has gone away," he said, "and everything which I possess is mortgaged to him. I stand stripped to my skin. Even of the money which you brought me from Paris, I know not if seven hundred francs be left. Of course that sum will do to go on with, but, as regards the future, I know nothing, I know nothing." "Then how will you pay your hotel bill?" I cried in consternation. "And what shall you do afterwards?" He looked at me vaguely, but it was clear that he had not understood perhaps had not even heard my questions. Then I tried to get him to speak of Polina and the children, but he only returned brief answers of "Yes, yes," and again started to maunder about the Prince, and the likelihood of the latter marrying Mlle. Blanche. "What on earth am I to do?" he concluded. "What on earth | The Gambler |
"Wickham's a fool, if he takes her with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship." | Mr. Bennet | this." "No," said her father,<|quote|>"Wickham's a fool, if he takes her with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship."</|quote|>"Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! | sum could not do all this." "No," said her father,<|quote|>"Wickham's a fool, if he takes her with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship."</|quote|>"Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a | true," said Elizabeth; "though it had not occurred to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh! it must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this." "No," said her father,<|quote|>"Wickham's a fool, if he takes her with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship."</|quote|>"Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be repaid?" Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then went to the library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room. "And | other, how I am ever to pay him." "Money! my uncle!" cried Jane, "what do you mean, Sir?" "I mean, that no man in his senses, would marry Lydia on so slight a temptation as one hundred a-year during my life, and fifty after I am gone." "That is very true," said Elizabeth; "though it had not occurred to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh! it must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this." "No," said her father,<|quote|>"Wickham's a fool, if he takes her with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship."</|quote|>"Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be repaid?" Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then went to the library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room. "And they are really to be married!" cried Elizabeth, as soon as they were by themselves. "How strange this is! And for _this_ we are to be thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness, and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice! Oh, | "I dislike it very much," he replied; "but it must be done." And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house. "And may I ask?" said Elizabeth, "but the terms, I suppose, must be complied with." "Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little." "And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!" "Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there are two things that I want very much to know:--one is, how much money your uncle has laid down, to bring it about; and the other, how I am ever to pay him." "Money! my uncle!" cried Jane, "what do you mean, Sir?" "I mean, that no man in his senses, would marry Lydia on so slight a temptation as one hundred a-year during my life, and fifty after I am gone." "That is very true," said Elizabeth; "though it had not occurred to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh! it must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this." "No," said her father,<|quote|>"Wickham's a fool, if he takes her with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship."</|quote|>"Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be repaid?" Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then went to the library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room. "And they are really to be married!" cried Elizabeth, as soon as they were by themselves. "How strange this is! And for _this_ we are to be thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness, and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice! Oh, Lydia!" "I comfort myself with thinking," replied Jane, "that he certainly would not marry Lydia, if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or any thing like it, has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?" "If we are ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been," said Elizabeth, "and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has | of this business, I will immediately give directions to Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be the smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore, stay quietly at Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care. Send back your answer as soon as you can, and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it best, that my niece should be married from this house, of which I hope you will approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as any thing more is determined on. Your's, &c." "EDW. GARDINER." "Is it possible!" cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. "Can it be possible that he will marry her?" "Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we have thought him;" said her sister. "My dear father, I congratulate you." "And have you answered the letter?" said Elizabeth. "No; but it must be done soon." Most earnestly did she then intreat him to lose no more time before he wrote. "Oh! my dear father," she cried, "come back, and write immediately. Consider how important every moment is, in such a case." "Let me write for you," said Jane, "if you dislike the trouble yourself." "I dislike it very much," he replied; "but it must be done." And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house. "And may I ask?" said Elizabeth, "but the terms, I suppose, must be complied with." "Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little." "And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!" "Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there are two things that I want very much to know:--one is, how much money your uncle has laid down, to bring it about; and the other, how I am ever to pay him." "Money! my uncle!" cried Jane, "what do you mean, Sir?" "I mean, that no man in his senses, would marry Lydia on so slight a temptation as one hundred a-year during my life, and fifty after I am gone." "That is very true," said Elizabeth; "though it had not occurred to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh! it must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this." "No," said her father,<|quote|>"Wickham's a fool, if he takes her with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship."</|quote|>"Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be repaid?" Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then went to the library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room. "And they are really to be married!" cried Elizabeth, as soon as they were by themselves. "How strange this is! And for _this_ we are to be thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness, and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice! Oh, Lydia!" "I comfort myself with thinking," replied Jane, "that he certainly would not marry Lydia, if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or any thing like it, has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?" "If we are ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been," said Elizabeth, "and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage, as years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is actually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now, she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she first sees my aunt!" "We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side," said Jane: "I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make their past imprudence forgotten." "Their conduct has been such," replied Elizabeth, "as neither you, nor I, nor any body, can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it." It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood perfectly ignorant of what | breath, came up with him, and eagerly cried out, "Oh, Papa, what news? what news? have you heard from my uncle?" "Yes, I have had a letter from him by express." "Well, and what news does it bring? good or bad?" "What is there of good to be expected?" said he, taking the letter from his pocket; "but perhaps you would like to read it." Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up. "Read it aloud," said their father, "for I hardly know myself what it is about." "Gracechurch-street, Monday, August 2. MY DEAR BROTHER," "At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such as, upon the whole, I hope will give you satisfaction. Soon after you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what part of London they were. The particulars, I reserve till we meet. It is enough to know they are discovered, I have seen them both----" "Then it is, as I always hoped," cried Jane; "they are married!" Elizabeth read on; "I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find there was any intention of being so; but if you are willing to perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on your side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement, her equal share of the five thousand pounds, secured among your children after the decease of yourself and my sister; and, moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions, which, considering every thing, I had no hesitation in complying with, as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You will easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Wickham's circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to be. The world has been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to say, there will be some little money, even when all his debts are discharged, to settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune. If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act in your name, throughout the whole of this business, I will immediately give directions to Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be the smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore, stay quietly at Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care. Send back your answer as soon as you can, and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it best, that my niece should be married from this house, of which I hope you will approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as any thing more is determined on. Your's, &c." "EDW. GARDINER." "Is it possible!" cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. "Can it be possible that he will marry her?" "Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we have thought him;" said her sister. "My dear father, I congratulate you." "And have you answered the letter?" said Elizabeth. "No; but it must be done soon." Most earnestly did she then intreat him to lose no more time before he wrote. "Oh! my dear father," she cried, "come back, and write immediately. Consider how important every moment is, in such a case." "Let me write for you," said Jane, "if you dislike the trouble yourself." "I dislike it very much," he replied; "but it must be done." And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house. "And may I ask?" said Elizabeth, "but the terms, I suppose, must be complied with." "Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little." "And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!" "Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there are two things that I want very much to know:--one is, how much money your uncle has laid down, to bring it about; and the other, how I am ever to pay him." "Money! my uncle!" cried Jane, "what do you mean, Sir?" "I mean, that no man in his senses, would marry Lydia on so slight a temptation as one hundred a-year during my life, and fifty after I am gone." "That is very true," said Elizabeth; "though it had not occurred to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh! it must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this." "No," said her father,<|quote|>"Wickham's a fool, if he takes her with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship."</|quote|>"Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be repaid?" Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then went to the library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room. "And they are really to be married!" cried Elizabeth, as soon as they were by themselves. "How strange this is! And for _this_ we are to be thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness, and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice! Oh, Lydia!" "I comfort myself with thinking," replied Jane, "that he certainly would not marry Lydia, if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or any thing like it, has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?" "If we are ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been," said Elizabeth, "and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage, as years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is actually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now, she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she first sees my aunt!" "We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side," said Jane: "I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make their past imprudence forgotten." "Their conduct has been such," replied Elizabeth, "as neither you, nor I, nor any body, can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it." It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library, therefore, and asked their father, whether he would not wish them to make it known to her. He was writing, and, without raising his head, coolly replied, "Just as you please." "May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?" "Take whatever you like, and get away." Elizabeth took the letter from his writing table, and they went up stairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner's hope of Lydia's being soon married, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she had ever been fidgetty from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct. "My dear, dear Lydia!" she cried: "This is delightful indeed!--She will be married!--I shall see her again!--She will be married at sixteen!--My good, kind brother!--I knew how it would be--I knew he would manage every thing. How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham too! But the clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him how much he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell, Kitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear Lydia!--How merry we shall be together when we meet!" Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the violence of these transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr. Gardiner's behaviour laid them all under. "For we must attribute this happy conclusion," she added, "in a great measure, to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself to assist Mr. Wickham with money." "Well," cried her mother, "it is all very right; who should do it but her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children must have had all his money you know, and it is the first time we have ever had any thing from | father, I congratulate you." "And have you answered the letter?" said Elizabeth. "No; but it must be done soon." Most earnestly did she then intreat him to lose no more time before he wrote. "Oh! my dear father," she cried, "come back, and write immediately. Consider how important every moment is, in such a case." "Let me write for you," said Jane, "if you dislike the trouble yourself." "I dislike it very much," he replied; "but it must be done." And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house. "And may I ask?" said Elizabeth, "but the terms, I suppose, must be complied with." "Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little." "And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!" "Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there are two things that I want very much to know:--one is, how much money your uncle has laid down, to bring it about; and the other, how I am ever to pay him." "Money! my uncle!" cried Jane, "what do you mean, Sir?" "I mean, that no man in his senses, would marry Lydia on so slight a temptation as one hundred a-year during my life, and fifty after I am gone." "That is very true," said Elizabeth; "though it had not occurred to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh! it must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this." "No," said her father,<|quote|>"Wickham's a fool, if he takes her with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship."</|quote|>"Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be repaid?" Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then went to the library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room. "And they are really to be married!" cried Elizabeth, as soon as they were by themselves. "How strange this is! And for _this_ we are to be thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness, and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice! Oh, Lydia!" "I comfort myself with thinking," replied Jane, "that he certainly would not marry Lydia, if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or any thing like it, has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?" "If we are ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been," said Elizabeth, "and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice | Pride And Prejudice |
"I join in mother's request.--K." | Ekaterina Ivanovna | birthday. Below was a postscript:<|quote|>"I join in mother's request.--K."</|quote|>Startsev considered, and in the | the way, it was her birthday. Below was a postscript:<|quote|>"I join in mother's request.--K."</|quote|>Startsev considered, and in the evening he went to the | passed. One still, warm morning a letter was brought to the hospital. Vera Iosifovna wrote to Dmitri Ionitch that she was missing him very much, and begged him to come and see them, and to relieve her sufferings; and, by the way, it was her birthday. Below was a postscript:<|quote|>"I join in mother's request.--K."</|quote|>Startsev considered, and in the evening he went to the Turkins'. "How do you do, if you please?" Ivan Petrovitch met him, smiling with his eyes only. "Bongjour." Vera Iosifovna, white-haired and looking much older, shook Startsev's hand, sighed affectedly, and said: "You don't care to pay attentions to me, | four years after Ekaterina Ivanovna had gone away, on each occasion at the invitation of Vera Iosifovna, who was still undergoing treatment for migraine. Every summer Ekaterina Ivanovna came to stay with her parents, but he did not once see her; it somehow never happened. But now four years had passed. One still, warm morning a letter was brought to the hospital. Vera Iosifovna wrote to Dmitri Ionitch that she was missing him very much, and begged him to come and see them, and to relieve her sufferings; and, by the way, it was her birthday. Below was a postscript:<|quote|>"I join in mother's request.--K."</|quote|>Startsev considered, and in the evening he went to the Turkins'. "How do you do, if you please?" Ivan Petrovitch met him, smiling with his eyes only. "Bongjour." Vera Iosifovna, white-haired and looking much older, shook Startsev's hand, sighed affectedly, and said: "You don't care to pay attentions to me, doctor. You never come and see us; I am too old for you. But now some one young has come; perhaps she will be more fortunate." And Kitten? She had grown thinner, paler, had grown handsomer and more graceful; but now she was Ekaterina Ivanovna, not Kitten; she had lost | every evening for three hours with enjoyment. He had another diversion to which he took imperceptibly, little by little: in the evening he would take out of his pockets the notes he had gained by his practice, and sometimes there were stuffed in his pockets notes--yellow and green, and smelling of scent and vinegar and incense and fish oil--up to the value of seventy roubles; and when they amounted to some hundreds he took them to the Mutual Credit Bank and deposited the money there to his account. He was only twice at the Turkins' in the course of the four years after Ekaterina Ivanovna had gone away, on each occasion at the invitation of Vera Iosifovna, who was still undergoing treatment for migraine. Every summer Ekaterina Ivanovna came to stay with her parents, but he did not once see her; it somehow never happened. But now four years had passed. One still, warm morning a letter was brought to the hospital. Vera Iosifovna wrote to Dmitri Ionitch that she was missing him very much, and begged him to come and see them, and to relieve her sufferings; and, by the way, it was her birthday. Below was a postscript:<|quote|>"I join in mother's request.--K."</|quote|>Startsev considered, and in the evening he went to the Turkins'. "How do you do, if you please?" Ivan Petrovitch met him, smiling with his eyes only. "Bongjour." Vera Iosifovna, white-haired and looking much older, shook Startsev's hand, sighed affectedly, and said: "You don't care to pay attentions to me, doctor. You never come and see us; I am too old for you. But now some one young has come; perhaps she will be more fortunate." And Kitten? She had grown thinner, paler, had grown handsomer and more graceful; but now she was Ekaterina Ivanovna, not Kitten; she had lost the freshness and look of childish naïveté. And in her expression and manners there was something new--guilty and diffident, as though she did not feel herself at home here in the Turkins' house. "How many summers, how many winters!" she said, giving Startsev her hand, and he could see that her heart was beating with excitement; and looking at him intently and curiously, she went on: "How much stouter you are! You look sunburnt and more manly, but on the whole you have changed very little." Now, too, he thought her attractive, very attractive, but there was something lacking in | be possible to dispense with passports and capital punishment, the liberal citizen would look at him askance and ask him mistrustfully: "Then any one could murder any one he chose in the open street?" And when, at tea or supper, Startsev observed in company that one should work, and that one ought not to live without working, every one took this as a reproach, and began to get angry and argue aggressively. With all that, the inhabitants did nothing, absolutely nothing, and took no interest in anything, and it was quite impossible to think of anything to say. And Startsev avoided conversation, and confined himself to eating and playing _vint_; and when there was a family festivity in some household and he was invited to a meal, then he sat and ate in silence, looking at his plate. And everything that was said at the time was uninteresting, unjust, and stupid; he felt irritated and disturbed, but held his tongue, and, because he sat glumly silent and looked at his plate, he was nicknamed in the town "the haughty Pole," though he never had been a Pole. All such entertainments as theatres and concerts he declined, but he played _vint_ every evening for three hours with enjoyment. He had another diversion to which he took imperceptibly, little by little: in the evening he would take out of his pockets the notes he had gained by his practice, and sometimes there were stuffed in his pockets notes--yellow and green, and smelling of scent and vinegar and incense and fish oil--up to the value of seventy roubles; and when they amounted to some hundreds he took them to the Mutual Credit Bank and deposited the money there to his account. He was only twice at the Turkins' in the course of the four years after Ekaterina Ivanovna had gone away, on each occasion at the invitation of Vera Iosifovna, who was still undergoing treatment for migraine. Every summer Ekaterina Ivanovna came to stay with her parents, but he did not once see her; it somehow never happened. But now four years had passed. One still, warm morning a letter was brought to the hospital. Vera Iosifovna wrote to Dmitri Ionitch that she was missing him very much, and begged him to come and see them, and to relieve her sufferings; and, by the way, it was her birthday. Below was a postscript:<|quote|>"I join in mother's request.--K."</|quote|>Startsev considered, and in the evening he went to the Turkins'. "How do you do, if you please?" Ivan Petrovitch met him, smiling with his eyes only. "Bongjour." Vera Iosifovna, white-haired and looking much older, shook Startsev's hand, sighed affectedly, and said: "You don't care to pay attentions to me, doctor. You never come and see us; I am too old for you. But now some one young has come; perhaps she will be more fortunate." And Kitten? She had grown thinner, paler, had grown handsomer and more graceful; but now she was Ekaterina Ivanovna, not Kitten; she had lost the freshness and look of childish naïveté. And in her expression and manners there was something new--guilty and diffident, as though she did not feel herself at home here in the Turkins' house. "How many summers, how many winters!" she said, giving Startsev her hand, and he could see that her heart was beating with excitement; and looking at him intently and curiously, she went on: "How much stouter you are! You look sunburnt and more manly, but on the whole you have changed very little." Now, too, he thought her attractive, very attractive, but there was something lacking in her, or else something superfluous--he could not himself have said exactly what it was, but something prevented him from feeling as before. He did not like her pallor, her new expression, her faint smile, her voice, and soon afterwards he disliked her clothes, too, the low chair in which she was sitting; he disliked something in the past when he had almost married her. He thought of his love, of the dreams and the hopes which had troubled him four years before--and he felt awkward. They had tea with cakes. Then Vera Iosifovna read aloud a novel; she read of things that never happen in real life, and Startsev listened, looked at her handsome grey head, and waited for her to finish. "People are not stupid because they can't write novels, but because they can't conceal it when they do," he thought. "Not badsome," said Ivan Petrovitch. Then Ekaterina Ivanovna played long and noisily on the piano, and when she finished she was profusely thanked and warmly praised. "It's a good thing I did not marry her," thought Startsev. She looked at him, and evidently expected him to ask her to go into the garden, but he remained silent. "Let | off the stiff tie and drew a deep breath. He was a little ashamed and his vanity was wounded--he had not expected a refusal--and could not believe that all his dreams, his hopes and yearnings, had led him up to such a stupid end, just as in some little play at an amateur performance, and he was sorry for his feeling, for that love of his, so sorry that he felt as though he could have burst into sobs or have violently belaboured Panteleimon's broad back with his umbrella. For three days he could not get on with anything, he could not eat nor sleep; but when the news reached him that Ekaterina Ivanovna had gone away to Moscow to enter the Conservatoire, he grew calmer and lived as before. Afterwards, remembering sometimes how he had wandered about the cemetery or how he had driven all over the town to get a dress suit, he stretched lazily and said: "What a lot of trouble, though!" IV Four years had passed. Startsev already had a large practice in the town. Every morning he hurriedly saw his patients at Dyalizh, then he drove in to see his town patients. By now he drove, not with a pair, but with a team of three with bells on them, and he returned home late at night. He had grown broader and stouter, and was not very fond of walking, as he was somewhat asthmatic. And Panteleimon had grown stout, too, and the broader he grew, the more mournfully he sighed and complained of his hard luck: he was sick of driving! Startsev used to visit various households and met many people, but did not become intimate with any one. The inhabitants irritated him by their conversation, their views of life, and even their appearance. Experience taught him by degrees that while he played cards or lunched with one of these people, the man was a peaceable, friendly, and even intelligent human being; that as soon as one talked of anything not eatable, for instance, of politics or science, he would be completely at a loss, or would expound a philosophy so stupid and ill-natured that there was nothing else to do but wave one's hand in despair and go away. Even when Startsev tried to talk to liberal citizens, saying, for instance, that humanity, thank God, was progressing, and that one day it would be possible to dispense with passports and capital punishment, the liberal citizen would look at him askance and ask him mistrustfully: "Then any one could murder any one he chose in the open street?" And when, at tea or supper, Startsev observed in company that one should work, and that one ought not to live without working, every one took this as a reproach, and began to get angry and argue aggressively. With all that, the inhabitants did nothing, absolutely nothing, and took no interest in anything, and it was quite impossible to think of anything to say. And Startsev avoided conversation, and confined himself to eating and playing _vint_; and when there was a family festivity in some household and he was invited to a meal, then he sat and ate in silence, looking at his plate. And everything that was said at the time was uninteresting, unjust, and stupid; he felt irritated and disturbed, but held his tongue, and, because he sat glumly silent and looked at his plate, he was nicknamed in the town "the haughty Pole," though he never had been a Pole. All such entertainments as theatres and concerts he declined, but he played _vint_ every evening for three hours with enjoyment. He had another diversion to which he took imperceptibly, little by little: in the evening he would take out of his pockets the notes he had gained by his practice, and sometimes there were stuffed in his pockets notes--yellow and green, and smelling of scent and vinegar and incense and fish oil--up to the value of seventy roubles; and when they amounted to some hundreds he took them to the Mutual Credit Bank and deposited the money there to his account. He was only twice at the Turkins' in the course of the four years after Ekaterina Ivanovna had gone away, on each occasion at the invitation of Vera Iosifovna, who was still undergoing treatment for migraine. Every summer Ekaterina Ivanovna came to stay with her parents, but he did not once see her; it somehow never happened. But now four years had passed. One still, warm morning a letter was brought to the hospital. Vera Iosifovna wrote to Dmitri Ionitch that she was missing him very much, and begged him to come and see them, and to relieve her sufferings; and, by the way, it was her birthday. Below was a postscript:<|quote|>"I join in mother's request.--K."</|quote|>Startsev considered, and in the evening he went to the Turkins'. "How do you do, if you please?" Ivan Petrovitch met him, smiling with his eyes only. "Bongjour." Vera Iosifovna, white-haired and looking much older, shook Startsev's hand, sighed affectedly, and said: "You don't care to pay attentions to me, doctor. You never come and see us; I am too old for you. But now some one young has come; perhaps she will be more fortunate." And Kitten? She had grown thinner, paler, had grown handsomer and more graceful; but now she was Ekaterina Ivanovna, not Kitten; she had lost the freshness and look of childish naïveté. And in her expression and manners there was something new--guilty and diffident, as though she did not feel herself at home here in the Turkins' house. "How many summers, how many winters!" she said, giving Startsev her hand, and he could see that her heart was beating with excitement; and looking at him intently and curiously, she went on: "How much stouter you are! You look sunburnt and more manly, but on the whole you have changed very little." Now, too, he thought her attractive, very attractive, but there was something lacking in her, or else something superfluous--he could not himself have said exactly what it was, but something prevented him from feeling as before. He did not like her pallor, her new expression, her faint smile, her voice, and soon afterwards he disliked her clothes, too, the low chair in which she was sitting; he disliked something in the past when he had almost married her. He thought of his love, of the dreams and the hopes which had troubled him four years before--and he felt awkward. They had tea with cakes. Then Vera Iosifovna read aloud a novel; she read of things that never happen in real life, and Startsev listened, looked at her handsome grey head, and waited for her to finish. "People are not stupid because they can't write novels, but because they can't conceal it when they do," he thought. "Not badsome," said Ivan Petrovitch. Then Ekaterina Ivanovna played long and noisily on the piano, and when she finished she was profusely thanked and warmly praised. "It's a good thing I did not marry her," thought Startsev. She looked at him, and evidently expected him to ask her to go into the garden, but he remained silent. "Let us have a talk," she said, going up to him. "How are you getting on? What are you doing? How are things? I have been thinking about you all these days," she went on nervously. "I wanted to write to you, wanted to come myself to see you at Dyalizh. I quite made up my mind to go, but afterwards I thought better of it. God knows what your attitude is towards me now; I have been looking forward to seeing you to-day with such emotion. For goodness' sake let us go into the garden." They went into the garden and sat down on the seat under the old maple, just as they had done four years before. It was dark. "How are you getting on?" asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "Oh, all right; I am jogging along," answered Startsev. And he could think of nothing more. They were silent. "I feel so excited!" said Ekaterina Ivanovna, and she hid her face in her hands. "But don't pay attention to it. I am so happy to be at home; I am so glad to see every one. I can't get used to it. So many memories! I thought we should talk without stopping till morning." Now he saw her face near, her shining eyes, and in the darkness she looked younger than in the room, and even her old childish expression seemed to have come back to her. And indeed she was looking at him with naïve curiosity, as though she wanted to get a closer view and understanding of the man who had loved her so ardently, with such tenderness, and so unsuccessfully; her eyes thanked him for that love. And he remembered all that had been, every minute detail; how he had wandered about the cemetery, how he had returned home in the morning exhausted, and he suddenly felt sad and regretted the past. A warmth began glowing in his heart. "Do you remember how I took you to the dance at the club?" he asked. "It was dark and rainy then ..." The warmth was glowing now in his heart, and he longed to talk, to rail at life.... "Ech!" he said with a sigh. "You ask how I am living. How do we live here? Why, not at all. We grow old, we grow stout, we grow slack. Day after day passes; life slips by without colour, without | playing _vint_; and when there was a family festivity in some household and he was invited to a meal, then he sat and ate in silence, looking at his plate. And everything that was said at the time was uninteresting, unjust, and stupid; he felt irritated and disturbed, but held his tongue, and, because he sat glumly silent and looked at his plate, he was nicknamed in the town "the haughty Pole," though he never had been a Pole. All such entertainments as theatres and concerts he declined, but he played _vint_ every evening for three hours with enjoyment. He had another diversion to which he took imperceptibly, little by little: in the evening he would take out of his pockets the notes he had gained by his practice, and sometimes there were stuffed in his pockets notes--yellow and green, and smelling of scent and vinegar and incense and fish oil--up to the value of seventy roubles; and when they amounted to some hundreds he took them to the Mutual Credit Bank and deposited the money there to his account. He was only twice at the Turkins' in the course of the four years after Ekaterina Ivanovna had gone away, on each occasion at the invitation of Vera Iosifovna, who was still undergoing treatment for migraine. Every summer Ekaterina Ivanovna came to stay with her parents, but he did not once see her; it somehow never happened. But now four years had passed. One still, warm morning a letter was brought to the hospital. Vera Iosifovna wrote to Dmitri Ionitch that she was missing him very much, and begged him to come and see them, and to relieve her sufferings; and, by the way, it was her birthday. Below was a postscript:<|quote|>"I join in mother's request.--K."</|quote|>Startsev considered, and in the evening he went to the Turkins'. "How do you do, if you please?" Ivan Petrovitch met him, smiling with his eyes only. "Bongjour." Vera Iosifovna, white-haired and looking much older, shook Startsev's hand, sighed affectedly, and said: "You don't care to pay attentions to me, doctor. You never come and see us; I am too old for you. But now some one young has come; perhaps she will be more fortunate." And Kitten? She had grown thinner, paler, had grown handsomer and more graceful; but now she was Ekaterina Ivanovna, not Kitten; she had lost the freshness and look of childish naïveté. And in her expression and manners there was something new--guilty and diffident, as though she did not feel herself at home here in the Turkins' house. "How many summers, how many winters!" she said, giving Startsev her hand, and he could see that her heart was beating with excitement; and looking at him intently and curiously, she went on: "How much stouter you are! You look sunburnt and more manly, but on the whole you have changed very little." Now, too, he thought her attractive, very attractive, but there was something lacking in her, or else something superfluous--he could not himself have said exactly what it was, but something prevented him from feeling as before. He did not like her pallor, her new expression, her faint smile, her voice, and soon afterwards he disliked her clothes, too, the low chair in which she was sitting; he disliked something in the past when he had almost married her. He thought of his love, of the dreams and the hopes which had troubled him four years before--and he felt awkward. They had tea with cakes. Then Vera Iosifovna read aloud a novel; she read of things that never happen in real life, and Startsev listened, looked at her handsome grey head, and waited for her to finish. "People are not stupid because they can't write novels, but because they can't conceal it when they do," he thought. "Not badsome," said Ivan Petrovitch. Then Ekaterina Ivanovna played long and noisily on the piano, and when she finished she was profusely thanked and warmly praised. "It's a good thing I did not marry her," thought Startsev. She looked at him, and evidently expected him to ask her to go into the garden, but he remained silent. "Let us have a talk," she said, going up to him. "How are you getting on? What are you doing? How are things? I have been thinking about you all these days," she went on nervously. "I wanted to write to | The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (4) |
he replied with the greatest encouragement. By his accent and innocent style I detected he was not a colonial, so I got him to relate his history. He was an Englishman by birth, but had been to America, Spain, New Zealand, Tasmania, etc.; by his own make out had ever been a man of note, and had played Old Harry everywhere. I allowed him to gabble away full tilt for an hour on this subject, unconscious that I had taken the measure of him, and was grinning broadly to myself. Then I diverted him by inquiring how long since the wire fence on our right had been put up. It bore evidence of recent erection, and had replaced an old cockatoo fence which I remembered in my childhood. | No speaker | a bad sort of fellow,”<|quote|>he replied with the greatest encouragement. By his accent and innocent style I detected he was not a colonial, so I got him to relate his history. He was an Englishman by birth, but had been to America, Spain, New Zealand, Tasmania, etc.; by his own make out had ever been a man of note, and had played Old Harry everywhere. I allowed him to gabble away full tilt for an hour on this subject, unconscious that I had taken the measure of him, and was grinning broadly to myself. Then I diverted him by inquiring how long since the wire fence on our right had been put up. It bore evidence of recent erection, and had replaced an old cockatoo fence which I remembered in my childhood.</|quote|>“Fine fence, is it not? | afraid of me; I’m not a bad sort of fellow,”<|quote|>he replied with the greatest encouragement. By his accent and innocent style I detected he was not a colonial, so I got him to relate his history. He was an Englishman by birth, but had been to America, Spain, New Zealand, Tasmania, etc.; by his own make out had ever been a man of note, and had played Old Harry everywhere. I allowed him to gabble away full tilt for an hour on this subject, unconscious that I had taken the measure of him, and was grinning broadly to myself. Then I diverted him by inquiring how long since the wire fence on our right had been put up. It bore evidence of recent erection, and had replaced an old cockatoo fence which I remembered in my childhood.</|quote|>“Fine fence, is it not? Eight wires, a top rail, | think that I meet with your approval in the smallest degree,” I replied with the utmost deference. “You are so gentlemanly and nice that I was alarmed at first lest you might despise me altogether.” “No fear. You needn’t be afraid of me; I’m not a bad sort of fellow,”<|quote|>he replied with the greatest encouragement. By his accent and innocent style I detected he was not a colonial, so I got him to relate his history. He was an Englishman by birth, but had been to America, Spain, New Zealand, Tasmania, etc.; by his own make out had ever been a man of note, and had played Old Harry everywhere. I allowed him to gabble away full tilt for an hour on this subject, unconscious that I had taken the measure of him, and was grinning broadly to myself. Then I diverted him by inquiring how long since the wire fence on our right had been put up. It bore evidence of recent erection, and had replaced an old cockatoo fence which I remembered in my childhood.</|quote|>“Fine fence, is it not? Eight wires, a top rail, and very stout posts. Harry Beecham had that put up by contract this year. Twelve miles of it. It cost him a lot: couldn’t get any very low tenders, the ground being so hard on account of the drought. Those | be worthy of such affection as I’m sure yours would be,” I replied sympathetically. “Never mind. Don’t worry about it. You’re not a bad sort, and think a fellow could have great fun with you.” “I’m sure, Mr Hawden, you do me too much honour. It quite exhilarates me to think that I meet with your approval in the smallest degree,” I replied with the utmost deference. “You are so gentlemanly and nice that I was alarmed at first lest you might despise me altogether.” “No fear. You needn’t be afraid of me; I’m not a bad sort of fellow,”<|quote|>he replied with the greatest encouragement. By his accent and innocent style I detected he was not a colonial, so I got him to relate his history. He was an Englishman by birth, but had been to America, Spain, New Zealand, Tasmania, etc.; by his own make out had ever been a man of note, and had played Old Harry everywhere. I allowed him to gabble away full tilt for an hour on this subject, unconscious that I had taken the measure of him, and was grinning broadly to myself. Then I diverted him by inquiring how long since the wire fence on our right had been put up. It bore evidence of recent erection, and had replaced an old cockatoo fence which I remembered in my childhood.</|quote|>“Fine fence, is it not? Eight wires, a top rail, and very stout posts. Harry Beecham had that put up by contract this year. Twelve miles of it. It cost him a lot: couldn’t get any very low tenders, the ground being so hard on account of the drought. Those trees are Five-Bob Downs—see, away over against the range. But I suppose you know the places better than I do.” We were now within an hour of our destination. How familiar were many landmarks to me, although I had not seen them since I was eight years old. A river | but today I was in high feather, and accordingly very pleasant, and resolved to amuse myself by drawing him out. “Well, you are not a bit like Mrs Bossier or Mrs Bell; they are both so good-looking,” he continued. “Indeed!” “I was disappointed when I saw you had no pretensions to prettiness, as there’s not a girl up these parts worth wasting a man’s affections on, and I was building great hopes on you. But I’m a great admirer of beauty,” he twaddled. “I am very sorry for you, Mr Hawden. I’m sure it would take quite a paragon to be worthy of such affection as I’m sure yours would be,” I replied sympathetically. “Never mind. Don’t worry about it. You’re not a bad sort, and think a fellow could have great fun with you.” “I’m sure, Mr Hawden, you do me too much honour. It quite exhilarates me to think that I meet with your approval in the smallest degree,” I replied with the utmost deference. “You are so gentlemanly and nice that I was alarmed at first lest you might despise me altogether.” “No fear. You needn’t be afraid of me; I’m not a bad sort of fellow,”<|quote|>he replied with the greatest encouragement. By his accent and innocent style I detected he was not a colonial, so I got him to relate his history. He was an Englishman by birth, but had been to America, Spain, New Zealand, Tasmania, etc.; by his own make out had ever been a man of note, and had played Old Harry everywhere. I allowed him to gabble away full tilt for an hour on this subject, unconscious that I had taken the measure of him, and was grinning broadly to myself. Then I diverted him by inquiring how long since the wire fence on our right had been put up. It bore evidence of recent erection, and had replaced an old cockatoo fence which I remembered in my childhood.</|quote|>“Fine fence, is it not? Eight wires, a top rail, and very stout posts. Harry Beecham had that put up by contract this year. Twelve miles of it. It cost him a lot: couldn’t get any very low tenders, the ground being so hard on account of the drought. Those trees are Five-Bob Downs—see, away over against the range. But I suppose you know the places better than I do.” We were now within an hour of our destination. How familiar were many landmarks to me, although I had not seen them since I was eight years old. A river ran on our right, occasionally a glimmer of its noisy waters visible through the shrubbery which profusely lined its banks. The short evening was drawing to a close. The white mists brought by the rain were crawling slowly down the hills, and settling in the hollows of the ranges on our left. A V-shaped rift in them, known as Pheasant Gap, came into view. Mr Hawden said it was well named, as it swarmed with lyrebirds. Night was falling. The skreel of a hundred curlews arose from the gullies—how I love their lonely wail!—and it was quite dark when we | at every step. But, despite these trifling drawbacks, it was delightful to be drawn without effort by a pair of fat horses in splendid harness. It was a great contrast to our poor skinny old horse at home, crawling along in much-broken harness, clumsily and much mended with string and bits of hide. Mr Hawden was not at all averse to talking. After emptying our tongues of the weather, there was silence for some time, which he broke with, “So you are Mrs Bossier’s grand-daughter, are you?” “Not remembering my birth, I can’t swear; but I believe myself to be that same, as sure as eggs is eggs,” I replied. He laughed. “Very good imitation of the coach-driver. But Mrs Bossier’s grand-daughter! Well, I should smile!” “What at?” “Your being Mrs Bossier’s grand-daughter.” “I fear, Mr Hawden, there is a suspicion reverse of complimentary in your remark.” “Well, I should smile! Would you like to have my opinion of you?” “Nothing would please me more. I would value your opinion above all things, and I’m sure—I feel certain—that you have formed a true estimate of me.” At any other time his conceit would have brought upon himself a fine snubbing, but today I was in high feather, and accordingly very pleasant, and resolved to amuse myself by drawing him out. “Well, you are not a bit like Mrs Bossier or Mrs Bell; they are both so good-looking,” he continued. “Indeed!” “I was disappointed when I saw you had no pretensions to prettiness, as there’s not a girl up these parts worth wasting a man’s affections on, and I was building great hopes on you. But I’m a great admirer of beauty,” he twaddled. “I am very sorry for you, Mr Hawden. I’m sure it would take quite a paragon to be worthy of such affection as I’m sure yours would be,” I replied sympathetically. “Never mind. Don’t worry about it. You’re not a bad sort, and think a fellow could have great fun with you.” “I’m sure, Mr Hawden, you do me too much honour. It quite exhilarates me to think that I meet with your approval in the smallest degree,” I replied with the utmost deference. “You are so gentlemanly and nice that I was alarmed at first lest you might despise me altogether.” “No fear. You needn’t be afraid of me; I’m not a bad sort of fellow,”<|quote|>he replied with the greatest encouragement. By his accent and innocent style I detected he was not a colonial, so I got him to relate his history. He was an Englishman by birth, but had been to America, Spain, New Zealand, Tasmania, etc.; by his own make out had ever been a man of note, and had played Old Harry everywhere. I allowed him to gabble away full tilt for an hour on this subject, unconscious that I had taken the measure of him, and was grinning broadly to myself. Then I diverted him by inquiring how long since the wire fence on our right had been put up. It bore evidence of recent erection, and had replaced an old cockatoo fence which I remembered in my childhood.</|quote|>“Fine fence, is it not? Eight wires, a top rail, and very stout posts. Harry Beecham had that put up by contract this year. Twelve miles of it. It cost him a lot: couldn’t get any very low tenders, the ground being so hard on account of the drought. Those trees are Five-Bob Downs—see, away over against the range. But I suppose you know the places better than I do.” We were now within an hour of our destination. How familiar were many landmarks to me, although I had not seen them since I was eight years old. A river ran on our right, occasionally a glimmer of its noisy waters visible through the shrubbery which profusely lined its banks. The short evening was drawing to a close. The white mists brought by the rain were crawling slowly down the hills, and settling in the hollows of the ranges on our left. A V-shaped rift in them, known as Pheasant Gap, came into view. Mr Hawden said it was well named, as it swarmed with lyrebirds. Night was falling. The skreel of a hundred curlews arose from the gullies—how I love their lonely wail!—and it was quite dark when we pulled up before the front gate of Caddagat. A score of dogs rushed yelping to meet us, the front door was thrown open, lights and voices came streaming out. I alighted from the buggy feeling rather nervous. I was a pauper with a bad character. How would my grandmother receive me? Dear old soul, I had nothing to fear. She folded me in a great warm-hearted hug, saying, “Dear me, child, your face is cold. I’m glad you’ve come. It has been a terrible day, but we’re glad to have the rain. You must be frozen. Get in to the fire, child, as fast as you can. Get in to the fire, get in to the fire. I hope you forgive me for not going to meet you.” And there was my mother’s only sister, my tall graceful aunt, standing beside her, giving me a kiss and cordial hand-clasp, and saying, “Welcome, Sybylla. We will be glad to have a young person to brighten up the old home once more. I am sorry I was too unwell to meet you. You must be frozen; come to the fire.” My aunt always spoke very little and very quietly, but there was | then conducted me to the private parlour, where a friendly little barmaid had some refreshments on a tray awaiting me, and while warming my feet preparatory to eating I read the letter he had given me, which was addressed in my grandmother’s handwriting. In it she told me that she and my aunt were only just recovering from bad colds, and on account of the inclemency of the weather thought it unwise to come to town to meet me; but Frank Hawden, the jackeroo would take every care of me, settle the hotel bill, and tip the coach-driver. Caddagat was twenty-four miles distant from Gool-Gool, and the latter part of the road was very hilly. It was already past three o’clock, and, being rainy, the short winter afternoon would close in earlier; so I swallowed my tea and cake with all expedition, so as not to delay Mr Hawden, who was waiting to assist me into the buggy, where the groom was in charge of the horses in the yard. He struck up a conversation with me immediately. “Seeing your name on yer bags, an’ knowin’ you was belonging to the Bossiers, I ask if yer might be a daughter of Dick Melvyn, of Bruggabrong, out by Timlinbilly.” “Yes, I am.” “Well, miss, please remember me most kindly to yer pa; he was a good boss was Dick Melvyn. I hope he’s doin’ well. I’m Billy Haizelip, brother to Mary and Jane. You remember Jane, I s’pose, miss?” I hadn’t time to say more than promise to send his remembrances to my father, for Mr Hawden, saying we would be in the dark, had whipped his horses and was bowling off at a great pace, in less than two minutes covering a rise which put Gool-Gool out of sight. It was raining a little, so I held over us the big umbrella, which grannie had sent, while we discussed the weather, to the effect that rain was badly needed and was a great novelty nowadays, and it was to be hoped it would continue. There had been but little, but the soil here away was of that rich loamy description which little water turns to mud. It clogged the wheels and loaded the break-blocks; and the near side horse had a nasty way of throwing his front feet, so that he deposited soft red lumps of mud in our laps at every step. But, despite these trifling drawbacks, it was delightful to be drawn without effort by a pair of fat horses in splendid harness. It was a great contrast to our poor skinny old horse at home, crawling along in much-broken harness, clumsily and much mended with string and bits of hide. Mr Hawden was not at all averse to talking. After emptying our tongues of the weather, there was silence for some time, which he broke with, “So you are Mrs Bossier’s grand-daughter, are you?” “Not remembering my birth, I can’t swear; but I believe myself to be that same, as sure as eggs is eggs,” I replied. He laughed. “Very good imitation of the coach-driver. But Mrs Bossier’s grand-daughter! Well, I should smile!” “What at?” “Your being Mrs Bossier’s grand-daughter.” “I fear, Mr Hawden, there is a suspicion reverse of complimentary in your remark.” “Well, I should smile! Would you like to have my opinion of you?” “Nothing would please me more. I would value your opinion above all things, and I’m sure—I feel certain—that you have formed a true estimate of me.” At any other time his conceit would have brought upon himself a fine snubbing, but today I was in high feather, and accordingly very pleasant, and resolved to amuse myself by drawing him out. “Well, you are not a bit like Mrs Bossier or Mrs Bell; they are both so good-looking,” he continued. “Indeed!” “I was disappointed when I saw you had no pretensions to prettiness, as there’s not a girl up these parts worth wasting a man’s affections on, and I was building great hopes on you. But I’m a great admirer of beauty,” he twaddled. “I am very sorry for you, Mr Hawden. I’m sure it would take quite a paragon to be worthy of such affection as I’m sure yours would be,” I replied sympathetically. “Never mind. Don’t worry about it. You’re not a bad sort, and think a fellow could have great fun with you.” “I’m sure, Mr Hawden, you do me too much honour. It quite exhilarates me to think that I meet with your approval in the smallest degree,” I replied with the utmost deference. “You are so gentlemanly and nice that I was alarmed at first lest you might despise me altogether.” “No fear. You needn’t be afraid of me; I’m not a bad sort of fellow,”<|quote|>he replied with the greatest encouragement. By his accent and innocent style I detected he was not a colonial, so I got him to relate his history. He was an Englishman by birth, but had been to America, Spain, New Zealand, Tasmania, etc.; by his own make out had ever been a man of note, and had played Old Harry everywhere. I allowed him to gabble away full tilt for an hour on this subject, unconscious that I had taken the measure of him, and was grinning broadly to myself. Then I diverted him by inquiring how long since the wire fence on our right had been put up. It bore evidence of recent erection, and had replaced an old cockatoo fence which I remembered in my childhood.</|quote|>“Fine fence, is it not? Eight wires, a top rail, and very stout posts. Harry Beecham had that put up by contract this year. Twelve miles of it. It cost him a lot: couldn’t get any very low tenders, the ground being so hard on account of the drought. Those trees are Five-Bob Downs—see, away over against the range. But I suppose you know the places better than I do.” We were now within an hour of our destination. How familiar were many landmarks to me, although I had not seen them since I was eight years old. A river ran on our right, occasionally a glimmer of its noisy waters visible through the shrubbery which profusely lined its banks. The short evening was drawing to a close. The white mists brought by the rain were crawling slowly down the hills, and settling in the hollows of the ranges on our left. A V-shaped rift in them, known as Pheasant Gap, came into view. Mr Hawden said it was well named, as it swarmed with lyrebirds. Night was falling. The skreel of a hundred curlews arose from the gullies—how I love their lonely wail!—and it was quite dark when we pulled up before the front gate of Caddagat. A score of dogs rushed yelping to meet us, the front door was thrown open, lights and voices came streaming out. I alighted from the buggy feeling rather nervous. I was a pauper with a bad character. How would my grandmother receive me? Dear old soul, I had nothing to fear. She folded me in a great warm-hearted hug, saying, “Dear me, child, your face is cold. I’m glad you’ve come. It has been a terrible day, but we’re glad to have the rain. You must be frozen. Get in to the fire, child, as fast as you can. Get in to the fire, get in to the fire. I hope you forgive me for not going to meet you.” And there was my mother’s only sister, my tall graceful aunt, standing beside her, giving me a kiss and cordial hand-clasp, and saying, “Welcome, Sybylla. We will be glad to have a young person to brighten up the old home once more. I am sorry I was too unwell to meet you. You must be frozen; come to the fire.” My aunt always spoke very little and very quietly, but there was something in her high-bred style which went right home. I could scarcely believe that they were addressing me. Surely they were making a mistake. This reception was meant for some grand relative honouring them with a visit, and not for the ugly, useless, bad little pauper come to live upon their bounty. Their welcome did more than all the sermons I had ever heard put together towards thawing a little of the pitiless cynicism which encrusted my heart. “Take the child inside, Helen, as fast as you can,” said grannie, “while I see that the boy attends to the horses. The plaguey fellow can’t be trusted any further than the length of his nose. I told him to tie up these dogs, and here they are yelp-yelping fit to deafen a person.” I left my wet umbrella on the veranda, and aunt Helen led me into the dining-room, where a spruce maid was making a pleasant clatter in laying the table. Caddagat was a very old style of house, and all the front rooms opened onto the veranda without any such preliminary as a hall, therefore it was necessary to pass through the dining-room to my bedroom, which was a skillion at the back. While auntie paused for a moment to give some orders to the maid, I noticed the heavy silver serviette rings I remembered so well, and the old-fashioned dinner-plates, and the big fire roaring in the broad white fireplace; but more than all, the beautiful pictures on the walls and a table in a corner strewn with papers, magazines, and several very new-looking books. On the back of one of these I saw “Corelli” , and on another—great joy!—was _Trilby_. From the adjoining apartment, which was the drawing-room, came the sweet full tones of a beautiful piano. Here were three things for which I had been starving. An impulse to revel in them immediately seized me. I felt like clearing the table at a bound, seizing and beginning to read both books, and rushing in to the piano and beginning to play upon it there and then, and examine the pictures—all three things at once. Fortunately for the reputation of my sanity, however, aunt Helen had by this time conducted me to a pretty little bedroom, and saying it was to be mine, helped me to doff my cape and hat. While warming my fingers at the | the dark, had whipped his horses and was bowling off at a great pace, in less than two minutes covering a rise which put Gool-Gool out of sight. It was raining a little, so I held over us the big umbrella, which grannie had sent, while we discussed the weather, to the effect that rain was badly needed and was a great novelty nowadays, and it was to be hoped it would continue. There had been but little, but the soil here away was of that rich loamy description which little water turns to mud. It clogged the wheels and loaded the break-blocks; and the near side horse had a nasty way of throwing his front feet, so that he deposited soft red lumps of mud in our laps at every step. But, despite these trifling drawbacks, it was delightful to be drawn without effort by a pair of fat horses in splendid harness. It was a great contrast to our poor skinny old horse at home, crawling along in much-broken harness, clumsily and much mended with string and bits of hide. Mr Hawden was not at all averse to talking. After emptying our tongues of the weather, there was silence for some time, which he broke with, “So you are Mrs Bossier’s grand-daughter, are you?” “Not remembering my birth, I can’t swear; but I believe myself to be that same, as sure as eggs is eggs,” I replied. He laughed. “Very good imitation of the coach-driver. But Mrs Bossier’s grand-daughter! Well, I should smile!” “What at?” “Your being Mrs Bossier’s grand-daughter.” “I fear, Mr Hawden, there is a suspicion reverse of complimentary in your remark.” “Well, I should smile! Would you like to have my opinion of you?” “Nothing would please me more. I would value your opinion above all things, and I’m sure—I feel certain—that you have formed a true estimate of me.” At any other time his conceit would have brought upon himself a fine snubbing, but today I was in high feather, and accordingly very pleasant, and resolved to amuse myself by drawing him out. “Well, you are not a bit like Mrs Bossier or Mrs Bell; they are both so good-looking,” he continued. “Indeed!” “I was disappointed when I saw you had no pretensions to prettiness, as there’s not a girl up these parts worth wasting a man’s affections on, and I was building great hopes on you. But I’m a great admirer of beauty,” he twaddled. “I am very sorry for you, Mr Hawden. I’m sure it would take quite a paragon to be worthy of such affection as I’m sure yours would be,” I replied sympathetically. “Never mind. Don’t worry about it. You’re not a bad sort, and think a fellow could have great fun with you.” “I’m sure, Mr Hawden, you do me too much honour. It quite exhilarates me to think that I meet with your approval in the smallest degree,” I replied with the utmost deference. “You are so gentlemanly and nice that I was alarmed at first lest you might despise me altogether.” “No fear. You needn’t be afraid of me; I’m not a bad sort of fellow,”<|quote|>he replied with the greatest encouragement. By his accent and innocent style I detected he was not a colonial, so I got him to relate his history. He was an Englishman by birth, but had been to America, Spain, New Zealand, Tasmania, etc.; by his own make out had ever been a man of note, and had played Old Harry everywhere. I allowed him to gabble away full tilt for an hour on this subject, unconscious that I had taken the measure of him, and was grinning broadly to myself. Then I diverted him by inquiring how long since the wire fence on our right had been put up. It bore evidence of recent erection, and had replaced an old cockatoo fence which I remembered in my childhood.</|quote|>“Fine fence, is it not? Eight wires, a top rail, and very stout posts. Harry Beecham had that put up by contract this year. Twelve miles of it. It cost him a lot: couldn’t get any very low tenders, the ground being so hard on account of the drought. Those trees are Five-Bob Downs—see, away over against the range. But I suppose you know the places better than I do.” We were now within an hour of our destination. How familiar were many landmarks to me, although I had not seen them since I was eight years old. A river ran on our right, occasionally a glimmer of its noisy waters visible through the shrubbery which profusely lined its banks. The short evening was drawing to a close. The white mists brought by the rain were crawling slowly down the hills, and settling in the hollows of the ranges on our left. A V-shaped rift in them, known as Pheasant Gap, came into view. Mr Hawden said it was well named, as it swarmed with lyrebirds. Night was falling. The skreel of a hundred curlews arose from the gullies—how I love their lonely wail!—and it was quite dark when we pulled up before the front gate of Caddagat. A score of dogs rushed yelping to meet us, the front door was thrown open, lights and voices came streaming out. I alighted from the buggy feeling rather nervous. I was a pauper with a bad character. How would my grandmother receive me? Dear old soul, I had nothing to fear. She folded me in a great warm-hearted hug, saying, “Dear me, child, your face is cold. I’m glad you’ve come. It has been a terrible day, but we’re glad to have the rain. You must be frozen. Get in to the | My Brilliant Career |
"I don t believe it!" | Daisy Miller | to Chillon in the starlight."<|quote|>"I don t believe it!"</|quote|>said Daisy. "Well!" ejaculated the | "I will row you over to Chillon in the starlight."<|quote|>"I don t believe it!"</|quote|>said Daisy. "Well!" ejaculated the elder lady again. "You haven | fresh and beautiful young girl. "I shouldn t think she d want to," said her mother. "I should think she d rather go indoors." "I m sure Mr. Winterbourne wants to take me," Daisy declared. "He s so awfully devoted!" "I will row you over to Chillon in the starlight."<|quote|>"I don t believe it!"</|quote|>said Daisy. "Well!" ejaculated the elder lady again. "You haven t spoken to me for half an hour," her daughter went on. "I have been having some very pleasant conversation with your mother," said Winterbourne. "Well, I want you to take me out in a boat!" Daisy repeated. They had | 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 skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful young girl. "I shouldn t think she d want to," said her mother. "I should think she d rather go indoors." "I m sure Mr. Winterbourne wants to take me," Daisy declared. "He s so awfully devoted!" "I will row you over to Chillon in the starlight."<|quote|>"I don t believe it!"</|quote|>said Daisy. "Well!" ejaculated the elder lady again. "You haven t spoken to me for half an hour," her daughter went on. "I have been having some very pleasant conversation with your mother," said Winterbourne. "Well, I want you to take me out in a boat!" Daisy repeated. They had all stopped, and she had turned round and was looking at Winterbourne. Her face wore a charming smile, her pretty eyes were gleaming, she was swinging her great fan about. No; it s impossible to be prettier than that, thought Winterbourne. "There are half a dozen boats moored at that | 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 skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful young girl. "I shouldn t think she d want to," said her mother. "I should think she d rather go indoors." "I m sure Mr. Winterbourne wants to take me," Daisy declared. "He s so awfully devoted!" "I will row you over to Chillon in the starlight."<|quote|>"I don t believe it!"</|quote|>said Daisy. "Well!" ejaculated the elder lady again. "You haven t spoken to me for half an hour," her daughter went on. "I have been having some very pleasant conversation with your mother," said Winterbourne. "Well, I want you to take me out in a boat!" Daisy repeated. They had all stopped, and she had turned round and was looking at Winterbourne. Her face wore a charming smile, her pretty eyes were gleaming, she was swinging her great fan about. No; it s impossible to be prettier than that, thought Winterbourne. "There are half a dozen boats moored at that landing place," he said, pointing to certain steps which descended from the garden to the lake. "If you will do me the honor to accept my arm, we will go and select one of them." Daisy stood there smiling; she threw back her head and gave a little, light laugh. "I like a gentleman to be formal!" she declared. "I assure you it s a formal offer." "I was bound I would make you say something," Daisy went on. "You see, it s not very difficult," said Winterbourne. "But I am afraid you are chaffing me." "I think not, sir," | 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 skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful young girl. "I shouldn t think she d want to," said her mother. "I should think she d rather go indoors." "I m sure Mr. Winterbourne wants to take me," Daisy declared. "He s so awfully devoted!" "I will row you over to Chillon in the starlight."<|quote|>"I don t believe it!"</|quote|>said Daisy. "Well!" ejaculated the elder lady again. "You haven t spoken to me for half an hour," her daughter went on. "I have been having some very pleasant conversation with your mother," said Winterbourne. "Well, I want you to take me out in a boat!" Daisy repeated. They had all stopped, and she had turned round and was looking at Winterbourne. Her face wore a charming smile, her pretty eyes were gleaming, she was swinging her great fan about. No; it s impossible to be prettier than that, thought Winterbourne. "There are half a dozen boats moored at that landing place," he said, pointing to certain steps which descended from the garden to the lake. "If you will do me the honor to accept my arm, we will go and select one of them." Daisy stood there smiling; she threw back her head and gave a little, light laugh. "I like a gentleman to be formal!" she declared. "I assure you it s a formal offer." "I was bound I would make you say something," Daisy went on. "You see, it s not very difficult," said Winterbourne. "But I am afraid you are chaffing me." "I think not, sir," remarked Mrs. Miller very gently. "Do, then, let me give you a row," he said to the young girl. "It s quite lovely, the way you say that!" cried Daisy. "It will be still more lovely to do it." "Yes, it would be lovely!" said Daisy. But she made no movement to accompany him; she only stood there laughing. "I should think you had better find out what time it is," interposed her mother. "It is eleven o clock, madam," said a voice, with a foreign accent, out of the neighboring darkness; and Winterbourne, turning, perceived the florid personage who was in attendance upon the two ladies. He had apparently just approached. "Oh, Eugenio," said Daisy, "I am going out in a boat!" Eugenio bowed. "At eleven o clock, mademoiselle?" "I am going with Mr. Winterbourne--this very minute." "Do tell her she can t," said Mrs. Miller to the courier. "I think you had better not go out in a boat, mademoiselle," Eugenio declared. Winterbourne wished to Heaven this pretty girl were not so familiar with her courier; but he said nothing. "I suppose you don t think it s proper!" Daisy exclaimed. "Eugenio doesn t think anything s proper." | 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 skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful young girl. "I shouldn t think she d want to," said her mother. "I should think she d rather go indoors." "I m sure Mr. Winterbourne wants to take me," Daisy declared. "He s so awfully devoted!" "I will row you over to Chillon in the starlight."<|quote|>"I don t believe it!"</|quote|>said Daisy. "Well!" ejaculated the elder lady again. "You haven t spoken to me for half an hour," her daughter went on. "I have been having some very pleasant conversation with your mother," said Winterbourne. "Well, I want you to take me out in a boat!" Daisy repeated. They had all stopped, and she had turned round and was looking at Winterbourne. Her face wore a charming smile, her pretty eyes were gleaming, she was swinging her great fan about. No; it s impossible to be prettier than that, thought Winterbourne. "There are half a dozen boats moored at that landing place," he said, pointing to certain steps which descended from the garden to the lake. "If you will do me the honor to accept my arm, we will go and select one of them." Daisy stood there smiling; she threw back her head and gave a little, light laugh. "I like a gentleman to be formal!" she declared. "I assure you it s a formal offer." "I was bound I would make you say something," Daisy went on. "You see, it s not very difficult," said Winterbourne. "But I am afraid you are chaffing me." "I think not, sir," remarked Mrs. Miller very gently. "Do, then, let me give you a row," he said to the young girl. "It s quite lovely, the way you say that!" cried Daisy. "It will be still more lovely to do it." "Yes, it would be lovely!" said Daisy. But she made no movement to accompany him; she only stood there laughing. "I should think you had better find out what time it is," interposed her mother. "It is eleven o clock, madam," said a voice, with a foreign accent, out of the neighboring darkness; and Winterbourne, turning, perceived the florid personage who was in attendance upon the two ladies. He had apparently just approached. "Oh, Eugenio," said Daisy, "I am going out in a boat!" Eugenio bowed. "At eleven o clock, mademoiselle?" "I am going with Mr. Winterbourne--this very minute." "Do tell her she can t," said Mrs. Miller to the courier. "I think you had better not go out in a boat, mademoiselle," Eugenio declared. Winterbourne wished to Heaven this pretty girl were not so familiar with her courier; but he said nothing. "I suppose you don t think it s proper!" Daisy exclaimed. "Eugenio doesn t think anything s proper." "I am at your service," said Winterbourne. "Does mademoiselle propose to go alone?" asked Eugenio of Mrs. Miller. "Oh, no; with this gentleman!" answered Daisy s mamma. The courier looked for a moment at Winterbourne--the latter thought he was smiling--and then, solemnly, with a bow, "As mademoiselle pleases!" he said. "Oh, I hoped you would make a fuss!" said Daisy. "I don t care to go now." "I myself shall make a fuss if you don t go," said Winterbourne. "That s all I want--a little fuss!" And the young girl began to laugh again. "Mr. Randolph has gone to bed!" the courier announced frigidly. "Oh, Daisy; now we can go!" said Mrs. Miller. Daisy turned away from Winterbourne, looking at him, smiling and fanning herself. "Good night," she said; "I hope you are disappointed, or disgusted, or something!" He looked at her, taking the hand she offered him. "I am puzzled," he answered. "Well, I hope it won t keep you awake!" she said very smartly; and, under the escort of the privileged Eugenio, the two ladies passed toward the house. Winterbourne stood looking after them; he was indeed puzzled. He lingered beside the lake for a quarter of an hour, turning over the mystery of the young girl s sudden familiarities and caprices. But the only very definite conclusion he came to was that he should enjoy deucedly "going off" with her somewhere. Two days afterward he went off with her to the Castle of Chillon. He waited for her in the large hall of the hotel, where the couriers, the servants, the foreign tourists, were lounging about and staring. It was not the place he should have chosen, but she had appointed it. She came tripping downstairs, buttoning her long gloves, squeezing her folded parasol against her pretty figure, dressed in the perfection of a soberly elegant traveling costume. Winterbourne was a man of imagination and, as our ancestors used to say, sensibility; as he looked at her dress and, on the great staircase, her little rapid, confiding step, he felt as if there were something romantic going forward. He could have believed he was going to elope with her. He passed out with her among all the idle people that were assembled there; they were all looking at her very hard; she had begun to chatter as soon as she joined him. Winterbourne s preference had | "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 skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful young girl. "I shouldn t think she d want to," said her mother. "I should think she d rather go indoors." "I m sure Mr. Winterbourne wants to take me," Daisy declared. "He s so awfully devoted!" "I will row you over to Chillon in the starlight."<|quote|>"I don t believe it!"</|quote|>said Daisy. "Well!" ejaculated the elder lady again. "You haven t spoken to me for half an hour," her daughter went on. "I have been having some very pleasant conversation with your mother," said Winterbourne. "Well, I want you to take me out in a boat!" Daisy repeated. They had all stopped, and she had turned round and was looking at Winterbourne. Her face wore a charming smile, her pretty eyes were gleaming, she was swinging her great fan about. No; it s impossible to be prettier than that, thought Winterbourne. "There are half a dozen boats moored at that landing place," he said, pointing to certain steps which descended from the garden to the lake. "If you will do me the honor to accept my arm, we will go and select one of them." Daisy stood there smiling; she threw back her head and gave a little, light laugh. "I like a gentleman to be formal!" she declared. "I assure you it s a formal offer." "I was bound I would make you say something," Daisy went on. "You see, it s not very difficult," said Winterbourne. "But I am afraid you are chaffing me." "I think not, sir," remarked Mrs. Miller very gently. "Do, then, let me give you a row," he said to the young girl. "It s quite lovely, the way you say that!" cried Daisy. "It will be still more lovely to do it." "Yes, it would be lovely!" said Daisy. But she made no movement to accompany him; she only stood there laughing. "I should think you had better find out what time it is," interposed her mother. "It is eleven o clock, madam," said a voice, with a foreign accent, out of the neighboring darkness; and Winterbourne, turning, perceived the florid personage who was in attendance upon the two ladies. He had apparently just approached. "Oh, Eugenio," said Daisy, "I am going out in a boat!" Eugenio bowed. "At eleven o clock, mademoiselle?" "I am going with Mr. Winterbourne--this very minute." "Do tell her she can t," said Mrs. Miller to the courier. "I think you had better not go out in a boat, mademoiselle," Eugenio declared. Winterbourne wished to Heaven this pretty girl were not so familiar with her courier; but he said nothing. "I suppose you don t think it s proper!" Daisy exclaimed. "Eugenio doesn t think anything s proper." "I am at your service," said Winterbourne. "Does mademoiselle propose to go alone?" asked Eugenio of Mrs. Miller. "Oh, no; with this gentleman!" answered Daisy s mamma. The courier looked for a moment at Winterbourne--the latter thought he was smiling--and then, solemnly, with a bow, "As mademoiselle pleases!" he said. "Oh, I hoped you would make a fuss!" said Daisy. "I don t care to go now." "I myself shall make a fuss if you don t go," said Winterbourne. "That s all I want--a little fuss!" And the young girl began to laugh again. "Mr. Randolph has gone to | Daisy Miller |
"Father says she was quite a scholar. She died when I was born. She was;" | Cecilia Jupe | plain to _me_." "Your mother?"<|quote|>"Father says she was quite a scholar. She died when I was born. She was;"</|quote|>Sissy made the terrible communication | read his writing. Though it's plain to _me_." "Your mother?"<|quote|>"Father says she was quite a scholar. She died when I was born. She was;"</|quote|>Sissy made the terrible communication nervously; "she was a dancer." | in such an innocent question." "No, Miss Louisa," answered Sissy, upon this encouragement, shaking her head; "father knows very little indeed. It's as much as he can do to write; and it's more than people in general can do to read his writing. Though it's plain to _me_." "Your mother?"<|quote|>"Father says she was quite a scholar. She died when I was born. She was;"</|quote|>Sissy made the terrible communication nervously; "she was a dancer." "Did your father love her?" Louisa asked these questions with a strong, wild, wandering interest peculiar to her; an interest gone astray like a banished creature, and hiding in solitary places. "O yes! As dearly as he loves me. Father | so much himself, that he wished you to be well taught too, Sissy?" Sissy hesitated before replying, and so plainly showed her sense that they were entering on forbidden ground, that Louisa added, "No one hears us; and if any one did, I am sure no harm could be found in such an innocent question." "No, Miss Louisa," answered Sissy, upon this encouragement, shaking her head; "father knows very little indeed. It's as much as he can do to write; and it's more than people in general can do to read his writing. Though it's plain to _me_." "Your mother?"<|quote|>"Father says she was quite a scholar. She died when I was born. She was;"</|quote|>Sissy made the terrible communication nervously; "she was a dancer." "Did your father love her?" Louisa asked these questions with a strong, wild, wandering interest peculiar to her; an interest gone astray like a banished creature, and hiding in solitary places. "O yes! As dearly as he loves me. Father loved me, first, for her sake. He carried me about with him when I was quite a baby. We have never been asunder from that time." "Yet he leaves you now, Sissy?" "Only for my good. Nobody understands him as I do; nobody knows him as I do. When he | extreme contrition to her greatest error; "I said it was nothing." "Nothing, Sissy?" "Nothing, Miss to the relations and friends of the people who were killed. I shall never learn," said Sissy. "And the worst of all is, that although my poor father wished me so much to learn, and although I am so anxious to learn, because he wished me to, I am afraid I don't like it." Louisa stood looking at the pretty modest head, as it drooped abashed before her, until it was raised again to glance at her face. Then she asked: "Did your father know so much himself, that he wished you to be well taught too, Sissy?" Sissy hesitated before replying, and so plainly showed her sense that they were entering on forbidden ground, that Louisa added, "No one hears us; and if any one did, I am sure no harm could be found in such an innocent question." "No, Miss Louisa," answered Sissy, upon this encouragement, shaking her head; "father knows very little indeed. It's as much as he can do to write; and it's more than people in general can do to read his writing. Though it's plain to _me_." "Your mother?"<|quote|>"Father says she was quite a scholar. She died when I was born. She was;"</|quote|>Sissy made the terrible communication nervously; "she was a dancer." "Did your father love her?" Louisa asked these questions with a strong, wild, wandering interest peculiar to her; an interest gone astray like a banished creature, and hiding in solitary places. "O yes! As dearly as he loves me. Father loved me, first, for her sake. He carried me about with him when I was quite a baby. We have never been asunder from that time." "Yet he leaves you now, Sissy?" "Only for my good. Nobody understands him as I do; nobody knows him as I do. When he left me for my good he never would have left me for his own I know he was almost broken-hearted with the trial. He will not be happy for a single minute, till he comes back." "Tell me more about him," said Louisa, "I will never ask you again. Where did you live?" "We travelled about the country, and had no fixed place to live in. Father's a;" Sissy whispered the awful word, "a clown." "To make the people laugh?" said Louisa, with a nod of intelligence. "Yes. But they wouldn't laugh sometimes, and then father cried. Lately, they very | "That was a great mistake of yours," observed Louisa. "Yes, Miss Louisa, I know it was, now. Then Mr. M'Choakumchild said he would try me again. And he said, This schoolroom is an immense town, and in it there are a million of inhabitants, and only five-and-twenty are starved to death in the streets, in the course of a year. What is your remark on that proportion? And my remark was for I couldn't think of a better one that I thought it must be just as hard upon those who were starved, whether the others were a million, or a million million. And that was wrong, too." "Of course it was." "Then Mr. M'Choakumchild said he would try me once more. And he said, Here are the stutterings" "Statistics," said Louisa. "Yes, Miss Louisa they always remind me of stutterings, and that's another of my mistakes of accidents upon the sea. And I find (Mr. M'Choakumchild said) that in a given time a hundred thousand persons went to sea on long voyages, and only five hundred of them were drowned or burnt to death. What is the percentage? And I said, Miss;" here Sissy fairly sobbed as confessing with extreme contrition to her greatest error; "I said it was nothing." "Nothing, Sissy?" "Nothing, Miss to the relations and friends of the people who were killed. I shall never learn," said Sissy. "And the worst of all is, that although my poor father wished me so much to learn, and although I am so anxious to learn, because he wished me to, I am afraid I don't like it." Louisa stood looking at the pretty modest head, as it drooped abashed before her, until it was raised again to glance at her face. Then she asked: "Did your father know so much himself, that he wished you to be well taught too, Sissy?" Sissy hesitated before replying, and so plainly showed her sense that they were entering on forbidden ground, that Louisa added, "No one hears us; and if any one did, I am sure no harm could be found in such an innocent question." "No, Miss Louisa," answered Sissy, upon this encouragement, shaking her head; "father knows very little indeed. It's as much as he can do to write; and it's more than people in general can do to read his writing. Though it's plain to _me_." "Your mother?"<|quote|>"Father says she was quite a scholar. She died when I was born. She was;"</|quote|>Sissy made the terrible communication nervously; "she was a dancer." "Did your father love her?" Louisa asked these questions with a strong, wild, wandering interest peculiar to her; an interest gone astray like a banished creature, and hiding in solitary places. "O yes! As dearly as he loves me. Father loved me, first, for her sake. He carried me about with him when I was quite a baby. We have never been asunder from that time." "Yet he leaves you now, Sissy?" "Only for my good. Nobody understands him as I do; nobody knows him as I do. When he left me for my good he never would have left me for his own I know he was almost broken-hearted with the trial. He will not be happy for a single minute, till he comes back." "Tell me more about him," said Louisa, "I will never ask you again. Where did you live?" "We travelled about the country, and had no fixed place to live in. Father's a;" Sissy whispered the awful word, "a clown." "To make the people laugh?" said Louisa, with a nod of intelligence. "Yes. But they wouldn't laugh sometimes, and then father cried. Lately, they very often wouldn't laugh, and he used to come home despairing. Father's not like most. Those who didn't know him as well as I do, and didn't love him as dearly as I do, might believe he was not quite right. Sometimes they played tricks upon him; but they never knew how he felt them, and shrunk up, when he was alone with me. He was far, far timider than they thought!" "And you were his comfort through everything?" She nodded, with the tears rolling down her face. "I hope so, and father said I was. It was because he grew so scared and trembling, and because he felt himself to be a poor, weak, ignorant, helpless man (those used to be his words), that he wanted me so much to know a great deal, and be different from him. I used to read to him to cheer his courage, and he was very fond of that. They were wrong books I am never to speak of them here but we didn't know there was any harm in them." "And he liked them?" said Louisa, with a searching gaze on Sissy all this time. "O very much! They kept him, many | to me now, would be so easy then." "You might not be the better for it, Sissy." Sissy submitted, after a little hesitation, "I should not be the worse, Miss Louisa." To which Miss Louisa answered, "I don't know that." There had been so little communication between these two both because life at Stone Lodge went monotonously round like a piece of machinery which discouraged human interference, and because of the prohibition relative to Sissy's past career that they were still almost strangers. Sissy, with her dark eyes wonderingly directed to Louisa's face, was uncertain whether to say more or to remain silent. "You are more useful to my mother, and more pleasant with her than I can ever be," Louisa resumed. "You are pleasanter to yourself, than _I_ am to _my_self." "But, if you please, Miss Louisa," Sissy pleaded, "I am O so stupid!" Louisa, with a brighter laugh than usual, told her she would be wiser by-and-by. "You don't know," said Sissy, half crying, "what a stupid girl I am. All through school hours I make mistakes. Mr. and Mrs. M'Choakumchild call me up, over and over again, regularly to make mistakes. I can't help them. They seem to come natural to me." "Mr. and Mrs. M'Choakumchild never make any mistakes themselves, I suppose, Sissy?" "O no!" she eagerly returned. "They know everything." "Tell me some of your mistakes." "I am almost ashamed," said Sissy, with reluctance. "But to-day, for instance, Mr. M'Choakumchild was explaining to us about Natural Prosperity." "National, I think it must have been," observed Louisa. "Yes, it was. But isn't it the same?" she timidly asked. "You had better say, National, as he said so," returned Louisa, with her dry reserve. "National Prosperity. And he said, Now, this schoolroom is a Nation. And in this nation, there are fifty millions of money. Isn't this a prosperous nation? Girl number twenty, isn't this a prosperous nation, and a'n't you in a thriving state?" "What did you say?" asked Louisa. "Miss Louisa, I said I didn't know. I thought I couldn't know whether it was a prosperous nation or not, and whether I was in a thriving state or not, unless I knew who had got the money, and whether any of it was mine. But that had nothing to do with it. It was not in the figures at all," said Sissy, wiping her eyes. "That was a great mistake of yours," observed Louisa. "Yes, Miss Louisa, I know it was, now. Then Mr. M'Choakumchild said he would try me again. And he said, This schoolroom is an immense town, and in it there are a million of inhabitants, and only five-and-twenty are starved to death in the streets, in the course of a year. What is your remark on that proportion? And my remark was for I couldn't think of a better one that I thought it must be just as hard upon those who were starved, whether the others were a million, or a million million. And that was wrong, too." "Of course it was." "Then Mr. M'Choakumchild said he would try me once more. And he said, Here are the stutterings" "Statistics," said Louisa. "Yes, Miss Louisa they always remind me of stutterings, and that's another of my mistakes of accidents upon the sea. And I find (Mr. M'Choakumchild said) that in a given time a hundred thousand persons went to sea on long voyages, and only five hundred of them were drowned or burnt to death. What is the percentage? And I said, Miss;" here Sissy fairly sobbed as confessing with extreme contrition to her greatest error; "I said it was nothing." "Nothing, Sissy?" "Nothing, Miss to the relations and friends of the people who were killed. I shall never learn," said Sissy. "And the worst of all is, that although my poor father wished me so much to learn, and although I am so anxious to learn, because he wished me to, I am afraid I don't like it." Louisa stood looking at the pretty modest head, as it drooped abashed before her, until it was raised again to glance at her face. Then she asked: "Did your father know so much himself, that he wished you to be well taught too, Sissy?" Sissy hesitated before replying, and so plainly showed her sense that they were entering on forbidden ground, that Louisa added, "No one hears us; and if any one did, I am sure no harm could be found in such an innocent question." "No, Miss Louisa," answered Sissy, upon this encouragement, shaking her head; "father knows very little indeed. It's as much as he can do to write; and it's more than people in general can do to read his writing. Though it's plain to _me_." "Your mother?"<|quote|>"Father says she was quite a scholar. She died when I was born. She was;"</|quote|>Sissy made the terrible communication nervously; "she was a dancer." "Did your father love her?" Louisa asked these questions with a strong, wild, wandering interest peculiar to her; an interest gone astray like a banished creature, and hiding in solitary places. "O yes! As dearly as he loves me. Father loved me, first, for her sake. He carried me about with him when I was quite a baby. We have never been asunder from that time." "Yet he leaves you now, Sissy?" "Only for my good. Nobody understands him as I do; nobody knows him as I do. When he left me for my good he never would have left me for his own I know he was almost broken-hearted with the trial. He will not be happy for a single minute, till he comes back." "Tell me more about him," said Louisa, "I will never ask you again. Where did you live?" "We travelled about the country, and had no fixed place to live in. Father's a;" Sissy whispered the awful word, "a clown." "To make the people laugh?" said Louisa, with a nod of intelligence. "Yes. But they wouldn't laugh sometimes, and then father cried. Lately, they very often wouldn't laugh, and he used to come home despairing. Father's not like most. Those who didn't know him as well as I do, and didn't love him as dearly as I do, might believe he was not quite right. Sometimes they played tricks upon him; but they never knew how he felt them, and shrunk up, when he was alone with me. He was far, far timider than they thought!" "And you were his comfort through everything?" She nodded, with the tears rolling down her face. "I hope so, and father said I was. It was because he grew so scared and trembling, and because he felt himself to be a poor, weak, ignorant, helpless man (those used to be his words), that he wanted me so much to know a great deal, and be different from him. I used to read to him to cheer his courage, and he was very fond of that. They were wrong books I am never to speak of them here but we didn't know there was any harm in them." "And he liked them?" said Louisa, with a searching gaze on Sissy all this time. "O very much! They kept him, many times, from what did him real harm. And often and often of a night, he used to forget all his troubles in wondering whether the Sultan would let the lady go on with the story, or would have her head cut off before it was finished." "And your father was always kind? To the last?" asked Louisa contravening the great principle, and wondering very much. "Always, always!" returned Sissy, clasping her hands. "Kinder and kinder than I can tell. He was angry only one night, and that was not to me, but Merrylegs. Merrylegs;" she whispered the awful fact; "is his performing dog." "Why was he angry with the dog?" Louisa demanded. "Father, soon after they came home from performing, told Merrylegs to jump up on the backs of the two chairs and stand across them which is one of his tricks. He looked at father, and didn't do it at once. Everything of father's had gone wrong that night, and he hadn't pleased the public at all. He cried out that the very dog knew he was failing, and had no compassion on him. Then he beat the dog, and I was frightened, and said," "Father, father! Pray don't hurt the creature who is so fond of you! O Heaven forgive you, father, stop!" "And he stopped, and the dog was bloody, and father lay down crying on the floor with the dog in his arms, and the dog licked his face." Louisa saw that she was sobbing; and going to her, kissed her, took her hand, and sat down beside her. "Finish by telling me how your father left you, Sissy. Now that I have asked you so much, tell me the end. The blame, if there is any blame, is mine, not yours." "Dear Miss Louisa," said Sissy, covering her eyes, and sobbing yet; "I came home from the school that afternoon, and found poor father just come home too, from the booth. And he sat rocking himself over the fire, as if he was in pain. And I said," "Have you hurt yourself, father?" "(as he did sometimes, like they all did), and he said," "A little, my darling." "And when I came to stoop down and look up at his face, I saw that he was crying. The more I spoke to him, the more he hid his face; and at first he shook all | I was in a thriving state or not, unless I knew who had got the money, and whether any of it was mine. But that had nothing to do with it. It was not in the figures at all," said Sissy, wiping her eyes. "That was a great mistake of yours," observed Louisa. "Yes, Miss Louisa, I know it was, now. Then Mr. M'Choakumchild said he would try me again. And he said, This schoolroom is an immense town, and in it there are a million of inhabitants, and only five-and-twenty are starved to death in the streets, in the course of a year. What is your remark on that proportion? And my remark was for I couldn't think of a better one that I thought it must be just as hard upon those who were starved, whether the others were a million, or a million million. And that was wrong, too." "Of course it was." "Then Mr. M'Choakumchild said he would try me once more. And he said, Here are the stutterings" "Statistics," said Louisa. "Yes, Miss Louisa they always remind me of stutterings, and that's another of my mistakes of accidents upon the sea. And I find (Mr. M'Choakumchild said) that in a given time a hundred thousand persons went to sea on long voyages, and only five hundred of them were drowned or burnt to death. What is the percentage? And I said, Miss;" here Sissy fairly sobbed as confessing with extreme contrition to her greatest error; "I said it was nothing." "Nothing, Sissy?" "Nothing, Miss to the relations and friends of the people who were killed. I shall never learn," said Sissy. "And the worst of all is, that although my poor father wished me so much to learn, and although I am so anxious to learn, because he wished me to, I am afraid I don't like it." Louisa stood looking at the pretty modest head, as it drooped abashed before her, until it was raised again to glance at her face. Then she asked: "Did your father know so much himself, that he wished you to be well taught too, Sissy?" Sissy hesitated before replying, and so plainly showed her sense that they were entering on forbidden ground, that Louisa added, "No one hears us; and if any one did, I am sure no harm could be found in such an innocent question." "No, Miss Louisa," answered Sissy, upon this encouragement, shaking her head; "father knows very little indeed. It's as much as he can do to write; and it's more than people in general can do to read his writing. Though it's plain to _me_." "Your mother?"<|quote|>"Father says she was quite a scholar. She died when I was born. She was;"</|quote|>Sissy made the terrible communication nervously; "she was a dancer." "Did your father love her?" Louisa asked these questions with a strong, wild, wandering interest peculiar to her; an interest gone astray like a banished creature, and hiding in solitary places. "O yes! As dearly as he loves me. Father loved me, first, for her sake. He carried me about with him when I was quite a baby. We have never been asunder from that time." "Yet he leaves you now, Sissy?" "Only for my good. Nobody understands him as I do; nobody knows him as I do. When he left me for my good he never would have left me for his own I know he was almost broken-hearted with the trial. He will not be happy for a single minute, till he comes back." "Tell me more about him," said Louisa, "I will never ask you again. Where did you live?" "We travelled about the country, and had no fixed place to live in. Father's a;" Sissy whispered the awful word, "a clown." "To make the people laugh?" said Louisa, with a nod of intelligence. "Yes. But they wouldn't laugh sometimes, and then father cried. Lately, they very often wouldn't laugh, and he used to come home despairing. Father's not like most. Those who didn't know him as well as I do, and didn't love him as dearly as I do, might believe he was not quite right. Sometimes they played tricks upon him; but they never knew how he felt them, and shrunk up, when he was alone with me. He was far, far timider than they thought!" "And you were his comfort through everything?" She nodded, with the tears rolling down her face. "I hope so, and father said I was. It was because he grew so scared and trembling, and because he felt himself to be a poor, weak, ignorant, helpless man (those used to be his words), that he wanted me so much to know a great deal, and be different from him. I used to read to him to cheer his courage, and he was very fond of that. They were wrong books I am never to speak of them here but we didn't know there was any harm in them." "And he liked them?" said Louisa, with a searching gaze on Sissy all | Hard Times |
Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her. | No speaker | of this part of Highbury."<|quote|>Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her.</|quote|>"I wish we could contrive | hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part of Highbury."<|quote|>Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her.</|quote|>"I wish we could contrive it," said she; "but I | are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much." "I do not often walk this way _now_," said Emma, as they proceeded, "but _then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part of Highbury."<|quote|>Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her.</|quote|>"I wish we could contrive it," said she; "but I cannot think of any tolerable pretence for going in;--no servant that I want to inquire about of his housekeeper--no message from my father." She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of some minutes, Harriet thus began | the present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing eyes.--Emma's remark was-- "There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these days." "--Harriet's was-- "Oh, what a sweet house!--How very beautiful!--There are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much." "I do not often walk this way _now_," said Emma, as they proceeded, "but _then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part of Highbury."<|quote|>Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her.</|quote|>"I wish we could contrive it," said she; "but I cannot think of any tolerable pretence for going in;--no servant that I want to inquire about of his housekeeper--no message from my father." She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of some minutes, Harriet thus began again-- "I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or going to be married! so charming as you are!" "-- Emma laughed, and replied, "My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry; I must find other people charming--one other person at | who lived a little way out of Highbury. Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of the place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton. A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had no advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing eyes.--Emma's remark was-- "There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these days." "--Harriet's was-- "Oh, what a sweet house!--How very beautiful!--There are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much." "I do not often walk this way _now_," said Emma, as they proceeded, "but _then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part of Highbury."<|quote|>Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her.</|quote|>"I wish we could contrive it," said she; "but I cannot think of any tolerable pretence for going in;--no servant that I want to inquire about of his housekeeper--no message from my father." She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of some minutes, Harriet thus began again-- "I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or going to be married! so charming as you are!" "-- Emma laughed, and replied, "My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry; I must find other people charming--one other person at least. And I am not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little intention of ever marrying at all." "Ah!--so you say; but I cannot believe it." "I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be tempted; Mr. Elton, you know," (recollecting herself,) "is out of the question: and I do _not_ wish to see any such person. I would rather not be tempted. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to marry, I must expect to repent it." "Dear me!--it is so odd to hear a | friend; but so good a charade must not be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman's approbation while he writes with such gallantry." "I have no hesitation in saying," replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating a good deal while he spoke; "I have no hesitation in saying--at least if my friend feels at all as _I_ do--I have not the smallest doubt that, could he see his little effusion honoured as _I_ see it," (looking at the book again, and replacing it on the table), "he would consider it as the proudest moment of his life." After this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think it too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was a sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to laugh. She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and the sublime of pleasure to Harriet's share. CHAPTER X Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out of Highbury. Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of the place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton. A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had no advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing eyes.--Emma's remark was-- "There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these days." "--Harriet's was-- "Oh, what a sweet house!--How very beautiful!--There are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much." "I do not often walk this way _now_," said Emma, as they proceeded, "but _then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part of Highbury."<|quote|>Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her.</|quote|>"I wish we could contrive it," said she; "but I cannot think of any tolerable pretence for going in;--no servant that I want to inquire about of his housekeeper--no message from my father." She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of some minutes, Harriet thus began again-- "I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or going to be married! so charming as you are!" "-- Emma laughed, and replied, "My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry; I must find other people charming--one other person at least. And I am not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little intention of ever marrying at all." "Ah!--so you say; but I cannot believe it." "I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be tempted; Mr. Elton, you know," (recollecting herself,) "is out of the question: and I do _not_ wish to see any such person. I would rather not be tempted. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to marry, I must expect to repent it." "Dear me!--it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!" "-- "I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing! but I never have been in love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall. And, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a situation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want; consequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much mistress of their husband's house as I am of Hartfield; and never, never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always first and always right in any man's eyes as I am in my father's." "But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!" "That is as formidable an image as you could present, Harriet; and if I thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so silly--so satisfied--so smiling--so prosing--so undistinguishing and unfastidious--and so apt to tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry to-morrow. But between _us_, I am convinced there never can be | an affectionate father. The children are all fond of him." "And then their uncle comes in, and tosses them up to the ceiling in a very frightful way!" "But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so much. It is such enjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of their taking turns, whichever began would never give way to the other." "Well, I cannot understand it." "That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other." Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate in preparation for the regular four o'clock dinner, the hero of this inimitable charade walked in again. Harriet turned away; but Emma could receive him with the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in his the consciousness of having made a push--of having thrown a die; and she imagined he was come to see how it might turn up. His ostensible reason, however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse's party could be made up in the evening without him, or whether he should be in the smallest degree necessary at Hartfield. If he were, every thing else must give way; but otherwise his friend Cole had been saying so much about his dining with him--had made such a point of it, that he had promised him conditionally to come. Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend on their account; her father was sure of his rubber. He re-urged--she re-declined; and he seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the paper from the table, she returned it-- "Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us; thank you for the sight of it. We admired it so much, that I have ventured to write it into Miss Smith's collection. Your friend will not take it amiss I hope. Of course I have not transcribed beyond the first eight lines." Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say. He looked rather doubtingly--rather confused; said something about "honour,"--glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book open on the table, took it up, and examined it very attentively. With the view of passing off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said, "You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade must not be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman's approbation while he writes with such gallantry." "I have no hesitation in saying," replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating a good deal while he spoke; "I have no hesitation in saying--at least if my friend feels at all as _I_ do--I have not the smallest doubt that, could he see his little effusion honoured as _I_ see it," (looking at the book again, and replacing it on the table), "he would consider it as the proudest moment of his life." After this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think it too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was a sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to laugh. She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and the sublime of pleasure to Harriet's share. CHAPTER X Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out of Highbury. Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of the place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton. A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had no advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing eyes.--Emma's remark was-- "There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these days." "--Harriet's was-- "Oh, what a sweet house!--How very beautiful!--There are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much." "I do not often walk this way _now_," said Emma, as they proceeded, "but _then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part of Highbury."<|quote|>Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her.</|quote|>"I wish we could contrive it," said she; "but I cannot think of any tolerable pretence for going in;--no servant that I want to inquire about of his housekeeper--no message from my father." She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of some minutes, Harriet thus began again-- "I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or going to be married! so charming as you are!" "-- Emma laughed, and replied, "My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry; I must find other people charming--one other person at least. And I am not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little intention of ever marrying at all." "Ah!--so you say; but I cannot believe it." "I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be tempted; Mr. Elton, you know," (recollecting herself,) "is out of the question: and I do _not_ wish to see any such person. I would rather not be tempted. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to marry, I must expect to repent it." "Dear me!--it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!" "-- "I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing! but I never have been in love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall. And, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a situation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want; consequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much mistress of their husband's house as I am of Hartfield; and never, never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always first and always right in any man's eyes as I am in my father's." "But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!" "That is as formidable an image as you could present, Harriet; and if I thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so silly--so satisfied--so smiling--so prosing--so undistinguishing and unfastidious--and so apt to tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry to-morrow. But between _us_, I am convinced there never can be any likeness, except in being unmarried." "But still, you will be an old maid! and that's so dreadful!" "Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public! A single woman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old maid! the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant as any body else. And the distinction is not quite so much against the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first; for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper. Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross. This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very much to the taste of every body, though single and though poor. Poverty certainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had only a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her: that is a great charm." "Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you grow old?" "If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great many independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more in want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman's usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil to be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope | moment of his life." After this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think it too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was a sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to laugh. She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and the sublime of pleasure to Harriet's share. CHAPTER X Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out of Highbury. Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of the place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton. A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had no advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing eyes.--Emma's remark was-- "There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these days." "--Harriet's was-- "Oh, what a sweet house!--How very beautiful!--There are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much." "I do not often walk this way _now_," said Emma, as they proceeded, "but _then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part of Highbury."<|quote|>Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her.</|quote|>"I wish we could contrive it," said she; "but I cannot think of any tolerable pretence for going in;--no servant that I want to inquire about of his housekeeper--no message from my father." She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of some minutes, Harriet thus began again-- "I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or going to be married! so charming as you are!" "-- Emma laughed, and replied, "My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry; I must find other people charming--one other person at least. And I am not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little intention of ever marrying at all." "Ah!--so you say; but I cannot believe it." "I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be tempted; Mr. Elton, you know," (recollecting herself,) "is out of the question: and I do _not_ wish to see any such person. I would rather not be tempted. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to marry, I must expect to repent it." "Dear me!--it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!" "-- "I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing! but I never have been in love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall. And, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a situation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want; consequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much mistress of their husband's house as I am of Hartfield; and never, never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always first and always right in any man's eyes as I am in my father's." "But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!" "That is as formidable an | Emma |
exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh. | No speaker | afraid I must be going,"<|quote|>exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh.</|quote|>"I have promised to drive | value of nothing." "I am afraid I must be going,"<|quote|>exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh.</|quote|>"I have promised to drive with the duchess. Good-bye, Mr. | with an amused smile. "So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of old brocade in Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing." "I am afraid I must be going,"<|quote|>exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh.</|quote|>"I have promised to drive with the duchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are dining out, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury s." "I dare say, my dear," said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her as, looking like a bird of | about music. We have quite the same ideas. No; I think our ideas are quite different. But he has been most pleasant. I am so glad I ve seen him." "I am charmed, my love, quite charmed," said Lord Henry, elevating his dark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused smile. "So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of old brocade in Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing." "I am afraid I must be going,"<|quote|>exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh.</|quote|>"I have promised to drive with the duchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are dining out, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury s." "I dare say, my dear," said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her as, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the rain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of frangipanni. Then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the sofa. "Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian," he said after a few puffs. "Why, Harry?" | born in England become foreigners after a time, don t they? It is so clever of them, and such a compliment to art. Makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn t it? You have never been to any of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must come. I can t afford orchids, but I spare no expense in foreigners. They make one s rooms look so picturesque. But here is Harry! Harry, I came in to look for you, to ask you something I forget what it was and I found Mr. Gray here. We have had such a pleasant chat about music. We have quite the same ideas. No; I think our ideas are quite different. But he has been most pleasant. I am so glad I ve seen him." "I am charmed, my love, quite charmed," said Lord Henry, elevating his dark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused smile. "So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of old brocade in Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing." "I am afraid I must be going,"<|quote|>exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh.</|quote|>"I have promised to drive with the duchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are dining out, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury s." "I dare say, my dear," said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her as, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the rain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of frangipanni. Then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the sofa. "Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian," he said after a few puffs. "Why, Harry?" "Because they are so sentimental." "But I like sentimental people." "Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed." "I don t think I am likely to marry, Harry. I am too much in love. That is one of your aphorisms. I am putting it into practice, as I do everything that you say." "Who are you in love with?" asked Lord Henry after a pause. "With an actress," said Dorian Gray, blushing. Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "That is a rather commonplace _d but_." "You would not say so | dear Lohengrin. I like Wagner s music better than anybody s. It is so loud that one can talk the whole time without other people hearing what one says. That is a great advantage, don t you think so, Mr. Gray?" The same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her fingers began to play with a long tortoise-shell paper-knife. Dorian smiled and shook his head: "I am afraid I don t think so, Lady Henry. I never talk during music at least, during good music. If one hears bad music, it is one s duty to drown it in conversation." "Ah! that is one of Harry s views, isn t it, Mr. Gray? I always hear Harry s views from his friends. It is the only way I get to know of them. But you must not think I don t like good music. I adore it, but I am afraid of it. It makes me too romantic. I have simply worshipped pianists two at a time, sometimes, Harry tells me. I don t know what it is about them. Perhaps it is that they are foreigners. They all are, ain t they? Even those that are born in England become foreigners after a time, don t they? It is so clever of them, and such a compliment to art. Makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn t it? You have never been to any of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must come. I can t afford orchids, but I spare no expense in foreigners. They make one s rooms look so picturesque. But here is Harry! Harry, I came in to look for you, to ask you something I forget what it was and I found Mr. Gray here. We have had such a pleasant chat about music. We have quite the same ideas. No; I think our ideas are quite different. But he has been most pleasant. I am so glad I ve seen him." "I am charmed, my love, quite charmed," said Lord Henry, elevating his dark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused smile. "So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of old brocade in Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing." "I am afraid I must be going,"<|quote|>exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh.</|quote|>"I have promised to drive with the duchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are dining out, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury s." "I dare say, my dear," said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her as, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the rain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of frangipanni. Then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the sofa. "Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian," he said after a few puffs. "Why, Harry?" "Because they are so sentimental." "But I like sentimental people." "Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed." "I don t think I am likely to marry, Harry. I am too much in love. That is one of your aphorisms. I am putting it into practice, as I do everything that you say." "Who are you in love with?" asked Lord Henry after a pause. "With an actress," said Dorian Gray, blushing. Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "That is a rather commonplace _d but_." "You would not say so if you saw her, Harry." "Who is she?" "Her name is Sibyl Vane." "Never heard of her." "No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius." "My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are a decorative sex. They never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women represent the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the triumph of mind over morals." "Harry, how can you?" "My dear Dorian, it is quite true. I am analysing women at present, so I ought to know. The subject is not so abstruse as I thought it was. I find that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain and the coloured. The plain women are very useful. If you want to gain a reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down to supper. The other women are very charming. They commit one mistake, however. They paint in order to try and look young. Our grandmothers painted in order to try and talk brilliantly. _Rouge_ and _esprit_ used to go together. That is all over now. As long as a woman can look ten years younger than her own daughter, | afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry s house in Mayfair. It was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled wainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze and ceiling of raised plasterwork, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk, long-fringed Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of Les Cent Nouvelles, bound for Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve and powdered with the gilt daisies that Queen had selected for her device. Some large blue china jars and parrot-tulips were ranged on the mantelshelf, and through the small leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a summer day in London. Lord Henry had not yet come in. He was always late on principle, his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad was looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages of an elaborately illustrated edition of Manon Lescaut that he had found in one of the book-cases. The formal monotonous ticking of the Louis Quatorze clock annoyed him. Once or twice he thought of going away. At last he heard a step outside, and the door opened. "How late you are, Harry!" he murmured. "I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray," answered a shrill voice. He glanced quickly round and rose to his feet. "I beg your pardon. I thought" "You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let me introduce myself. I know you quite well by your photographs. I think my husband has got seventeen of them." "Not seventeen, Lady Henry?" "Well, eighteen, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the opera." She laughed nervously as she spoke, and watched him with her vague forget-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman, whose dresses always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest. She was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never returned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. Her name was Victoria, and she had a perfect mania for going to church. "That was at Lohengrin, Lady Henry, I think?" "Yes; it was at dear Lohengrin. I like Wagner s music better than anybody s. It is so loud that one can talk the whole time without other people hearing what one says. That is a great advantage, don t you think so, Mr. Gray?" The same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her fingers began to play with a long tortoise-shell paper-knife. Dorian smiled and shook his head: "I am afraid I don t think so, Lady Henry. I never talk during music at least, during good music. If one hears bad music, it is one s duty to drown it in conversation." "Ah! that is one of Harry s views, isn t it, Mr. Gray? I always hear Harry s views from his friends. It is the only way I get to know of them. But you must not think I don t like good music. I adore it, but I am afraid of it. It makes me too romantic. I have simply worshipped pianists two at a time, sometimes, Harry tells me. I don t know what it is about them. Perhaps it is that they are foreigners. They all are, ain t they? Even those that are born in England become foreigners after a time, don t they? It is so clever of them, and such a compliment to art. Makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn t it? You have never been to any of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must come. I can t afford orchids, but I spare no expense in foreigners. They make one s rooms look so picturesque. But here is Harry! Harry, I came in to look for you, to ask you something I forget what it was and I found Mr. Gray here. We have had such a pleasant chat about music. We have quite the same ideas. No; I think our ideas are quite different. But he has been most pleasant. I am so glad I ve seen him." "I am charmed, my love, quite charmed," said Lord Henry, elevating his dark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused smile. "So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of old brocade in Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing." "I am afraid I must be going,"<|quote|>exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh.</|quote|>"I have promised to drive with the duchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are dining out, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury s." "I dare say, my dear," said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her as, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the rain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of frangipanni. Then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the sofa. "Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian," he said after a few puffs. "Why, Harry?" "Because they are so sentimental." "But I like sentimental people." "Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed." "I don t think I am likely to marry, Harry. I am too much in love. That is one of your aphorisms. I am putting it into practice, as I do everything that you say." "Who are you in love with?" asked Lord Henry after a pause. "With an actress," said Dorian Gray, blushing. Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "That is a rather commonplace _d but_." "You would not say so if you saw her, Harry." "Who is she?" "Her name is Sibyl Vane." "Never heard of her." "No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius." "My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are a decorative sex. They never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women represent the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the triumph of mind over morals." "Harry, how can you?" "My dear Dorian, it is quite true. I am analysing women at present, so I ought to know. The subject is not so abstruse as I thought it was. I find that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain and the coloured. The plain women are very useful. If you want to gain a reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down to supper. The other women are very charming. They commit one mistake, however. They paint in order to try and look young. Our grandmothers painted in order to try and talk brilliantly. _Rouge_ and _esprit_ used to go together. That is all over now. As long as a woman can look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied. As for conversation, there are only five women in London worth talking to, and two of these can t be admitted into decent society. However, tell me about your genius. How long have you known her?" "Ah! Harry, your views terrify me." "Never mind that. How long have you known her?" "About three weeks." "And where did you come across her?" "I will tell you, Harry, but you mustn t be unsympathetic about it. After all, it never would have happened if I had not met you. You filled me with a wild desire to know everything about life. For days after I met you, something seemed to throb in my veins. As I lounged in the park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at every one who passed me and wonder, with a mad curiosity, what sort of lives they led. Some of them fascinated me. Others filled me with terror. There was an exquisite poison in the air. I had a passion for sensations.... Well, one evening about seven o clock, I determined to go out in search of some adventure. I felt that this grey monstrous London of ours, with its myriads of people, its sordid sinners, and its splendid sins, as you once phrased it, must have something in store for me. I fancied a thousand things. The mere danger gave me a sense of delight. I remembered what you had said to me on that wonderful evening when we first dined together, about the search for beauty being the real secret of life. I don t know what I expected, but I went out and wandered eastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and black grassless squares. About half-past eight I passed by an absurd little theatre, with great flaring gas-jets and gaudy play-bills. A hideous Jew, in the most amazing waistcoat I ever beheld in my life, was standing at the entrance, smoking a vile cigar. He had greasy ringlets, and an enormous diamond blazed in the centre of a soiled shirt." Have a box, my Lord? "he said, when he saw me, and he took off his hat with an air of gorgeous servility. There was something about him, Harry, that amused me. He was such a monster. You will laugh at me, I know, but I really went in and paid a | so, Lady Henry. I never talk during music at least, during good music. If one hears bad music, it is one s duty to drown it in conversation." "Ah! that is one of Harry s views, isn t it, Mr. Gray? I always hear Harry s views from his friends. It is the only way I get to know of them. But you must not think I don t like good music. I adore it, but I am afraid of it. It makes me too romantic. I have simply worshipped pianists two at a time, sometimes, Harry tells me. I don t know what it is about them. Perhaps it is that they are foreigners. They all are, ain t they? Even those that are born in England become foreigners after a time, don t they? It is so clever of them, and such a compliment to art. Makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn t it? You have never been to any of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must come. I can t afford orchids, but I spare no expense in foreigners. They make one s rooms look so picturesque. But here is Harry! Harry, I came in to look for you, to ask you something I forget what it was and I found Mr. Gray here. We have had such a pleasant chat about music. We have quite the same ideas. No; I think our ideas are quite different. But he has been most pleasant. I am so glad I ve seen him." "I am charmed, my love, quite charmed," said Lord Henry, elevating his dark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused smile. "So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of old brocade in Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing." "I am afraid I must be going,"<|quote|>exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh.</|quote|>"I have promised to drive with the duchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are dining out, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury s." "I dare say, my dear," said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her as, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the rain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of frangipanni. Then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the sofa. "Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian," he said after a few puffs. "Why, Harry?" "Because they are so sentimental." "But I like sentimental people." "Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed." "I don t think I am likely to marry, Harry. I am too much in love. That is one of your aphorisms. I am putting it into practice, as I do everything that you say." "Who are you in love with?" asked Lord Henry after a pause. "With an actress," said Dorian Gray, blushing. Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "That is a rather commonplace _d but_." "You would not say so if you saw her, Harry." "Who is she?" "Her name is Sibyl Vane." "Never heard of her." "No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius." "My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are a decorative sex. They never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women represent the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the triumph of mind over morals." "Harry, how can you?" "My dear Dorian, it is quite true. I am analysing women at present, so I ought to know. The subject is not so abstruse as I thought it was. I find that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain and the coloured. The plain women are very useful. If you want to gain a reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down to supper. The other women are very charming. They commit one mistake, however. They paint in order to try and look young. Our grandmothers painted in order to try and talk brilliantly. _Rouge_ and _esprit_ used to go together. That is all over now. As long as a woman can look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied. As for conversation, there are only five women in London worth talking to, and two of these can t be admitted into decent society. However, tell me about your genius. How long have you known her?" | The Picture Of Dorian Gray |
"May I never forget you!" | Tjaden | pot and smacks his lips:<|quote|>"May I never forget you!"</|quote|>We go to our hut. | drinks the gravy from the pot and smacks his lips:<|quote|>"May I never forget you!"</|quote|>We go to our hut. Again there is the lofty | to wake them. But first we pack away the feathers. Kropp and Tjaden take us for magicians. Then they get busy with their teeth. Tjaden holds a wing in his mouth with both hands like a mouth-organ, and gnaws. He drinks the gravy from the pot and smacks his lips:<|quote|>"May I never forget you!"</|quote|>We go to our hut. Again there is the lofty sky with the stars and the oncoming dawn, and I pass on beneath it, a soldier with big boots and a full belly, a little soldier in the early morning--but by my side, stooping and angular, goes Kat, my comrade. | Kropp and Tjaden?" "Sure," says he. We carve off a portion and wrap it up carefully in newspaper. The rest we thought of taking over to the hut. Kat laughs, and simply says: "Tjaden." I agree, we will have to take it all. So we go off to the fowl-house to wake them. But first we pack away the feathers. Kropp and Tjaden take us for magicians. Then they get busy with their teeth. Tjaden holds a wing in his mouth with both hands like a mouth-organ, and gnaws. He drinks the gravy from the pot and smacks his lips:<|quote|>"May I never forget you!"</|quote|>We go to our hut. Again there is the lofty sky with the stars and the oncoming dawn, and I pass on beneath it, a soldier with big boots and a full belly, a little soldier in the early morning--but by my side, stooping and angular, goes Kat, my comrade. The outlines of the huts are upon us in the dawn like a dark, deep sleep. CHAPTER VI There are rumours of an offensive. We go up to the front two days earlier than usual. On the way we pass a shelled school-house. Stacked up against its longer side is | to the fire. Then he says: "It's done." "Yes, Kat." I stir myself. In the middle of the room shines the brown goose. We take out our collapsible forks and our pocket-knives and each cuts off a leg. With it we have army bread dipped in gravy. We eat slowly and with gusto. "How does it taste, Kat?" "Good! And yours?" "Good, Kat." We are brothers and press on one another the choicest pieces. Afterwards I smoke a cigarette and Kat a cigar. There is still a lot left. "How would it be, Kat, if we took a bit to Kropp and Tjaden?" "Sure," says he. We carve off a portion and wrap it up carefully in newspaper. The rest we thought of taking over to the hut. Kat laughs, and simply says: "Tjaden." I agree, we will have to take it all. So we go off to the fowl-house to wake them. But first we pack away the feathers. Kropp and Tjaden take us for magicians. Then they get busy with their teeth. Tjaden holds a wing in his mouth with both hands like a mouth-organ, and gnaws. He drinks the gravy from the pot and smacks his lips:<|quote|>"May I never forget you!"</|quote|>We go to our hut. Again there is the lofty sky with the stars and the oncoming dawn, and I pass on beneath it, a soldier with big boots and a full belly, a little soldier in the early morning--but by my side, stooping and angular, goes Kat, my comrade. The outlines of the huts are upon us in the dawn like a dark, deep sleep. CHAPTER VI There are rumours of an offensive. We go up to the front two days earlier than usual. On the way we pass a shelled school-house. Stacked up against its longer side is a high double wall of yellow, unpolished, brand-new coffins. They still smell of fir, and pine, and the forest. There are at least a hundred. "That's a good preparation for the offensive," says Müller astonished. "They're for us," growls Detering. "Don't talk rot," says Kat to him angrily. "You be thankful if you get so much as a coffin," grins Tjaden, "they'll slip you a water-proof sheet for your old Aunt Sally of a carcase." The others jest too, unpleasant jests, but what else can a man do?--The coffins are really for us. The organization surpasses itself in that kind | volume, pass into my dream and yet linger in my memory. In a half sleep I watch Kat dip and raise the ladle. I love him, his shoulders, his angular, stooping figure--and at the same time I see behind him woods and stars, and a clear voice utters words that bring me peace, to me, a soldier in big boots, belt, and knapsack, taking the road that lies before him under the high heaven, quickly forgetting and seldom sorrowful, for ever pressing on under the wide night sky. A little soldier and a clear voice, and if anyone were to caress him he would hardly understand, this soldier with the big boots and shut heart, who marches because he is wearing big boots, and has forgotten all else but marching. Beyond the sky-line is a country with flowers, lying so still that he would like to weep. There are sights there that he has not forgotten, because he never possessed them--perplexing, yet lost to him. Are not his twenty summers there? Is my face wet, and where am I? Kat stands before me, his gigantic, stooping shadow falls upon me like home. He speaks gently, he smiles and goes back to the fire. Then he says: "It's done." "Yes, Kat." I stir myself. In the middle of the room shines the brown goose. We take out our collapsible forks and our pocket-knives and each cuts off a leg. With it we have army bread dipped in gravy. We eat slowly and with gusto. "How does it taste, Kat?" "Good! And yours?" "Good, Kat." We are brothers and press on one another the choicest pieces. Afterwards I smoke a cigarette and Kat a cigar. There is still a lot left. "How would it be, Kat, if we took a bit to Kropp and Tjaden?" "Sure," says he. We carve off a portion and wrap it up carefully in newspaper. The rest we thought of taking over to the hut. Kat laughs, and simply says: "Tjaden." I agree, we will have to take it all. So we go off to the fowl-house to wake them. But first we pack away the feathers. Kropp and Tjaden take us for magicians. Then they get busy with their teeth. Tjaden holds a wing in his mouth with both hands like a mouth-organ, and gnaws. He drinks the gravy from the pot and smacks his lips:<|quote|>"May I never forget you!"</|quote|>We go to our hut. Again there is the lofty sky with the stars and the oncoming dawn, and I pass on beneath it, a soldier with big boots and a full belly, a little soldier in the early morning--but by my side, stooping and angular, goes Kat, my comrade. The outlines of the huts are upon us in the dawn like a dark, deep sleep. CHAPTER VI There are rumours of an offensive. We go up to the front two days earlier than usual. On the way we pass a shelled school-house. Stacked up against its longer side is a high double wall of yellow, unpolished, brand-new coffins. They still smell of fir, and pine, and the forest. There are at least a hundred. "That's a good preparation for the offensive," says Müller astonished. "They're for us," growls Detering. "Don't talk rot," says Kat to him angrily. "You be thankful if you get so much as a coffin," grins Tjaden, "they'll slip you a water-proof sheet for your old Aunt Sally of a carcase." The others jest too, unpleasant jests, but what else can a man do?--The coffins are really for us. The organization surpasses itself in that kind of thing. Ahead of us everything is simmering. The first night we try to get our bearings. When it is fairly quiet we can hear the transports behind the enemy lines rolling ceaselessly until dawn. Kat says they do not go back but are bringing up troops--troops, munitions, and shells. The English artillery has been strengthened, that we can detect at once. There are at least four more batteries of twenty-fives to the right of the farm, and behind the poplars they have put in trench-mortars. Besides these they have brought up a number of those little French beasts with instantaneous fuses. We are in low spirits. After we have been in the dug-outs two hours our own shells begin to fall in the trench. This is the third time in four weeks. If it were simply a mistake in aim no one would say anything, but the truth is that the barrels are worn out. The shots are often so uncertain that they land within our own lines. To-night two of our men were wounded by them. * * The front is a cage in which we must await fearfully whatever may happen. We lie under the network of | than the dog is up again as lively as ever and springs at me. Quickly I let myself drop. Ten paces away stands Kat with the goose under his arm. As soon as he sees me we run. At last we can take a breather. The goose is dead, Kat saw to that in a moment. We intend to roast it, without telling anybody. I fetch a stove and wood from the hut and we crawl into a small deserted lean-to which we use for such purposes. The single window space is heavily curtained. There is a sort of hearth, an iron plate set on some bricks. We kindle a fire. Kat plucks and cleans the goose. We put the feathers carefully to one side. We intend to make two cushions out of them with the inscription: "Sleep soft under shell fire." The sound of the gun-fire from the front penetrates into our refuge. The glow of the fire lights up our faces, shadows dance on the wall. Sometimes a heavy crash and the hut shivers. Aeroplane bombs. Once we hear a stifled cry. A hut must have been hit. Aeroplanes drone; the tack-tack of machine guns breaks out. But no light that could be observed shows from us. We sit opposite one another, Kat and I, two soldiers in shabby coats, cooking a goose in the middle of the night. We don't talk much, but I believe we have a more complete communion with one another than even lovers have. We are two men, two minute sparks of life; outside is the night and the circle of death. We sit on the edge of it crouching in danger, the grease drips from our hands, in our hearts we are close to one another, and the hour is like the room: flecked over with the lights and shadows of our feelings cast by a quiet fire. What does he know of me or I of him? formerly we should not have had a single thought in common--now we sit with a goose between us and feel in unison, and are so intimate that we do not even speak. It takes a long time to roast a goose, even when it is young and fat. So we take turns. One bastes it while the other lies down and sleeps. A grand smell gradually fills the hut. The noises without increase in volume, pass into my dream and yet linger in my memory. In a half sleep I watch Kat dip and raise the ladle. I love him, his shoulders, his angular, stooping figure--and at the same time I see behind him woods and stars, and a clear voice utters words that bring me peace, to me, a soldier in big boots, belt, and knapsack, taking the road that lies before him under the high heaven, quickly forgetting and seldom sorrowful, for ever pressing on under the wide night sky. A little soldier and a clear voice, and if anyone were to caress him he would hardly understand, this soldier with the big boots and shut heart, who marches because he is wearing big boots, and has forgotten all else but marching. Beyond the sky-line is a country with flowers, lying so still that he would like to weep. There are sights there that he has not forgotten, because he never possessed them--perplexing, yet lost to him. Are not his twenty summers there? Is my face wet, and where am I? Kat stands before me, his gigantic, stooping shadow falls upon me like home. He speaks gently, he smiles and goes back to the fire. Then he says: "It's done." "Yes, Kat." I stir myself. In the middle of the room shines the brown goose. We take out our collapsible forks and our pocket-knives and each cuts off a leg. With it we have army bread dipped in gravy. We eat slowly and with gusto. "How does it taste, Kat?" "Good! And yours?" "Good, Kat." We are brothers and press on one another the choicest pieces. Afterwards I smoke a cigarette and Kat a cigar. There is still a lot left. "How would it be, Kat, if we took a bit to Kropp and Tjaden?" "Sure," says he. We carve off a portion and wrap it up carefully in newspaper. The rest we thought of taking over to the hut. Kat laughs, and simply says: "Tjaden." I agree, we will have to take it all. So we go off to the fowl-house to wake them. But first we pack away the feathers. Kropp and Tjaden take us for magicians. Then they get busy with their teeth. Tjaden holds a wing in his mouth with both hands like a mouth-organ, and gnaws. He drinks the gravy from the pot and smacks his lips:<|quote|>"May I never forget you!"</|quote|>We go to our hut. Again there is the lofty sky with the stars and the oncoming dawn, and I pass on beneath it, a soldier with big boots and a full belly, a little soldier in the early morning--but by my side, stooping and angular, goes Kat, my comrade. The outlines of the huts are upon us in the dawn like a dark, deep sleep. CHAPTER VI There are rumours of an offensive. We go up to the front two days earlier than usual. On the way we pass a shelled school-house. Stacked up against its longer side is a high double wall of yellow, unpolished, brand-new coffins. They still smell of fir, and pine, and the forest. There are at least a hundred. "That's a good preparation for the offensive," says Müller astonished. "They're for us," growls Detering. "Don't talk rot," says Kat to him angrily. "You be thankful if you get so much as a coffin," grins Tjaden, "they'll slip you a water-proof sheet for your old Aunt Sally of a carcase." The others jest too, unpleasant jests, but what else can a man do?--The coffins are really for us. The organization surpasses itself in that kind of thing. Ahead of us everything is simmering. The first night we try to get our bearings. When it is fairly quiet we can hear the transports behind the enemy lines rolling ceaselessly until dawn. Kat says they do not go back but are bringing up troops--troops, munitions, and shells. The English artillery has been strengthened, that we can detect at once. There are at least four more batteries of twenty-fives to the right of the farm, and behind the poplars they have put in trench-mortars. Besides these they have brought up a number of those little French beasts with instantaneous fuses. We are in low spirits. After we have been in the dug-outs two hours our own shells begin to fall in the trench. This is the third time in four weeks. If it were simply a mistake in aim no one would say anything, but the truth is that the barrels are worn out. The shots are often so uncertain that they land within our own lines. To-night two of our men were wounded by them. * * The front is a cage in which we must await fearfully whatever may happen. We lie under the network of arching shells and live in a suspense of uncertainty. Over us Chance hovers. If a shot comes, we can duck, that is all; we neither know nor can determine where it will fall. It is this Chance that makes us indifferent. A few months ago I was sitting in a dug-out playing skat; after a while I stood up and went to visit some friends in another dug-out. On my return nothing more was to be seen of the first one, it had been blown to pieces by a direct hit. I went back to the second and arrived just in time to lend a hand digging it out. In the interval it had been buried. It is just as much a matter of chance that I am still alive as that I might have been hit. In a bomb-proof dug-out I may be smashed to atoms and in the open may survive ten hours' bombardment unscathed. No soldier outlives a thousand chances. But every soldier believes in Chance and trusts his luck. * * We must look out for our bread. The rats have become much more numerous lately because the trenches are no longer in good condition. Detering says it is a sure sign of a coming bombardment. The rats here are particularly repulsive, they are so fat--the kind we call corpse-rats. They have shocking, evil, naked faces, and it is nauseating to see their long, nude tails. They seem to be mighty hungry. Almost every man has had his bread gnawed. Kropp wrapped his in his waterproof sheet and put it under his head, but he cannot sleep because they run over his face to get at it. Detering meant to outwit them: he fastened a thin wire to the roof and suspended his bread from it. During the night when he switched on his pocket-torch he saw the wire swinging to and fro. On the bread was riding a fat rat. At last we put a stop to it. We cannot afford to throw the bread away, because already we have practically nothing left to eat in the morning, so we carefully cut off the bits of bread that the animals have gnawed. The slices we cut off are heaped together in the middle of the floor. Each man takes out his spade and lies down prepared to strike. Detering, Kropp, and Kat hold their pocket-lamps | that he would like to weep. There are sights there that he has not forgotten, because he never possessed them--perplexing, yet lost to him. Are not his twenty summers there? Is my face wet, and where am I? Kat stands before me, his gigantic, stooping shadow falls upon me like home. He speaks gently, he smiles and goes back to the fire. Then he says: "It's done." "Yes, Kat." I stir myself. In the middle of the room shines the brown goose. We take out our collapsible forks and our pocket-knives and each cuts off a leg. With it we have army bread dipped in gravy. We eat slowly and with gusto. "How does it taste, Kat?" "Good! And yours?" "Good, Kat." We are brothers and press on one another the choicest pieces. Afterwards I smoke a cigarette and Kat a cigar. There is still a lot left. "How would it be, Kat, if we took a bit to Kropp and Tjaden?" "Sure," says he. We carve off a portion and wrap it up carefully in newspaper. The rest we thought of taking over to the hut. Kat laughs, and simply says: "Tjaden." I agree, we will have to take it all. So we go off to the fowl-house to wake them. But first we pack away the feathers. Kropp and Tjaden take us for magicians. Then they get busy with their teeth. Tjaden holds a wing in his mouth with both hands like a mouth-organ, and gnaws. He drinks the gravy from the pot and smacks his lips:<|quote|>"May I never forget you!"</|quote|>We go to our hut. Again there is the lofty sky with the stars and the oncoming dawn, and I pass on beneath it, a soldier with big boots and a full belly, a little soldier in the early morning--but by my side, stooping and angular, goes Kat, my comrade. The outlines of the huts are upon us in the dawn like a dark, deep sleep. CHAPTER VI There are rumours of an offensive. We go up to the front two days earlier than usual. On the way we pass a shelled school-house. Stacked up against its longer side is a high double wall of yellow, unpolished, brand-new coffins. They still smell of fir, and pine, and the forest. There are at least a hundred. "That's a good preparation for the offensive," says Müller astonished. "They're for us," growls Detering. "Don't talk rot," says Kat to him angrily. "You be thankful if you get so much as a coffin," grins Tjaden, "they'll slip you a water-proof sheet for your old Aunt Sally of a carcase." The others jest too, unpleasant jests, but what else can a man do?--The coffins are really for us. The organization surpasses itself in that kind of thing. Ahead of us everything is simmering. The first night we try to get our bearings. When it is fairly quiet we can hear the transports behind the enemy lines rolling ceaselessly until dawn. Kat says they do not go back but are bringing up troops--troops, munitions, and shells. The English artillery has been strengthened, that we can detect at once. There are at least four more batteries of twenty-fives to the right of the farm, and | All Quiet on the Western Front |
“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.” | Crimble | all in his own world.”<|quote|>“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.”</|quote|>With which Hugh had a | despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.”<|quote|>“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.”</|quote|>With which Hugh had a still sharper recall of the | he _is_ a miserable peer.” “How should he not have rights,” said Hugh, “when he has really everything on earth?” “Ah, he doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.”<|quote|>“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.”</|quote|>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, | her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,” she smiled, “though he _is_ a miserable peer.” “How should he not have rights,” said Hugh, “when he has really everything on earth?” “Ah, he doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.”<|quote|>“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.”</|quote|>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 | 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.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.”<|quote|>“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.”</|quote|>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 | 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.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.”<|quote|>“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.”</|quote|>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 | 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.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.”<|quote|>“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.”</|quote|>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 a body and slay him.” The girl’s eyebrows, in her wondering face, rose to a question. “But if he has meanwhile got the picture?” “We’ll slay him before he gets it!” He revelled in the | 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.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.”<|quote|>“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.”</|quote|>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 | The Outcry |
he said gently. She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male. | No speaker | have something to tell you,"<|quote|>he said gently. She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male.</|quote|>"I don t want to | not pick them up. "I have something to tell you,"<|quote|>he said gently. She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male.</|quote|>"I don t want to hear it," she replied. "My | They sat down on the farther side, so that they could not be seen by Charles or Dolly. "Here are your keys," said Margaret. She tossed them towards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of grass, and he did not pick them up. "I have something to tell you,"<|quote|>he said gently. She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male.</|quote|>"I don t want to hear it," she replied. "My sister is going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. We must manage to build up something, she and I and her child." "Where are you going?" "Munich. We start after the inquest, if she | all the morning, and wish to sit down." "Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass." The Great North Road should have been bordered all its length with glebe. Henry s kind had filched most of it. She moved to the scrap opposite, wherein were the Six Hills. They sat down on the farther side, so that they could not be seen by Charles or Dolly. "Here are your keys," said Margaret. She tossed them towards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of grass, and he did not pick them up. "I have something to tell you,"<|quote|>he said gently. She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male.</|quote|>"I don t want to hear it," she replied. "My sister is going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. We must manage to build up something, she and I and her child." "Where are you going?" "Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too ill." "After the inquest?" "Yes." "Have you realised what the verdict at the inquest will be?" "Yes, heart disease." "No, my dear; manslaughter." Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill beneath her moved as if it were alive. "Manslaughter," repeated Mr. Wilcox. "Charles may go | s gate, and motioned the car to stop. When his wife got out he said hoarsely: "I prefer to discuss things with you outside." "It will be more appropriate in the road, I am afraid," said Margaret. "Did you get my message?" "What about?" "I am going to Germany with my sister. I must tell you now that I shall make it my permanent home. Our talk last night was more important than you have realised. I am unable to forgive you and am leaving you." "I am extremely tired," said Henry, in injured tones. "I have been walking about all the morning, and wish to sit down." "Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass." The Great North Road should have been bordered all its length with glebe. Henry s kind had filched most of it. She moved to the scrap opposite, wherein were the Six Hills. They sat down on the farther side, so that they could not be seen by Charles or Dolly. "Here are your keys," said Margaret. She tossed them towards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of grass, and he did not pick them up. "I have something to tell you,"<|quote|>he said gently. She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male.</|quote|>"I don t want to hear it," she replied. "My sister is going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. We must manage to build up something, she and I and her child." "Where are you going?" "Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too ill." "After the inquest?" "Yes." "Have you realised what the verdict at the inquest will be?" "Yes, heart disease." "No, my dear; manslaughter." Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill beneath her moved as if it were alive. "Manslaughter," repeated Mr. Wilcox. "Charles may go to prison. I dare not tell him. I don t know what to do--what to do. I m broken--I m ended." No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see that to break him was her only hope. She did not enfold the sufferer in her arms. But all through that day and the next a new life began to move. The verdict was brought in. Charles was committed for trial. It was against all reason that he should be punished, but the law, notwithstanding, sentenced him to three years imprisonment. Then Henry s fortress gave way. He could | Henry believed in it for himself. Yet, would they meet again? Are there not rather endless levels beyond the grave, as the theory that he had censured teaches? And his level, whether higher or lower, could it possibly be the same as hers? Thus gravely meditating, she was summoned by him. He sent up Crane in the motor. Other servants passed like water, but the chauffeur remained, though impertinent and disloyal. Margaret disliked Crane, and he knew it. "Is it the keys that Mr. Wilcox wants?" she asked. "He didn t say, madam." "You haven t any note for me?" "He didn t say, madam." After a moment s thought she locked up Howards End. It was pitiable to see in it the stirrings of warmth that would be quenched for ever. She raked out the fire that was blazing in the kitchen, and spread the coals in the gravelled yard. She closed the windows and drew the curtains. Henry would probably sell the place now. She was determined not to spare him, for nothing new had happened as far as they were concerned. Her mood might never have altered from yesterday evening. He was standing a little outside Charles s gate, and motioned the car to stop. When his wife got out he said hoarsely: "I prefer to discuss things with you outside." "It will be more appropriate in the road, I am afraid," said Margaret. "Did you get my message?" "What about?" "I am going to Germany with my sister. I must tell you now that I shall make it my permanent home. Our talk last night was more important than you have realised. I am unable to forgive you and am leaving you." "I am extremely tired," said Henry, in injured tones. "I have been walking about all the morning, and wish to sit down." "Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass." The Great North Road should have been bordered all its length with glebe. Henry s kind had filched most of it. She moved to the scrap opposite, wherein were the Six Hills. They sat down on the farther side, so that they could not be seen by Charles or Dolly. "Here are your keys," said Margaret. She tossed them towards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of grass, and he did not pick them up. "I have something to tell you,"<|quote|>he said gently. She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male.</|quote|>"I don t want to hear it," she replied. "My sister is going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. We must manage to build up something, she and I and her child." "Where are you going?" "Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too ill." "After the inquest?" "Yes." "Have you realised what the verdict at the inquest will be?" "Yes, heart disease." "No, my dear; manslaughter." Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill beneath her moved as if it were alive. "Manslaughter," repeated Mr. Wilcox. "Charles may go to prison. I dare not tell him. I don t know what to do--what to do. I m broken--I m ended." No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see that to break him was her only hope. She did not enfold the sufferer in her arms. But all through that day and the next a new life began to move. The verdict was brought in. Charles was committed for trial. It was against all reason that he should be punished, but the law, notwithstanding, sentenced him to three years imprisonment. Then Henry s fortress gave way. He could bear no one but his wife; he shambled up to Margaret afterwards and asked her to do what she could with him. She did what seemed easiest--she took him down to recruit at Howards End. CHAPTER XLIV Tom s father was cutting the big meadow. He passed again and again amid whirring blades and sweet odours of grass, encompassing with narrowing circles the sacred centre of the field. Tom was negotiating with Helen. "I haven t any idea," she replied. "Do you suppose baby may, Meg?" Margaret put down her work and regarded them absently. "What was that?" she asked. "Tom wants to know whether baby is old enough to play with hay?" "I haven t the least notion," answered Margaret, and took up her work again. "Now, Tom, baby is not to stand; he is not to lie on his face; he is not to lie so that his head wags; he is not to be teased or tickled; and he is not to be cut into two or more pieces by the cutter. Will you be as careful as all that?" Tom held out his arms. "That child is a wonderful nursemaid," remarked Margaret. "He is fond of | behaviour nor wished to forgive him. Her speech to him seemed perfect. She would not have altered a word. It had to be uttered once in a life, to adjust the lopsidedness of the world. It was spoken not only to her husband, but to thousands of men like him--a protest against the inner darkness in high places that comes with a commercial age. Though he would build up his life without hers, she could not apologise. He had refused to connect, on the clearest issue that can be laid before a man, and their love must take the consequences. No, there was nothing more to be done. They had tried not to go over the precipice, but perhaps the fall was inevitable. And it comforted her to think that the future was certainly inevitable; cause and effect would go jangling forward to some goal doubtless, but to none that she could imagine. At such moments the soul retires within, to float upon the bosom of a deeper stream, and has communion with the dead, and sees the world s glory not diminished, but different in kind to what she has supposed. She alters her focus until trivial things are blurred. Margaret had been tending this way all the winter. Leonard s death brought her to the goal. Alas! that Henry should fade away as reality emerged, and only her love for him should remain clear, stamped with his image like the cameos we rescue out of dreams. With unfaltering eye she traced his future. He would soon present a healthy mind to the world again, and what did he or the world care if he was rotten at the core? He would grow into a rich, jolly old man, at times a little sentimental about women, but emptying his glass with anyone. Tenacious of power, he would keep Charles and the rest dependent, and retire from business reluctantly and at an advanced age. He would settle down--though she could not realise this. In her eyes Henry was always moving and causing others to move, until the ends of the earth met. But in time he must get too tired to move, and settle down. What next? The inevitable word. The release of the soul to its appropriate Heaven. Would they meet in it? Margaret believed in immortality for herself. An eternal future had always seemed natural to her. And Henry believed in it for himself. Yet, would they meet again? Are there not rather endless levels beyond the grave, as the theory that he had censured teaches? And his level, whether higher or lower, could it possibly be the same as hers? Thus gravely meditating, she was summoned by him. He sent up Crane in the motor. Other servants passed like water, but the chauffeur remained, though impertinent and disloyal. Margaret disliked Crane, and he knew it. "Is it the keys that Mr. Wilcox wants?" she asked. "He didn t say, madam." "You haven t any note for me?" "He didn t say, madam." After a moment s thought she locked up Howards End. It was pitiable to see in it the stirrings of warmth that would be quenched for ever. She raked out the fire that was blazing in the kitchen, and spread the coals in the gravelled yard. She closed the windows and drew the curtains. Henry would probably sell the place now. She was determined not to spare him, for nothing new had happened as far as they were concerned. Her mood might never have altered from yesterday evening. He was standing a little outside Charles s gate, and motioned the car to stop. When his wife got out he said hoarsely: "I prefer to discuss things with you outside." "It will be more appropriate in the road, I am afraid," said Margaret. "Did you get my message?" "What about?" "I am going to Germany with my sister. I must tell you now that I shall make it my permanent home. Our talk last night was more important than you have realised. I am unable to forgive you and am leaving you." "I am extremely tired," said Henry, in injured tones. "I have been walking about all the morning, and wish to sit down." "Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass." The Great North Road should have been bordered all its length with glebe. Henry s kind had filched most of it. She moved to the scrap opposite, wherein were the Six Hills. They sat down on the farther side, so that they could not be seen by Charles or Dolly. "Here are your keys," said Margaret. She tossed them towards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of grass, and he did not pick them up. "I have something to tell you,"<|quote|>he said gently. She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male.</|quote|>"I don t want to hear it," she replied. "My sister is going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. We must manage to build up something, she and I and her child." "Where are you going?" "Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too ill." "After the inquest?" "Yes." "Have you realised what the verdict at the inquest will be?" "Yes, heart disease." "No, my dear; manslaughter." Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill beneath her moved as if it were alive. "Manslaughter," repeated Mr. Wilcox. "Charles may go to prison. I dare not tell him. I don t know what to do--what to do. I m broken--I m ended." No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see that to break him was her only hope. She did not enfold the sufferer in her arms. But all through that day and the next a new life began to move. The verdict was brought in. Charles was committed for trial. It was against all reason that he should be punished, but the law, notwithstanding, sentenced him to three years imprisonment. Then Henry s fortress gave way. He could bear no one but his wife; he shambled up to Margaret afterwards and asked her to do what she could with him. She did what seemed easiest--she took him down to recruit at Howards End. CHAPTER XLIV Tom s father was cutting the big meadow. He passed again and again amid whirring blades and sweet odours of grass, encompassing with narrowing circles the sacred centre of the field. Tom was negotiating with Helen. "I haven t any idea," she replied. "Do you suppose baby may, Meg?" Margaret put down her work and regarded them absently. "What was that?" she asked. "Tom wants to know whether baby is old enough to play with hay?" "I haven t the least notion," answered Margaret, and took up her work again. "Now, Tom, baby is not to stand; he is not to lie on his face; he is not to lie so that his head wags; he is not to be teased or tickled; and he is not to be cut into two or more pieces by the cutter. Will you be as careful as all that?" Tom held out his arms. "That child is a wonderful nursemaid," remarked Margaret. "He is fond of baby. That s why he does it!" was Helen s answer. "They re going to be lifelong friends." "Starting at the ages of six and one?" "Of course. It will be a great thing for Tom." "It may be a greater thing for baby." Fourteen months had passed, but Margaret still stopped at Howards End. No better plan had occurred to her. The meadow was being recut, the great red poppies were reopening in the garden. July would follow with the little red poppies among the wheat, August with the cutting of the wheat. These little events would become part of her year after year. Every summer she would fear lest the well should give out, every winter lest the pipes should freeze; every westerly gale might blow the wych-elm down and bring the end of all things, and so she could not read or talk during a westerly gale. The air was tranquil now. She and her sister were sitting on the remains of Evie s rockery, where the lawn merged into the field. "What a time they all are!" said Helen. "What can they be doing inside?" Margaret, who was growing less talkative, made no answer. The noise of the cutter came intermittently, like the breaking of waves. Close by them a man was preparing to scythe out one of the dell-holes. "I wish Henry was out to enjoy this," said Helen. "This lovely weather and to be shut up in the house! It s very hard." "It has to be," said Margaret. "The hay fever is his chief objection against living here, but he thinks it worth while." "Meg, is or isn t he ill? I can t make out." "Not ill. Eternally tired. He has worked very hard all his life, and noticed nothing. Those are the people who collapse when they do notice a thing." "I suppose he worries dreadfully about his part of the tangle." "Dreadfully. That is why I wish Dolly had not come, too, to-day. Still, he wanted them all to come. It has to be." "Why does he want them?" Margaret did not answer. "Meg, may I tell you something? I like Henry." "You d be odd if you didn t," said Margaret. "I usen t to." "Usen t!" She lowered her eyes a moment to the black abyss of the past. They had crossed it, always excepting Leonard and Charles. | again, and what did he or the world care if he was rotten at the core? He would grow into a rich, jolly old man, at times a little sentimental about women, but emptying his glass with anyone. Tenacious of power, he would keep Charles and the rest dependent, and retire from business reluctantly and at an advanced age. He would settle down--though she could not realise this. In her eyes Henry was always moving and causing others to move, until the ends of the earth met. But in time he must get too tired to move, and settle down. What next? The inevitable word. The release of the soul to its appropriate Heaven. Would they meet in it? Margaret believed in immortality for herself. An eternal future had always seemed natural to her. And Henry believed in it for himself. Yet, would they meet again? Are there not rather endless levels beyond the grave, as the theory that he had censured teaches? And his level, whether higher or lower, could it possibly be the same as hers? Thus gravely meditating, she was summoned by him. He sent up Crane in the motor. Other servants passed like water, but the chauffeur remained, though impertinent and disloyal. Margaret disliked Crane, and he knew it. "Is it the keys that Mr. Wilcox wants?" she asked. "He didn t say, madam." "You haven t any note for me?" "He didn t say, madam." After a moment s thought she locked up Howards End. It was pitiable to see in it the stirrings of warmth that would be quenched for ever. She raked out the fire that was blazing in the kitchen, and spread the coals in the gravelled yard. She closed the windows and drew the curtains. Henry would probably sell the place now. She was determined not to spare him, for nothing new had happened as far as they were concerned. Her mood might never have altered from yesterday evening. He was standing a little outside Charles s gate, and motioned the car to stop. When his wife got out he said hoarsely: "I prefer to discuss things with you outside." "It will be more appropriate in the road, I am afraid," said Margaret. "Did you get my message?" "What about?" "I am going to Germany with my sister. I must tell you now that I shall make it my permanent home. Our talk last night was more important than you have realised. I am unable to forgive you and am leaving you." "I am extremely tired," said Henry, in injured tones. "I have been walking about all the morning, and wish to sit down." "Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass." The Great North Road should have been bordered all its length with glebe. Henry s kind had filched most of it. She moved to the scrap opposite, wherein were the Six Hills. They sat down on the farther side, so that they could not be seen by Charles or Dolly. "Here are your keys," said Margaret. She tossed them towards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of grass, and he did not pick them up. "I have something to tell you,"<|quote|>he said gently. She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male.</|quote|>"I don t want to hear it," she replied. "My sister is going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. We must manage to build up something, she and I and her child." "Where are you going?" "Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too ill." "After the inquest?" "Yes." "Have you realised what the verdict at the inquest will be?" "Yes, heart disease." "No, my dear; manslaughter." Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill beneath her moved as if it were alive. "Manslaughter," repeated Mr. Wilcox. "Charles may go to prison. I dare not tell him. I don t know what to do--what to do. I m broken--I m ended." No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see that to break him was her only hope. She did not enfold the sufferer in her arms. But all through that day and the next a new life began to move. The verdict was brought in. Charles was committed for trial. It was against all reason that he should be punished, but the law, notwithstanding, sentenced him to three years imprisonment. Then Henry s fortress gave way. He could bear no one but his wife; he shambled up to Margaret afterwards and asked her to do what she could with him. She did what seemed easiest--she took him down to recruit at Howards End. CHAPTER XLIV Tom s father was cutting the big meadow. He passed again and again amid whirring blades and sweet odours of grass, encompassing with narrowing circles the sacred centre of the field. Tom was negotiating with Helen. "I haven t any idea," she replied. "Do you suppose baby may, Meg?" Margaret put down her work and regarded them absently. "What was that?" she asked. "Tom wants to know whether baby is old enough to play with hay?" "I haven t the least notion," answered Margaret, and took up her work again. "Now, Tom, baby is not to stand; he is not to lie on his face; he is not to lie so that his head wags; he is not to be teased or tickled; and he is not to be cut into two or more pieces by the cutter. Will you be as careful as all that?" Tom held out his arms. "That child is a wonderful nursemaid," remarked Margaret. "He is fond of baby. That s why he does it!" was Helen s answer. "They re going to be lifelong friends." "Starting at the ages of six and one?" "Of course. It will be a great thing for Tom." "It may be a greater thing for baby." Fourteen months had passed, but Margaret still stopped at Howards End. No better plan had occurred to her. The meadow was being recut, the great red poppies were reopening in the garden. July would follow with the little red poppies among the wheat, August with the cutting of the wheat. These little events would become part of her year after year. Every summer she would fear lest the well should give out, every winter lest the pipes should freeze; | Howards End |
"I was just going to say the very same thing," | Mrs. Norris | we shall never act anything."<|quote|>"I was just going to say the very same thing,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Norris. "If every | we are so very nice, we shall never act anything."<|quote|>"I was just going to say the very same thing,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Norris. "If every play is to be objected | scrupulous as _I_ might feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shall never act anything."<|quote|>"I was just going to say the very same thing,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Norris. "If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure _that_ would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria says, if there | do you hear what Edmund says?" "If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it." "What!" cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!" "Oh! she might think the difference between us the difference in our situations that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shall never act anything."<|quote|>"I was just going to say the very same thing,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Norris. "If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure _that_ would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with most of them) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise, Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters | it; that you find it requiring more exertion and confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and it will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it ought." "Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram. "Sir Thomas would not like it. Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner. To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time." "I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny, "that Sir Thomas would not like it." "There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?" "If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it." "What!" cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!" "Oh! she might think the difference between us the difference in our situations that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shall never act anything."<|quote|>"I was just going to say the very same thing,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Norris. "If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure _that_ would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with most of them) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise, Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there was the loss of half a day's work about those side-doors. The curtain will be a good job, however. The maids do their work very well, and I think we shall be able to send back some dozens of the rings. There is no occasion to put them so very close together. I _am_ of some use, I hope, in preventing waste and making the most of things. There should always be one steady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of something that happened to me this very day. I had | a very few omissions, and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing objectionable in it; and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who thinks it very fit for private representation." "I am sorry for it," was his answer; "but in this matter it is _you_ who are to lead. _You_ must set the example. If others have blundered, it is your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy is. In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of the party." This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered, "I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I still think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. _There_ would be the greatest indecorum, I think." "Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel yourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and it will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it ought." "Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram. "Sir Thomas would not like it. Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner. To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time." "I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny, "that Sir Thomas would not like it." "There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?" "If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it." "What!" cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!" "Oh! she might think the difference between us the difference in our situations that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shall never act anything."<|quote|>"I was just going to say the very same thing,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Norris. "If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure _that_ would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with most of them) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise, Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there was the loss of half a day's work about those side-doors. The curtain will be a good job, however. The maids do their work very well, and I think we shall be able to send back some dozens of the rings. There is no occasion to put them so very close together. I _am_ of some use, I hope, in preventing waste and making the most of things. There should always be one steady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of something that happened to me this very day. I had been looking about me in the poultry-yard, and was just coming out, when who should I see but Dick Jackson making up to the servants' hall-door with two bits of deal board in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be sure; mother had chanced to send him of a message to father, and then father had bid him bring up them two bits of board, for he could not no how do without them. I knew what all this meant, for the servants' dinner-bell was ringing at the very moment over our heads; and as I hate such encroaching people (the Jacksons are very encroaching, I have always said so: just the sort of people to get all they can), I said to the boy directly (a great lubberly fellow of ten years old, you know, who ought to be ashamed of himself), _I'll_ take the boards to your father, Dick, so get you home again as fast as you can.' The boy looked very silly, and turned away without offering a word, for I believe I might speak pretty sharp; and I dare say it will cure him of coming marauding about the house for one while. | felt what his sensations must be. "Lovers' Vows!" in a tone of the greatest amazement, was his only reply to Mr. Rushworth, and he turned towards his brother and sisters as if hardly doubting a contradiction. "Yes," cried Mr. Yates. "After all our debatings and difficulties, we find there is nothing that will suit us altogether so well, nothing so unexceptionable, as Lovers' Vows. The wonder is that it should not have been thought of before. My stupidity was abominable, for here we have all the advantage of what I saw at Ecclesford; and it is so useful to have anything of a model! We have cast almost every part." "But what do you do for women?" said Edmund gravely, and looking at Maria. Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, "I take the part which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and" (with a bolder eye) "Miss Crawford is to be Amelia." "I should not have thought it the sort of play to be so easily filled up, with _us_," replied Edmund, turning away to the fire, where sat his mother, aunt, and Fanny, and seating himself with a look of great vexation. Mr. Rushworth followed him to say, "I come in three times, and have two-and-forty speeches. That's something, is not it? But I do not much like the idea of being so fine. I shall hardly know myself in a blue dress and a pink satin cloak." Edmund could not answer him. In a few minutes Mr. Bertram was called out of the room to satisfy some doubts of the carpenter; and being accompanied by Mr. Yates, and followed soon afterwards by Mr. Rushworth, Edmund almost immediately took the opportunity of saying, "I cannot, before Mr. Yates, speak what I feel as to this play, without reflecting on his friends at Ecclesford; but I must now, my dear Maria, tell _you_, that I think it exceedingly unfit for private representation, and that I hope you will give it up. I cannot but suppose you _will_ when you have read it carefully over. Read only the first act aloud to either your mother or aunt, and see how you can approve it. It will not be necessary to send you to your _father's_ judgment, I am convinced." "We see things very differently," cried Maria. "I am perfectly acquainted with the play, I assure you; and with a very few omissions, and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing objectionable in it; and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who thinks it very fit for private representation." "I am sorry for it," was his answer; "but in this matter it is _you_ who are to lead. _You_ must set the example. If others have blundered, it is your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy is. In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of the party." This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered, "I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I still think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. _There_ would be the greatest indecorum, I think." "Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel yourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and it will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it ought." "Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram. "Sir Thomas would not like it. Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner. To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time." "I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny, "that Sir Thomas would not like it." "There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?" "If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it." "What!" cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!" "Oh! she might think the difference between us the difference in our situations that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shall never act anything."<|quote|>"I was just going to say the very same thing,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Norris. "If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure _that_ would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with most of them) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise, Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there was the loss of half a day's work about those side-doors. The curtain will be a good job, however. The maids do their work very well, and I think we shall be able to send back some dozens of the rings. There is no occasion to put them so very close together. I _am_ of some use, I hope, in preventing waste and making the most of things. There should always be one steady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of something that happened to me this very day. I had been looking about me in the poultry-yard, and was just coming out, when who should I see but Dick Jackson making up to the servants' hall-door with two bits of deal board in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be sure; mother had chanced to send him of a message to father, and then father had bid him bring up them two bits of board, for he could not no how do without them. I knew what all this meant, for the servants' dinner-bell was ringing at the very moment over our heads; and as I hate such encroaching people (the Jacksons are very encroaching, I have always said so: just the sort of people to get all they can), I said to the boy directly (a great lubberly fellow of ten years old, you know, who ought to be ashamed of himself), _I'll_ take the boards to your father, Dick, so get you home again as fast as you can.' The boy looked very silly, and turned away without offering a word, for I believe I might speak pretty sharp; and I dare say it will cure him of coming marauding about the house for one while. I hate such greediness so good as your father is to the family, employing the man all the year round!" Nobody was at the trouble of an answer; the others soon returned; and Edmund found that to have endeavoured to set them right must be his only satisfaction. Dinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related again her triumph over Dick Jackson, but neither play nor preparation were otherwise much talked of, for Edmund's disapprobation was felt even by his brother, though he would not have owned it. Maria, wanting Henry Crawford's animating support, thought the subject better avoided. Mr. Yates, who was trying to make himself agreeable to Julia, found her gloom less impenetrable on any topic than that of his regret at her secession from their company; and Mr. Rushworth, having only his own part and his own dress in his head, had soon talked away all that could be said of either. But the concerns of the theatre were suspended only for an hour or two: there was still a great deal to be settled; and the spirits of evening giving fresh courage, Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates, soon after their being reassembled in the drawing-room, seated themselves in committee at a separate table, with the play open before them, and were just getting deep in the subject when a most welcome interruption was given by the entrance of Mr. and Miss Crawford, who, late and dark and dirty as it was, could not help coming, and were received with the most grateful joy. "Well, how do you go on?" and "What have you settled?" and "Oh! we can do nothing without you," followed the first salutations; and Henry Crawford was soon seated with the other three at the table, while his sister made her way to Lady Bertram, and with pleasant attention was complimenting _her_. "I must really congratulate your ladyship," said she, "on the play being chosen; for though you have borne it with exemplary patience, I am sure you must be sick of all our noise and difficulties. The actors may be glad, but the bystanders must be infinitely more thankful for a decision; and I do sincerely give you joy, madam, as well as Mrs. Norris, and everybody else who is in the same predicament," glancing half fearfully, half slyly, beyond Fanny to Edmund. She was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram, but Edmund said | Mr. Yates, and followed soon afterwards by Mr. Rushworth, Edmund almost immediately took the opportunity of saying, "I cannot, before Mr. Yates, speak what I feel as to this play, without reflecting on his friends at Ecclesford; but I must now, my dear Maria, tell _you_, that I think it exceedingly unfit for private representation, and that I hope you will give it up. I cannot but suppose you _will_ when you have read it carefully over. Read only the first act aloud to either your mother or aunt, and see how you can approve it. It will not be necessary to send you to your _father's_ judgment, I am convinced." "We see things very differently," cried Maria. "I am perfectly acquainted with the play, I assure you; and with a very few omissions, and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing objectionable in it; and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who thinks it very fit for private representation." "I am sorry for it," was his answer; "but in this matter it is _you_ who are to lead. _You_ must set the example. If others have blundered, it is your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy is. In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of the party." This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered, "I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I still think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. _There_ would be the greatest indecorum, I think." "Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel yourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and it will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it ought." "Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram. "Sir Thomas would not like it. Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner. To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time." "I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny, "that Sir Thomas would not like it." "There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?" "If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it." "What!" cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!" "Oh! she might think the difference between us the difference in our situations that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shall never act anything."<|quote|>"I was just going to say the very same thing,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Norris. "If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure _that_ would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with most of them) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise, Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there was the loss of half a day's work about those side-doors. The curtain will be a good job, however. The maids do their work very well, and I think we shall be able to send back some dozens of the rings. There is no occasion to put them so very close together. I _am_ of some use, I hope, in preventing waste and making the most of things. There should always be one steady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of something that happened to me this very day. I had been looking about me in the poultry-yard, and was just coming out, when who should I see but Dick Jackson making up to the servants' hall-door with two bits of deal board in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be sure; mother had chanced to send him of a message to father, and then father had bid him bring up them two bits of board, for he could not no how do without them. I knew what all this meant, for the servants' dinner-bell was ringing at the very moment over our heads; and as I hate such encroaching people (the Jacksons are very encroaching, I have always said so: just the sort of people to get all they can), I said to the boy directly (a great lubberly fellow of ten years old, you know, who ought to be ashamed of himself), _I'll_ take the boards to your father, Dick, so get you home again as fast as you can.' The boy looked very silly, and turned away without offering a word, for I believe I might speak pretty sharp; and I dare say it will cure him of coming marauding about the house for one while. I hate such greediness so good as your father is to the family, employing the man all the year round!" Nobody was at the trouble of an answer; the others soon returned; and Edmund found that to have endeavoured to set them right must be his only satisfaction. Dinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related again her triumph over Dick Jackson, but neither play nor | Mansfield Park |
said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper. | No speaker | you know." "I _don't_ know,"<|quote|>said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper.</|quote|>"Are you content now?" said | doesn't like changing so often, you know." "I _don't_ know,"<|quote|>said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper.</|quote|>"Are you content now?" said the Caterpillar. "Well, I should | end," said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes. The Caterpillar was the first to speak. "What size do you want to be?" it asked. "Oh, I'm not particular as to size," Alice hastily replied; "only one doesn't like changing so often, you know." "I _don't_ know,"<|quote|>said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper.</|quote|>"Are you content now?" said the Caterpillar. "Well, I should like to be a _little_ larger, sir, if you wouldn't mind," said Alice: "three inches is such a wretched height to be." "It is a very good height indeed!" said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it | yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!" "That is not said right," said the Caterpillar. "Not _quite_ right, I'm afraid," said Alice, timidly; "some of the words have got altered." "It is wrong from beginning to end," said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes. The Caterpillar was the first to speak. "What size do you want to be?" it asked. "Oh, I'm not particular as to size," Alice hastily replied; "only one doesn't like changing so often, you know." "I _don't_ know,"<|quote|>said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper.</|quote|>"Are you content now?" said the Caterpillar. "Well, I should like to be a _little_ larger, sir, if you wouldn't mind," said Alice: "three inches is such a wretched height to be." "It is a very good height indeed!" said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high). "But I'm not used to it!" pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And she thought of herself, "I wish the creatures wouldn't be so easily offended!" "You'll get used to it in time," said the Caterpillar; and it put the hookah into its mouth | the goose, with the bones and the beak-- Pray, how did you manage to do it?" "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life." "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- What made you so awfully clever?" "I have answered three questions, and that is enough," Said his father; "don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!" "That is not said right," said the Caterpillar. "Not _quite_ right, I'm afraid," said Alice, timidly; "some of the words have got altered." "It is wrong from beginning to end," said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes. The Caterpillar was the first to speak. "What size do you want to be?" it asked. "Oh, I'm not particular as to size," Alice hastily replied; "only one doesn't like changing so often, you know." "I _don't_ know,"<|quote|>said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper.</|quote|>"Are you content now?" said the Caterpillar. "Well, I should like to be a _little_ larger, sir, if you wouldn't mind," said Alice: "three inches is such a wretched height to be." "It is a very good height indeed!" said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high). "But I'm not used to it!" pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And she thought of herself, "I wish the creatures wouldn't be so easily offended!" "You'll get used to it in time," said the Caterpillar; and it put the hookah into its mouth and began smoking again. This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. In a minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the mushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely remarking as it went, "One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter." "One side of _what?_ The other side of _what?_" thought Alice to herself. "Of the mushroom," said the Caterpillar, just as if she had asked it aloud; and in | minutes together!" "Can't remember _what_ things?" said the Caterpillar. "Well, I've tried to say" "How doth the little busy bee," "but it all came different!" Alice replied in a very melancholy voice. "Repeat" , '_You are old, Father William_,'" said the Caterpillar. Alice folded her hands, and began:-- "You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?" "In my youth," Father William replied to his son, "I feared it might injure the brain; But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again." "You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door-- Pray, what is the reason of that?" "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, "I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box-- Allow me to sell you a couple?" "You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak-- Pray, how did you manage to do it?" "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life." "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- What made you so awfully clever?" "I have answered three questions, and that is enough," Said his father; "don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!" "That is not said right," said the Caterpillar. "Not _quite_ right, I'm afraid," said Alice, timidly; "some of the words have got altered." "It is wrong from beginning to end," said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes. The Caterpillar was the first to speak. "What size do you want to be?" it asked. "Oh, I'm not particular as to size," Alice hastily replied; "only one doesn't like changing so often, you know." "I _don't_ know,"<|quote|>said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper.</|quote|>"Are you content now?" said the Caterpillar. "Well, I should like to be a _little_ larger, sir, if you wouldn't mind," said Alice: "three inches is such a wretched height to be." "It is a very good height indeed!" said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high). "But I'm not used to it!" pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And she thought of herself, "I wish the creatures wouldn't be so easily offended!" "You'll get used to it in time," said the Caterpillar; and it put the hookah into its mouth and began smoking again. This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. In a minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the mushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely remarking as it went, "One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter." "One side of _what?_ The other side of _what?_" thought Alice to herself. "Of the mushroom," said the Caterpillar, just as if she had asked it aloud; and in another moment it was out of sight. Alice remained looking thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute, trying to make out which were the two sides of it; and as it was perfectly round, she found this a very difficult question. However, at last she stretched her arms round it as far as they would go, and broke off a bit of the edge with each hand. "And now which is which?" she said to herself, and nibbled a little of the right-hand bit to try the effect: the next moment she felt a violent blow underneath her chin: it had struck her foot! She was a good deal frightened by this very sudden change, but she felt that there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking rapidly; so she set to work at once to eat some of the other bit. Her chin was pressed so closely against her foot, that there was hardly room to open her mouth; but she did it at last, and managed to swallow a morsel of the lefthand bit. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Come, | are _you?_" said the Caterpillar. This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, "I--I hardly know, sir, just at present--at least I know who I _was_ when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then." "What do you mean by that?" said the Caterpillar sternly. "Explain yourself!" "I can't explain _myself_, I'm afraid, sir," said Alice, "because I'm not myself, you see." "I don't see," said the Caterpillar. "I'm afraid I can't put it more clearly," Alice replied very politely, "for I can't understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing." "It isn't," said the Caterpillar. "Well, perhaps you haven't found it so yet," said Alice; "but when you have to turn into a chrysalis--you will some day, you know--and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you'll feel it a little queer, won't you?" "Not a bit," said the Caterpillar. "Well, perhaps your feelings may be different," said Alice; "all I know is, it would feel very queer to _me_." "You!" said the Caterpillar contemptuously. "Who are _you?_" Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation. Alice felt a little irritated at the Caterpillar's making such _very_ short remarks, and she drew herself up and said, very gravely, "I think, you ought to tell me who _you_ are, first." "Why?" said the Caterpillar. Here was another puzzling question; and as Alice could not think of any good reason, and as the Caterpillar seemed to be in a _very_ unpleasant state of mind, she turned away. "Come back!" the Caterpillar called after her. "I've something important to say!" This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again. "Keep your temper," said the Caterpillar. "Is that all?" said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she could. "No," said the Caterpillar. Alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do, and perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing. For some minutes it puffed away without speaking, but at last it unfolded its arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said, "So you think you're changed, do you?" "I'm afraid I am, sir," said Alice; "I can't remember things as I used--and I don't keep the same size for ten minutes together!" "Can't remember _what_ things?" said the Caterpillar. "Well, I've tried to say" "How doth the little busy bee," "but it all came different!" Alice replied in a very melancholy voice. "Repeat" , '_You are old, Father William_,'" said the Caterpillar. Alice folded her hands, and began:-- "You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?" "In my youth," Father William replied to his son, "I feared it might injure the brain; But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again." "You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door-- Pray, what is the reason of that?" "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, "I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box-- Allow me to sell you a couple?" "You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak-- Pray, how did you manage to do it?" "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life." "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- What made you so awfully clever?" "I have answered three questions, and that is enough," Said his father; "don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!" "That is not said right," said the Caterpillar. "Not _quite_ right, I'm afraid," said Alice, timidly; "some of the words have got altered." "It is wrong from beginning to end," said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes. The Caterpillar was the first to speak. "What size do you want to be?" it asked. "Oh, I'm not particular as to size," Alice hastily replied; "only one doesn't like changing so often, you know." "I _don't_ know,"<|quote|>said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper.</|quote|>"Are you content now?" said the Caterpillar. "Well, I should like to be a _little_ larger, sir, if you wouldn't mind," said Alice: "three inches is such a wretched height to be." "It is a very good height indeed!" said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high). "But I'm not used to it!" pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And she thought of herself, "I wish the creatures wouldn't be so easily offended!" "You'll get used to it in time," said the Caterpillar; and it put the hookah into its mouth and began smoking again. This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. In a minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the mushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely remarking as it went, "One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter." "One side of _what?_ The other side of _what?_" thought Alice to herself. "Of the mushroom," said the Caterpillar, just as if she had asked it aloud; and in another moment it was out of sight. Alice remained looking thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute, trying to make out which were the two sides of it; and as it was perfectly round, she found this a very difficult question. However, at last she stretched her arms round it as far as they would go, and broke off a bit of the edge with each hand. "And now which is which?" she said to herself, and nibbled a little of the right-hand bit to try the effect: the next moment she felt a violent blow underneath her chin: it had struck her foot! She was a good deal frightened by this very sudden change, but she felt that there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking rapidly; so she set to work at once to eat some of the other bit. Her chin was pressed so closely against her foot, that there was hardly room to open her mouth; but she did it at last, and managed to swallow a morsel of the lefthand bit. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Come, my head's free at last!" said Alice in a tone of delight, which changed into alarm in another moment, when she found that her shoulders were nowhere to be found: all she could see, when she looked down, was an immense length of neck, which seemed to rise like a stalk out of a sea of green leaves that lay far below her. "What _can_ all that green stuff be?" said Alice. "And where _have_ my shoulders got to? And oh, my poor hands, how is it I can't see you?" She was moving them about as she spoke, but no result seemed to follow, except a little shaking among the distant green leaves. As there seemed to be no chance of getting her hands up to her head, she tried to get her head down to them, and was delighted to find that her neck would bend about easily in any direction, like a serpent. She had just succeeded in curving it down into a graceful zigzag, and was going to dive in among the leaves, which she found to be nothing but the tops of the trees under which she had been wandering, when a sharp hiss made her draw back in a hurry: a large pigeon had flown into her face, and was beating her violently with its wings. "Serpent!" screamed the Pigeon. "I'm _not_ a serpent!" said Alice indignantly. "Let me alone!" "Serpent, I say again!" repeated the Pigeon, but in a more subdued tone, and added with a kind of sob, "I've tried every way, and nothing seems to suit them!" "I haven't the least idea what you're talking about," said Alice. "I've tried the roots of trees, and I've tried banks, and I've tried hedges," the Pigeon went on, without attending to her; "but those serpents! There's no pleasing them!" Alice was more and more puzzled, but she thought there was no use in saying anything more till the Pigeon had finished. "As if it wasn't trouble enough hatching the eggs," said the Pigeon; "but I must be on the look-out for serpents night and day! Why, I haven't had a wink of sleep these three weeks!" "I'm very sorry you've been annoyed," said Alice, who was beginning to see its meaning. "And just as I'd taken the highest tree in the wood," continued the Pigeon, raising its voice to a shriek, "and just | you turned a back-somersault in at the door-- Pray, what is the reason of that?" "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, "I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box-- Allow me to sell you a couple?" "You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak-- Pray, how did you manage to do it?" "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life." "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- What made you so awfully clever?" "I have answered three questions, and that is enough," Said his father; "don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!" "That is not said right," said the Caterpillar. "Not _quite_ right, I'm afraid," said Alice, timidly; "some of the words have got altered." "It is wrong from beginning to end," said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes. The Caterpillar was the first to speak. "What size do you want to be?" it asked. "Oh, I'm not particular as to size," Alice hastily replied; "only one doesn't like changing so often, you know." "I _don't_ know,"<|quote|>said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper.</|quote|>"Are you content now?" said the Caterpillar. "Well, I should like to be a _little_ larger, sir, if you wouldn't mind," said Alice: "three inches is such a wretched height to be." "It is a very good height indeed!" said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high). "But I'm not used to it!" pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And she thought of herself, "I wish the creatures wouldn't be so easily offended!" "You'll get used to it in time," said the Caterpillar; and it put the hookah into its mouth and began smoking again. This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. In a minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the mushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely remarking as it went, "One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter." "One side of _what?_ The other side of _what?_" thought Alice to herself. "Of the mushroom," said the Caterpillar, just as if she had asked it aloud; and in another moment it was out of sight. Alice remained looking thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute, trying to make out which were the two sides of it; and as it was perfectly round, she found this a very difficult question. However, at last she stretched her arms round it as far as they would go, and broke off a bit of the edge with each hand. "And now which is which?" she said to herself, and nibbled a little of the right-hand bit to try the effect: the next moment she felt a violent blow underneath her chin: it had struck her foot! She was a good deal frightened by this very sudden change, but she felt that there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking rapidly; so she set to work at once to eat some of the other bit. Her chin was pressed so closely against her foot, that there was hardly room to open her mouth; but she did it at last, and managed to swallow a morsel of the lefthand bit. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Come, my head's free at last!" said Alice in a tone of delight, which changed into alarm in another moment, when she found that her shoulders were nowhere to be found: all she could see, when she looked down, was an immense length of neck, which seemed to rise like a stalk out of a sea of green leaves that lay far below her. "What _can_ all that green stuff be?" said Alice. "And where _have_ my shoulders got to? And oh, my poor hands, how is it I can't see you?" She was moving them about as she spoke, but no result seemed to follow, except a little shaking among the distant green leaves. As there seemed to be no chance of getting her hands up to her head, | Alices Adventures In Wonderland |
cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory. | No speaker | get you some orchids, Duchess,"<|quote|>cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory.</|quote|>"You are flirting disgracefully with | none this evening." "Let me get you some orchids, Duchess,"<|quote|>cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory.</|quote|>"You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to | searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have searched for pleasure." "And found it, Mr. Gray?" "Often. Too often." The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said, "and if I don t go and dress, I shall have none this evening." "Let me get you some orchids, Duchess,"<|quote|>cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory.</|quote|>"You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." "If he were not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?" "I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman." "They were defeated." | eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired. Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "I always agree with Harry, Duchess." "Even when he is wrong?" "Harry is never wrong, Duchess." "And does his philosophy make you happy?" "I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have searched for pleasure." "And found it, Mr. Gray?" "Often. Too often." The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said, "and if I don t go and dress, I shall have none this evening." "Let me get you some orchids, Duchess,"<|quote|>cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory.</|quote|>"You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." "If he were not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?" "I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman." "They were defeated." "There are worse things than capture," she answered. "You gallop with a loose rein." "Pace gives life," was the _riposte_. "I shall write it in my diary to-night." "What?" "That a burnt child loves the fire." "I am not even singed. My wings are untouched." "You use them for everything, | and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." "Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?" asked the duchess after a pause. "Especially when one has been wounded by it," answered Lord Henry. The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression in her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired. Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "I always agree with Harry, Duchess." "Even when he is wrong?" "Harry is never wrong, Duchess." "And does his philosophy make you happy?" "I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have searched for pleasure." "And found it, Mr. Gray?" "Often. Too often." The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said, "and if I don t go and dress, I shall have none this evening." "Let me get you some orchids, Duchess,"<|quote|>cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory.</|quote|>"You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." "If he were not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?" "I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman." "They were defeated." "There are worse things than capture," she answered. "You gallop with a loose rein." "Pace gives life," was the _riposte_. "I shall write it in my diary to-night." "What?" "That a burnt child loves the fire." "I am not even singed. My wings are untouched." "You use them for everything, except flight." "Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us." "You have a rival." "Who?" He laughed. "Lady Narborough," he whispered. "She perfectly adores him." "You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us who are romanticists." "Romanticists! You have all the methods of science." "Men have educated us." "But not explained you." "Describe us as a sex," was her challenge. "Sphinxes without secrets." She looked at him, smiling. "How long Mr. Gray is!" she said. "Let us go and help him. I have not yet told him the colour | trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by half-past eight." "How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning." "I daren t, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the one I wore at Lady Hilstone s garden-party? You don t, but it is nice of you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All good hats are made out of nothing." "Like all good reputations, Gladys," interrupted Lord Henry. "Every effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be a mediocrity." "Not with women," said the duchess, shaking her head; "and women rule the world. I assure you we can t bear mediocrities. We women, as some one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if you ever love at all." "It seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured Dorian. "Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray," answered the duchess with mock sadness. "My dear Gladys!" cried Lord Henry. "How can you say that? Romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." "Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?" asked the duchess after a pause. "Especially when one has been wounded by it," answered Lord Henry. The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression in her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired. Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "I always agree with Harry, Duchess." "Even when he is wrong?" "Harry is never wrong, Duchess." "And does his philosophy make you happy?" "I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have searched for pleasure." "And found it, Mr. Gray?" "Often. Too often." The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said, "and if I don t go and dress, I shall have none this evening." "Let me get you some orchids, Duchess,"<|quote|>cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory.</|quote|>"You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." "If he were not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?" "I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman." "They were defeated." "There are worse things than capture," she answered. "You gallop with a loose rein." "Pace gives life," was the _riposte_. "I shall write it in my diary to-night." "What?" "That a burnt child loves the fire." "I am not even singed. My wings are untouched." "You use them for everything, except flight." "Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us." "You have a rival." "Who?" He laughed. "Lady Narborough," he whispered. "She perfectly adores him." "You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us who are romanticists." "Romanticists! You have all the methods of science." "Men have educated us." "But not explained you." "Describe us as a sex," was her challenge. "Sphinxes without secrets." She looked at him, smiling. "How long Mr. Gray is!" she said. "Let us go and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock." "Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys." "That would be a premature surrender." "Romantic art begins with its climax." "I must keep an opportunity for retreat." "In the Parthian manner?" "They found safety in the desert. I could not do that." "Women are not always allowed a choice," he answered, but hardly had he finished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came a stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. Everybody started up. The duchess stood motionless in horror. And with fear in his eyes, Lord Henry rushed through the flapping palms to find Dorian Gray lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a deathlike swoon. He was carried at once into the blue drawing-room and laid upon one of the sofas. After a short time, he came to himself and looked round with a dazed expression. "What has happened?" he asked. "Oh! I remember. Am I safe here, Harry?" He began to tremble. "My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, "you merely fainted. That was all. You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come down to dinner. I will take your place." "No, | it is better to be beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the orchid?" "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is." "You don t like your country, then?" she asked. "I live in it." "That you may censure it the better." "Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. "What do they say of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too true." "You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description." "They are practical." "They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head. "I believe in the race," she cried. "It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define is to limit." "Give me a clue." "Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth." "You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else." "Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince Charming." "Ah! don t remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray. "Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern butterfly." "Well, I hope he won t stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian. "Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me." "And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?" "For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by half-past eight." "How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning." "I daren t, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the one I wore at Lady Hilstone s garden-party? You don t, but it is nice of you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All good hats are made out of nothing." "Like all good reputations, Gladys," interrupted Lord Henry. "Every effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be a mediocrity." "Not with women," said the duchess, shaking her head; "and women rule the world. I assure you we can t bear mediocrities. We women, as some one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if you ever love at all." "It seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured Dorian. "Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray," answered the duchess with mock sadness. "My dear Gladys!" cried Lord Henry. "How can you say that? Romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." "Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?" asked the duchess after a pause. "Especially when one has been wounded by it," answered Lord Henry. The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression in her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired. Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "I always agree with Harry, Duchess." "Even when he is wrong?" "Harry is never wrong, Duchess." "And does his philosophy make you happy?" "I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have searched for pleasure." "And found it, Mr. Gray?" "Often. Too often." The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said, "and if I don t go and dress, I shall have none this evening." "Let me get you some orchids, Duchess,"<|quote|>cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory.</|quote|>"You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." "If he were not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?" "I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman." "They were defeated." "There are worse things than capture," she answered. "You gallop with a loose rein." "Pace gives life," was the _riposte_. "I shall write it in my diary to-night." "What?" "That a burnt child loves the fire." "I am not even singed. My wings are untouched." "You use them for everything, except flight." "Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us." "You have a rival." "Who?" He laughed. "Lady Narborough," he whispered. "She perfectly adores him." "You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us who are romanticists." "Romanticists! You have all the methods of science." "Men have educated us." "But not explained you." "Describe us as a sex," was her challenge. "Sphinxes without secrets." She looked at him, smiling. "How long Mr. Gray is!" she said. "Let us go and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock." "Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys." "That would be a premature surrender." "Romantic art begins with its climax." "I must keep an opportunity for retreat." "In the Parthian manner?" "They found safety in the desert. I could not do that." "Women are not always allowed a choice," he answered, but hardly had he finished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came a stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. Everybody started up. The duchess stood motionless in horror. And with fear in his eyes, Lord Henry rushed through the flapping palms to find Dorian Gray lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a deathlike swoon. He was carried at once into the blue drawing-room and laid upon one of the sofas. After a short time, he came to himself and looked round with a dazed expression. "What has happened?" he asked. "Oh! I remember. Am I safe here, Harry?" He began to tremble. "My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, "you merely fainted. That was all. You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come down to dinner. I will take your place." "No, I will come down," he said, struggling to his feet. "I would rather come down. I must not be alone." He went to his room and dressed. There was a wild recklessness of gaiety in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a thrill of terror ran through him when he remembered that, pressed against the window of the conservatory, like a white handkerchief, he had seen the face of James Vane watching him. CHAPTER XVIII. The next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet indifferent to life itself. The consciousness of being hunted, snared, tracked down, had begun to dominate him. If the tapestry did but tremble in the wind, he shook. The dead leaves that were blown against the leaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild regrets. When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor s face peering through the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once more to lay its hand upon his heart. But perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance out of the night and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him. Actual life was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the imagination. It was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feet of sin. It was the imagination that made each crime bear its misshapen brood. In the common world of fact the wicked were not punished, nor the good rewarded. Success was given to the strong, failure thrust upon the weak. That was all. Besides, had any stranger been prowling round the house, he would have been seen by the servants or the keepers. Had any foot-marks been found on the flower-beds, the gardeners would have reported it. Yes, it had been merely fancy. Sibyl Vane s brother had not come back to kill him. He had sailed away in his ship to founder in some winter sea. From him, at any rate, he was safe. Why, the man did not know who he was, could not know who he was. The mask of youth had saved him. And yet if it had been merely an illusion, how terrible it was to think that conscience could raise such fearful phantoms, and give them visible form, | Duchess," laughed Dorian. "Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me." "And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?" "For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by half-past eight." "How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning." "I daren t, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the one I wore at Lady Hilstone s garden-party? You don t, but it is nice of you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All good hats are made out of nothing." "Like all good reputations, Gladys," interrupted Lord Henry. "Every effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be a mediocrity." "Not with women," said the duchess, shaking her head; "and women rule the world. I assure you we can t bear mediocrities. We women, as some one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if you ever love at all." "It seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured Dorian. "Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray," answered the duchess with mock sadness. "My dear Gladys!" cried Lord Henry. "How can you say that? Romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." "Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?" asked the duchess after a pause. "Especially when one has been wounded by it," answered Lord Henry. The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression in her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired. Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "I always agree with Harry, Duchess." "Even when he is wrong?" "Harry is never wrong, Duchess." "And does his philosophy make you happy?" "I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have searched for pleasure." "And found it, Mr. Gray?" "Often. Too often." The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said, "and if I don t go and dress, I shall have none this evening." "Let me get you some orchids, Duchess,"<|quote|>cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory.</|quote|>"You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." "If he were not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?" "I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman." "They were defeated." "There are worse things than capture," she answered. "You gallop with a loose rein." "Pace gives life," was the _riposte_. "I shall write it in my diary to-night." "What?" "That a burnt child loves the fire." "I am not even singed. My wings are untouched." "You use them for everything, except flight." "Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us." "You have a rival." "Who?" He laughed. "Lady Narborough," he whispered. "She perfectly adores him." "You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us who are romanticists." "Romanticists! You have all the methods of science." "Men have educated us." "But not explained you." "Describe us as a sex," was her challenge. "Sphinxes without secrets." She looked at him, smiling. "How long Mr. Gray is!" she said. "Let us go and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock." "Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys." "That would be a premature surrender." "Romantic art begins with its climax." "I must keep an opportunity for retreat." "In the Parthian manner?" "They found safety in the desert. I could not do that." "Women are not always allowed a choice," he answered, but hardly had he finished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came a stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. Everybody started up. The duchess stood motionless in horror. And with fear in his eyes, Lord Henry rushed through the flapping palms to find Dorian Gray lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a deathlike swoon. He was carried at once into the blue drawing-room and laid upon one of the sofas. After a short time, he came to himself and looked round with a dazed expression. "What has happened?" he asked. "Oh! I remember. Am I safe here, Harry?" He began to tremble. "My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, "you merely fainted. That was all. You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come down to dinner. I will take your place." "No, I will come down," he said, struggling to his feet. "I would rather come down. I must not be alone." He went to his room and dressed. There was a wild recklessness of gaiety in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a thrill of terror ran through him when he remembered that, pressed against the window of the conservatory, like a white handkerchief, he had seen the face of James Vane watching him. CHAPTER XVIII. The next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet indifferent to life itself. The consciousness of being hunted, snared, tracked down, had begun to dominate him. If the tapestry did but tremble in the wind, he shook. The dead leaves that were blown against the leaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild regrets. | The Picture Of Dorian Gray |
“He may come up,” | Lady Sandgate | up?” “As suits _you_, please!”<|quote|>“He may come up,”</|quote|>said Lady Sandgate to Gotch. | we do await your father--come up?” “As suits _you_, please!”<|quote|>“He may come up,”</|quote|>said Lady Sandgate to Gotch. “His lordship’s expected.” She had | has arrived?” his mistress immediately put to him. “No, my lady, but Lord John has--to know if he’s expected _here_, and in that case, by your ladyship’s leave, to come up.” Her ladyship turned to the girl. “May Lord John--as we do await your father--come up?” “As suits _you_, please!”<|quote|>“He may come up,”</|quote|>said Lady Sandgate to Gotch. “His lordship’s expected.” She had a pause till they were alone again, when she went on to her companion: “You asked me just now if I understood. Well--I do understand!” Lady Grace, with Gotch’s withdrawal, which left the door open, had reached the passage to | was even cordial, for the sense of this-- “your good friend _is_ clever!” Lady Grace honoured the remark. “Mr. Crim-ble’s remarkably clever.” “And you’ve arranged----?” “We haven’t arranged--but we’ve understood. So that, dear Amy, if _you_ understand--!” Lady Grace paused, for Gotch had come in from the hall. “His lordship has arrived?” his mistress immediately put to him. “No, my lady, but Lord John has--to know if he’s expected _here_, and in that case, by your ladyship’s leave, to come up.” Her ladyship turned to the girl. “May Lord John--as we do await your father--come up?” “As suits _you_, please!”<|quote|>“He may come up,”</|quote|>said Lady Sandgate to Gotch. “His lordship’s expected.” She had a pause till they were alone again, when she went on to her companion: “You asked me just now if I understood. Well--I do understand!” Lady Grace, with Gotch’s withdrawal, which left the door open, had reached the passage to the other room. “Then you’ll excuse me!” --she made her escape. II Lord John, reannounced the next instant from the nearest quarter and quite waiving salutations, left no doubt of the high pitch of his eagerness and tension as soon as the door had closed behind him. “What on earth | And what was Lady Sandgate moreover but mistress now of the subject? “At the point the row has reached he couldn’t stand it another day; so he has thrown up his cure and--lest we should oppose him!--not even announced his start.” “Well,” her companion returned, “now that I’ve _done_ it all I shall never oppose him again!” Lady Sandgate appeared to show herself as still under the impression she might have received on entering. “He’ll only oppose _you!_” “If he does,” said Lady Grace, “we’re at present two to bear it.” “Heaven save us then” --the elder woman was quick, was even cordial, for the sense of this-- “your good friend _is_ clever!” Lady Grace honoured the remark. “Mr. Crim-ble’s remarkably clever.” “And you’ve arranged----?” “We haven’t arranged--but we’ve understood. So that, dear Amy, if _you_ understand--!” Lady Grace paused, for Gotch had come in from the hall. “His lordship has arrived?” his mistress immediately put to him. “No, my lady, but Lord John has--to know if he’s expected _here_, and in that case, by your ladyship’s leave, to come up.” Her ladyship turned to the girl. “May Lord John--as we do await your father--come up?” “As suits _you_, please!”<|quote|>“He may come up,”</|quote|>said Lady Sandgate to Gotch. “His lordship’s expected.” She had a pause till they were alone again, when she went on to her companion: “You asked me just now if I understood. Well--I do understand!” Lady Grace, with Gotch’s withdrawal, which left the door open, had reached the passage to the other room. “Then you’ll excuse me!” --she made her escape. II Lord John, reannounced the next instant from the nearest quarter and quite waiving salutations, left no doubt of the high pitch of his eagerness and tension as soon as the door had closed behind him. “What on earth then do you suppose he has come back to _do_--?” To which he added while his hostess’s gesture impatiently disclaimed conjecture: “Because when a fellow really finds himself the centre of a cyclone----!” “Isn’t it just at the centre,” she interrupted, “that you keep remarkably still, and only in the suburbs that you feel the rage? I count on dear Theign’s doing nothing in the least foolish--!” “Ah, but he can’t have chucked everything for nothing,” Lord John sharply returned; “and wherever you place him in the rumpus he can’t not meet somehow, hang it, such an assault on his | to it all alert “At once!” He had recovered his hat and reached the other door, whence he gesticulated farewell to the elder lady. “Please pardon me” --and he disappeared. Lady Sandgate hereupon stood for a little silently confronted with the girl. “Have you freedom of mind for the fact that your father’s suddenly at hand?” “He has come back?” --Lady Grace was sharply struck. “He arrives this afternoon and appears to go straight to Kitty--according to a wire that I find downstairs on coming back late from my luncheon. He has returned with a rush--as,” said his correspondent in the elation of triumph, “I was _sure_ he would!” Her young friend was more at sea. “Brought back, you mean, by the outcry--even though he so hates it?” But she was more and more all lucidity--save in so far as she was now almost all authority. “Ah, hating still more to seem afraid, he has come back to face the music!” Lady Grace, turning away as in vague despair for the manner in which the music might affect him, yet wheeled about again, after thought, to a positive recognition and even to quite an inconsequent pride. “Yes--that’s dear old father!” And what was Lady Sandgate moreover but mistress now of the subject? “At the point the row has reached he couldn’t stand it another day; so he has thrown up his cure and--lest we should oppose him!--not even announced his start.” “Well,” her companion returned, “now that I’ve _done_ it all I shall never oppose him again!” Lady Sandgate appeared to show herself as still under the impression she might have received on entering. “He’ll only oppose _you!_” “If he does,” said Lady Grace, “we’re at present two to bear it.” “Heaven save us then” --the elder woman was quick, was even cordial, for the sense of this-- “your good friend _is_ clever!” Lady Grace honoured the remark. “Mr. Crim-ble’s remarkably clever.” “And you’ve arranged----?” “We haven’t arranged--but we’ve understood. So that, dear Amy, if _you_ understand--!” Lady Grace paused, for Gotch had come in from the hall. “His lordship has arrived?” his mistress immediately put to him. “No, my lady, but Lord John has--to know if he’s expected _here_, and in that case, by your ladyship’s leave, to come up.” Her ladyship turned to the girl. “May Lord John--as we do await your father--come up?” “As suits _you_, please!”<|quote|>“He may come up,”</|quote|>said Lady Sandgate to Gotch. “His lordship’s expected.” She had a pause till they were alone again, when she went on to her companion: “You asked me just now if I understood. Well--I do understand!” Lady Grace, with Gotch’s withdrawal, which left the door open, had reached the passage to the other room. “Then you’ll excuse me!” --she made her escape. II Lord John, reannounced the next instant from the nearest quarter and quite waiving salutations, left no doubt of the high pitch of his eagerness and tension as soon as the door had closed behind him. “What on earth then do you suppose he has come back to _do_--?” To which he added while his hostess’s gesture impatiently disclaimed conjecture: “Because when a fellow really finds himself the centre of a cyclone----!” “Isn’t it just at the centre,” she interrupted, “that you keep remarkably still, and only in the suburbs that you feel the rage? I count on dear Theign’s doing nothing in the least foolish--!” “Ah, but he can’t have chucked everything for nothing,” Lord John sharply returned; “and wherever you place him in the rumpus he can’t not meet somehow, hang it, such an assault on his character as a great nobleman and good citizen.” “It’s his luck to have become with the public of the newspapers the scapegoat-in-chief: for the sins, so-called, of a lot of people!” Lady Sandgate inconclusively sighed. “Yes,” Lord John concluded for her, “the mercenary millions on whose traffic in their trumpery values--when they’re so lucky as to have any!--_this_ isn’t a patch!” “Oh, there are cases _and_ cases: situations and responsibilities so intensely differ!” --that appeared on the whole, for her ladyship, the moral to be gathered. “Of course everything differs, all round, from everything,” Lord John went on; “and who in the world knows anything of his own case but the victim of circumstances exposing himself, for the highest and purest motives, to be literally torn to pieces?” “Well,” said Lady Sandgate as, in her strained suspense, she freshly consulted her bracelet watch, “I hope he isn’t already torn--if you tell me you’ve been to Kitty’s.” “Oh, he was all right so far: he had arrived and gone out again,” the young man explained, “as Lady Imber hadn’t been at home.” “Ah cool Kitty!” his hostess sighed again--but diverted, as she spoke, by the reappearance of her butler, this time | on this, as with the gladness verily of possession promised and only waiting--or as if from that moment forth he had her assurance of everything that most concerned him and that might most inspire. “Well, isn’t the moral of it all simply that what his perversity of pride, as we can only hold it, will have most done for us is to bring us--and to keep us--blessedly together?” She seemed for a moment to question his “simply.” “Do you regard us as so much ‘together’ when you remember where, in spite of everything, I’ve put myself?” “By telling him to do what he likes?” he recalled without embarrassment. “Oh, that wasn’t in spite of ‘everything’--it was only in spite of the Manto-vano.” “‘Only’?” she flushed-- “when I’ve given the picture up?” “Ah,” Hugh cried, “I don’t care a hang for the picture!” And then as she let him, closer, close to her with this, possess himself of her hands: “We both only care, don’t we, that we’re given to each other thus? We both only care, don’t we, that nothing can keep us apart?” “Oh, if you’ve forgiven me--!” she sighed into his fond face. “Why, since you gave the thing up _for_ me,” he pleadingly laughed, “it isn’t as if you had given _me_ up----!” “For anything, anything? Ah never, never!” she breathed. “Then why aren’t we all right?” “Well, if you will----!” “Oh for ever and ever and ever!” --and with this ardent cry of his devotion his arms closed in their strength and she was clasped to his breast and to his lips. The next moment, however, she had checked him with the warning “Amy Sandgate!” --as if she had heard their hostess enter the other room. Lady Sand-gate was in fact almost already upon them--their disjunction had scarce been effected and she had reached the nearer threshold. They had at once put the widest space possible between them--a little of the flurry of which transaction agitated doubtless their clutch at composure. They gave back a shade awkwardly and consciously, on one side and the other, the speculative though gracious attention she for a few moments made them and their recent intimate relation the subject of; from all of which indeed Lady Grace sought and found cover in a prompt and responsible address to Hugh. “Mustn’t you go without more delay to Clifford Street?” He came back to it all alert “At once!” He had recovered his hat and reached the other door, whence he gesticulated farewell to the elder lady. “Please pardon me” --and he disappeared. Lady Sandgate hereupon stood for a little silently confronted with the girl. “Have you freedom of mind for the fact that your father’s suddenly at hand?” “He has come back?” --Lady Grace was sharply struck. “He arrives this afternoon and appears to go straight to Kitty--according to a wire that I find downstairs on coming back late from my luncheon. He has returned with a rush--as,” said his correspondent in the elation of triumph, “I was _sure_ he would!” Her young friend was more at sea. “Brought back, you mean, by the outcry--even though he so hates it?” But she was more and more all lucidity--save in so far as she was now almost all authority. “Ah, hating still more to seem afraid, he has come back to face the music!” Lady Grace, turning away as in vague despair for the manner in which the music might affect him, yet wheeled about again, after thought, to a positive recognition and even to quite an inconsequent pride. “Yes--that’s dear old father!” And what was Lady Sandgate moreover but mistress now of the subject? “At the point the row has reached he couldn’t stand it another day; so he has thrown up his cure and--lest we should oppose him!--not even announced his start.” “Well,” her companion returned, “now that I’ve _done_ it all I shall never oppose him again!” Lady Sandgate appeared to show herself as still under the impression she might have received on entering. “He’ll only oppose _you!_” “If he does,” said Lady Grace, “we’re at present two to bear it.” “Heaven save us then” --the elder woman was quick, was even cordial, for the sense of this-- “your good friend _is_ clever!” Lady Grace honoured the remark. “Mr. Crim-ble’s remarkably clever.” “And you’ve arranged----?” “We haven’t arranged--but we’ve understood. So that, dear Amy, if _you_ understand--!” Lady Grace paused, for Gotch had come in from the hall. “His lordship has arrived?” his mistress immediately put to him. “No, my lady, but Lord John has--to know if he’s expected _here_, and in that case, by your ladyship’s leave, to come up.” Her ladyship turned to the girl. “May Lord John--as we do await your father--come up?” “As suits _you_, please!”<|quote|>“He may come up,”</|quote|>said Lady Sandgate to Gotch. “His lordship’s expected.” She had a pause till they were alone again, when she went on to her companion: “You asked me just now if I understood. Well--I do understand!” Lady Grace, with Gotch’s withdrawal, which left the door open, had reached the passage to the other room. “Then you’ll excuse me!” --she made her escape. II Lord John, reannounced the next instant from the nearest quarter and quite waiving salutations, left no doubt of the high pitch of his eagerness and tension as soon as the door had closed behind him. “What on earth then do you suppose he has come back to _do_--?” To which he added while his hostess’s gesture impatiently disclaimed conjecture: “Because when a fellow really finds himself the centre of a cyclone----!” “Isn’t it just at the centre,” she interrupted, “that you keep remarkably still, and only in the suburbs that you feel the rage? I count on dear Theign’s doing nothing in the least foolish--!” “Ah, but he can’t have chucked everything for nothing,” Lord John sharply returned; “and wherever you place him in the rumpus he can’t not meet somehow, hang it, such an assault on his character as a great nobleman and good citizen.” “It’s his luck to have become with the public of the newspapers the scapegoat-in-chief: for the sins, so-called, of a lot of people!” Lady Sandgate inconclusively sighed. “Yes,” Lord John concluded for her, “the mercenary millions on whose traffic in their trumpery values--when they’re so lucky as to have any!--_this_ isn’t a patch!” “Oh, there are cases _and_ cases: situations and responsibilities so intensely differ!” --that appeared on the whole, for her ladyship, the moral to be gathered. “Of course everything differs, all round, from everything,” Lord John went on; “and who in the world knows anything of his own case but the victim of circumstances exposing himself, for the highest and purest motives, to be literally torn to pieces?” “Well,” said Lady Sandgate as, in her strained suspense, she freshly consulted her bracelet watch, “I hope he isn’t already torn--if you tell me you’ve been to Kitty’s.” “Oh, he was all right so far: he had arrived and gone out again,” the young man explained, “as Lady Imber hadn’t been at home.” “Ah cool Kitty!” his hostess sighed again--but diverted, as she spoke, by the reappearance of her butler, this time positively preceding Lord Theign, whom she met, when he presently stood before her, his garb of travel exchanged for consummate afternoon dress, with yearning tenderness and compassionate curiosity. “At last, dearest friend--what a joy! But with Kitty not at home to receive you?” That young woman’s parent made light of it for the indulged creature’s sake. “Oh I knew my Kitty! I dressed and I find her at five-thirty.” To which he added as he only took in further, without expression, Lord John: “But Bender, who came there before my arrival--he hasn’t tried for me here?” It was a point on which Lord John himself could at least be expressive. “I met him at the club at luncheon; he had had your letter--but for which chance, my dear man, I should have known nothing. You’ll see him all right at this house; but I’m glad, if I may say so, Theign,” the speaker pursued with some emphasis-- “I’m glad, you know, to get hold of you first.” Lord Theign seemed about to ask for the meaning of this remark, but his other companion’s apprehension had already overflowed. “You haven’t come back, have you--to whatever it may be!--for _trouble_ of any sort with Breckenridge?” His lordship transferred his penetration to this fair friend, “Have you become so intensely absorbed--these remarkable days!--in ‘Breckenridge’?” She felt the shadow, you would have seen, of his claimed right, or at least privilege, of search--yet easily, after an instant, emerged clear. “I’ve thought and dreamt but of _you_--suspicious man!--in proportion as the clamour has spread; and Mr. Bender meanwhile, if you want to know, hasn’t been near me once!” Lord John came in a manner, and however unconsciously, to her aid. “You’d have seen, if he had been, what’s the matter with him, I think--and what perhaps Theign has seen from his own letter: since,” he went on to his fellow-visitor, “I understood him a week ago to have been much taken up with writing you.” Lord Theign received this without comment, only again with an air of expertly sounding the speaker; after which he gave himself afresh for a moment to Lady Sandgate. “I’ve not come home for any clamour, as you surely know me well enough to believe; or to notice for a minute the cheapest insolence and aggression--which frankly scarce reached me out there; or which, so far as it did, I was | silently confronted with the girl. “Have you freedom of mind for the fact that your father’s suddenly at hand?” “He has come back?” --Lady Grace was sharply struck. “He arrives this afternoon and appears to go straight to Kitty--according to a wire that I find downstairs on coming back late from my luncheon. He has returned with a rush--as,” said his correspondent in the elation of triumph, “I was _sure_ he would!” Her young friend was more at sea. “Brought back, you mean, by the outcry--even though he so hates it?” But she was more and more all lucidity--save in so far as she was now almost all authority. “Ah, hating still more to seem afraid, he has come back to face the music!” Lady Grace, turning away as in vague despair for the manner in which the music might affect him, yet wheeled about again, after thought, to a positive recognition and even to quite an inconsequent pride. “Yes--that’s dear old father!” And what was Lady Sandgate moreover but mistress now of the subject? “At the point the row has reached he couldn’t stand it another day; so he has thrown up his cure and--lest we should oppose him!--not even announced his start.” “Well,” her companion returned, “now that I’ve _done_ it all I shall never oppose him again!” Lady Sandgate appeared to show herself as still under the impression she might have received on entering. “He’ll only oppose _you!_” “If he does,” said Lady Grace, “we’re at present two to bear it.” “Heaven save us then” --the elder woman was quick, was even cordial, for the sense of this-- “your good friend _is_ clever!” Lady Grace honoured the remark. “Mr. Crim-ble’s remarkably clever.” “And you’ve arranged----?” “We haven’t arranged--but we’ve understood. So that, dear Amy, if _you_ understand--!” Lady Grace paused, for Gotch had come in from the hall. “His lordship has arrived?” his mistress immediately put to him. “No, my lady, but Lord John has--to know if he’s expected _here_, and in that case, by your ladyship’s leave, to come up.” Her ladyship turned to the girl. “May Lord John--as we do await your father--come up?” “As suits _you_, please!”<|quote|>“He may come up,”</|quote|>said Lady Sandgate to Gotch. “His lordship’s expected.” She had a pause till they were alone again, when she went on to her companion: “You asked me just now if I understood. Well--I do understand!” Lady Grace, with Gotch’s withdrawal, which left the door open, had reached the passage to the other room. “Then you’ll excuse me!” --she made her escape. II Lord John, reannounced the next instant from the nearest quarter and quite waiving salutations, left no doubt of the high pitch of his eagerness and tension as soon as the door had closed behind him. “What on earth then do you suppose he has come back to _do_--?” To which he added while his hostess’s gesture impatiently disclaimed conjecture: “Because when a fellow really finds himself the centre of a cyclone----!” “Isn’t it just at the centre,” she interrupted, “that you keep remarkably still, and only in the suburbs that you feel the rage? I count on dear Theign’s doing nothing in the least foolish--!” “Ah, but he can’t have chucked everything for nothing,” Lord John sharply returned; “and wherever you place him in the rumpus he can’t not meet somehow, hang it, such an assault on his character as a great nobleman and good citizen.” “It’s his luck to have become with the public of the newspapers the scapegoat-in-chief: for the sins, so-called, of a lot of people!” Lady Sandgate inconclusively sighed. “Yes,” Lord John concluded for her, “the mercenary millions on whose traffic in their trumpery values--when they’re so lucky as to have any!--_this_ isn’t a patch!” “Oh, there are cases _and_ cases: situations and responsibilities so intensely differ!” --that appeared on the whole, for her ladyship, the moral to be gathered. “Of course everything differs, all round, from everything,” Lord John went on; “and who in the world knows anything of his own case but the victim of circumstances exposing himself, for the highest and purest motives, to be literally torn to pieces?” “Well,” said Lady Sandgate as, in her strained suspense, she freshly consulted her bracelet watch, “I hope he isn’t already torn--if you tell me you’ve been to Kitty’s.” “Oh, he was all right so far: he had arrived and gone out again,” the young man explained, “as Lady Imber hadn’t been at home.” “Ah cool Kitty!” his hostess sighed again--but diverted, as she spoke, by the reappearance of her butler, this time positively preceding Lord Theign, whom she met, when he presently stood before her, his garb of travel exchanged for consummate afternoon dress, with yearning tenderness and compassionate curiosity. “At last, dearest friend--what a joy! But with Kitty not at home to receive you?” That young woman’s parent made light of it for the indulged creature’s sake. “Oh I knew my Kitty! I dressed and I find her at five-thirty.” To which he added as he only took in further, without expression, Lord John: “But Bender, who came there before my arrival--he hasn’t tried for me here?” It was a point on which Lord John himself could at least be expressive. “I met him at the club at luncheon; he had had your letter--but for which chance, my dear man, I should have known nothing. You’ll see him all right at this house; but I’m glad, if I may say so, Theign,” the speaker pursued with some emphasis-- “I’m glad, you know, to get hold of you first.” Lord Theign seemed about to ask for the meaning of this remark, but his other companion’s apprehension had already overflowed. “You haven’t come back, have you--to whatever it may | The Outcry |
said Pooh humbly. | No speaker | means that, I don't mind,"<|quote|>said Pooh humbly.</|quote|>"The thing to do is | Do." "As long as it means that, I don't mind,"<|quote|>said Pooh humbly.</|quote|>"The thing to do is as follows. First, Issue a | 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,"<|quote|>said Pooh humbly.</|quote|>"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, | 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,"<|quote|>said Pooh humbly.</|quote|>"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 | 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,"<|quote|>said Pooh humbly.</|quote|>"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." And he | 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,"<|quote|>said Pooh humbly.</|quote|>"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." 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. "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 | 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," said Eeyore, and he turned slowly round to the place where his tail had been a little while ago, and then, finding that he couldn't catch it up, he 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,"<|quote|>said Pooh humbly.</|quote|>"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." 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. "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 | 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,"<|quote|>said Pooh humbly.</|quote|>"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." 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. "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!"" | Winnie The Pooh |
"Well," | Jake Barnes | and I loved Brett so."<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>I said, "so long." "I | the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so."<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>I said, "so long." "I guess it isn't any use," | stranger. I just couldn't stand it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I suppose you know it. I can't stand it any more." He lay there on the bed. "Well," I said, "I'm going to take a bath." "You were the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so."<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>I said, "so long." "I guess it isn't any use," he said. "I guess it isn't any damn use." "What?" "Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake." "Sure," I said. "It's all right." "I felt so terribly. I've been through such hell, Jake. Now everything's gone. Everything." "Well," I said, | in the dark. His polo shirt. "I'm going away in the morning." He was crying without making any noise. "I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell, Jake. It's been simply hell. When I met her down here Brett treated me as though I were a perfect stranger. I just couldn't stand it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I suppose you know it. I can't stand it any more." He lay there on the bed. "Well," I said, "I'm going to take a bath." "You were the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so."<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>I said, "so long." "I guess it isn't any use," he said. "I guess it isn't any damn use." "What?" "Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake." "Sure," I said. "It's all right." "I felt so terribly. I've been through such hell, Jake. Now everything's gone. Everything." "Well," I said, "so long. I've got to go." He rolled over, sat on the edge of the bed, and then stood up. "So long, Jake," he said. "You'll shake hands, won't you?" "Sure. Why not?" We shook hands. In the dark I could not see his face very well. "Well," I said, | the kind he'd worn at Princeton. "I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me." "Forgive you, hell." "Please forgive me, Jake." I did not say anything. I stood there by the door. "I was crazy. You must see how it was." "Oh, that's all right." "I couldn't stand it about Brett." "You called me a pimp." I did not care. I wanted a hot bath. I wanted a hot bath in deep water. "I know. Please don't remember it. I was crazy." "That's all right." He was crying. His voice was funny. He lay there in his white shirt on the bed in the dark. His polo shirt. "I'm going away in the morning." He was crying without making any noise. "I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell, Jake. It's been simply hell. When I met her down here Brett treated me as though I were a perfect stranger. I just couldn't stand it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I suppose you know it. I can't stand it any more." He lay there on the bed. "Well," I said, "I'm going to take a bath." "You were the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so."<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>I said, "so long." "I guess it isn't any use," he said. "I guess it isn't any damn use." "What?" "Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake." "Sure," I said. "It's all right." "I felt so terribly. I've been through such hell, Jake. Now everything's gone. Everything." "Well," I said, "so long. I've got to go." He rolled over, sat on the edge of the bed, and then stood up. "So long, Jake," he said. "You'll shake hands, won't you?" "Sure. Why not?" We shook hands. In the dark I could not see his face very well. "Well," I said, "see you in the morning." "I'm going away in the morning." "Oh, yes," I said. I went out. Cohn was standing in the door of the room. "Are you all right, Jake?" he asked. "Oh, yes," I said. "I'm all right." I could not find the bathroom. After a while I found it. There was a deep stone tub. I turned on the taps and the water would not run. I sat down on the edge of the bath-tub. When I got up to go I found I had taken off my shoes. I hunted for them and found them | and see him." I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. "What are you looking at me that way for?" "I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago," I said. "I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you." "All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hall to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I knocked. "Who is it?" "Barnes." "Come in, Jake." I opened the door and went in, and set down my suitcase. There was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, face down, on the bed in the dark. "Hello, Jake." "Don't call me Jake." I stood by the door. It was just like this that I had come home. Now it was a hot bath that I needed. A deep, hot bath, to lie back in. "Where's the bathroom?" I asked. Cohn was crying. There he was, face down on the bed, crying. He had on a white polo shirt, the kind he'd worn at Princeton. "I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me." "Forgive you, hell." "Please forgive me, Jake." I did not say anything. I stood there by the door. "I was crazy. You must see how it was." "Oh, that's all right." "I couldn't stand it about Brett." "You called me a pimp." I did not care. I wanted a hot bath. I wanted a hot bath in deep water. "I know. Please don't remember it. I was crazy." "That's all right." He was crying. His voice was funny. He lay there in his white shirt on the bed in the dark. His polo shirt. "I'm going away in the morning." He was crying without making any noise. "I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell, Jake. It's been simply hell. When I met her down here Brett treated me as though I were a perfect stranger. I just couldn't stand it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I suppose you know it. I can't stand it any more." He lay there on the bed. "Well," I said, "I'm going to take a bath." "You were the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so."<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>I said, "so long." "I guess it isn't any use," he said. "I guess it isn't any damn use." "What?" "Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake." "Sure," I said. "It's all right." "I felt so terribly. I've been through such hell, Jake. Now everything's gone. Everything." "Well," I said, "so long. I've got to go." He rolled over, sat on the edge of the bed, and then stood up. "So long, Jake," he said. "You'll shake hands, won't you?" "Sure. Why not?" We shook hands. In the dark I could not see his face very well. "Well," I said, "see you in the morning." "I'm going away in the morning." "Oh, yes," I said. I went out. Cohn was standing in the door of the room. "Are you all right, Jake?" he asked. "Oh, yes," I said. "I'm all right." I could not find the bathroom. After a while I found it. There was a deep stone tub. I turned on the taps and the water would not run. I sat down on the edge of the bath-tub. When I got up to go I found I had taken off my shoes. I hunted for them and found them and carried them down-stairs. I found my room and went inside and undressed and got into bed. * * * * * I woke with a headache and the noise of the bands going by in the street. I remembered I had promised to take Bill's friend Edna to see the bulls go through the street and into the ring. I dressed and went down-stairs and out into the cold early morning. People were crossing the square, hurrying toward the bull-ring. Across the square were the two lines of men in front of the ticket-booths. They were still waiting for the tickets to go on sale at seven o'clock. I hurried across the street to the caf . The waiter told me that my friends had been there and gone. "How many were they?" "Two gentlemen and a lady." That was all right. Bill and Mike were with Edna. She had been afraid last night they would pass out. That was why I was to be sure to take her. I drank the coffee and hurried with the other people toward the bull-ring. I was not groggy now. There was only a bad headache. Everything looked sharp and clear, and | right." "You're nice," Edna said to Mike. "Are you really a bankrupt?" "I'm a tremendous bankrupt," Mike said. "I owe money to everybody. Don't you owe any money?" "Tons." "I owe everybody money," Mike said. "I borrowed a hundred pesetas from Montoya to-night." "The hell you did," I said. "I'll pay it back," Mike said. "I always pay everything back." "That's why you're a bankrupt, isn't it?" Edna said. I stood up. I had heard them talking from a long way away. It all seemed like some bad play. "I'm going over to the hotel," I said. Then I heard them talking about me. "Is he all right?" Edna asked. "We'd better walk with him." "I'm all right," I said. "Don't come. I'll see you all later." I walked away from the caf . They were sitting at the table. I looked back at them and at the empty tables. There was a waiter sitting at one of the tables with his head in his hands. Walking across the square to the hotel everything looked new and changed. I had never seen the trees before. I had never seen the flagpoles before, nor the front of the theatre. It was all different. I felt as I felt once coming home from an out-of-town football game. I was carrying a suitcase with my football things in it, and I walked up the street from the station in the town I had lived in all my life and it was all new. They were raking the lawns and burning leaves in the road, and I stopped for a long time and watched. It was all strange. Then I went on, and my feet seemed to be a long way off, and everything seemed to come from a long way off, and I could hear my feet walking a great distance away. I had been kicked in the head early in the game. It was like that crossing the square. It was like that going up the stairs in the hotel. Going up the stairs took a long time, and I had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase. There was a light in the room. Bill came out and met me in the hall. "Say," he said, "go up and see Cohn. He's been in a jam, and he's asking for you." "The hell with him." "Go on. Go on up and see him." I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. "What are you looking at me that way for?" "I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago," I said. "I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you." "All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hall to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I knocked. "Who is it?" "Barnes." "Come in, Jake." I opened the door and went in, and set down my suitcase. There was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, face down, on the bed in the dark. "Hello, Jake." "Don't call me Jake." I stood by the door. It was just like this that I had come home. Now it was a hot bath that I needed. A deep, hot bath, to lie back in. "Where's the bathroom?" I asked. Cohn was crying. There he was, face down on the bed, crying. He had on a white polo shirt, the kind he'd worn at Princeton. "I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me." "Forgive you, hell." "Please forgive me, Jake." I did not say anything. I stood there by the door. "I was crazy. You must see how it was." "Oh, that's all right." "I couldn't stand it about Brett." "You called me a pimp." I did not care. I wanted a hot bath. I wanted a hot bath in deep water. "I know. Please don't remember it. I was crazy." "That's all right." He was crying. His voice was funny. He lay there in his white shirt on the bed in the dark. His polo shirt. "I'm going away in the morning." He was crying without making any noise. "I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell, Jake. It's been simply hell. When I met her down here Brett treated me as though I were a perfect stranger. I just couldn't stand it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I suppose you know it. I can't stand it any more." He lay there on the bed. "Well," I said, "I'm going to take a bath." "You were the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so."<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>I said, "so long." "I guess it isn't any use," he said. "I guess it isn't any damn use." "What?" "Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake." "Sure," I said. "It's all right." "I felt so terribly. I've been through such hell, Jake. Now everything's gone. Everything." "Well," I said, "so long. I've got to go." He rolled over, sat on the edge of the bed, and then stood up. "So long, Jake," he said. "You'll shake hands, won't you?" "Sure. Why not?" We shook hands. In the dark I could not see his face very well. "Well," I said, "see you in the morning." "I'm going away in the morning." "Oh, yes," I said. I went out. Cohn was standing in the door of the room. "Are you all right, Jake?" he asked. "Oh, yes," I said. "I'm all right." I could not find the bathroom. After a while I found it. There was a deep stone tub. I turned on the taps and the water would not run. I sat down on the edge of the bath-tub. When I got up to go I found I had taken off my shoes. I hunted for them and found them and carried them down-stairs. I found my room and went inside and undressed and got into bed. * * * * * I woke with a headache and the noise of the bands going by in the street. I remembered I had promised to take Bill's friend Edna to see the bulls go through the street and into the ring. I dressed and went down-stairs and out into the cold early morning. People were crossing the square, hurrying toward the bull-ring. Across the square were the two lines of men in front of the ticket-booths. They were still waiting for the tickets to go on sale at seven o'clock. I hurried across the street to the caf . The waiter told me that my friends had been there and gone. "How many were they?" "Two gentlemen and a lady." That was all right. Bill and Mike were with Edna. She had been afraid last night they would pass out. That was why I was to be sure to take her. I drank the coffee and hurried with the other people toward the bull-ring. I was not groggy now. There was only a bad headache. Everything looked sharp and clear, and the town smelt of the early morning. The stretch of ground from the edge of the town to the bull-ring was muddy. There was a crowd all along the fence that led to the ring, and the outside balconies and the top of the bull-ring were solid with people. I heard the rocket and I knew I could not get into the ring in time to see the bulls come in, so I shoved through the crowd to the fence. I was pushed close against the planks of the fence. Between the two fences of the runway the police were clearing the crowd along. They walked or trotted on into the bull-ring. Then people commenced to come running. A drunk slipped and fell. Two policemen grabbed him and rushed him over to the fence. The crowd were running fast now. There was a great shout from the crowd, and putting my head through between the boards I saw the bulls just coming out of the street into the long running pen. They were going fast and gaining on the crowd. Just then another drunk started out from the fence with a blouse in his hands. He wanted to do capework with the bulls. The two policemen tore out, collared him, one hit him with a club, and they dragged him against the fence and stood flattened out against the fence as the last of the crowd and the bulls went by. There were so many people running ahead of the bulls that the mass thickened and slowed up going through the gate into the ring, and as the bulls passed, galloping together, heavy, muddy-sided, horns swinging, one shot ahead, caught a man in the running crowd in the back and lifted him in the air. Both the man's arms were by his sides, his head went back as the horn went in, and the bull lifted him and then dropped him. The bull picked another man running in front, but the man disappeared into the crowd, and the crowd was through the gate and into the ring with the bulls behind them. The red door of the ring went shut, the crowd on the outside balconies of the bull-ring were pressing through to the inside, there was a shout, then another shout. The man who had been gored lay face down in the trampled mud. People climbed over the fence, | stairs took a long time, and I had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase. There was a light in the room. Bill came out and met me in the hall. "Say," he said, "go up and see Cohn. He's been in a jam, and he's asking for you." "The hell with him." "Go on. Go on up and see him." I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. "What are you looking at me that way for?" "I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago," I said. "I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you." "All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hall to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I knocked. "Who is it?" "Barnes." "Come in, Jake." I opened the door and went in, and set down my suitcase. There was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, face down, on the bed in the dark. "Hello, Jake." "Don't call me Jake." I stood by the door. It was just like this that I had come home. Now it was a hot bath that I needed. A deep, hot bath, to lie back in. "Where's the bathroom?" I asked. Cohn was crying. There he was, face down on the bed, crying. He had on a white polo shirt, the kind he'd worn at Princeton. "I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me." "Forgive you, hell." "Please forgive me, Jake." I did not say anything. I stood there by the door. "I was crazy. You must see how it was." "Oh, that's all right." "I couldn't stand it about Brett." "You called me a pimp." I did not care. I wanted a hot bath. I wanted a hot bath in deep water. "I know. Please don't remember it. I was crazy." "That's all right." He was crying. His voice was funny. He lay there in his white shirt on the bed in the dark. His polo shirt. "I'm going away in the morning." He was crying without making any noise. "I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell, Jake. It's been simply hell. When I met her down here Brett treated me as though I were a perfect stranger. I just couldn't stand it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I suppose you know it. I can't stand it any more." He lay there on the bed. "Well," I said, "I'm going to take a bath." "You were the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so."<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>I said, "so long." "I guess it isn't any use," he said. "I guess it isn't any damn use." "What?" "Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake." "Sure," I said. "It's all right." "I felt so terribly. I've been through such hell, Jake. Now everything's gone. Everything." "Well," I said, "so long. I've got to go." He rolled over, sat on the edge of the bed, and then stood up. "So long, Jake," he said. "You'll shake hands, won't you?" "Sure. Why not?" We shook hands. In the dark I could not see his face very well. "Well," I said, "see you in the morning." "I'm going away in the morning." "Oh, yes," I said. I went out. Cohn was standing in the door of the room. "Are you all right, Jake?" he asked. "Oh, yes," I said. "I'm all right." I could not find the bathroom. After a while I found it. There was a deep stone tub. I turned on the taps and the water would not run. I sat down on the edge of the bath-tub. When I got up to go I found I had taken off my shoes. I hunted for them and found them and carried them down-stairs. I found my room and went inside and undressed and got into bed. * * * * * I woke with a headache and the noise of the bands going by in the street. I remembered I had promised to take Bill's friend Edna to see the bulls go through the street and into the ring. I dressed and went down-stairs and | The Sun Also Rises |
"Well--not if the woman, however injured, however irreproachable, has appearances in the least degree against her, has exposed herself by any unconventional action to--to offensive insinuations--" | Newland Archer | divorce--our social customs don't." "Never?"<|quote|>"Well--not if the woman, however injured, however irreproachable, has appearances in the least degree against her, has exposed herself by any unconventional action to--to offensive insinuations--"</|quote|>She drooped her head a | particularly old-fashioned. Our legislation favours divorce--our social customs don't." "Never?"<|quote|>"Well--not if the woman, however injured, however irreproachable, has appearances in the least degree against her, has exposed herself by any unconventional action to--to offensive insinuations--"</|quote|>She drooped her head a little lower, and he waited | is a very small world compared with the one you've lived in. And it's ruled, in spite of appearances, by a few people with--well, rather old-fashioned ideas." She said nothing, and he continued: "Our ideas about marriage and divorce are particularly old-fashioned. Our legislation favours divorce--our social customs don't." "Never?"<|quote|>"Well--not if the woman, however injured, however irreproachable, has appearances in the least degree against her, has exposed herself by any unconventional action to--to offensive insinuations--"</|quote|>She drooped her head a little lower, and he waited again, intensely hoping for a flash of indignation, or at least a brief cry of denial. None came. A little travelling clock ticked purringly at her elbow, and a log broke in two and sent up a shower of sparks. | ring did not appear. "What harm could such accusations, even if he made them publicly, do me here?" It was on his lips to exclaim: "My poor child--far more harm than anywhere else!" Instead, he answered, in a voice that sounded in his ears like Mr. Letterblair's: "New York society is a very small world compared with the one you've lived in. And it's ruled, in spite of appearances, by a few people with--well, rather old-fashioned ideas." She said nothing, and he continued: "Our ideas about marriage and divorce are particularly old-fashioned. Our legislation favours divorce--our social customs don't." "Never?"<|quote|>"Well--not if the woman, however injured, however irreproachable, has appearances in the least degree against her, has exposed herself by any unconventional action to--to offensive insinuations--"</|quote|>She drooped her head a little lower, and he waited again, intensely hoping for a flash of indignation, or at least a brief cry of denial. None came. A little travelling clock ticked purringly at her elbow, and a log broke in two and sent up a shower of sparks. The whole hushed and brooding room seemed to be waiting silently with Archer. "Yes," she murmured at length, "that's what my family tell me." He winced a little. "It's not unnatural--" "OUR family," she corrected herself; and Archer coloured. "For you'll be my cousin soon," she continued gently. "I hope | fight the case--as he threatens to--" "Yes--?" "He can say things--things that might be unpl--might be disagreeable to you: say them publicly, so that they would get about, and harm you even if--" "If--?" "I mean: no matter how unfounded they were." She paused for a long interval; so long that, not wishing to keep his eyes on her shaded face, he had time to imprint on his mind the exact shape of her other hand, the one on her knee, and every detail of the three rings on her fourth and fifth fingers; among which, he noticed, a wedding ring did not appear. "What harm could such accusations, even if he made them publicly, do me here?" It was on his lips to exclaim: "My poor child--far more harm than anywhere else!" Instead, he answered, in a voice that sounded in his ears like Mr. Letterblair's: "New York society is a very small world compared with the one you've lived in. And it's ruled, in spite of appearances, by a few people with--well, rather old-fashioned ideas." She said nothing, and he continued: "Our ideas about marriage and divorce are particularly old-fashioned. Our legislation favours divorce--our social customs don't." "Never?"<|quote|>"Well--not if the woman, however injured, however irreproachable, has appearances in the least degree against her, has exposed herself by any unconventional action to--to offensive insinuations--"</|quote|>She drooped her head a little lower, and he waited again, intensely hoping for a flash of indignation, or at least a brief cry of denial. None came. A little travelling clock ticked purringly at her elbow, and a log broke in two and sent up a shower of sparks. The whole hushed and brooding room seemed to be waiting silently with Archer. "Yes," she murmured at length, "that's what my family tell me." He winced a little. "It's not unnatural--" "OUR family," she corrected herself; and Archer coloured. "For you'll be my cousin soon," she continued gently. "I hope so." "And you take their view?" He stood up at this, wandered across the room, stared with void eyes at one of the pictures against the old red damask, and came back irresolutely to her side. How could he say: "Yes, if what your husband hints is true, or if you've no way of disproving it?" "Sincerely--" she interjected, as he was about to speak. He looked down into the fire. "Sincerely, then--what should you gain that would compensate for the possibility--the certainty--of a lot of beastly talk?" "But my freedom--is that nothing?" It flashed across him at that instant | felt as awkward and embarrassed as a boy. After a pause Madame Olenska broke out with unexpected vehemence: "I want to be free; I want to wipe out all the past." "I understand that." Her face warmed. "Then you'll help me?" "First--" he hesitated--" "perhaps I ought to know a little more." She seemed surprised. "You know about my husband--my life with him?" He made a sign of assent. "Well--then--what more is there? In this country are such things tolerated? I'm a Protestant--our church does not forbid divorce in such cases." "Certainly not." They were both silent again, and Archer felt the spectre of Count Olenski's letter grimacing hideously between them. The letter filled only half a page, and was just what he had described it to be in speaking of it to Mr. Letterblair: the vague charge of an angry blackguard. But how much truth was behind it? Only Count Olenski's wife could tell. "I've looked through the papers you gave to Mr. Letterblair," he said at length. "Well--can there be anything more abominable?" "No." She changed her position slightly, screening her eyes with her lifted hand. "Of course you know," Archer continued, "that if your husband chooses to fight the case--as he threatens to--" "Yes--?" "He can say things--things that might be unpl--might be disagreeable to you: say them publicly, so that they would get about, and harm you even if--" "If--?" "I mean: no matter how unfounded they were." She paused for a long interval; so long that, not wishing to keep his eyes on her shaded face, he had time to imprint on his mind the exact shape of her other hand, the one on her knee, and every detail of the three rings on her fourth and fifth fingers; among which, he noticed, a wedding ring did not appear. "What harm could such accusations, even if he made them publicly, do me here?" It was on his lips to exclaim: "My poor child--far more harm than anywhere else!" Instead, he answered, in a voice that sounded in his ears like Mr. Letterblair's: "New York society is a very small world compared with the one you've lived in. And it's ruled, in spite of appearances, by a few people with--well, rather old-fashioned ideas." She said nothing, and he continued: "Our ideas about marriage and divorce are particularly old-fashioned. Our legislation favours divorce--our social customs don't." "Never?"<|quote|>"Well--not if the woman, however injured, however irreproachable, has appearances in the least degree against her, has exposed herself by any unconventional action to--to offensive insinuations--"</|quote|>She drooped her head a little lower, and he waited again, intensely hoping for a flash of indignation, or at least a brief cry of denial. None came. A little travelling clock ticked purringly at her elbow, and a log broke in two and sent up a shower of sparks. The whole hushed and brooding room seemed to be waiting silently with Archer. "Yes," she murmured at length, "that's what my family tell me." He winced a little. "It's not unnatural--" "OUR family," she corrected herself; and Archer coloured. "For you'll be my cousin soon," she continued gently. "I hope so." "And you take their view?" He stood up at this, wandered across the room, stared with void eyes at one of the pictures against the old red damask, and came back irresolutely to her side. How could he say: "Yes, if what your husband hints is true, or if you've no way of disproving it?" "Sincerely--" she interjected, as he was about to speak. He looked down into the fire. "Sincerely, then--what should you gain that would compensate for the possibility--the certainty--of a lot of beastly talk?" "But my freedom--is that nothing?" It flashed across him at that instant that the charge in the letter was true, and that she hoped to marry the partner of her guilt. How was he to tell her that, if she really cherished such a plan, the laws of the State were inexorably opposed to it? The mere suspicion that the thought was in her mind made him feel harshly and impatiently toward her. "But aren't you as free as air as it is?" he returned. "Who can touch you? Mr. Letterblair tells me the financial question has been settled--" "Oh, yes," she said indifferently. "Well, then: is it worth while to risk what may be infinitely disagreeable and painful? Think of the newspapers--their vileness! It's all stupid and narrow and unjust--but one can't make over society." "No," she acquiesced; and her tone was so faint and desolate that he felt a sudden remorse for his own hard thoughts. "The individual, in such cases, is nearly always sacrificed to what is supposed to be the collective interest: people cling to any convention that keeps the family together--protects the children, if there are any," he rambled on, pouring out all the stock phrases that rose to his lips in his intense desire to cover | her eyes full of interest. "Oh, not exactly. I don't know that the arts have a milieu here, any of them; they're more like a very thinly settled outskirt." "But you care for such things?" "Immensely. When I'm in Paris or London I never miss an exhibition. I try to keep up." She looked down at the tip of the little satin boot that peeped from her long draperies. "I used to care immensely too: my life was full of such things. But now I want to try not to." "You want to try not to?" "Yes: I want to cast off all my old life, to become just like everybody else here." Archer reddened. "You'll never be like everybody else," he said. She raised her straight eyebrows a little. "Ah, don't say that. If you knew how I hate to be different!" Her face had grown as sombre as a tragic mask. She leaned forward, clasping her knee in her thin hands, and looking away from him into remote dark distances. "I want to get away from it all," she insisted. He waited a moment and cleared his throat. "I know. Mr. Letterblair has told me." "Ah?" "That's the reason I've come. He asked me to--you see I'm in the firm." She looked slightly surprised, and then her eyes brightened. "You mean you can manage it for me? I can talk to you instead of Mr. Letterblair? Oh, that will be so much easier!" Her tone touched him, and his confidence grew with his self-satisfaction. He perceived that she had spoken of business to Beaufort simply to get rid of him; and to have routed Beaufort was something of a triumph. "I am here to talk about it," he repeated. She sat silent, her head still propped by the arm that rested on the back of the sofa. Her face looked pale and extinguished, as if dimmed by the rich red of her dress. She struck Archer, of a sudden, as a pathetic and even pitiful figure. "Now we're coming to hard facts," he thought, conscious in himself of the same instinctive recoil that he had so often criticised in his mother and her contemporaries. How little practice he had had in dealing with unusual situations! Their very vocabulary was unfamiliar to him, and seemed to belong to fiction and the stage. In face of what was coming he felt as awkward and embarrassed as a boy. After a pause Madame Olenska broke out with unexpected vehemence: "I want to be free; I want to wipe out all the past." "I understand that." Her face warmed. "Then you'll help me?" "First--" he hesitated--" "perhaps I ought to know a little more." She seemed surprised. "You know about my husband--my life with him?" He made a sign of assent. "Well--then--what more is there? In this country are such things tolerated? I'm a Protestant--our church does not forbid divorce in such cases." "Certainly not." They were both silent again, and Archer felt the spectre of Count Olenski's letter grimacing hideously between them. The letter filled only half a page, and was just what he had described it to be in speaking of it to Mr. Letterblair: the vague charge of an angry blackguard. But how much truth was behind it? Only Count Olenski's wife could tell. "I've looked through the papers you gave to Mr. Letterblair," he said at length. "Well--can there be anything more abominable?" "No." She changed her position slightly, screening her eyes with her lifted hand. "Of course you know," Archer continued, "that if your husband chooses to fight the case--as he threatens to--" "Yes--?" "He can say things--things that might be unpl--might be disagreeable to you: say them publicly, so that they would get about, and harm you even if--" "If--?" "I mean: no matter how unfounded they were." She paused for a long interval; so long that, not wishing to keep his eyes on her shaded face, he had time to imprint on his mind the exact shape of her other hand, the one on her knee, and every detail of the three rings on her fourth and fifth fingers; among which, he noticed, a wedding ring did not appear. "What harm could such accusations, even if he made them publicly, do me here?" It was on his lips to exclaim: "My poor child--far more harm than anywhere else!" Instead, he answered, in a voice that sounded in his ears like Mr. Letterblair's: "New York society is a very small world compared with the one you've lived in. And it's ruled, in spite of appearances, by a few people with--well, rather old-fashioned ideas." She said nothing, and he continued: "Our ideas about marriage and divorce are particularly old-fashioned. Our legislation favours divorce--our social customs don't." "Never?"<|quote|>"Well--not if the woman, however injured, however irreproachable, has appearances in the least degree against her, has exposed herself by any unconventional action to--to offensive insinuations--"</|quote|>She drooped her head a little lower, and he waited again, intensely hoping for a flash of indignation, or at least a brief cry of denial. None came. A little travelling clock ticked purringly at her elbow, and a log broke in two and sent up a shower of sparks. The whole hushed and brooding room seemed to be waiting silently with Archer. "Yes," she murmured at length, "that's what my family tell me." He winced a little. "It's not unnatural--" "OUR family," she corrected herself; and Archer coloured. "For you'll be my cousin soon," she continued gently. "I hope so." "And you take their view?" He stood up at this, wandered across the room, stared with void eyes at one of the pictures against the old red damask, and came back irresolutely to her side. How could he say: "Yes, if what your husband hints is true, or if you've no way of disproving it?" "Sincerely--" she interjected, as he was about to speak. He looked down into the fire. "Sincerely, then--what should you gain that would compensate for the possibility--the certainty--of a lot of beastly talk?" "But my freedom--is that nothing?" It flashed across him at that instant that the charge in the letter was true, and that she hoped to marry the partner of her guilt. How was he to tell her that, if she really cherished such a plan, the laws of the State were inexorably opposed to it? The mere suspicion that the thought was in her mind made him feel harshly and impatiently toward her. "But aren't you as free as air as it is?" he returned. "Who can touch you? Mr. Letterblair tells me the financial question has been settled--" "Oh, yes," she said indifferently. "Well, then: is it worth while to risk what may be infinitely disagreeable and painful? Think of the newspapers--their vileness! It's all stupid and narrow and unjust--but one can't make over society." "No," she acquiesced; and her tone was so faint and desolate that he felt a sudden remorse for his own hard thoughts. "The individual, in such cases, is nearly always sacrificed to what is supposed to be the collective interest: people cling to any convention that keeps the family together--protects the children, if there are any," he rambled on, pouring out all the stock phrases that rose to his lips in his intense desire to cover over the ugly reality which her silence seemed to have laid bare. Since she would not or could not say the one word that would have cleared the air, his wish was not to let her feel that he was trying to probe into her secret. Better keep on the surface, in the prudent old New York way, than risk uncovering a wound he could not heal. "It's my business, you know," he went on, "to help you to see these things as the people who are fondest of you see them. The Mingotts, the Wellands, the van der Luydens, all your friends and relations: if I didn't show you honestly how they judge such questions, it wouldn't be fair of me, would it?" He spoke insistently, almost pleading with her in his eagerness to cover up that yawning silence. She said slowly: "No; it wouldn't be fair." The fire had crumbled down to greyness, and one of the lamps made a gurgling appeal for attention. Madame Olenska rose, wound it up and returned to the fire, but without resuming her seat. Her remaining on her feet seemed to signify that there was nothing more for either of them to say, and Archer stood up also. "Very well; I will do what you wish," she said abruptly. The blood rushed to his forehead; and, taken aback by the suddenness of her surrender, he caught her two hands awkwardly in his. "I--I do want to help you," he said. "You do help me. Good night, my cousin." He bent and laid his lips on her hands, which were cold and lifeless. She drew them away, and he turned to the door, found his coat and hat under the faint gas-light of the hall, and plunged out into the winter night bursting with the belated eloquence of the inarticulate. XIII. It was a crowded night at Wallack's theatre. The play was "The Shaughraun," with Dion Boucicault in the title role and Harry Montague and Ada Dyas as the lovers. The popularity of the admirable English company was at its height, and the Shaughraun always packed the house. In the galleries the enthusiasm was unreserved; in the stalls and boxes, people smiled a little at the hackneyed sentiments and clap-trap situations, and enjoyed the play as much as the galleries did. There was one episode, in particular, that held the house from floor | Protestant--our church does not forbid divorce in such cases." "Certainly not." They were both silent again, and Archer felt the spectre of Count Olenski's letter grimacing hideously between them. The letter filled only half a page, and was just what he had described it to be in speaking of it to Mr. Letterblair: the vague charge of an angry blackguard. But how much truth was behind it? Only Count Olenski's wife could tell. "I've looked through the papers you gave to Mr. Letterblair," he said at length. "Well--can there be anything more abominable?" "No." She changed her position slightly, screening her eyes with her lifted hand. "Of course you know," Archer continued, "that if your husband chooses to fight the case--as he threatens to--" "Yes--?" "He can say things--things that might be unpl--might be disagreeable to you: say them publicly, so that they would get about, and harm you even if--" "If--?" "I mean: no matter how unfounded they were." She paused for a long interval; so long that, not wishing to keep his eyes on her shaded face, he had time to imprint on his mind the exact shape of her other hand, the one on her knee, and every detail of the three rings on her fourth and fifth fingers; among which, he noticed, a wedding ring did not appear. "What harm could such accusations, even if he made them publicly, do me here?" It was on his lips to exclaim: "My poor child--far more harm than anywhere else!" Instead, he answered, in a voice that sounded in his ears like Mr. Letterblair's: "New York society is a very small world compared with the one you've lived in. And it's ruled, in spite of appearances, by a few people with--well, rather old-fashioned ideas." She said nothing, and he continued: "Our ideas about marriage and divorce are particularly old-fashioned. Our legislation favours divorce--our social customs don't." "Never?"<|quote|>"Well--not if the woman, however injured, however irreproachable, has appearances in the least degree against her, has exposed herself by any unconventional action to--to offensive insinuations--"</|quote|>She drooped her head a little lower, and he waited again, intensely hoping for a flash of indignation, or at least a brief cry of denial. None came. A little travelling clock ticked purringly at her elbow, and a log broke in two and sent up a shower of sparks. The whole hushed and brooding room seemed to be waiting silently with Archer. "Yes," she murmured at length, "that's what my family tell me." He winced a little. "It's not unnatural--" "OUR family," she corrected herself; and Archer coloured. "For you'll be my cousin soon," she continued gently. "I hope so." "And you take their view?" He stood up at this, wandered across the room, stared with void eyes at one of the pictures against the old red damask, and came back irresolutely to her side. How could he say: "Yes, if what your husband hints is true, or if you've no way of disproving it?" "Sincerely--" she interjected, as he was about to speak. He looked down into the fire. "Sincerely, then--what should you gain that would compensate for the possibility--the certainty--of a lot of beastly talk?" "But my freedom--is that nothing?" It flashed across him at that instant that the charge in the letter was true, and that she hoped to marry the partner of her guilt. How was he to tell her that, if she really cherished such a plan, the laws of the State were inexorably opposed to it? The mere suspicion that the thought was in her mind made him feel harshly and impatiently toward her. "But aren't you as free as air as it is?" he returned. "Who can touch you? Mr. Letterblair tells me the financial question has been settled--" "Oh, yes," she said indifferently. "Well, then: is it worth while to risk what may be infinitely disagreeable and painful? Think of the newspapers--their vileness! It's all stupid and narrow and unjust--but one can't make over society." "No," she acquiesced; and her tone was so faint and desolate that he felt a sudden remorse for his own hard thoughts. "The individual, in such cases, is nearly always sacrificed to what is supposed to be the collective interest: people cling to any convention that keeps the family together--protects the children, if there are any," he rambled on, pouring out all the stock phrases that rose to his lips in his intense desire to cover over the ugly reality which her silence seemed to have laid bare. Since she would not or could not say the one word that would have cleared the air, his wish was not to let her feel that he was trying to probe into her secret. Better keep on the surface, in the prudent old New York way, than risk uncovering a wound he could not heal. "It's my business, you know," he went on, "to help you to | The Age Of Innocence |
said Mrs. Bennet one day, | No speaker | and their tranquillity. "Well, Lizzy,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Bennet one day,</|quote|>"what is your opinion _now_ | injurious to her own health and their tranquillity. "Well, Lizzy,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Bennet one day,</|quote|>"what is your opinion _now_ of this sad business of | did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those regrets, which must have been injurious to her own health and their tranquillity. "Well, Lizzy,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Bennet one day,</|quote|>"what is your opinion _now_ of this sad business of Jane's? For my part, I am determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I told my sister Philips so the other day. But I cannot find out that Jane saw any thing of him in London. Well, he | of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than first attachments often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those regrets, which must have been injurious to her own health and their tranquillity. "Well, Lizzy,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Bennet one day,</|quote|>"what is your opinion _now_ of this sad business of Jane's? For my part, I am determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I told my sister Philips so the other day. But I cannot find out that Jane saw any thing of him in London. Well, he is a very undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there is the least chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have enquired of every body too, who is likely to know." | had been valued by his friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off this last incumbrance of mystery. "And then," said she, "if that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!" She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real state of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than first attachments often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those regrets, which must have been injurious to her own health and their tranquillity. "Well, Lizzy,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Bennet one day,</|quote|>"what is your opinion _now_ of this sad business of Jane's? For my part, I am determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I told my sister Philips so the other day. But I cannot find out that Jane saw any thing of him in London. Well, he is a very undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there is the least chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have enquired of every body too, who is likely to know." "I do not believe that he will ever live at Netherfield any more." "Oh, well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I shall always say that he used my daughter extremely ill; and if I was her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Jane will die of a broken heart, and then he will be sorry for what he has done." But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation, she made no answer. "Well, Lizzy," continued her mother soon afterwards, "and so | believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in Meryton, to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham will soon be gone; and therefore it will not signify to anybody here, what he really is. Sometime hence it will be all found out, and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present I will say nothing about it." "You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for ever. He is now perhaps sorry for what he has done, and anxious to re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate." The tumult of Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conversation. She had got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish to talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind, of which prudence forbad the disclosure. She dared not relate the other half of Mr. Darcy's letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she had been valued by his friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off this last incumbrance of mystery. "And then," said she, "if that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!" She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real state of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than first attachments often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those regrets, which must have been injurious to her own health and their tranquillity. "Well, Lizzy,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Bennet one day,</|quote|>"what is your opinion _now_ of this sad business of Jane's? For my part, I am determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I told my sister Philips so the other day. But I cannot find out that Jane saw any thing of him in London. Well, he is a very undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there is the least chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have enquired of every body too, who is likely to know." "I do not believe that he will ever live at Netherfield any more." "Oh, well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I shall always say that he used my daughter extremely ill; and if I was her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Jane will die of a broken heart, and then he will be sorry for what he has done." But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation, she made no answer. "Well, Lizzy," continued her mother soon afterwards, "and so the Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her mother, she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in _their_ housekeeping, I dare say." "No, nothing at all." "A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. _They_ will take care not to outrun their income. _They_ will never be distressed for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it quite as their own, I dare say, whenever that happens." "It was a subject which they could not mention before me." "No. It would have been strange if they had. But I make no doubt, they often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. _I_ should be ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me." CHAPTER XVIII. The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It | know you will do him such ample justice, that I am growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion makes me saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will be as light as a feather." "Poor Wickham; there is such an expression of goodness in his countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner." "There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it." "I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it as you used to do." "And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one's genius, such an opening for wit to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually abusive without saying any thing just; but one cannot be always laughing at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty." "Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat the matter as you do now." "Indeed I could not. I was uncomfortable enough. I was very uncomfortable, I may say unhappy. And with no one to speak to, of what I felt, no Jane to comfort me and say that I had not been so very weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I had! Oh! how I wanted you!" "How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they _do_ appear wholly undeserved." "Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness, is a most natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is one point, on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I ought, or ought not to make our acquaintance in general understand Wickham's character." Miss Bennet paused a little and then replied, "Surely there can be no occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your own opinion?" "That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised me to make his communication public. On the contrary every particular relative to his sister, was meant to be kept as much as possible to myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in Meryton, to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham will soon be gone; and therefore it will not signify to anybody here, what he really is. Sometime hence it will be all found out, and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present I will say nothing about it." "You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for ever. He is now perhaps sorry for what he has done, and anxious to re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate." The tumult of Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conversation. She had got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish to talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind, of which prudence forbad the disclosure. She dared not relate the other half of Mr. Darcy's letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she had been valued by his friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off this last incumbrance of mystery. "And then," said she, "if that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!" She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real state of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than first attachments often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those regrets, which must have been injurious to her own health and their tranquillity. "Well, Lizzy,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Bennet one day,</|quote|>"what is your opinion _now_ of this sad business of Jane's? For my part, I am determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I told my sister Philips so the other day. But I cannot find out that Jane saw any thing of him in London. Well, he is a very undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there is the least chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have enquired of every body too, who is likely to know." "I do not believe that he will ever live at Netherfield any more." "Oh, well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I shall always say that he used my daughter extremely ill; and if I was her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Jane will die of a broken heart, and then he will be sorry for what he has done." But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation, she made no answer. "Well, Lizzy," continued her mother soon afterwards, "and so the Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her mother, she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in _their_ housekeeping, I dare say." "No, nothing at all." "A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. _They_ will take care not to outrun their income. _They_ will never be distressed for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it quite as their own, I dare say, whenever that happens." "It was a subject which they could not mention before me." "No. It would have been strange if they had. But I make no doubt, they often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. _I_ should be ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me." CHAPTER XVIII. The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was the last of the regiment's stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies in the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink, and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such hard-heartedness in any of the family. "Good Heaven! What is to become of us! What are we to do!" would they often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. "How can you be smiling so, Lizzy?" Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what she had herself endured on a similar occasion, five and twenty years ago. "I am sure," said she, "I cried for two days together when Colonel Millar's regiment went away. I thought I should have broke my heart." "I am sure I shall break _mine_," said Lydia. "If one could but go to Brighton!" observed Mrs. Bennet. "Oh, yes!--if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so disagreeable." "A little sea-bathing would set me up for ever." "And my aunt Philips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of good," added Kitty. Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through Longbourn-house. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy's objections; and never had she before been so much disposed to pardon his interference in the views of his friend. But the gloom of Lydia's prospect was shortly cleared away; for she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the Colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of their _three_ months' acquaintance they had been intimate _two_. The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster, the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister's feelings, Lydia flew about the house in restless ecstacy, calling for every one's congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever; whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repining at | What is your own opinion?" "That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised me to make his communication public. On the contrary every particular relative to his sister, was meant to be kept as much as possible to myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in Meryton, to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham will soon be gone; and therefore it will not signify to anybody here, what he really is. Sometime hence it will be all found out, and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present I will say nothing about it." "You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for ever. He is now perhaps sorry for what he has done, and anxious to re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate." The tumult of Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conversation. She had got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish to talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind, of which prudence forbad the disclosure. She dared not relate the other half of Mr. Darcy's letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she had been valued by his friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off this last incumbrance of mystery. "And then," said she, "if that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!" She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real state of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than first attachments often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those regrets, which must have been injurious to her own health and their tranquillity. "Well, Lizzy,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Bennet one day,</|quote|>"what is your opinion _now_ of this sad business of Jane's? For my part, I am determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I told my sister Philips so the other day. But I cannot find out that Jane saw any thing of him in London. Well, he is a very undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there is the least chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have enquired of every body too, who is likely to know." "I do not believe that he will ever live at Netherfield any more." "Oh, well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I shall always say that he used my daughter extremely ill; and if I was her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Jane will die of a broken heart, and then he will be sorry for what he has done." But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation, she made no answer. "Well, Lizzy," continued her mother soon afterwards, "and so the Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp | Pride And Prejudice |
Winterbourne pursued, | No speaker | Costello. "It is very true,"<|quote|>Winterbourne pursued,</|quote|>"that Daisy and her mamma | passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true,"<|quote|>Winterbourne pursued,</|quote|>"that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to | If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true,"<|quote|>Winterbourne pursued,</|quote|>"that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it," said Mrs. | doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true,"<|quote|>Winterbourne pursued,</|quote|>"that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it," said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The | learned something. He is apparently a perfectly respectable little man. I believe he is, in a small way, a cavaliere avvocato. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely impossible that the courier introduced him. He is evidently immensely charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the world, he, on his side, has never found himself in personal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true,"<|quote|>Winterbourne pursued,</|quote|>"that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it," said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry | an intrigue." "I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him." "They are certainly very intimate," said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument. "He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It was the courier probably who introduced him; and if he succeeds in marrying the young lady, the courier will come in for a magnificent commission." "I don t believe she thinks of marrying him," said Winterbourne, "and I don t believe he hopes to marry her." "You may be very sure she thinks of nothing. She goes on from day to day, from hour to hour, as they did in the Golden Age. I can imagine nothing more vulgar. And at the same time," added Mrs. Costello, "depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged." "I think that is more than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne. "Who is Giovanelli?" "The little Italian. I have asked questions about him and learned something. He is apparently a perfectly respectable little man. I believe he is, in a small way, a cavaliere avvocato. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely impossible that the courier introduced him. He is evidently immensely charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the world, he, on his side, has never found himself in personal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true,"<|quote|>Winterbourne pursued,</|quote|>"that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it," said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said, "And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined. "Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from | her conversation, the same odd mixture of audacity and puerility. Winterbourne remarked to himself that if she was seriously interested in Giovanelli, it was very singular that she should not take more trouble to preserve the sanctity of their interviews; and he liked her the more for her innocent-looking indifference and her apparently inexhaustible good humor. He could hardly have said why, but she seemed to him a girl who would never be jealous. At the risk of exciting a somewhat derisive smile on the reader s part, I may affirm that with regard to the women who had hitherto interested him, it very often seemed to Winterbourne among the possibilities that, given certain contingencies, he should be afraid--literally afraid--of these ladies; he had a pleasant sense that he should never be afraid of Daisy Miller. It must be added that this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, or rather of his apprehension, that she would prove a very light young person. But she was evidently very much interested in Giovanelli. She looked at him whenever he spoke; she was perpetually telling him to do this and to do that; she was constantly "chaffing" and abusing him. She appeared completely to have forgotten that Winterbourne had said anything to displease her at Mrs. Walker s little party. One Sunday afternoon, having gone to St. Peter s with his aunt, Winterbourne perceived Daisy strolling about the great church in company with the inevitable Giovanelli. Presently he pointed out the young girl and her cavalier to Mrs. Costello. This lady looked at them a moment through her eyeglass, and then she said: "That s what makes you so pensive in these days, eh?" "I had not the least idea I was pensive," said the young man. "You are very much preoccupied; you are thinking of something." "And what is it," he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block." "Do you call it an intrigue," Winterbourne asked--" "an affair that goes on with such peculiar publicity?" "That s their folly," said Mrs. Costello; "it s not their merit." "No," rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which his aunt had alluded. "I don t believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue." "I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him." "They are certainly very intimate," said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument. "He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It was the courier probably who introduced him; and if he succeeds in marrying the young lady, the courier will come in for a magnificent commission." "I don t believe she thinks of marrying him," said Winterbourne, "and I don t believe he hopes to marry her." "You may be very sure she thinks of nothing. She goes on from day to day, from hour to hour, as they did in the Golden Age. I can imagine nothing more vulgar. And at the same time," added Mrs. Costello, "depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged." "I think that is more than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne. "Who is Giovanelli?" "The little Italian. I have asked questions about him and learned something. He is apparently a perfectly respectable little man. I believe he is, in a small way, a cavaliere avvocato. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely impossible that the courier introduced him. He is evidently immensely charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the world, he, on his side, has never found himself in personal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true,"<|quote|>Winterbourne pursued,</|quote|>"that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it," said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said, "And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined. "Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy and her companion but five minutes before, he jumped into a cab and went to call on Mrs. Miller. She was at home; but she apologized to him for receiving him in Daisy s absence. "She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli," said Mrs. Miller. "She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli." "I have noticed that they are very intimate," Winterbourne observed. "Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed; "she goes on as if she was. But I ve made Mr. Giovanelli promise to tell me, if SHE doesn t. I should want to write to Mr. Miller about it--shouldn t you?" Winterbourne replied that he certainly should; and the state of mind of Daisy s mamma struck him as so unprecedented in the annals of parental vigilance that he gave up as utterly irrelevant the attempt to place her upon her guard. After this Daisy was never at home, and Winterbourne ceased to meet her at the houses of their common acquaintances, because, as he perceived, these shrewd people had quite made up their minds that she was going too far. They ceased to invite her; and they intimated that they desired to express to observant Europeans the great truth that, though Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady, her behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward her, and sometimes it annoyed him to suspect that she did not feel at all. He said to himself that she was too light and childish, too uncultivated and unreasoning, too provincial, to have reflected upon her ostracism, or even to have perceived it. Then at other moments he believed that she carried about in her elegant and irresponsible little organism a defiant, passionate, perfectly observant consciousness of the impression she produced. He asked himself whether Daisy s defiance came from the consciousness of innocence, or from her being, essentially, | block." "Do you call it an intrigue," Winterbourne asked--" "an affair that goes on with such peculiar publicity?" "That s their folly," said Mrs. Costello; "it s not their merit." "No," rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which his aunt had alluded. "I don t believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue." "I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him." "They are certainly very intimate," said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument. "He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It was the courier probably who introduced him; and if he succeeds in marrying the young lady, the courier will come in for a magnificent commission." "I don t believe she thinks of marrying him," said Winterbourne, "and I don t believe he hopes to marry her." "You may be very sure she thinks of nothing. She goes on from day to day, from hour to hour, as they did in the Golden Age. I can imagine nothing more vulgar. And at the same time," added Mrs. Costello, "depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged." "I think that is more than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne. "Who is Giovanelli?" "The little Italian. I have asked questions about him and learned something. He is apparently a perfectly respectable little man. I believe he is, in a small way, a cavaliere avvocato. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely impossible that the courier introduced him. He is evidently immensely charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the world, he, on his side, has never found himself in personal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true,"<|quote|>Winterbourne pursued,</|quote|>"that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it," said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned | Daisy Miller |
Lord Theign waived cross-questions. | No speaker | were _not_--as you seemed then--willing?”<|quote|>Lord Theign waived cross-questions.</|quote|>“Well, I’m willing _now_--that’s all | mystification, however, continued. “And you were _not_--as you seemed then--willing?”<|quote|>Lord Theign waived cross-questions.</|quote|>“Well, I’m willing _now_--that’s all that need concern us. Only, | shall be at once to dispose of a picture.” Mr. Bender rather failed to follow. “But that’s what you wanted to do before.” “Pardon me,” said his lordship-- “I make a difference. It’s what you wanted me to do.” The mystification, however, continued. “And you were _not_--as you seemed then--willing?”<|quote|>Lord Theign waived cross-questions.</|quote|>“Well, I’m willing _now_--that’s all that need concern us. Only, once more and for the last time,” he added with all authority, “you can’t have our Duchess!” “You can’t have our Duchess!” --and Lord John, as before the altar of patriotism, wrapped it in sacrificial sighs. “You can’t have our | upon that personage. “Oh, I guess our noble friend knows I _have_ to talk big about big things. You understand, sir, the scream of the eagle!” “I’ll forgive you,” Lord Theign civilly returned, “all the big talk you like if you’ll now understand _me_. My retort to that hireling pack shall be at once to dispose of a picture.” Mr. Bender rather failed to follow. “But that’s what you wanted to do before.” “Pardon me,” said his lordship-- “I make a difference. It’s what you wanted me to do.” The mystification, however, continued. “And you were _not_--as you seemed then--willing?”<|quote|>Lord Theign waived cross-questions.</|quote|>“Well, I’m willing _now_--that’s all that need concern us. Only, once more and for the last time,” he added with all authority, “you can’t have our Duchess!” “You can’t have our Duchess!” --and Lord John, as before the altar of patriotism, wrapped it in sacrificial sighs. “You can’t have our Duchess!” Lady Sandgate repeated, but with a grace that took the sting from her triumph. And she seemed still all sweet sociability as she added: “I wish he’d tell you too, you dreadful rich thing, that you can’t have anything at all!” Lord Theign, however, in the interest of harmony, | I trace the connection!” Mr. Benders acceptance of responsibility clearly cost him no shade of a pang. “Why, I haven’t for quite a while talked of a blessed other thing--and I’m capable of growing more profane over my _not_ getting her than I guess any one would dare to be if I did.” “Well, you’ll certainly not ‘get’ her, Mr. Bender,” Lady Sandgate, as for reasons of her own, bravely trumpeted; “and even if there were a chance of it don’t you see that your way wouldn’t be publicly to abuse our noble friend?” Mr. Bender but beamed, in reply, upon that personage. “Oh, I guess our noble friend knows I _have_ to talk big about big things. You understand, sir, the scream of the eagle!” “I’ll forgive you,” Lord Theign civilly returned, “all the big talk you like if you’ll now understand _me_. My retort to that hireling pack shall be at once to dispose of a picture.” Mr. Bender rather failed to follow. “But that’s what you wanted to do before.” “Pardon me,” said his lordship-- “I make a difference. It’s what you wanted me to do.” The mystification, however, continued. “And you were _not_--as you seemed then--willing?”<|quote|>Lord Theign waived cross-questions.</|quote|>“Well, I’m willing _now_--that’s all that need concern us. Only, once more and for the last time,” he added with all authority, “you can’t have our Duchess!” “You can’t have our Duchess!” --and Lord John, as before the altar of patriotism, wrapped it in sacrificial sighs. “You can’t have our Duchess!” Lady Sandgate repeated, but with a grace that took the sting from her triumph. And she seemed still all sweet sociability as she added: “I wish he’d tell you too, you dreadful rich thing, that you can’t have anything at all!” Lord Theign, however, in the interest of harmony, deprecated that rigour. “Ah, what then would become of my happy retort?” “And what--as it _is_,” Mr. Bender asked-- “becomes of my unhappy grievance?” “Wouldn’t a really great capture make up to you for that?” “Well, I take more interest in what I want than in what I have--and it depends, don’t you see, on how you measure the size.” Lord John had at once in this connection a bright idea. “Shouldn’t you like to go back there and take the measure yourself?” Mr. Bender considered him as through narrowed eyelids. “Look again at that tottering Moretto?” “Well, its size--as | simply nip it in the bud.” Lord John rejoicingly approved. “Absolutely the only way--with the least self-respect--to treat it!” Lady Sandgate, on the other hand, sounded a sceptical note. “But are you sure it’s so easy, Theign, to hush up a _real_ noise?” “It ain’t what I’d call a real one, Lady Sandgate,” Mr. Bender said; “you can generally distinguish a real one from the squeak of two or three mice! But granted mice do affect you, Lord Theign, it will interest me to hear what sort of a trap--by what you say--you propose to set for them.” “You must allow me to measure, myself, Mr. Bender,” his lordship replied, “the importance of a gross freedom publicly used with my absolutely personal proceedings and affairs; to the cause and origin of any definite report of which--in such circles!--I’m afraid I rather wonder if you yourself can’t give me a clue.” It took Mr. Bender a minute to do justice to these stately remarks. “You rather wonder if I’ve talked of how I feel about your detaining in your hands my Beautiful Duchess----?” “Oh, if you’ve already published her as ‘yours’--with your _power_ of publication!” Lord Theign coldly laughed,-- “of course I trace the connection!” Mr. Benders acceptance of responsibility clearly cost him no shade of a pang. “Why, I haven’t for quite a while talked of a blessed other thing--and I’m capable of growing more profane over my _not_ getting her than I guess any one would dare to be if I did.” “Well, you’ll certainly not ‘get’ her, Mr. Bender,” Lady Sandgate, as for reasons of her own, bravely trumpeted; “and even if there were a chance of it don’t you see that your way wouldn’t be publicly to abuse our noble friend?” Mr. Bender but beamed, in reply, upon that personage. “Oh, I guess our noble friend knows I _have_ to talk big about big things. You understand, sir, the scream of the eagle!” “I’ll forgive you,” Lord Theign civilly returned, “all the big talk you like if you’ll now understand _me_. My retort to that hireling pack shall be at once to dispose of a picture.” Mr. Bender rather failed to follow. “But that’s what you wanted to do before.” “Pardon me,” said his lordship-- “I make a difference. It’s what you wanted me to do.” The mystification, however, continued. “And you were _not_--as you seemed then--willing?”<|quote|>Lord Theign waived cross-questions.</|quote|>“Well, I’m willing _now_--that’s all that need concern us. Only, once more and for the last time,” he added with all authority, “you can’t have our Duchess!” “You can’t have our Duchess!” --and Lord John, as before the altar of patriotism, wrapped it in sacrificial sighs. “You can’t have our Duchess!” Lady Sandgate repeated, but with a grace that took the sting from her triumph. And she seemed still all sweet sociability as she added: “I wish he’d tell you too, you dreadful rich thing, that you can’t have anything at all!” Lord Theign, however, in the interest of harmony, deprecated that rigour. “Ah, what then would become of my happy retort?” “And what--as it _is_,” Mr. Bender asked-- “becomes of my unhappy grievance?” “Wouldn’t a really great capture make up to you for that?” “Well, I take more interest in what I want than in what I have--and it depends, don’t you see, on how you measure the size.” Lord John had at once in this connection a bright idea. “Shouldn’t you like to go back there and take the measure yourself?” Mr. Bender considered him as through narrowed eyelids. “Look again at that tottering Moretto?” “Well, its size--as you say--isn’t in _any_ light a negligible quantity.” “You mean that--big as it is--it hasn’t yet stopped growing?” The question, however, as he immediately showed, resided in what Lord Theign himself meant “It’s more to the purpose,” he said to Mr. Bender, “that I should mention to you the leading feature, or in other words the very essence, of my plan of campaign--which is to put the picture at once on view.” He marked his idea with a broad but elegant gesture. “On view as a thing definitely disposed of.” “I say, I say, I say!” cried Lord John, moved by this bold stroke to high admiration. Lady Sandgate’s approval was more qualified. “But on view, dear Theign, how?” “With one of those pushing people in Bond Street.” And then as for the crushing climax of his policy: “As a Mantovano pure and simple.” “But my dear man,” she quavered, “if it _isn’t_ one?” Mr. Bender at once anticipated; the wind had suddenly risen for him and he let out sail. “Lady Sand-gate, it’s going, by all that’s--well, interesting, to _be_ one!” Lord Theign took him up with pleasure. “You seize me? We _treat_ it as one!” Lord John eagerly | alter the fact that we’ve thus in our ears the first growl of an outcry.” “Ah,” Lord John concurred, “we’ve unmistakably the first growl of an outcry!” Mr. Bender’s judgment on the matter paused at sight of Lord Theign, introduced and announced, as Lord John spoke, by Gotch; but with the result of his addressing directly the person so presenting himself. “Why, they tell me that what this means, Lord Theign, is the first growl of an outcry!” The appearance of the most eminent figure in the group might have been held in itself to testify to some such truth; in the sense at least that a certain conscious radiance, a gathered light of battle in his lordship’s aspect would have been explained by his having taken the full measure--an inner success with which he glowed--of some high provocation. He was flushed, but he bore it as the ensign of his house; he was so admirably, vividly dressed, for the morning hour and for his journey, that he shone as with the armour of a knight; and the whole effect of him, from head to foot, with every jerk of his unconcern and every flash of his ease, was to call attention to his being utterly unshaken and knowing perfectly what he was about. It was at this happy pitch that he replied to the prime upsetter of his peace. “I’m afraid I don’t know what anything means to _you_, Mr. Bender--but it’s exactly to find out that I’ve asked you, with our friend John, kindly to meet me here. For a very brief conference, dear lady, by your good leave,” he went on to Lady Sandgate; “at which I’m only too pleased that you yourself should assist. The ‘first growl’ of any outcry, I may mention to you all, affects me no more than the last will----!” “So I’m delighted to gather” --Lady Sandgate took him straight up-- “that you don’t let go your inestimable Cure.” He at first quite stared superior-- “‘Let go’?” --but then treated it with a lighter touch. “Upon my honour I might, you know--that dose of the daily press has made me feel so fit! I arrive at any rate,” he pursued to the others and in particular to Mr. Bender, “I arrive with my decision taken--which I’ve thought may perhaps interest you. If that tuppeny rot _is_ an attempt at an outcry I simply nip it in the bud.” Lord John rejoicingly approved. “Absolutely the only way--with the least self-respect--to treat it!” Lady Sandgate, on the other hand, sounded a sceptical note. “But are you sure it’s so easy, Theign, to hush up a _real_ noise?” “It ain’t what I’d call a real one, Lady Sandgate,” Mr. Bender said; “you can generally distinguish a real one from the squeak of two or three mice! But granted mice do affect you, Lord Theign, it will interest me to hear what sort of a trap--by what you say--you propose to set for them.” “You must allow me to measure, myself, Mr. Bender,” his lordship replied, “the importance of a gross freedom publicly used with my absolutely personal proceedings and affairs; to the cause and origin of any definite report of which--in such circles!--I’m afraid I rather wonder if you yourself can’t give me a clue.” It took Mr. Bender a minute to do justice to these stately remarks. “You rather wonder if I’ve talked of how I feel about your detaining in your hands my Beautiful Duchess----?” “Oh, if you’ve already published her as ‘yours’--with your _power_ of publication!” Lord Theign coldly laughed,-- “of course I trace the connection!” Mr. Benders acceptance of responsibility clearly cost him no shade of a pang. “Why, I haven’t for quite a while talked of a blessed other thing--and I’m capable of growing more profane over my _not_ getting her than I guess any one would dare to be if I did.” “Well, you’ll certainly not ‘get’ her, Mr. Bender,” Lady Sandgate, as for reasons of her own, bravely trumpeted; “and even if there were a chance of it don’t you see that your way wouldn’t be publicly to abuse our noble friend?” Mr. Bender but beamed, in reply, upon that personage. “Oh, I guess our noble friend knows I _have_ to talk big about big things. You understand, sir, the scream of the eagle!” “I’ll forgive you,” Lord Theign civilly returned, “all the big talk you like if you’ll now understand _me_. My retort to that hireling pack shall be at once to dispose of a picture.” Mr. Bender rather failed to follow. “But that’s what you wanted to do before.” “Pardon me,” said his lordship-- “I make a difference. It’s what you wanted me to do.” The mystification, however, continued. “And you were _not_--as you seemed then--willing?”<|quote|>Lord Theign waived cross-questions.</|quote|>“Well, I’m willing _now_--that’s all that need concern us. Only, once more and for the last time,” he added with all authority, “you can’t have our Duchess!” “You can’t have our Duchess!” --and Lord John, as before the altar of patriotism, wrapped it in sacrificial sighs. “You can’t have our Duchess!” Lady Sandgate repeated, but with a grace that took the sting from her triumph. And she seemed still all sweet sociability as she added: “I wish he’d tell you too, you dreadful rich thing, that you can’t have anything at all!” Lord Theign, however, in the interest of harmony, deprecated that rigour. “Ah, what then would become of my happy retort?” “And what--as it _is_,” Mr. Bender asked-- “becomes of my unhappy grievance?” “Wouldn’t a really great capture make up to you for that?” “Well, I take more interest in what I want than in what I have--and it depends, don’t you see, on how you measure the size.” Lord John had at once in this connection a bright idea. “Shouldn’t you like to go back there and take the measure yourself?” Mr. Bender considered him as through narrowed eyelids. “Look again at that tottering Moretto?” “Well, its size--as you say--isn’t in _any_ light a negligible quantity.” “You mean that--big as it is--it hasn’t yet stopped growing?” The question, however, as he immediately showed, resided in what Lord Theign himself meant “It’s more to the purpose,” he said to Mr. Bender, “that I should mention to you the leading feature, or in other words the very essence, of my plan of campaign--which is to put the picture at once on view.” He marked his idea with a broad but elegant gesture. “On view as a thing definitely disposed of.” “I say, I say, I say!” cried Lord John, moved by this bold stroke to high admiration. Lady Sandgate’s approval was more qualified. “But on view, dear Theign, how?” “With one of those pushing people in Bond Street.” And then as for the crushing climax of his policy: “As a Mantovano pure and simple.” “But my dear man,” she quavered, “if it _isn’t_ one?” Mr. Bender at once anticipated; the wind had suddenly risen for him and he let out sail. “Lady Sand-gate, it’s going, by all that’s--well, interesting, to _be_ one!” Lord Theign took him up with pleasure. “You seize me? We _treat_ it as one!” Lord John eagerly borrowed the emphasis. “We _treat_ it as one!” Mr. Bender meanwhile fed with an opened appetite on the thought--he even gave it back larger. “As the long-lost Number Eight!” Lord Theign happily seized _him_. “That will be it--to a charm!” “It will make them,” Mr. Bender asked, “madder than anything?” His patron--if not his client--put it more nobly. “It will markedly affirm my attitude.” “Which will in turn the more markedly create discussion.” “It may create all it will!” “Well, if _you_ don’t mind it, _I_ don’t!” Mr. Bender concluded. But though bathed in this high serenity he was all for the rapid application of it elsewhere. “You’ll put the thing on view right off?” “As soon as the proper arrangement----” “You put off your journey to _make_ it?” Lady Sand-gate at once broke in. Lord Theign bethought himself--with the effect of a gracious confidence in the others. “Not if these friends will act.” “Oh, I guess we’ll _act!_” Mr. Bender declared. “Ah, _won’t_ we though!” Lord John re-echoed. “You understand then I have an interest?” Mr. Bender went on to Lord Theign. His lordship’s irony met it. “I accept that complication--which so much simplifies!” “And yet also have a liberty?” “Where else would be those you’ve taken? The point is,” said Lord Theign, “that _I_ have a show.” It settled Mr. Bender. “Then I’ll _fix_ your show.” He snatched up his hat. “Lord John, come right round!” Lord John had of himself reached the door, which he opened to let the whirlwind tremendously figured by his friend pass out first. Taking leave of the others he gave it even his applause. “The fellow can do anything anywhere!” And he hastily followed. V Lady Sandgate, left alone with Lord Theign, drew the line at their companion’s enthusiasm. “That may be true of Mr. Bender--for it’s dreadful how he bears one down. But I simply find him a terror.” “Well,” said her friend, who seemed disposed not to fatigue the question, “I dare say a terror will help me.” He had other business to which he at once gave himself. “And now, if you please, for that girl.” “I’ll send her to you,” she replied, “if you can’t stay to luncheon.” “I’ve three or four things to do,” he pleaded, “and I lunch with Kitty at one.” She submitted in that case--but disappointedly. “With Berkeley Square then you’ve time. But I | perhaps interest you. If that tuppeny rot _is_ an attempt at an outcry I simply nip it in the bud.” Lord John rejoicingly approved. “Absolutely the only way--with the least self-respect--to treat it!” Lady Sandgate, on the other hand, sounded a sceptical note. “But are you sure it’s so easy, Theign, to hush up a _real_ noise?” “It ain’t what I’d call a real one, Lady Sandgate,” Mr. Bender said; “you can generally distinguish a real one from the squeak of two or three mice! But granted mice do affect you, Lord Theign, it will interest me to hear what sort of a trap--by what you say--you propose to set for them.” “You must allow me to measure, myself, Mr. Bender,” his lordship replied, “the importance of a gross freedom publicly used with my absolutely personal proceedings and affairs; to the cause and origin of any definite report of which--in such circles!--I’m afraid I rather wonder if you yourself can’t give me a clue.” It took Mr. Bender a minute to do justice to these stately remarks. “You rather wonder if I’ve talked of how I feel about your detaining in your hands my Beautiful Duchess----?” “Oh, if you’ve already published her as ‘yours’--with your _power_ of publication!” Lord Theign coldly laughed,-- “of course I trace the connection!” Mr. Benders acceptance of responsibility clearly cost him no shade of a pang. “Why, I haven’t for quite a while talked of a blessed other thing--and I’m capable of growing more profane over my _not_ getting her than I guess any one would dare to be if I did.” “Well, you’ll certainly not ‘get’ her, Mr. Bender,” Lady Sandgate, as for reasons of her own, bravely trumpeted; “and even if there were a chance of it don’t you see that your way wouldn’t be publicly to abuse our noble friend?” Mr. Bender but beamed, in reply, upon that personage. “Oh, I guess our noble friend knows I _have_ to talk big about big things. You understand, sir, the scream of the eagle!” “I’ll forgive you,” Lord Theign civilly returned, “all the big talk you like if you’ll now understand _me_. My retort to that hireling pack shall be at once to dispose of a picture.” Mr. Bender rather failed to follow. “But that’s what you wanted to do before.” “Pardon me,” said his lordship-- “I make a difference. It’s what you wanted me to do.” The mystification, however, continued. “And you were _not_--as you seemed then--willing?”<|quote|>Lord Theign waived cross-questions.</|quote|>“Well, I’m willing _now_--that’s all that need concern us. Only, once more and for the last time,” he added with all authority, “you can’t have our Duchess!” “You can’t have our Duchess!” --and Lord John, as before the altar of patriotism, wrapped it in sacrificial sighs. “You can’t have our Duchess!” Lady Sandgate repeated, but with a grace that took the sting from her triumph. And she seemed still all sweet sociability as she added: “I wish he’d tell you too, you dreadful rich thing, that you can’t have anything at all!” Lord Theign, however, in the interest of harmony, deprecated that rigour. “Ah, what then would become of my happy retort?” “And what--as it _is_,” Mr. Bender asked-- “becomes of my unhappy grievance?” “Wouldn’t a really great capture make up to you for that?” “Well, I take more interest in what I want than in what I have--and it depends, don’t you see, on how you measure the size.” Lord John had at once in this connection a bright idea. “Shouldn’t you like to go back there and take the measure yourself?” Mr. Bender considered him as through narrowed eyelids. “Look again at that tottering Moretto?” “Well, its size--as you say--isn’t in _any_ light a negligible quantity.” “You mean that--big as it is--it hasn’t yet stopped growing?” The question, however, as he immediately showed, resided in what Lord Theign himself meant “It’s more to the purpose,” he said to Mr. Bender, “that I should mention to you the leading feature, or in other words the very essence, of my plan of campaign--which is to put the picture at once on view.” He marked his idea with a broad but elegant gesture. “On view as a thing definitely disposed of.” “I say, I say, I say!” cried Lord John, moved by this bold stroke to high admiration. Lady Sandgate’s approval was more qualified. “But on view, dear Theign, how?” “With one of those pushing people in Bond Street.” And then as for the crushing climax of his policy: “As a Mantovano pure and simple.” “But my dear man,” she quavered, “if it _isn’t_ one?” Mr. Bender at once anticipated; the wind had suddenly risen for him and he let out sail. “Lady Sand-gate, it’s going, by all that’s--well, interesting, to _be_ one!” Lord Theign took him up with pleasure. “You seize me? We _treat_ it as one!” Lord John eagerly borrowed the emphasis. “We _treat_ it as one!” Mr. Bender meanwhile fed with an opened appetite on the thought--he even gave it back larger. “As the long-lost Number Eight!” Lord Theign happily seized _him_. “That will be it--to a charm!” “It will make them,” Mr. Bender asked, “madder than anything?” His patron--if not his client--put it more nobly. “It will markedly affirm my attitude.” “Which will in turn the more markedly create discussion.” “It may create all it will!” “Well, if _you_ don’t mind it, _I_ don’t!” Mr. Bender concluded. But though bathed in this high serenity he was all for the rapid application of it elsewhere. “You’ll put the thing on view right off?” “As soon as the proper arrangement----” “You put off your journey to _make_ it?” Lady Sand-gate at once broke in. Lord Theign bethought himself--with the effect of a gracious confidence in the others. “Not if these friends will act.” “Oh, I guess we’ll _act!_” Mr. Bender declared. “Ah, _won’t_ we though!” Lord John re-echoed. “You understand then I have an interest?” Mr. Bender went on to Lord Theign. His lordship’s irony met it. “I accept that complication--which so much simplifies!” “And yet | The Outcry |
"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?" | Jem Wimble | Jem. Nobody would have cared."<|quote|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?"</|quote|>"You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody | left." "Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."<|quote|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?"</|quote|>"You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't | hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left." "Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."<|quote|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?"</|quote|>"You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master | CITY. "Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell." "Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left." "Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."<|quote|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?"</|quote|>"You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't get you back on again. Fortun' indeed! Why, you ragged, penny-hunting, lazy, drunken rub-shoulder, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "And I arn't a bit, Jem Wimble, not a bit. Never you | THE ADVENTURES OF DON LAVINGTON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY. "Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell." "Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left." "Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."<|quote|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?"</|quote|>"You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't get you back on again. Fortun' indeed! Why, you ragged, penny-hunting, lazy, drunken rub-shoulder, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "And I arn't a bit, Jem Wimble, not a bit. Never you mind him, Master Don, you strike for freedom. Make your uncle give you your father's money, and then off you goes like a man to see life." "Now lookye here," cried the sturdy, broad-faced young fellow who had first spoken, as he picked up a wooden lever used for turning over the great sugar-hogsheads lying in the yard, and hoisting them into a trolly, or beneath the crane which raised them into the warehouse. "Lookye here, Mike Bannock, I never did knock a man down with this here wooden bar, but if you gets stirring Mas' Don again, has it | THE ADVENTURES OF DON LAVINGTON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY. "Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell." "Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left." "Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."<|quote|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?"</|quote|>"You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't get you back on again. Fortun' indeed! Why, you ragged, penny-hunting, lazy, drunken rub-shoulder, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "And I arn't a bit, Jem Wimble, not a bit. Never you mind him, Master Don, you strike for freedom. Make your uncle give you your father's money, and then off you goes like a man to see life." "Now lookye here," cried the sturdy, broad-faced young fellow who had first spoken, as he picked up a wooden lever used for turning over the great sugar-hogsheads lying in the yard, and hoisting them into a trolly, or beneath the crane which raised them into the warehouse. "Lookye here, Mike Bannock, I never did knock a man down with this here wooden bar, but if you gets stirring Mas' Don again, has it you do, right across the back. Spang!" "Be quiet, Jem, and put the bar down," said LinDon Lavington, a dark, well set-up lad of seventeen, as he sat upon the head of a sugar-hogshead with his arms folded, slowly swinging his legs. "No, I sha'n't put the bar down, Mas' Don. Your uncle left me in charge of the yard, and--what yer sitting on the sugar-barrel for when there's a 'bacco hogshead close by? Now just you feel how sticky you are." Don got off the barrel, and made a face, as he proved with one hand the truth of the man's words, and then rubbed his treacly fingers against the warehouse wall. "Your mother'll make a row about that, just as my Sally does when I get molasses on my clothes." "You should teach her to lick it off, Jemmy Wimble," said the rough-looking, red-faced labourer, who had lowered down a sugar-hogshead so rapidly, that he had been within an inch of making it unnecessary to write Don Lavington's life, from the fact of there being no life to write. "You mind your own business, Mike," said Jem, indignantly. "That's what I'm a-doing of, and a-waiting for orders, Mr | THE ADVENTURES OF DON LAVINGTON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY. "Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell." "Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left." "Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."<|quote|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?"</|quote|>"You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't get you back on again. Fortun' indeed! Why, you ragged, penny-hunting, lazy, drunken rub-shoulder, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "And I arn't a bit, Jem Wimble, not a bit. Never you mind him, Master Don, you strike for freedom. Make your uncle give you your father's money, and then off you goes like a man to see life." "Now lookye here," cried the sturdy, broad-faced young fellow who had first spoken, as he picked up a wooden lever used for turning over the great sugar-hogsheads lying in the yard, and hoisting them into a trolly, or beneath the crane which raised them into the warehouse. "Lookye here, Mike Bannock, I never did knock a man down with this here wooden bar, but if you gets stirring Mas' Don again, has it you do, right across the back. Spang!" "Be quiet, Jem, and put the bar down," said LinDon Lavington, a dark, well set-up lad of seventeen, as he sat upon the head of a sugar-hogshead with his arms folded, slowly swinging his legs. "No, I sha'n't put the bar down, Mas' Don. Your uncle left me in charge of the yard, and--what yer sitting on the sugar-barrel for when there's a 'bacco hogshead close by? Now just you feel how sticky you are." Don got off the barrel, and made a face, as he proved with one hand the truth of the man's words, and then rubbed his treacly fingers against the warehouse wall. "Your mother'll make a row about that, just as my Sally does when I get molasses on my clothes." "You should teach her to lick it off, Jemmy Wimble," said the rough-looking, red-faced labourer, who had lowered down a sugar-hogshead so rapidly, that he had been within an inch of making it unnecessary to write Don Lavington's life, from the fact of there being no life to write. "You mind your own business, Mike," said Jem, indignantly. "That's what I'm a-doing of, and a-waiting for orders, Mr Jem Wimble. He's hen-pecked, Mas' Don, that what's the matter with him. Been married only three months, and he's hen-pecked. Haw-haw-haw! Poor old cock-bird! Hen-pecked! Haw-haw-haw!" Jem Wimble, general worker in the warehouse and yard of Josiah Christmas, West India merchant, of River Street, Bristol, gave Mike the labourer an angry look, as he turned as red as a blushing girl. "Lookye here," he cried angrily, as Don, who had reseated himself, this time on a hogshead crammed full of compressed tobacco-leaves from Baltimore, swung his legs, and looked on in a half-moody, half-amused way; "the best thing that could happen for Christmas' Ward and for Bristol City, would be for the press-gang to get hold o' you, and take you off to sea." "Haw-haw-haw!" laughed the swarthy, red-faced fellow. "Why don't you give 'em the word, and have me pressed?" "No coming back to be begged on then by Miss Kitty and Mas' Don, after being drunk for a week. You're a bad 'un, that's what you are, Mike Bannock, and I wish the master wouldn't have you here." "Not such a hard nut as you are, Jemmy," said the man with a chuckle. "Sailors won't take me--don't want cripples to go aloft. Lookye here, Mas' Don, there's a leg." As he spoke, the great idle-looking fellow limped slowly, with an exaggerated display of lameness, to and fro past the door of the office. "Get out, Mike," said Don, as the man stopped. "I believe that's nearly all sham." "That's a true word, Mas' Don," cried Jem. "He's only lame when he thinks about it. And now do please go on totting up, and let's get these casks shifted 'fore your uncle comes back." "Well, I'm waiting, Jem," cried the lad, opening a book he had under his arm, and in which a pencil was shut. "I could put down fifty, while you are moving one." "That's all right, sir; that's all right. I only want to keep things straight, and not have your uncle rowing you when he comes back. Seems to me as life's getting to be one jolly row. What with my Sally at home, and your uncle here, and you always down in the mouth, and Mike not sticking to his work, things is as miserable as mizzar." "He's hen-pecked, that's what he is," chuckled Mike, going to the handle of the crane. "Poor old | THE ADVENTURES OF DON LAVINGTON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY. "Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell." "Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left." "Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."<|quote|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?"</|quote|>"You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't get you back on again. Fortun' indeed! Why, you ragged, penny-hunting, lazy, drunken rub-shoulder, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "And I arn't a bit, Jem Wimble, not a bit. Never you mind him, Master Don, you strike for freedom. Make your uncle give you your father's money, and then off you goes like a man to see life." "Now lookye here," cried the sturdy, broad-faced young fellow who had first spoken, as he picked up a wooden lever used for turning over the great sugar-hogsheads lying in the yard, and hoisting them into a trolly, or beneath the crane which raised them into the warehouse. "Lookye here, Mike Bannock, I never did knock a man down with this here wooden bar, but if you gets stirring Mas' Don again, has it you do, right across the back. Spang!" "Be quiet, Jem, and put the bar down," said LinDon Lavington, a dark, well set-up lad of seventeen, as he sat upon the head of a sugar-hogshead with his arms folded, slowly swinging his legs. "No, I sha'n't put the bar down, Mas' Don. Your uncle left me in charge of the yard, and--what yer sitting on the sugar-barrel for when there's a 'bacco hogshead close by? Now just you feel how sticky you are." Don got off the barrel, and made a face, as he proved with one hand the truth of the man's words, and then rubbed his treacly fingers against the warehouse wall. "Your mother'll make a row about that, just as my Sally does when I get molasses on my clothes." "You should teach her to lick it off, Jemmy Wimble," said the rough-looking, red-faced labourer, who had lowered down a sugar-hogshead so rapidly, that he had been within an inch of making it unnecessary to write Don Lavington's life, from the fact of there being no life to write. "You mind your own business, Mike," said Jem, indignantly. "That's what I'm a-doing of, and a-waiting for orders, Mr Jem Wimble. He's hen-pecked, Mas' Don, that what's the matter with him. Been married only three months, and he's hen-pecked. Haw-haw-haw! Poor old cock-bird! Hen-pecked! Haw-haw-haw!" Jem Wimble, general worker in the warehouse and yard of Josiah Christmas, West India merchant, of River Street, Bristol, gave Mike the labourer an angry look, as he turned as red as a blushing girl. "Lookye here," he cried angrily, | Don Lavington |
"Abbott?" | Mr. Herriton | don t go, she will."<|quote|>"Abbott?"</|quote|>"Yes. Going alone; would start | I hate Italy." "If you don t go, she will."<|quote|>"Abbott?"</|quote|>"Yes. Going alone; would start this evening. I offered to | that it was in her. "She won t accept--won t accept the letter as final. You must go to Monteriano!" "I won t!" he shouted back. "I ve been and I ve failed. I ll never see the place again. I hate Italy." "If you don t go, she will."<|quote|>"Abbott?"</|quote|>"Yes. Going alone; would start this evening. I offered to write; she said it was too late! Too late! The child, if you please--Irma s brother--to live with her, to be brought up by her and her father at our very gates, to go to school like a gentleman, she | Oh, I m swearing. I don t care. That beastly woman--how dare she interfere--I ll--Philip, dear, I m sorry. It s no good. You must go." "Go where? Do sit down. What s happened?" This outburst of violence from his elegant ladylike mother pained him dreadfully. He had not known that it was in her. "She won t accept--won t accept the letter as final. You must go to Monteriano!" "I won t!" he shouted back. "I ve been and I ve failed. I ll never see the place again. I hate Italy." "If you don t go, she will."<|quote|>"Abbott?"</|quote|>"Yes. Going alone; would start this evening. I offered to write; she said it was too late! Too late! The child, if you please--Irma s brother--to live with her, to be brought up by her and her father at our very gates, to go to school like a gentleman, she paying. Oh, you re a man! It doesn t matter for you. You can laugh. But I know what people say; and that woman goes to Italy this evening." He seemed to be inspired. "Then let her go! Let her mess with Italy by herself. She ll come to grief | her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting up the price." "No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not that. For some perverse reason he will not part with the child. I must go and tell poor Caroline. She will be equally distressed." She returned from the visit in the most extraordinary condition. Her face was red, she panted for breath, there were dark circles round her eyes. "The impudence!" she shouted. "The cursed impudence! Oh, I m swearing. I don t care. That beastly woman--how dare she interfere--I ll--Philip, dear, I m sorry. It s no good. You must go." "Go where? Do sit down. What s happened?" This outburst of violence from his elegant ladylike mother pained him dreadfully. He had not known that it was in her. "She won t accept--won t accept the letter as final. You must go to Monteriano!" "I won t!" he shouted back. "I ve been and I ve failed. I ll never see the place again. I hate Italy." "If you don t go, she will."<|quote|>"Abbott?"</|quote|>"Yes. Going alone; would start this evening. I offered to write; she said it was too late! Too late! The child, if you please--Irma s brother--to live with her, to be brought up by her and her father at our very gates, to go to school like a gentleman, she paying. Oh, you re a man! It doesn t matter for you. You can laugh. But I know what people say; and that woman goes to Italy this evening." He seemed to be inspired. "Then let her go! Let her mess with Italy by herself. She ll come to grief somehow. Italy s too dangerous, too--" "Stop that nonsense, Philip. I will not be disgraced by her. I WILL have the child. Pay all we ve got for it. I will have it." "Let her go to Italy!" he cried. "Let her meddle with what she doesn t understand! Look at this letter! The man who wrote it will marry her, or murder her, or do for her somehow. He s a bounder, but he s not an English bounder. He s mysterious and terrible. He s got a country behind him that s upset people from the beginning of | week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said. "We have failed." Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought. "Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano." "Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting up the price." "No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not that. For some perverse reason he will not part with the child. I must go and tell poor Caroline. She will be equally distressed." She returned from the visit in the most extraordinary condition. Her face was red, she panted for breath, there were dark circles round her eyes. "The impudence!" she shouted. "The cursed impudence! Oh, I m swearing. I don t care. That beastly woman--how dare she interfere--I ll--Philip, dear, I m sorry. It s no good. You must go." "Go where? Do sit down. What s happened?" This outburst of violence from his elegant ladylike mother pained him dreadfully. He had not known that it was in her. "She won t accept--won t accept the letter as final. You must go to Monteriano!" "I won t!" he shouted back. "I ve been and I ve failed. I ll never see the place again. I hate Italy." "If you don t go, she will."<|quote|>"Abbott?"</|quote|>"Yes. Going alone; would start this evening. I offered to write; she said it was too late! Too late! The child, if you please--Irma s brother--to live with her, to be brought up by her and her father at our very gates, to go to school like a gentleman, she paying. Oh, you re a man! It doesn t matter for you. You can laugh. But I know what people say; and that woman goes to Italy this evening." He seemed to be inspired. "Then let her go! Let her mess with Italy by herself. She ll come to grief somehow. Italy s too dangerous, too--" "Stop that nonsense, Philip. I will not be disgraced by her. I WILL have the child. Pay all we ve got for it. I will have it." "Let her go to Italy!" he cried. "Let her meddle with what she doesn t understand! Look at this letter! The man who wrote it will marry her, or murder her, or do for her somehow. He s a bounder, but he s not an English bounder. He s mysterious and terrible. He s got a country behind him that s upset people from the beginning of the world." "Harriet!" exclaimed his mother. "Harriet shall go too. Harriet, now, will be invaluable!" And before Philip had stopped talking nonsense, she had planned the whole thing and was looking out the trains. Chapter 6 Italy, Philip had always maintained, is only her true self in the height of the summer, when the tourists have left her, and her soul awakes under the beams of a vertical sun. He now had every opportunity of seeing her at her best, for it was nearly the middle of August before he went out to meet Harriet in the Tirol. He found his sister in a dense cloud five thousand feet above the sea, chilled to the bone, overfed, bored, and not at all unwilling to be fetched away. "It upsets one s plans terribly," she remarked, as she squeezed out her sponges, "but obviously it is my duty." "Did mother explain it all to you?" asked Philip. "Yes, indeed! Mother has written me a really beautiful letter. She describes how it was that she gradually got to feel that we must rescue the poor baby from its terrible surroundings, how she has tried by letter, and it is no good--nothing but | He smiled as he spoke, for the sake of not appearing serious. When he had left her she began to smile also. It was to the Abbotts that he walked. Mr. Abbott offered him tea, and Caroline, who was keeping up her Italian in the next room, came in to pour it out. He told them that his mother had written to Signor Carella, and they both uttered fervent wishes for her success. "Very fine of Mrs. Herriton, very fine indeed," said Mr. Abbott, who, like every one else, knew nothing of his daughter s exasperating behaviour. "I m afraid it will mean a lot of expense. She will get nothing out of Italy without paying." "There are sure to be incidental expenses," said Philip cautiously. Then he turned to Miss Abbott and said, "Do you suppose we shall have difficulty with the man?" "It depends," she replied, with equal caution. "From what you saw of him, should you conclude that he would make an affectionate parent?" "I don t go by what I saw of him, but by what I know of him." "Well, what do you conclude from that?" "That he is a thoroughly wicked man." "Yet thoroughly wicked men have loved their children. Look at Rodrigo Borgia, for example." "I have also seen examples of that in my district." With this remark the admirable young woman rose, and returned to keep up her Italian. She puzzled Philip extremely. He could understand enthusiasm, but she did not seem the least enthusiastic. He could understand pure cussedness, but it did not seem to be that either. Apparently she was deriving neither amusement nor profit from the struggle. Why, then, had she undertaken it? Perhaps she was not sincere. Perhaps, on the whole, that was most likely. She must be professing one thing and aiming at another. What the other thing could be he did not stop to consider. Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. "She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards. "What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said. "We have failed." Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought. "Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano." "Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting up the price." "No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not that. For some perverse reason he will not part with the child. I must go and tell poor Caroline. She will be equally distressed." She returned from the visit in the most extraordinary condition. Her face was red, she panted for breath, there were dark circles round her eyes. "The impudence!" she shouted. "The cursed impudence! Oh, I m swearing. I don t care. That beastly woman--how dare she interfere--I ll--Philip, dear, I m sorry. It s no good. You must go." "Go where? Do sit down. What s happened?" This outburst of violence from his elegant ladylike mother pained him dreadfully. He had not known that it was in her. "She won t accept--won t accept the letter as final. You must go to Monteriano!" "I won t!" he shouted back. "I ve been and I ve failed. I ll never see the place again. I hate Italy." "If you don t go, she will."<|quote|>"Abbott?"</|quote|>"Yes. Going alone; would start this evening. I offered to write; she said it was too late! Too late! The child, if you please--Irma s brother--to live with her, to be brought up by her and her father at our very gates, to go to school like a gentleman, she paying. Oh, you re a man! It doesn t matter for you. You can laugh. But I know what people say; and that woman goes to Italy this evening." He seemed to be inspired. "Then let her go! Let her mess with Italy by herself. She ll come to grief somehow. Italy s too dangerous, too--" "Stop that nonsense, Philip. I will not be disgraced by her. I WILL have the child. Pay all we ve got for it. I will have it." "Let her go to Italy!" he cried. "Let her meddle with what she doesn t understand! Look at this letter! The man who wrote it will marry her, or murder her, or do for her somehow. He s a bounder, but he s not an English bounder. He s mysterious and terrible. He s got a country behind him that s upset people from the beginning of the world." "Harriet!" exclaimed his mother. "Harriet shall go too. Harriet, now, will be invaluable!" And before Philip had stopped talking nonsense, she had planned the whole thing and was looking out the trains. Chapter 6 Italy, Philip had always maintained, is only her true self in the height of the summer, when the tourists have left her, and her soul awakes under the beams of a vertical sun. He now had every opportunity of seeing her at her best, for it was nearly the middle of August before he went out to meet Harriet in the Tirol. He found his sister in a dense cloud five thousand feet above the sea, chilled to the bone, overfed, bored, and not at all unwilling to be fetched away. "It upsets one s plans terribly," she remarked, as she squeezed out her sponges, "but obviously it is my duty." "Did mother explain it all to you?" asked Philip. "Yes, indeed! Mother has written me a really beautiful letter. She describes how it was that she gradually got to feel that we must rescue the poor baby from its terrible surroundings, how she has tried by letter, and it is no good--nothing but insincere compliments and hypocrisy came back. Then she says, There is nothing like personal influence; you and Philip will succeed where I have failed. She says, too, that Caroline Abbott has been wonderful." Philip assented. "Caroline feels it as keenly almost as us. That is because she knows the man. Oh, he must be loathsome! Goodness me! I ve forgotten to pack the ammonia!... It has been a terrible lesson for Caroline, but I fancy it is her turning-point. I can t help liking to think that out of all this evil good will come." Philip saw no prospect of good, nor of beauty either. But the expedition promised to be highly comic. He was not averse to it any longer; he was simply indifferent to all in it except the humours. These would be wonderful. Harriet, worked by her mother; Mrs. Herriton, worked by Miss Abbott; Gino, worked by a cheque--what better entertainment could he desire? There was nothing to distract him this time; his sentimentality had died, so had his anxiety for the family honour. He might be a puppet s puppet, but he knew exactly the disposition of the strings. They travelled for thirteen hours down-hill, whilst the streams broadened and the mountains shrank, and the vegetation changed, and the people ceased being ugly and drinking beer, and began instead to drink wine and to be beautiful. And the train which had picked them at sunrise out of a waste of glaciers and hotels was waltzing at sunset round the walls of Verona. "Absurd nonsense they talk about the heat," said Philip, as they drove from the station. "Supposing we were here for pleasure, what could be more pleasurable than this?" "Did you hear, though, they are remarking on the cold?" said Harriet nervously. "I should never have thought it cold." And on the second day the heat struck them, like a hand laid over the mouth, just as they were walking to see the tomb of Juliet. From that moment everything went wrong. They fled from Verona. Harriet s sketch-book was stolen, and the bottle of ammonia in her trunk burst over her prayer-book, so that purple patches appeared on all her clothes. Then, as she was going through Mantua at four in the morning, Philip made her look out of the window because it was Virgil s birthplace, and a smut flew in her eye, | she undertaken it? Perhaps she was not sincere. Perhaps, on the whole, that was most likely. She must be professing one thing and aiming at another. What the other thing could be he did not stop to consider. Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. "She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards. "What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said. "We have failed." Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought. "Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano." "Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting up the price." "No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not that. For some perverse reason he will not part with the child. I must go and tell poor Caroline. She will be equally distressed." She returned from the visit in the most extraordinary condition. Her face was red, she panted for breath, there were dark circles round her eyes. "The impudence!" she shouted. "The cursed impudence! Oh, I m swearing. I don t care. That beastly woman--how dare she interfere--I ll--Philip, dear, I m sorry. It s no good. You must go." "Go where? Do sit down. What s happened?" This outburst of violence from his elegant ladylike mother pained him dreadfully. He had not known that it was in her. "She won t accept--won t accept the letter as final. You must go to Monteriano!" "I won t!" he shouted back. "I ve been and I ve failed. I ll never see the place again. I hate Italy." "If you don t go, she will."<|quote|>"Abbott?"</|quote|>"Yes. Going alone; would start this evening. I offered to write; she said it was too late! Too late! The child, if you please--Irma s brother--to live with her, to be brought up by her and her father at our very gates, to go to school like a gentleman, she paying. Oh, you re a man! It doesn t matter for you. You can laugh. But I know what people say; and that woman goes to Italy this evening." He seemed to be inspired. "Then let her go! Let her mess with Italy by herself. She ll come to grief somehow. Italy s too dangerous, too--" "Stop that nonsense, Philip. I will not be disgraced by her. I WILL have the child. Pay all we ve got for it. I will have it." "Let her go to Italy!" he cried. "Let her meddle with what she doesn t understand! Look at this letter! The man who wrote it will marry her, or murder her, or do for her somehow. He s a bounder, but he s not an English bounder. He s mysterious and terrible. He s got a country behind him that s upset people from the beginning of the world." "Harriet!" exclaimed his mother. "Harriet shall go too. Harriet, now, will be invaluable!" And before Philip had stopped talking nonsense, she had planned the whole thing and was looking out the trains. Chapter 6 Italy, Philip had always maintained, is only her true self in the height of the summer, when the tourists have left her, and her soul awakes under the beams of a vertical sun. He now had every opportunity of seeing her at her best, for it was nearly the middle of August before he went out to meet Harriet in the Tirol. He found his sister in a dense cloud five thousand feet above the sea, chilled to the bone, overfed, bored, and not at all unwilling to be fetched away. "It upsets one s plans terribly," she remarked, as she squeezed out her sponges, "but obviously it is my duty." "Did mother explain it all to | Where Angels Fear To Tread |
"I ve kept the letters, and I ll go through them to-morrow; but I m certain we re on the safe side." | Katharine Hilbery | committed ourselves to that house?"<|quote|>"I ve kept the letters, and I ll go through them to-morrow; but I m certain we re on the safe side."</|quote|>"Thanks. As to the psychological | re sure we haven t committed ourselves to that house?"<|quote|>"I ve kept the letters, and I ll go through them to-morrow; but I m certain we re on the safe side."</|quote|>"Thanks. As to the psychological problem," he continued, as if | other. I m not saying that the most satisfactory marriages aren t founded upon this sort of understanding. But certainly it struck me as odd this morning, when Wilson told me, how little upset I felt. By the way, you re sure we haven t committed ourselves to that house?"<|quote|>"I ve kept the letters, and I ll go through them to-morrow; but I m certain we re on the safe side."</|quote|>"Thanks. As to the psychological problem," he continued, as if the question interested him in a detached way, "there s no doubt, I think, that either of us is capable of feeling what, for reasons of simplicity, I call romance for a third person at least, I ve little doubt | but I m inclined to think there s more in it than that. There s something temperamental. I think you re a trifle cold, and I suspect I m a trifle self-absorbed. If that were so it goes a long way to explaining our odd lack of illusion about each other. I m not saying that the most satisfactory marriages aren t founded upon this sort of understanding. But certainly it struck me as odd this morning, when Wilson told me, how little upset I felt. By the way, you re sure we haven t committed ourselves to that house?"<|quote|>"I ve kept the letters, and I ll go through them to-morrow; but I m certain we re on the safe side."</|quote|>"Thanks. As to the psychological problem," he continued, as if the question interested him in a detached way, "there s no doubt, I think, that either of us is capable of feeling what, for reasons of simplicity, I call romance for a third person at least, I ve little doubt in my own case." It was, perhaps, the first time in all her knowledge of him that Katharine had known William enter thus deliberately and without sign of emotion upon a statement of his own feelings. He was wont to discourage such intimate discussions by a little laugh or turn | odd, don t you?" he said, in a voice of detached reflection. "Most people, I mean, would be seriously upset if their marriage was put off for six months or so. But we aren t; now how do you account for that?" She looked at him and observed his judicial attitude as of one holding far aloof from emotion. "I attribute it," he went on, without waiting for her to answer, "to the fact that neither of us is in the least romantic about the other. That may be partly, no doubt, because we ve known each other so long; but I m inclined to think there s more in it than that. There s something temperamental. I think you re a trifle cold, and I suspect I m a trifle self-absorbed. If that were so it goes a long way to explaining our odd lack of illusion about each other. I m not saying that the most satisfactory marriages aren t founded upon this sort of understanding. But certainly it struck me as odd this morning, when Wilson told me, how little upset I felt. By the way, you re sure we haven t committed ourselves to that house?"<|quote|>"I ve kept the letters, and I ll go through them to-morrow; but I m certain we re on the safe side."</|quote|>"Thanks. As to the psychological problem," he continued, as if the question interested him in a detached way, "there s no doubt, I think, that either of us is capable of feeling what, for reasons of simplicity, I call romance for a third person at least, I ve little doubt in my own case." It was, perhaps, the first time in all her knowledge of him that Katharine had known William enter thus deliberately and without sign of emotion upon a statement of his own feelings. He was wont to discourage such intimate discussions by a little laugh or turn of the conversation, as much as to say that men, or men of the world, find such topics a little silly, or in doubtful taste. His obvious wish to explain something puzzled her, interested her, and neutralized the wound to her vanity. For some reason, too, she felt more at ease with him than usual; or her ease was more the ease of equality she could not stop to think of that at the moment though. His remarks interested her too much for the light that they threw upon certain problems of her own. "What is this romance?" she mused. | loved her or not. More and more the condition of Mary s mind seemed to her wonderful and enviable if, indeed, it could be quite as she figured it if, indeed, simplicity existed for any one of the daughters of women. "Swift," she said, at last, taking out a volume at haphazard to settle this question at least. "Let us have some Swift." Rodney took the book, held it in front of him, inserted one finger between the pages, but said nothing. His face wore a queer expression of deliberation, as if he were weighing one thing with another, and would not say anything until his mind were made up. Katharine, taking her chair beside him, noted his silence and looked at him with sudden apprehension. What she hoped or feared, she could not have said; a most irrational and indefensible desire for some assurance of his affection was, perhaps, uppermost in her mind. Peevishness, complaints, exacting cross-examination she was used to, but this attitude of composed quiet, which seemed to come from the consciousness of power within, puzzled her. She did not know what was going to happen next. At last William spoke. "I think it s a little odd, don t you?" he said, in a voice of detached reflection. "Most people, I mean, would be seriously upset if their marriage was put off for six months or so. But we aren t; now how do you account for that?" She looked at him and observed his judicial attitude as of one holding far aloof from emotion. "I attribute it," he went on, without waiting for her to answer, "to the fact that neither of us is in the least romantic about the other. That may be partly, no doubt, because we ve known each other so long; but I m inclined to think there s more in it than that. There s something temperamental. I think you re a trifle cold, and I suspect I m a trifle self-absorbed. If that were so it goes a long way to explaining our odd lack of illusion about each other. I m not saying that the most satisfactory marriages aren t founded upon this sort of understanding. But certainly it struck me as odd this morning, when Wilson told me, how little upset I felt. By the way, you re sure we haven t committed ourselves to that house?"<|quote|>"I ve kept the letters, and I ll go through them to-morrow; but I m certain we re on the safe side."</|quote|>"Thanks. As to the psychological problem," he continued, as if the question interested him in a detached way, "there s no doubt, I think, that either of us is capable of feeling what, for reasons of simplicity, I call romance for a third person at least, I ve little doubt in my own case." It was, perhaps, the first time in all her knowledge of him that Katharine had known William enter thus deliberately and without sign of emotion upon a statement of his own feelings. He was wont to discourage such intimate discussions by a little laugh or turn of the conversation, as much as to say that men, or men of the world, find such topics a little silly, or in doubtful taste. His obvious wish to explain something puzzled her, interested her, and neutralized the wound to her vanity. For some reason, too, she felt more at ease with him than usual; or her ease was more the ease of equality she could not stop to think of that at the moment though. His remarks interested her too much for the light that they threw upon certain problems of her own. "What is this romance?" she mused. "Ah, that s the question. I ve never come across a definition that satisfied me, though there are some very good ones" he glanced in the direction of his books. "It s not altogether knowing the other person, perhaps it s ignorance," she hazarded. "Some authorities say it s a question of distance romance in literature, that is" "Possibly, in the case of art. But in the case of people it may be" she hesitated. "Have you no personal experience of it?" he asked, letting his eyes rest upon her swiftly for a moment. "I believe it s influenced me enormously," she said, in the tone of one absorbed by the possibilities of some view just presented to them; "but in my life there s so little scope for it," she added. She reviewed her daily task, the perpetual demands upon her for good sense, self-control, and accuracy in a house containing a romantic mother. Ah, but her romance wasn t _that_ romance. It was a desire, an echo, a sound; she could drape it in color, see it in form, hear it in music, but not in words; no, never in words. She sighed, teased by desires so incoherent, | claim comradeship; no dream that satisfied her as she was used to be satisfied; nothing remained in whose reality she could believe, save those abstract ideas figures, laws, stars, facts, which she could hardly hold to for lack of knowledge and a kind of shame. When Rodney owned to himself the folly of this prolonged silence, and the meanness of such devices, and looked up ready to seek some excuse for a good laugh, or opening for a confession, he was disconcerted by what he saw. Katharine seemed equally oblivious of what was bad or of what was good in him. Her expression suggested concentration upon something entirely remote from her surroundings. The carelessness of her attitude seemed to him rather masculine than feminine. His impulse to break up the constraint was chilled, and once more the exasperating sense of his own impotency returned to him. He could not help contrasting Katharine with his vision of the engaging, whimsical Cassandra; Katharine undemonstrative, inconsiderate, silent, and yet so notable that he could never do without her good opinion. She veered round upon him a moment later, as if, when her train of thought was ended, she became aware of his presence. "Have you finished your letter?" she asked. He thought he heard faint amusement in her tone, but not a trace of jealousy. "No, I m not going to write any more to-night," he said. "I m not in the mood for it for some reason. I can t say what I want to say." "Cassandra won t know if it s well written or badly written," Katharine remarked. "I m not so sure about that. I should say she has a good deal of literary feeling." "Perhaps," said Katharine indifferently. "You ve been neglecting my education lately, by the way. I wish you d read something. Let me choose a book." So speaking, she went across to his bookshelves and began looking in a desultory way among his books. Anything, she thought, was better than bickering or the strange silence which drove home to her the distance between them. As she pulled one book forward and then another she thought ironically of her own certainty not an hour ago; how it had vanished in a moment, how she was merely marking time as best she could, not knowing in the least where they stood, what they felt, or whether William loved her or not. More and more the condition of Mary s mind seemed to her wonderful and enviable if, indeed, it could be quite as she figured it if, indeed, simplicity existed for any one of the daughters of women. "Swift," she said, at last, taking out a volume at haphazard to settle this question at least. "Let us have some Swift." Rodney took the book, held it in front of him, inserted one finger between the pages, but said nothing. His face wore a queer expression of deliberation, as if he were weighing one thing with another, and would not say anything until his mind were made up. Katharine, taking her chair beside him, noted his silence and looked at him with sudden apprehension. What she hoped or feared, she could not have said; a most irrational and indefensible desire for some assurance of his affection was, perhaps, uppermost in her mind. Peevishness, complaints, exacting cross-examination she was used to, but this attitude of composed quiet, which seemed to come from the consciousness of power within, puzzled her. She did not know what was going to happen next. At last William spoke. "I think it s a little odd, don t you?" he said, in a voice of detached reflection. "Most people, I mean, would be seriously upset if their marriage was put off for six months or so. But we aren t; now how do you account for that?" She looked at him and observed his judicial attitude as of one holding far aloof from emotion. "I attribute it," he went on, without waiting for her to answer, "to the fact that neither of us is in the least romantic about the other. That may be partly, no doubt, because we ve known each other so long; but I m inclined to think there s more in it than that. There s something temperamental. I think you re a trifle cold, and I suspect I m a trifle self-absorbed. If that were so it goes a long way to explaining our odd lack of illusion about each other. I m not saying that the most satisfactory marriages aren t founded upon this sort of understanding. But certainly it struck me as odd this morning, when Wilson told me, how little upset I felt. By the way, you re sure we haven t committed ourselves to that house?"<|quote|>"I ve kept the letters, and I ll go through them to-morrow; but I m certain we re on the safe side."</|quote|>"Thanks. As to the psychological problem," he continued, as if the question interested him in a detached way, "there s no doubt, I think, that either of us is capable of feeling what, for reasons of simplicity, I call romance for a third person at least, I ve little doubt in my own case." It was, perhaps, the first time in all her knowledge of him that Katharine had known William enter thus deliberately and without sign of emotion upon a statement of his own feelings. He was wont to discourage such intimate discussions by a little laugh or turn of the conversation, as much as to say that men, or men of the world, find such topics a little silly, or in doubtful taste. His obvious wish to explain something puzzled her, interested her, and neutralized the wound to her vanity. For some reason, too, she felt more at ease with him than usual; or her ease was more the ease of equality she could not stop to think of that at the moment though. His remarks interested her too much for the light that they threw upon certain problems of her own. "What is this romance?" she mused. "Ah, that s the question. I ve never come across a definition that satisfied me, though there are some very good ones" he glanced in the direction of his books. "It s not altogether knowing the other person, perhaps it s ignorance," she hazarded. "Some authorities say it s a question of distance romance in literature, that is" "Possibly, in the case of art. But in the case of people it may be" she hesitated. "Have you no personal experience of it?" he asked, letting his eyes rest upon her swiftly for a moment. "I believe it s influenced me enormously," she said, in the tone of one absorbed by the possibilities of some view just presented to them; "but in my life there s so little scope for it," she added. She reviewed her daily task, the perpetual demands upon her for good sense, self-control, and accuracy in a house containing a romantic mother. Ah, but her romance wasn t _that_ romance. It was a desire, an echo, a sound; she could drape it in color, see it in form, hear it in music, but not in words; no, never in words. She sighed, teased by desires so incoherent, so incommunicable. "But isn t it curious," William resumed, "that you should neither feel it for me, nor I for you?" Katharine agreed that it was curious very; but even more curious to her was the fact that she was discussing the question with William. It revealed possibilities which opened a prospect of a new relationship altogether. Somehow it seemed to her that he was helping her to understand what she had never understood; and in her gratitude she was conscious of a most sisterly desire to help him, too sisterly, save for one pang, not quite to be subdued, that for him she was without romance. "I think you might be very happy with some one you loved in that way," she said. "You assume that romance survives a closer knowledge of the person one loves?" He asked the question formally, to protect himself from the sort of personality which he dreaded. The whole situation needed the most careful management lest it should degenerate into some degrading and disturbing exhibition such as the scene, which he could never think of without shame, upon the heath among the dead leaves. And yet each sentence brought him relief. He was coming to understand something or other about his own desires hitherto undefined by him, the source of his difficulty with Katharine. The wish to hurt her, which had urged him to begin, had completely left him, and he felt that it was only Katharine now who could help him to be sure. He must take his time. There were so many things that he could not say without the greatest difficulty that name, for example, Cassandra. Nor could he move his eyes from a certain spot, a fiery glen surrounded by high mountains, in the heart of the coals. He waited in suspense for Katharine to continue. She had said that he might be very happy with some one he loved in that way. "I don t see why it shouldn t last with you," she resumed. "I can imagine a certain sort of person" she paused; she was aware that he was listening with the greatest intentness, and that his formality was merely the cover for an extreme anxiety of some sort. There was some person then some woman who could it be? Cassandra? Ah, possibly "A person," she added, speaking in the most matter-of-fact tone she could command, "like | "I m not so sure about that. I should say she has a good deal of literary feeling." "Perhaps," said Katharine indifferently. "You ve been neglecting my education lately, by the way. I wish you d read something. Let me choose a book." So speaking, she went across to his bookshelves and began looking in a desultory way among his books. Anything, she thought, was better than bickering or the strange silence which drove home to her the distance between them. As she pulled one book forward and then another she thought ironically of her own certainty not an hour ago; how it had vanished in a moment, how she was merely marking time as best she could, not knowing in the least where they stood, what they felt, or whether William loved her or not. More and more the condition of Mary s mind seemed to her wonderful and enviable if, indeed, it could be quite as she figured it if, indeed, simplicity existed for any one of the daughters of women. "Swift," she said, at last, taking out a volume at haphazard to settle this question at least. "Let us have some Swift." Rodney took the book, held it in front of him, inserted one finger between the pages, but said nothing. His face wore a queer expression of deliberation, as if he were weighing one thing with another, and would not say anything until his mind were made up. Katharine, taking her chair beside him, noted his silence and looked at him with sudden apprehension. What she hoped or feared, she could not have said; a most irrational and indefensible desire for some assurance of his affection was, perhaps, uppermost in her mind. Peevishness, complaints, exacting cross-examination she was used to, but this attitude of composed quiet, which seemed to come from the consciousness of power within, puzzled her. She did not know what was going to happen next. At last William spoke. "I think it s a little odd, don t you?" he said, in a voice of detached reflection. "Most people, I mean, would be seriously upset if their marriage was put off for six months or so. But we aren t; now how do you account for that?" She looked at him and observed his judicial attitude as of one holding far aloof from emotion. "I attribute it," he went on, without waiting for her to answer, "to the fact that neither of us is in the least romantic about the other. That may be partly, no doubt, because we ve known each other so long; but I m inclined to think there s more in it than that. There s something temperamental. I think you re a trifle cold, and I suspect I m a trifle self-absorbed. If that were so it goes a long way to explaining our odd lack of illusion about each other. I m not saying that the most satisfactory marriages aren t founded upon this sort of understanding. But certainly it struck me as odd this morning, when Wilson told me, how little upset I felt. By the way, you re sure we haven t committed ourselves to that house?"<|quote|>"I ve kept the letters, and I ll go through them to-morrow; but I m certain we re on the safe side."</|quote|>"Thanks. As to the psychological problem," he continued, as if the question interested him in a detached way, "there s no doubt, I think, that either of us is capable of feeling what, for reasons of simplicity, I call romance for a third person at least, I ve little doubt in my own case." It was, perhaps, the first time in all her knowledge of him that Katharine had known William enter thus deliberately and without sign of emotion upon a statement of his own feelings. He was wont to discourage such intimate discussions by a little laugh or turn of the conversation, as much as to say that men, or men of the world, find such topics a little silly, or in doubtful taste. His obvious wish to explain something puzzled her, interested her, and neutralized the wound to her vanity. For some reason, too, she felt more at ease with him than usual; or her ease was more the ease of equality she could not stop to think of that at the moment though. His remarks interested her too much for the light that they threw upon certain problems of her own. "What is this romance?" she mused. "Ah, that s the question. I ve never come across a definition that satisfied me, though there are some very good ones" he glanced in the direction of his books. "It s not altogether knowing the other person, perhaps it s ignorance," she hazarded. "Some authorities say it s a question of distance romance in literature, that is" "Possibly, in the case of art. But in the case of people it may be" she hesitated. "Have you no personal experience of it?" he asked, letting his eyes rest upon her swiftly for a moment. "I believe it s influenced me enormously," she said, in the tone of one absorbed by the possibilities of some view just presented to them; "but in my life there s so little scope for it," she added. She reviewed her daily task, the perpetual demands upon her for good sense, self-control, and accuracy in a | Night And Day |
She looked in a strangely beseeching way at her daughter. | No speaker | ever visit the Hebrides, Katharine?"<|quote|>She looked in a strangely beseeching way at her daughter.</|quote|>"My mind got running on | ll do. Did your grandfather ever visit the Hebrides, Katharine?"<|quote|>She looked in a strangely beseeching way at her daughter.</|quote|>"My mind got running on the Hebrides, and I couldn | the room, snatching up her duster; but she was too much annoyed to find any relief, as yet, in polishing the backs of books. "Besides," she said, giving the sheet she had written to Katharine, "I don t believe this ll do. Did your grandfather ever visit the Hebrides, Katharine?"<|quote|>She looked in a strangely beseeching way at her daughter.</|quote|>"My mind got running on the Hebrides, and I couldn t help writing a little description of them. Perhaps it would do at the beginning of a chapter. Chapters often begin quite differently from the way they go on, you know." Katharine read what her mother had written. She might | at a string of barges swimming up the river. Katharine watched her. Suddenly Mrs. Hilbery turned abruptly, and exclaimed: "I really believe I m bewitched! I only want three sentences, you see, something quite straightforward and commonplace, and I can t find em." She began to pace up and down the room, snatching up her duster; but she was too much annoyed to find any relief, as yet, in polishing the backs of books. "Besides," she said, giving the sheet she had written to Katharine, "I don t believe this ll do. Did your grandfather ever visit the Hebrides, Katharine?"<|quote|>She looked in a strangely beseeching way at her daughter.</|quote|>"My mind got running on the Hebrides, and I couldn t help writing a little description of them. Perhaps it would do at the beginning of a chapter. Chapters often begin quite differently from the way they go on, you know." Katharine read what her mother had written. She might have been a schoolmaster criticizing a child s essay. Her face gave Mrs. Hilbery, who watched it anxiously, no ground for hope. "It s very beautiful," she stated, "but, you see, mother, we ought to go from point to point" "Oh, I know," Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "And that s just | them, she felt so closely attached to them that it was useless to try to pass judgment upon them. She very nearly lost consciousness that she was a separate being, with a future of her own. On a morning of slight depression, such as this, she would try to find some sort of clue to the muddle which their old letters presented; some reason which seemed to make it worth while to them; some aim which they kept steadily in view but she was interrupted. Mrs. Hilbery had risen from her table, and was standing looking out of the window at a string of barges swimming up the river. Katharine watched her. Suddenly Mrs. Hilbery turned abruptly, and exclaimed: "I really believe I m bewitched! I only want three sentences, you see, something quite straightforward and commonplace, and I can t find em." She began to pace up and down the room, snatching up her duster; but she was too much annoyed to find any relief, as yet, in polishing the backs of books. "Besides," she said, giving the sheet she had written to Katharine, "I don t believe this ll do. Did your grandfather ever visit the Hebrides, Katharine?"<|quote|>She looked in a strangely beseeching way at her daughter.</|quote|>"My mind got running on the Hebrides, and I couldn t help writing a little description of them. Perhaps it would do at the beginning of a chapter. Chapters often begin quite differently from the way they go on, you know." Katharine read what her mother had written. She might have been a schoolmaster criticizing a child s essay. Her face gave Mrs. Hilbery, who watched it anxiously, no ground for hope. "It s very beautiful," she stated, "but, you see, mother, we ought to go from point to point" "Oh, I know," Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "And that s just what I can t do. Things keep coming into my head. It isn t that I don t know everything and feel everything (who did know him, if I didn t?), but I can t put it down, you see. There s a kind of blind spot," she said, touching her forehead, "there. And when I can t sleep o nights, I fancy I shall die without having done it." From exultation she had passed to the depths of depression which the imagination of her death aroused. The depression communicated itself to Katharine. How impotent they were, fiddling about all | china dogs on the mantelpiece and the little shepherdesses with their sheep had been bought by him for a penny a piece from a man who used to stand with a tray of toys in Kensington High Street, as Katharine had often heard her mother tell. Often she had sat in this room, with her mind fixed so firmly on those vanished figures that she could almost see the muscles round their eyes and lips, and had given to each his own voice, with its tricks of accent, and his coat and his cravat. Often she had seemed to herself to be moving among them, an invisible ghost among the living, better acquainted with them than with her own friends, because she knew their secrets and possessed a divine foreknowledge of their destiny. They had been so unhappy, such muddlers, so wrong-headed, it seemed to her. She could have told them what to do, and what not to do. It was a melancholy fact that they would pay no heed to her, and were bound to come to grief in their own antiquated way. Their behavior was often grotesquely irrational; their conventions monstrously absurd; and yet, as she brooded upon them, she felt so closely attached to them that it was useless to try to pass judgment upon them. She very nearly lost consciousness that she was a separate being, with a future of her own. On a morning of slight depression, such as this, she would try to find some sort of clue to the muddle which their old letters presented; some reason which seemed to make it worth while to them; some aim which they kept steadily in view but she was interrupted. Mrs. Hilbery had risen from her table, and was standing looking out of the window at a string of barges swimming up the river. Katharine watched her. Suddenly Mrs. Hilbery turned abruptly, and exclaimed: "I really believe I m bewitched! I only want three sentences, you see, something quite straightforward and commonplace, and I can t find em." She began to pace up and down the room, snatching up her duster; but she was too much annoyed to find any relief, as yet, in polishing the backs of books. "Besides," she said, giving the sheet she had written to Katharine, "I don t believe this ll do. Did your grandfather ever visit the Hebrides, Katharine?"<|quote|>She looked in a strangely beseeching way at her daughter.</|quote|>"My mind got running on the Hebrides, and I couldn t help writing a little description of them. Perhaps it would do at the beginning of a chapter. Chapters often begin quite differently from the way they go on, you know." Katharine read what her mother had written. She might have been a schoolmaster criticizing a child s essay. Her face gave Mrs. Hilbery, who watched it anxiously, no ground for hope. "It s very beautiful," she stated, "but, you see, mother, we ought to go from point to point" "Oh, I know," Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "And that s just what I can t do. Things keep coming into my head. It isn t that I don t know everything and feel everything (who did know him, if I didn t?), but I can t put it down, you see. There s a kind of blind spot," she said, touching her forehead, "there. And when I can t sleep o nights, I fancy I shall die without having done it." From exultation she had passed to the depths of depression which the imagination of her death aroused. The depression communicated itself to Katharine. How impotent they were, fiddling about all day long with papers! And the clock was striking eleven and nothing done! She watched her mother, now rummaging in a great brass-bound box which stood by her table, but she did not go to her help. Of course, Katharine reflected, her mother had now lost some paper, and they would waste the rest of the morning looking for it. She cast her eyes down in irritation, and read again her mother s musical sentences about the silver gulls, and the roots of little pink flowers washed by pellucid streams, and the blue mists of hyacinths, until she was struck by her mother s silence. She raised her eyes. Mrs. Hilbery had emptied a portfolio containing old photographs over her table, and was looking from one to another. "Surely, Katharine," she said, "the men were far handsomer in those days than they are now, in spite of their odious whiskers? Look at old John Graham, in his white waistcoat look at Uncle Harley. That s Peter the manservant, I suppose. Uncle John brought him back from India." Katharine looked at her mother, but did not stir or answer. She had suddenly become very angry, with a rage which their relationship | me such a pleasant fancy. I m going to start quite fresh this morning, and get a lot done." She began her sentence, at any rate, and Katharine sat down at her own table, untied the bundle of old letters upon which she was working, smoothed them out absent-mindedly, and began to decipher the faded script. In a minute she looked across at her mother, to judge her mood. Peace and happiness had relaxed every muscle in her face; her lips were parted very slightly, and her breath came in smooth, controlled inspirations like those of a child who is surrounding itself with a building of bricks, and increasing in ecstasy as each brick is placed in position. So Mrs. Hilbery was raising round her the skies and trees of the past with every stroke of her pen, and recalling the voices of the dead. Quiet as the room was, and undisturbed by the sounds of the present moment, Katharine could fancy that here was a deep pool of past time, and that she and her mother were bathed in the light of sixty years ago. What could the present give, she wondered, to compare with the rich crowd of gifts bestowed by the past? Here was a Thursday morning in process of manufacture; each second was minted fresh by the clock upon the mantelpiece. She strained her ears and could just hear, far off, the hoot of a motor-car and the rush of wheels coming nearer and dying away again, and the voices of men crying old iron and vegetables in one of the poorer streets at the back of the house. Rooms, of course, accumulate their suggestions, and any room in which one has been used to carry on any particular occupation gives off memories of moods, of ideas, of postures that have been seen in it; so that to attempt any different kind of work there is almost impossible. Katharine was unconsciously affected, each time she entered her mother s room, by all these influences, which had had their birth years ago, when she was a child, and had something sweet and solemn about them, and connected themselves with early memories of the cavernous glooms and sonorous echoes of the Abbey where her grandfather lay buried. All the books and pictures, even the chairs and tables, had belonged to him, or had reference to him; even the china dogs on the mantelpiece and the little shepherdesses with their sheep had been bought by him for a penny a piece from a man who used to stand with a tray of toys in Kensington High Street, as Katharine had often heard her mother tell. Often she had sat in this room, with her mind fixed so firmly on those vanished figures that she could almost see the muscles round their eyes and lips, and had given to each his own voice, with its tricks of accent, and his coat and his cravat. Often she had seemed to herself to be moving among them, an invisible ghost among the living, better acquainted with them than with her own friends, because she knew their secrets and possessed a divine foreknowledge of their destiny. They had been so unhappy, such muddlers, so wrong-headed, it seemed to her. She could have told them what to do, and what not to do. It was a melancholy fact that they would pay no heed to her, and were bound to come to grief in their own antiquated way. Their behavior was often grotesquely irrational; their conventions monstrously absurd; and yet, as she brooded upon them, she felt so closely attached to them that it was useless to try to pass judgment upon them. She very nearly lost consciousness that she was a separate being, with a future of her own. On a morning of slight depression, such as this, she would try to find some sort of clue to the muddle which their old letters presented; some reason which seemed to make it worth while to them; some aim which they kept steadily in view but she was interrupted. Mrs. Hilbery had risen from her table, and was standing looking out of the window at a string of barges swimming up the river. Katharine watched her. Suddenly Mrs. Hilbery turned abruptly, and exclaimed: "I really believe I m bewitched! I only want three sentences, you see, something quite straightforward and commonplace, and I can t find em." She began to pace up and down the room, snatching up her duster; but she was too much annoyed to find any relief, as yet, in polishing the backs of books. "Besides," she said, giving the sheet she had written to Katharine, "I don t believe this ll do. Did your grandfather ever visit the Hebrides, Katharine?"<|quote|>She looked in a strangely beseeching way at her daughter.</|quote|>"My mind got running on the Hebrides, and I couldn t help writing a little description of them. Perhaps it would do at the beginning of a chapter. Chapters often begin quite differently from the way they go on, you know." Katharine read what her mother had written. She might have been a schoolmaster criticizing a child s essay. Her face gave Mrs. Hilbery, who watched it anxiously, no ground for hope. "It s very beautiful," she stated, "but, you see, mother, we ought to go from point to point" "Oh, I know," Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "And that s just what I can t do. Things keep coming into my head. It isn t that I don t know everything and feel everything (who did know him, if I didn t?), but I can t put it down, you see. There s a kind of blind spot," she said, touching her forehead, "there. And when I can t sleep o nights, I fancy I shall die without having done it." From exultation she had passed to the depths of depression which the imagination of her death aroused. The depression communicated itself to Katharine. How impotent they were, fiddling about all day long with papers! And the clock was striking eleven and nothing done! She watched her mother, now rummaging in a great brass-bound box which stood by her table, but she did not go to her help. Of course, Katharine reflected, her mother had now lost some paper, and they would waste the rest of the morning looking for it. She cast her eyes down in irritation, and read again her mother s musical sentences about the silver gulls, and the roots of little pink flowers washed by pellucid streams, and the blue mists of hyacinths, until she was struck by her mother s silence. She raised her eyes. Mrs. Hilbery had emptied a portfolio containing old photographs over her table, and was looking from one to another. "Surely, Katharine," she said, "the men were far handsomer in those days than they are now, in spite of their odious whiskers? Look at old John Graham, in his white waistcoat look at Uncle Harley. That s Peter the manservant, I suppose. Uncle John brought him back from India." Katharine looked at her mother, but did not stir or answer. She had suddenly become very angry, with a rage which their relationship made silent, and therefore doubly powerful and critical. She felt all the unfairness of the claim which her mother tacitly made to her time and sympathy, and what Mrs. Hilbery took, Katharine thought bitterly, she wasted. Then, in a flash, she remembered that she had still to tell her about Cyril s misbehavior. Her anger immediately dissipated itself; it broke like some wave that has gathered itself high above the rest; the waters were resumed into the sea again, and Katharine felt once more full of peace and solicitude, and anxious only that her mother should be protected from pain. She crossed the room instinctively, and sat on the arm of her mother s chair. Mrs. Hilbery leant her head against her daughter s body. "What is nobler," she mused, turning over the photographs, "than to be a woman to whom every one turns, in sorrow or difficulty? How have the young women of your generation improved upon that, Katharine? I can see them now, sweeping over the lawns at Melbury House, in their flounces and furbelows, so calm and stately and imperial (and the monkey and the little black dwarf following behind), as if nothing mattered in the world but to be beautiful and kind. But they did more than we do, I sometimes think. They WERE, and that s better than doing. They seem to me like ships, like majestic ships, holding on their way, not shoving or pushing, not fretted by little things, as we are, but taking their way, like ships with white sails." Katharine tried to interrupt this discourse, but the opportunity did not come, and she could not forbear to turn over the pages of the album in which the old photographs were stored. The faces of these men and women shone forth wonderfully after the hubbub of living faces, and seemed, as her mother had said, to wear a marvelous dignity and calm, as if they had ruled their kingdoms justly and deserved great love. Some were of almost incredible beauty, others were ugly enough in a forcible way, but none were dull or bored or insignificant. The superb stiff folds of the crinolines suited the women; the cloaks and hats of the gentlemen seemed full of character. Once more Katharine felt the serene air all round her, and seemed far off to hear the solemn beating of the sea upon the shore. | at the back of the house. Rooms, of course, accumulate their suggestions, and any room in which one has been used to carry on any particular occupation gives off memories of moods, of ideas, of postures that have been seen in it; so that to attempt any different kind of work there is almost impossible. Katharine was unconsciously affected, each time she entered her mother s room, by all these influences, which had had their birth years ago, when she was a child, and had something sweet and solemn about them, and connected themselves with early memories of the cavernous glooms and sonorous echoes of the Abbey where her grandfather lay buried. All the books and pictures, even the chairs and tables, had belonged to him, or had reference to him; even the china dogs on the mantelpiece and the little shepherdesses with their sheep had been bought by him for a penny a piece from a man who used to stand with a tray of toys in Kensington High Street, as Katharine had often heard her mother tell. Often she had sat in this room, with her mind fixed so firmly on those vanished figures that she could almost see the muscles round their eyes and lips, and had given to each his own voice, with its tricks of accent, and his coat and his cravat. Often she had seemed to herself to be moving among them, an invisible ghost among the living, better acquainted with them than with her own friends, because she knew their secrets and possessed a divine foreknowledge of their destiny. They had been so unhappy, such muddlers, so wrong-headed, it seemed to her. She could have told them what to do, and what not to do. It was a melancholy fact that they would pay no heed to her, and were bound to come to grief in their own antiquated way. Their behavior was often grotesquely irrational; their conventions monstrously absurd; and yet, as she brooded upon them, she felt so closely attached to them that it was useless to try to pass judgment upon them. She very nearly lost consciousness that she was a separate being, with a future of her own. On a morning of slight depression, such as this, she would try to find some sort of clue to the muddle which their old letters presented; some reason which seemed to make it worth while to them; some aim which they kept steadily in view but she was interrupted. Mrs. Hilbery had risen from her table, and was standing looking out of the window at a string of barges swimming up the river. Katharine watched her. Suddenly Mrs. Hilbery turned abruptly, and exclaimed: "I really believe I m bewitched! I only want three sentences, you see, something quite straightforward and commonplace, and I can t find em." She began to pace up and down the room, snatching up her duster; but she was too much annoyed to find any relief, as yet, in polishing the backs of books. "Besides," she said, giving the sheet she had written to Katharine, "I don t believe this ll do. Did your grandfather ever visit the Hebrides, Katharine?"<|quote|>She looked in a strangely beseeching way at her daughter.</|quote|>"My mind got running on the Hebrides, and I couldn t help writing a little description of them. Perhaps it would do at the beginning of a chapter. Chapters often begin quite differently from the way they go on, you know." Katharine read what her mother had written. She might have been a schoolmaster criticizing a child s essay. Her face gave Mrs. Hilbery, who watched it anxiously, no ground for hope. "It s very beautiful," she stated, "but, you see, mother, we ought to go from point to point" "Oh, I know," Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "And that s just what I can t do. Things keep coming into my head. It isn t that I don t know everything and feel everything (who did know him, if I didn t?), but I can t put it down, you see. There s a kind of blind spot," she said, touching her forehead, "there. And when I can t sleep o nights, I fancy I shall die without having done it." From exultation she had passed to the depths of depression which the imagination of her death aroused. The depression communicated itself to Katharine. How impotent they were, fiddling about all day long with papers! And the clock was striking eleven and nothing done! She watched her mother, now rummaging in a great brass-bound box which stood by her table, but she did | Night And Day |
"I do in a WAY remember the passage, Tibby, but when every instrument is so beautiful, it is difficult to pick out one thing rather than another. I am sure that you and Helen take me to the very nicest concerts. Not a dull note from beginning to end. I only wish that our German friends had stayed till it finished." | Aunt Juley | into difficulties with her nephew.<|quote|>"I do in a WAY remember the passage, Tibby, but when every instrument is so beautiful, it is difficult to pick out one thing rather than another. I am sure that you and Helen take me to the very nicest concerts. Not a dull note from beginning to end. I only wish that our German friends had stayed till it finished."</|quote|>"But surely you haven t | Mrs. Munt, who was getting into difficulties with her nephew.<|quote|>"I do in a WAY remember the passage, Tibby, but when every instrument is so beautiful, it is difficult to pick out one thing rather than another. I am sure that you and Helen take me to the very nicest concerts. Not a dull note from beginning to end. I only wish that our German friends had stayed till it finished."</|quote|>"But surely you haven t forgotten the drum steadily beating | I have been three times--to Faust, Tosca, and--" Was it "Tannhouser" or "Tannhoyser"? Better not risk the word. Margaret disliked "Tosca" and "Faust." And so, for one reason and another, they walked on in silence, chaperoned by the voice of Mrs. Munt, who was getting into difficulties with her nephew.<|quote|>"I do in a WAY remember the passage, Tibby, but when every instrument is so beautiful, it is difficult to pick out one thing rather than another. I am sure that you and Helen take me to the very nicest concerts. Not a dull note from beginning to end. I only wish that our German friends had stayed till it finished."</|quote|>"But surely you haven t forgotten the drum steadily beating on the low C, Aunt Juley?" came Tibby s voice. "No one could. It s unmistakable." "A specially loud part?" hazarded Mrs. Munt. "Of course I do not go in for being musical," she added, the shot failing. "I only | these things. But Margaret had an almost morbid horror of "drawing people out," of "making things go." She had been to the gallery at Covent Garden, but she did not "attend" it, preferring the more expensive seats; still less did she love it. So she made no reply. "This year I have been three times--to Faust, Tosca, and--" Was it "Tannhouser" or "Tannhoyser"? Better not risk the word. Margaret disliked "Tosca" and "Faust." And so, for one reason and another, they walked on in silence, chaperoned by the voice of Mrs. Munt, who was getting into difficulties with her nephew.<|quote|>"I do in a WAY remember the passage, Tibby, but when every instrument is so beautiful, it is difficult to pick out one thing rather than another. I am sure that you and Helen take me to the very nicest concerts. Not a dull note from beginning to end. I only wish that our German friends had stayed till it finished."</|quote|>"But surely you haven t forgotten the drum steadily beating on the low C, Aunt Juley?" came Tibby s voice. "No one could. It s unmistakable." "A specially loud part?" hazarded Mrs. Munt. "Of course I do not go in for being musical," she added, the shot failing. "I only care for music--a very different thing. But still I will say this for myself--I do know when I like a thing and when I don t. Some people are the same about pictures. They can go into a picture gallery--Miss Conder can--and say straight off what they feel, all round | him interesting on the whole--every one interested the Schlegels on the whole at that time--and while her lips talked culture, her heart was planning to invite him to tea. "How tired one gets after music!" she began. "Do you find the atmosphere of Queen s Hall oppressive?" "Yes, horribly." "But surely the atmosphere of Covent Garden is even more oppressive." "Do you go there much?" "When my work permits, I attend the gallery for the Royal Opera." Helen would have exclaimed, "So do I. I love the gallery," and thus have endeared herself to the young man. Helen could do these things. But Margaret had an almost morbid horror of "drawing people out," of "making things go." She had been to the gallery at Covent Garden, but she did not "attend" it, preferring the more expensive seats; still less did she love it. So she made no reply. "This year I have been three times--to Faust, Tosca, and--" Was it "Tannhouser" or "Tannhoyser"? Better not risk the word. Margaret disliked "Tosca" and "Faust." And so, for one reason and another, they walked on in silence, chaperoned by the voice of Mrs. Munt, who was getting into difficulties with her nephew.<|quote|>"I do in a WAY remember the passage, Tibby, but when every instrument is so beautiful, it is difficult to pick out one thing rather than another. I am sure that you and Helen take me to the very nicest concerts. Not a dull note from beginning to end. I only wish that our German friends had stayed till it finished."</|quote|>"But surely you haven t forgotten the drum steadily beating on the low C, Aunt Juley?" came Tibby s voice. "No one could. It s unmistakable." "A specially loud part?" hazarded Mrs. Munt. "Of course I do not go in for being musical," she added, the shot failing. "I only care for music--a very different thing. But still I will say this for myself--I do know when I like a thing and when I don t. Some people are the same about pictures. They can go into a picture gallery--Miss Conder can--and say straight off what they feel, all round the wall. I never could do that. But music is so different from pictures, to my mind. When it comes to music I am as safe as houses, and I assure you, Tibby, I am by no means pleased by everything. There was a thing--something about a faun in French--which Helen went into ecstasies over, but I thought it most tinkling and superficial, and said so, and I held to my opinion too." "Do you agree?" asked Margaret. "Do you think music is so different from pictures?" "I--I should have thought so, kind of," he said. "So should I. Now, | 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, and he would risk it. So when the concert was over and Margaret said, "We live quite near; I am going there now. Could you walk round with me, and we ll find your umbrella?" he said, "Thank you," peaceably, and followed her out of the Queen s Hall. She wished that he was not so anxious to hand a lady downstairs, or to carry a lady s programme for her--his class was near enough her own for its manners to vex her. But she found him interesting on the whole--every one interested the Schlegels on the whole at that time--and while her lips talked culture, her heart was planning to invite him to tea. "How tired one gets after music!" she began. "Do you find the atmosphere of Queen s Hall oppressive?" "Yes, horribly." "But surely the atmosphere of Covent Garden is even more oppressive." "Do you go there much?" "When my work permits, I attend the gallery for the Royal Opera." Helen would have exclaimed, "So do I. I love the gallery," and thus have endeared herself to the young man. Helen could do these things. But Margaret had an almost morbid horror of "drawing people out," of "making things go." She had been to the gallery at Covent Garden, but she did not "attend" it, preferring the more expensive seats; still less did she love it. So she made no reply. "This year I have been three times--to Faust, Tosca, and--" Was it "Tannhouser" or "Tannhoyser"? Better not risk the word. Margaret disliked "Tosca" and "Faust." And so, for one reason and another, they walked on in silence, chaperoned by the voice of Mrs. Munt, who was getting into difficulties with her nephew.<|quote|>"I do in a WAY remember the passage, Tibby, but when every instrument is so beautiful, it is difficult to pick out one thing rather than another. I am sure that you and Helen take me to the very nicest concerts. Not a dull note from beginning to end. I only wish that our German friends had stayed till it finished."</|quote|>"But surely you haven t forgotten the drum steadily beating on the low C, Aunt Juley?" came Tibby s voice. "No one could. It s unmistakable." "A specially loud part?" hazarded Mrs. Munt. "Of course I do not go in for being musical," she added, the shot failing. "I only care for music--a very different thing. But still I will say this for myself--I do know when I like a thing and when I don t. Some people are the same about pictures. They can go into a picture gallery--Miss Conder can--and say straight off what they feel, all round the wall. I never could do that. But music is so different from pictures, to my mind. When it comes to music I am as safe as houses, and I assure you, Tibby, I am by no means pleased by everything. There was a thing--something about a faun in French--which Helen went into ecstasies over, but I thought it most tinkling and superficial, and said so, and I held to my opinion too." "Do you agree?" asked Margaret. "Do you think music is so different from pictures?" "I--I should have thought so, kind of," he said. "So should I. Now, my sister declares they re just the same. We have great arguments over it. She says I m dense; I say she s sloppy." Getting under way, she cried: "Now, doesn t it seem absurd to you? What is the good of the Arts if they re interchangeable? What is the good of the ear if it tells you the same as the eye? Helen s one aim is to translate tunes into the language of painting, and pictures into the language of music. It s very ingenious, and she says several pretty things in the process, but what s gained, I d like to know? Oh, it s all rubbish, radically false. If Monet s really Debussy, and Debussy s really Monet, neither gentleman is worth his salt--that s my opinion." Evidently these sisters quarrelled. "Now, this very symphony that we ve just been having--she won t let it alone. She labels it with meanings from start to finish; turns it into literature. I wonder if the day will ever return when music will be treated as music. Yet I don t know. There s my brother--behind us. He treats music as music, and oh, my goodness! He makes | 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, and he would risk it. So when the concert was over and Margaret said, "We live quite near; I am going there now. Could you walk round with me, and we ll find your umbrella?" he said, "Thank you," peaceably, and followed her out of the Queen s Hall. She wished that he was not so anxious to hand a lady downstairs, or to carry a lady s programme for her--his class was near enough her own for its manners to vex her. But she found him interesting on the whole--every one interested the Schlegels on the whole at that time--and while her lips talked culture, her heart was planning to invite him to tea. "How tired one gets after music!" she began. "Do you find the atmosphere of Queen s Hall oppressive?" "Yes, horribly." "But surely the atmosphere of Covent Garden is even more oppressive." "Do you go there much?" "When my work permits, I attend the gallery for the Royal Opera." Helen would have exclaimed, "So do I. I love the gallery," and thus have endeared herself to the young man. Helen could do these things. But Margaret had an almost morbid horror of "drawing people out," of "making things go." She had been to the gallery at Covent Garden, but she did not "attend" it, preferring the more expensive seats; still less did she love it. So she made no reply. "This year I have been three times--to Faust, Tosca, and--" Was it "Tannhouser" or "Tannhoyser"? Better not risk the word. Margaret disliked "Tosca" and "Faust." And so, for one reason and another, they walked on in silence, chaperoned by the voice of Mrs. Munt, who was getting into difficulties with her nephew.<|quote|>"I do in a WAY remember the passage, Tibby, but when every instrument is so beautiful, it is difficult to pick out one thing rather than another. I am sure that you and Helen take me to the very nicest concerts. Not a dull note from beginning to end. I only wish that our German friends had stayed till it finished."</|quote|>"But surely you haven t forgotten the drum steadily beating on the low C, Aunt Juley?" came Tibby s voice. "No one could. It s unmistakable." "A specially loud part?" hazarded Mrs. Munt. "Of course I do not go in for being musical," she added, the shot failing. "I only care for music--a very different thing. But still I will say this for myself--I do know when I like a thing and when I don t. Some people are the same about pictures. They can go into a picture gallery--Miss Conder can--and say straight off what they feel, all round the wall. I never could do that. But music is so different from pictures, to my mind. When it comes to music I am as safe as houses, and I assure you, Tibby, I am by no means pleased by everything. There was a thing--something about a faun in French--which Helen went into ecstasies over, but I thought it most tinkling and superficial, and said so, and I held to my opinion too." "Do you agree?" asked Margaret. "Do you think music is so different from pictures?" "I--I should have thought so, kind of," he said. "So should I. Now, my sister declares they re just the same. We have great arguments over it. She says I m dense; I say she s sloppy." Getting under way, she cried: "Now, doesn t it seem absurd to you? What is the good of the Arts if they re interchangeable? What is the good of the ear if it tells you the same as the eye? Helen s one aim is to translate tunes into the language of painting, and pictures into the language of music. It s very ingenious, and she says several pretty things in the process, but what s gained, I d like to know? Oh, it s all rubbish, radically false. If Monet s really Debussy, and Debussy s really Monet, neither gentleman is worth his salt--that s my opinion." Evidently these sisters quarrelled. "Now, this very symphony that we ve just been having--she won t let it alone. She labels it with meanings from start to finish; turns it into literature. I wonder if the day will ever return when music will be treated as music. Yet I don t know. There s my brother--behind us. He treats music as music, and oh, my goodness! He makes me angrier than any one, simply furious. With him I daren t even argue." An unhappy family, if talented. "But, of course, the real villain is Wagner. He has done more than any man in the nineteenth century towards the muddling of the arts. I do feel that music is in a very serious state just now, though extraordinarily interesting. Every now and then in history there do come these terrible geniuses, like Wagner, who stir up all the wells of thought at once. For a moment it s splendid. Such a splash as never was. But afterwards--such a lot of mud; and the wells--as it were, they communicate with each other too easily now, and not one of them will run quite clear. That s what Wagner s done." Her speeches fluttered away from the young man like birds. If only he could talk like this, he would have caught the world. Oh, to acquire culture! Oh, to pronounce foreign names correctly! Oh, to be well informed, discoursing at ease on every subject that a lady started! But it would take one years. With an hour at lunch and a few shattered hours in the evening, how was it possible to catch up with leisured women, who had been reading steadily from childhood? His brain might be full of names, he might have even heard of Monet and Debussy; the trouble was that he could not string them together into a sentence, he could not make them "tell," he could not quite forget about his stolen umbrella. Yes, the umbrella was the real trouble. Behind Monet and Debussy the umbrella persisted, with the steady beat of a drum. "I suppose my umbrella will be all right," he was thinking. "I don t really mind about it. I will think about music instead. I suppose my umbrella will be all right." Earlier in the afternoon he had worried about seats. Ought he to have paid as much as two shillings? Earlier still he had wondered, "Shall I try to do without a programme?" There had always been something to worry him ever since he could remember, always something that distracted him in the pursuit of beauty. For he did pursue beauty, and, therefore, Margaret s speeches did flutter away from him like birds. Margaret talked ahead, occasionally saying, "Don t you think so? don t you feel the same?" And | 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, and he would risk it. So when the concert was over and Margaret said, "We live quite near; I am going there now. Could you walk round with me, and we ll find your umbrella?" he said, "Thank you," peaceably, and followed her out of the Queen s Hall. She wished that he was not so anxious to hand a lady downstairs, or to carry a lady s programme for her--his class was near enough her own for its manners to vex her. But she found him interesting on the whole--every one interested the Schlegels on the whole at that time--and while her lips talked culture, her heart was planning to invite him to tea. "How tired one gets after music!" she began. "Do you find the atmosphere of Queen s Hall oppressive?" "Yes, horribly." "But surely the atmosphere of Covent Garden is even more oppressive." "Do you go there much?" "When my work permits, I attend the gallery for the Royal Opera." Helen would have exclaimed, "So do I. I love the gallery," and thus have endeared herself to the young man. Helen could do these things. But Margaret had an almost morbid horror of "drawing people out," of "making things go." She had been to the gallery at Covent Garden, but she did not "attend" it, preferring the more expensive seats; still less did she love it. So she made no reply. "This year I have been three times--to Faust, Tosca, and--" Was it "Tannhouser" or "Tannhoyser"? Better not risk the word. Margaret disliked "Tosca" and "Faust." And so, for one reason and another, they walked on in silence, chaperoned by the voice of Mrs. Munt, who was getting into difficulties with her nephew.<|quote|>"I do in a WAY remember the passage, Tibby, but when every instrument is so beautiful, it is difficult to pick out one thing rather than another. I am sure that you and Helen take me to the very nicest concerts. Not a dull note from beginning to end. I only wish that our German friends had stayed till it finished."</|quote|>"But surely you haven t forgotten the drum steadily beating on the low C, Aunt Juley?" came Tibby s voice. "No one could. It s unmistakable." "A specially loud part?" hazarded Mrs. Munt. "Of course I do not go in for being musical," she added, the shot failing. "I only care for music--a very different thing. But still I will say this for myself--I do know when I like a thing and when I don t. Some people are the same about pictures. They can go into a picture gallery--Miss Conder can--and say straight off what they feel, all round the wall. I never could do that. But music is so different from pictures, to my mind. When it comes to music I am as safe as houses, and I assure you, Tibby, I am by no means pleased by everything. There was a thing--something about a faun in French--which Helen went into ecstasies over, but I thought it most tinkling and superficial, and said so, and I held to my opinion too." "Do you agree?" asked Margaret. "Do you think music is so different from pictures?" "I--I should have thought so, kind of," he said. "So should I. Now, my sister declares they re just the same. We have great arguments over it. She | Howards End |
I interrupted impatiently. | No speaker | do so." "Say no more,"<|quote|>I interrupted impatiently.</|quote|>"And to show you that | a wager that I shall do so." "Say no more,"<|quote|>I interrupted impatiently.</|quote|>"And to show you that I have not wholly forgotten | the dead." "Then you will have to be here another ten years," he replied. "Should I then be alive, I will remind you here, on this very bench of what I have just said. In fact, I will bet you a wager that I shall do so." "Say no more,"<|quote|>I interrupted impatiently.</|quote|>"And to show you that I have not wholly forgotten the past, may I enquire where Mlle. Polina is? If it was not you who bailed me out of prison, it must have been she. Yet never have I heard a word concerning her." "No, I do not think it | not recall to me any more recollections, for I can remember things for myself. Only for a time have I put them out of my head. Only until I shall have rehabilitated myself, am I keeping my memory dulled. When that hour shall come, you will see me arise from the dead." "Then you will have to be here another ten years," he replied. "Should I then be alive, I will remind you here, on this very bench of what I have just said. In fact, I will bet you a wager that I shall do so." "Say no more,"<|quote|>I interrupted impatiently.</|quote|>"And to show you that I have not wholly forgotten the past, may I enquire where Mlle. Polina is? If it was not you who bailed me out of prison, it must have been she. Yet never have I heard a word concerning her." "No, I do not think it was she. At the present moment she is in Switzerland, and you will do me a favour by ceasing to ask me these questions about her." Astley said this with a firm, and even an angry, air. "Which means that she has dealt you a serious wound?" I burst out | of a citizen and a man; you have not only renounced the friends whom I know you to have had, and every aim in life but that of winning money; but you have also renounced your memory. Though I can remember you in the strong, ardent period of your life, I feel persuaded that you have now forgotten every better feeling of that period that your present dreams and aspirations of subsistence do not rise above pair, impair rouge, noir, the twelve middle numbers, and so forth." "Enough, Mr. Astley!" I cried with some irritation almost in anger. "Kindly do not recall to me any more recollections, for I can remember things for myself. Only for a time have I put them out of my head. Only until I shall have rehabilitated myself, am I keeping my memory dulled. When that hour shall come, you will see me arise from the dead." "Then you will have to be here another ten years," he replied. "Should I then be alive, I will remind you here, on this very bench of what I have just said. In fact, I will bet you a wager that I shall do so." "Say no more,"<|quote|>I interrupted impatiently.</|quote|>"And to show you that I have not wholly forgotten the past, may I enquire where Mlle. Polina is? If it was not you who bailed me out of prison, it must have been she. Yet never have I heard a word concerning her." "No, I do not think it was she. At the present moment she is in Switzerland, and you will do me a favour by ceasing to ask me these questions about her." Astley said this with a firm, and even an angry, air. "Which means that she has dealt you a serious wound?" I burst out with an involuntary sneer. "Mlle. Polina," he continued, "Is the best of all possible living beings; but, I repeat, that I shall thank you to cease questioning me about her. You never really knew her, and her name on your lips is an offence to my moral feeling." "Indeed? On what subject, then, have I a better right to speak to you than on this? With it are bound up all your recollections and mine. However, do not be alarmed: I have no wish to probe too far into your private, your secret affairs. My interest in Mlle. Polina does | me as they always did," he continued. "In those words I see the clever, triumphant, and, above all things, cynical friend of former days. Only Russians have the faculty of combining within themselves so many opposite qualities. Yes, most men love to see their best friend in abasement; for generally it is on such abasement that friendship is founded. All thinking persons know that ancient truth. Yet, on the present occasion, I assure you, I am sincerely glad to see that you are _not_ cast down. Tell me, are you never going to give up gambling?" "Damn the gambling! Yes, I should certainly have given it up, were it not that" "That you are losing? I thought so. You need not tell me any more. I know how things stand, for you have said that last in despair, and therefore, truthfully. Have you no other employment than gambling?" "No; none whatever." Astley gave me a searching glance. At that time it was ages since I had last looked at a paper or turned the pages of a book. "You are growing blas ," he said. "You have not only renounced life, with its interests and social ties, but the duties of a citizen and a man; you have not only renounced the friends whom I know you to have had, and every aim in life but that of winning money; but you have also renounced your memory. Though I can remember you in the strong, ardent period of your life, I feel persuaded that you have now forgotten every better feeling of that period that your present dreams and aspirations of subsistence do not rise above pair, impair rouge, noir, the twelve middle numbers, and so forth." "Enough, Mr. Astley!" I cried with some irritation almost in anger. "Kindly do not recall to me any more recollections, for I can remember things for myself. Only for a time have I put them out of my head. Only until I shall have rehabilitated myself, am I keeping my memory dulled. When that hour shall come, you will see me arise from the dead." "Then you will have to be here another ten years," he replied. "Should I then be alive, I will remind you here, on this very bench of what I have just said. In fact, I will bet you a wager that I shall do so." "Say no more,"<|quote|>I interrupted impatiently.</|quote|>"And to show you that I have not wholly forgotten the past, may I enquire where Mlle. Polina is? If it was not you who bailed me out of prison, it must have been she. Yet never have I heard a word concerning her." "No, I do not think it was she. At the present moment she is in Switzerland, and you will do me a favour by ceasing to ask me these questions about her." Astley said this with a firm, and even an angry, air. "Which means that she has dealt you a serious wound?" I burst out with an involuntary sneer. "Mlle. Polina," he continued, "Is the best of all possible living beings; but, I repeat, that I shall thank you to cease questioning me about her. You never really knew her, and her name on your lips is an offence to my moral feeling." "Indeed? On what subject, then, have I a better right to speak to you than on this? With it are bound up all your recollections and mine. However, do not be alarmed: I have no wish to probe too far into your private, your secret affairs. My interest in Mlle. Polina does not extend beyond her outward circumstances and surroundings. About them you could tell me in two words." "Well, on condition that the matter shall end there, I will tell you that for a long time Mlle. Polina was ill, and still is so. My mother and sister entertained her for a while at their home in the north of England, and thereafter Mlle. Polina s grandmother (you remember the mad old woman?) died, and left Mlle. Polina a personal legacy of seven thousand pounds sterling. That was about six months ago, and now Mlle. is travelling with my sister s family my sister having since married. Mlle. s little brother and sister also benefited by the Grandmother s will, and are now being educated in London. As for the General, he died in Paris last month, of a stroke. Mlle. Blanche did well by him, for she succeeded in having transferred to herself all that he received from the Grandmother. That, I think, concludes all that I have to tell." "And De Griers? Is he too travelling in Switzerland?" "No; nor do I know where he is. Also I warn you once more that you had better avoid such hints | alternative, I failed to discover a Russian family which stood in need of a tutor. Plunged in these reflections, I started on my daily walk through the Park and forest towards a neighbouring principality. Sometimes, on such occasions, I spent four hours on the way, and would return to Homburg tired and hungry; but, on this particular occasion, I had scarcely left the gardens for the Park when I caught sight of Astley seated on a bench. As soon as he perceived me, he called me by name, and I went and sat down beside him; but, on noticing that he seemed a little stiff in his manner, I hastened to moderate the expression of joy which the sight of him had called forth. "_You_ here?" he said. "Well, I had an idea that I should meet you. Do not trouble to tell me anything, for I know all yes, all. In fact, your whole life during the past twenty months lies within my knowledge." "How closely you watch the doings of your old friends!" I replied. "That does you infinite credit. But stop a moment. You have reminded me of something. Was it you who bailed me out of Roulettenberg prison when I was lying there for a debt of two hundred g lden? _someone_ did so." "Oh dear no! though I knew all the time that you were lying there." "Perhaps you could tell me who _did_ bail me out?" "No; I am afraid I could not." "What a strange thing! For I know no Russians at all here, so it cannot have been a Russian who befriended me. In Russia we Orthodox folk _do_ go bail for one another, but in this case I thought it must have been done by some English stranger who was not conversant with the ways of the country." Mr. Astley seemed to listen to me with a sort of surprise. Evidently he had expected to see me looking more crushed and broken than I was. "Well," he said not very pleasantly, "I am none the less glad to find that you retain your old independence of spirit, as well as your buoyancy." "Which means that you are vexed at not having found me more abased and humiliated than I am?" I retorted with a smile. Astley was not quick to understand this, but presently did so and laughed. "Your remarks please me as they always did," he continued. "In those words I see the clever, triumphant, and, above all things, cynical friend of former days. Only Russians have the faculty of combining within themselves so many opposite qualities. Yes, most men love to see their best friend in abasement; for generally it is on such abasement that friendship is founded. All thinking persons know that ancient truth. Yet, on the present occasion, I assure you, I am sincerely glad to see that you are _not_ cast down. Tell me, are you never going to give up gambling?" "Damn the gambling! Yes, I should certainly have given it up, were it not that" "That you are losing? I thought so. You need not tell me any more. I know how things stand, for you have said that last in despair, and therefore, truthfully. Have you no other employment than gambling?" "No; none whatever." Astley gave me a searching glance. At that time it was ages since I had last looked at a paper or turned the pages of a book. "You are growing blas ," he said. "You have not only renounced life, with its interests and social ties, but the duties of a citizen and a man; you have not only renounced the friends whom I know you to have had, and every aim in life but that of winning money; but you have also renounced your memory. Though I can remember you in the strong, ardent period of your life, I feel persuaded that you have now forgotten every better feeling of that period that your present dreams and aspirations of subsistence do not rise above pair, impair rouge, noir, the twelve middle numbers, and so forth." "Enough, Mr. Astley!" I cried with some irritation almost in anger. "Kindly do not recall to me any more recollections, for I can remember things for myself. Only for a time have I put them out of my head. Only until I shall have rehabilitated myself, am I keeping my memory dulled. When that hour shall come, you will see me arise from the dead." "Then you will have to be here another ten years," he replied. "Should I then be alive, I will remind you here, on this very bench of what I have just said. In fact, I will bet you a wager that I shall do so." "Say no more,"<|quote|>I interrupted impatiently.</|quote|>"And to show you that I have not wholly forgotten the past, may I enquire where Mlle. Polina is? If it was not you who bailed me out of prison, it must have been she. Yet never have I heard a word concerning her." "No, I do not think it was she. At the present moment she is in Switzerland, and you will do me a favour by ceasing to ask me these questions about her." Astley said this with a firm, and even an angry, air. "Which means that she has dealt you a serious wound?" I burst out with an involuntary sneer. "Mlle. Polina," he continued, "Is the best of all possible living beings; but, I repeat, that I shall thank you to cease questioning me about her. You never really knew her, and her name on your lips is an offence to my moral feeling." "Indeed? On what subject, then, have I a better right to speak to you than on this? With it are bound up all your recollections and mine. However, do not be alarmed: I have no wish to probe too far into your private, your secret affairs. My interest in Mlle. Polina does not extend beyond her outward circumstances and surroundings. About them you could tell me in two words." "Well, on condition that the matter shall end there, I will tell you that for a long time Mlle. Polina was ill, and still is so. My mother and sister entertained her for a while at their home in the north of England, and thereafter Mlle. Polina s grandmother (you remember the mad old woman?) died, and left Mlle. Polina a personal legacy of seven thousand pounds sterling. That was about six months ago, and now Mlle. is travelling with my sister s family my sister having since married. Mlle. s little brother and sister also benefited by the Grandmother s will, and are now being educated in London. As for the General, he died in Paris last month, of a stroke. Mlle. Blanche did well by him, for she succeeded in having transferred to herself all that he received from the Grandmother. That, I think, concludes all that I have to tell." "And De Griers? Is he too travelling in Switzerland?" "No; nor do I know where he is. Also I warn you once more that you had better avoid such hints and ignoble suppositions; otherwise you will assuredly have to reckon with me." "What? In spite of our old friendship?" "Yes, in spite of our old friendship." "Then I beg your pardon a thousand times, Mr. Astley. I meant nothing offensive to Mlle. Polina, for I have nothing of which to accuse her. Moreover, the question of there being anything between this Frenchman and this Russian lady is not one which you and I need discuss, nor even attempt to understand." "If," replied Astley, "you do not care to hear their names coupled together, may I ask you what you mean by the expressions" this Frenchman, this Russian lady, "and there being anything between them ? Why do you call them so particularly a Frenchman and a Russian lady ?" "Ah, I see you are interested, Mr. Astley. But it is a long, long story, and calls for a lengthy preface. At the same time, the question is an important one, however ridiculous it may seem at the first glance. A Frenchman, Mr. Astley, is merely a fine figure of a man. With this you, as a Britisher, may not agree. With it I also, as a Russian, may not agree out of envy. Yet possibly our good ladies are of another opinion. For instance, one may look upon Racine as a broken-down, hobbledehoy, perfumed individual one may even be unable to read him; and I too may think him the same, as well as, in some respects, a subject for ridicule. Yet about him, Mr. Astley, there is a certain charm, and, above all things, he is a great poet though one might like to deny it. Yes, the Frenchman, the Parisian, as a national figure, was in process of developing into a figure of elegance before we Russians had even ceased to be bears. The Revolution bequeathed to the French nobility its heritage, and now every whipper-snapper of a Parisian may possess manners, methods of expression, and even thoughts that are above reproach in form, while all the time he himself may share in that form neither in initiative nor in intellect nor in soul his manners, and the rest, having come to him through inheritance. Yes, taken by himself, the Frenchman is frequently a fool of fools and a villain of villains. Per contra, there is no one in the world more worthy of confidence and respect than | and humiliated than I am?" I retorted with a smile. Astley was not quick to understand this, but presently did so and laughed. "Your remarks please me as they always did," he continued. "In those words I see the clever, triumphant, and, above all things, cynical friend of former days. Only Russians have the faculty of combining within themselves so many opposite qualities. Yes, most men love to see their best friend in abasement; for generally it is on such abasement that friendship is founded. All thinking persons know that ancient truth. Yet, on the present occasion, I assure you, I am sincerely glad to see that you are _not_ cast down. Tell me, are you never going to give up gambling?" "Damn the gambling! Yes, I should certainly have given it up, were it not that" "That you are losing? I thought so. You need not tell me any more. I know how things stand, for you have said that last in despair, and therefore, truthfully. Have you no other employment than gambling?" "No; none whatever." Astley gave me a searching glance. At that time it was ages since I had last looked at a paper or turned the pages of a book. "You are growing blas ," he said. "You have not only renounced life, with its interests and social ties, but the duties of a citizen and a man; you have not only renounced the friends whom I know you to have had, and every aim in life but that of winning money; but you have also renounced your memory. Though I can remember you in the strong, ardent period of your life, I feel persuaded that you have now forgotten every better feeling of that period that your present dreams and aspirations of subsistence do not rise above pair, impair rouge, noir, the twelve middle numbers, and so forth." "Enough, Mr. Astley!" I cried with some irritation almost in anger. "Kindly do not recall to me any more recollections, for I can remember things for myself. Only for a time have I put them out of my head. Only until I shall have rehabilitated myself, am I keeping my memory dulled. When that hour shall come, you will see me arise from the dead." "Then you will have to be here another ten years," he replied. "Should I then be alive, I will remind you here, on this very bench of what I have just said. In fact, I will bet you a wager that I shall do so." "Say no more,"<|quote|>I interrupted impatiently.</|quote|>"And to show you that I have not wholly forgotten the past, may I enquire where Mlle. Polina is? If it was not you who bailed me out of prison, it must have been she. Yet never have I heard a word concerning her." "No, I do not think it was she. At the present moment she is in Switzerland, and you will do me a favour by ceasing to ask me these questions about her." Astley said this with a firm, and even an angry, air. "Which means that she has dealt you a serious wound?" I burst out with an involuntary sneer. "Mlle. Polina," he continued, "Is the best of all possible living beings; but, I repeat, that I shall thank you to cease questioning me about her. You never really knew her, and her name on your lips is an offence to my moral feeling." "Indeed? On what subject, then, have I a better right to speak to you than on this? With it are bound up all your recollections and mine. However, do not be alarmed: I have no wish to probe too far into your private, your secret affairs. My interest in Mlle. Polina does not extend beyond her outward circumstances and surroundings. About them you could tell me in two words." "Well, on condition that the matter shall end there, I will tell you that for a long time Mlle. Polina was ill, and still is so. My mother and sister entertained her for a while at their home in the north of England, and thereafter Mlle. Polina s grandmother (you remember the mad old woman?) died, and left Mlle. Polina a personal legacy of seven thousand pounds sterling. That was about six months ago, and now Mlle. is travelling with my sister s family my sister having since married. Mlle. s little brother and sister also benefited by the Grandmother s will, and are now being educated in London. As for the General, he died in Paris last month, of a stroke. Mlle. Blanche did well by him, for she succeeded in having transferred to herself all that he received from the Grandmother. That, I think, concludes all that I have to tell." "And De Griers? Is he too travelling in Switzerland?" "No; nor do I know where he is. Also I warn you once more that you had better avoid such hints and ignoble suppositions; otherwise you will assuredly have to reckon with me." "What? In spite of our old friendship?" "Yes, in spite of our old friendship." "Then I beg your pardon a thousand times, Mr. Astley. I meant nothing offensive to Mlle. Polina, for I have nothing of which to accuse her. Moreover, the question of there being anything between this Frenchman and this Russian lady is not one which you and I need discuss, nor even attempt to understand." "If," replied Astley, "you do not care to hear their names coupled together, may I ask you what you mean by the expressions" this Frenchman, this Russian lady, "and there being anything between them ? Why do you call them so particularly a Frenchman and a Russian lady ?" "Ah, I see you are interested, Mr. Astley. But it is a long, long story, and calls for a lengthy preface. At the same time, the question is an important one, however ridiculous it may seem at the first glance. A Frenchman, Mr. Astley, is merely a fine figure of a man. With this you, as a Britisher, may not agree. With it I also, as a Russian, may | The Gambler |
"Thank you." | Ernest Heavywether | delay in this case?" "Yes."<|quote|>"Thank you."</|quote|>Mr. Mace identified the phial | unable to account for the delay in this case?" "Yes."<|quote|>"Thank you."</|quote|>Mr. Mace identified the phial handed him by Counsel as | first. Sir Ernest Heavywether, who was famous all over England for the unscrupulous manner in which he bullied witnesses, only asked two questions. "I take it, Dr. Bauerstein, that strychnine, as a drug, acts quickly?" "Yes." "And that you are unable to account for the delay in this case?" "Yes."<|quote|>"Thank you."</|quote|>Mr. Mace identified the phial handed him by Counsel as that sold by him to "Mr. Inglethorp." Pressed, he admitted that he only knew Mr. Inglethorp by sight. He had never spoken to him. The witness was not cross-examined. Alfred Inglethorp was called, and denied having purchased the poison. He | overwhelming proof of the prisoner's guilt. And, subtly implying that a jury which did not so decide, was quite unthinkable, Mr. Philips sat down and wiped his forehead. The first witnesses for the prosecution were mostly those who had been called at the inquest, the medical evidence being again taken first. Sir Ernest Heavywether, who was famous all over England for the unscrupulous manner in which he bullied witnesses, only asked two questions. "I take it, Dr. Bauerstein, that strychnine, as a drug, acts quickly?" "Yes." "And that you are unable to account for the delay in this case?" "Yes."<|quote|>"Thank you."</|quote|>Mr. Mace identified the phial handed him by Counsel as that sold by him to "Mr. Inglethorp." Pressed, he admitted that he only knew Mr. Inglethorp by sight. He had never spoken to him. The witness was not cross-examined. Alfred Inglethorp was called, and denied having purchased the poison. He also denied having quarrelled with his wife. Various witnesses testified to the accuracy of these statements. The gardeners' evidence, as to the witnessing of the will was taken, and then Dorcas was called. Dorcas, faithful to her "young gentlemen," denied strenuously that it could have been John's voice she heard, | Later in the evening, he had sought admission to her room, on which occasion, no doubt, he found an opportunity of destroying the will which, as far as he knew, would render the one in his favour valid. The prisoner had been arrested in consequence of the discovery, in his room, by Detective Inspector Japp a most brilliant officer of the identical phial of strychnine which had been sold at the village chemist's to the supposed Mr. Inglethorp on the day before the murder. It would be for the jury to decide whether or not these damning facts constituted an overwhelming proof of the prisoner's guilt. And, subtly implying that a jury which did not so decide, was quite unthinkable, Mr. Philips sat down and wiped his forehead. The first witnesses for the prosecution were mostly those who had been called at the inquest, the medical evidence being again taken first. Sir Ernest Heavywether, who was famous all over England for the unscrupulous manner in which he bullied witnesses, only asked two questions. "I take it, Dr. Bauerstein, that strychnine, as a drug, acts quickly?" "Yes." "And that you are unable to account for the delay in this case?" "Yes."<|quote|>"Thank you."</|quote|>Mr. Mace identified the phial handed him by Counsel as that sold by him to "Mr. Inglethorp." Pressed, he admitted that he only knew Mr. Inglethorp by sight. He had never spoken to him. The witness was not cross-examined. Alfred Inglethorp was called, and denied having purchased the poison. He also denied having quarrelled with his wife. Various witnesses testified to the accuracy of these statements. The gardeners' evidence, as to the witnessing of the will was taken, and then Dorcas was called. Dorcas, faithful to her "young gentlemen," denied strenuously that it could have been John's voice she heard, and resolutely declared, in the teeth of everything, that it was Mr. Inglethorp who had been in the boudoir with her mistress. A rather wistful smile passed across the face of the prisoner in the dock. He knew only too well how useless her gallant defiance was, since it was not the object of the defence to deny this point. Mrs. Cavendish, of course, could not be called upon to give evidence against her husband. After various questions on other matters, Mr. Philips asked: "In the month of June last, do you remember a parcel arriving for Mr. Lawrence Cavendish | Mr. Inglethorp, he had been able to produce an unimpeachable alibi. On the afternoon of July 17th, continued Counsel, immediately after the quarrel with her son, Mrs. Inglethorp made a new will. This will was found destroyed in the grate of her bedroom the following morning, but evidence had come to light which showed that it had been drawn up in favour of her husband. Deceased had already made a will in his favour before her marriage, but and Mr. Philips wagged an expressive forefinger the prisoner was not aware of that. What had induced the deceased to make a fresh will, with the old one still extant, he could not say. She was an old lady, and might possibly have forgotten the former one; or this seemed to him more likely she may have had an idea that it was revoked by her marriage, as there had been some conversation on the subject. Ladies were not always very well versed in legal knowledge. She had, about a year before, executed a will in favour of the prisoner. He would call evidence to show that it was the prisoner who ultimately handed his stepmother her coffee on the fatal night. Later in the evening, he had sought admission to her room, on which occasion, no doubt, he found an opportunity of destroying the will which, as far as he knew, would render the one in his favour valid. The prisoner had been arrested in consequence of the discovery, in his room, by Detective Inspector Japp a most brilliant officer of the identical phial of strychnine which had been sold at the village chemist's to the supposed Mr. Inglethorp on the day before the murder. It would be for the jury to decide whether or not these damning facts constituted an overwhelming proof of the prisoner's guilt. And, subtly implying that a jury which did not so decide, was quite unthinkable, Mr. Philips sat down and wiped his forehead. The first witnesses for the prosecution were mostly those who had been called at the inquest, the medical evidence being again taken first. Sir Ernest Heavywether, who was famous all over England for the unscrupulous manner in which he bullied witnesses, only asked two questions. "I take it, Dr. Bauerstein, that strychnine, as a drug, acts quickly?" "Yes." "And that you are unable to account for the delay in this case?" "Yes."<|quote|>"Thank you."</|quote|>Mr. Mace identified the phial handed him by Counsel as that sold by him to "Mr. Inglethorp." Pressed, he admitted that he only knew Mr. Inglethorp by sight. He had never spoken to him. The witness was not cross-examined. Alfred Inglethorp was called, and denied having purchased the poison. He also denied having quarrelled with his wife. Various witnesses testified to the accuracy of these statements. The gardeners' evidence, as to the witnessing of the will was taken, and then Dorcas was called. Dorcas, faithful to her "young gentlemen," denied strenuously that it could have been John's voice she heard, and resolutely declared, in the teeth of everything, that it was Mr. Inglethorp who had been in the boudoir with her mistress. A rather wistful smile passed across the face of the prisoner in the dock. He knew only too well how useless her gallant defiance was, since it was not the object of the defence to deny this point. Mrs. Cavendish, of course, could not be called upon to give evidence against her husband. After various questions on other matters, Mr. Philips asked: "In the month of June last, do you remember a parcel arriving for Mr. Lawrence Cavendish from Parkson's?" Dorcas shook her head. "I don't remember, sir. It may have done, but Mr. Lawrence was away from home part of June." "In the event of a parcel arriving for him whilst he was away, what would be done with it?" "It would either be put in his room or sent on after him." "By you?" "No, sir, I should leave it on the hall table. It would be Miss Howard who would attend to anything like that." Evelyn Howard was called and, after being examined on other points, was questioned as to the parcel. "Don't remember. Lots of parcels come. Can't remember one special one." "You do not know if it was sent after Mr. Lawrence Cavendish to Wales, or whether it was put in his room?" "Don't think it was sent after him. Should have remembered it if it was." "Supposing a parcel arrived addressed to Mr. Lawrence Cavendish, and afterwards it disappeared, should you remark its absence?" "No, don't think so. I should think someone had taken charge of it." "I believe, Miss Howard, that it was you who found this sheet of brown paper?" He held up the same dusty piece which Poirot and | could hardly believe my ears. "It is quite _en r gle_," continued Poirot. "Strangely enough, I can give evidence that will demolish one contention of the prosecution." "Which one?" "The one that relates to the destruction of the will. John Cavendish did not destroy that will." Poirot was a true prophet. I will not go into the details of the police court proceedings, as it involves many tiresome repetitions. I will merely state baldly that John Cavendish reserved his defence, and was duly committed for trial. September found us all in London. Mary took a house in Kensington, Poirot being included in the family party. I myself had been given a job at the War Office, so was able to see them continually. As the weeks went by, the state of Poirot's nerves grew worse and worse. That "last link" he talked about was still lacking. Privately, I hoped it might remain so, for what happiness could there be for Mary, if John were not acquitted? On September 15th John Cavendish appeared in the dock at the Old Bailey, charged with "The Wilful Murder of Emily Agnes Inglethorp," and pleaded "Not Guilty." Sir Ernest Heavywether, the famous K.C., had been engaged to defend him. Mr. Philips, K.C., opened the case for the Crown. The murder, he said, was a most premeditated and cold-blooded one. It was neither more nor less than the deliberate poisoning of a fond and trusting woman by the stepson to whom she had been more than a mother. Ever since his boyhood, she had supported him. He and his wife had lived at Styles Court in every luxury, surrounded by her care and attention. She had been their kind and generous benefactress. He proposed to call witnesses to show how the prisoner, a profligate and spendthrift, had been at the end of his financial tether, and had also been carrying on an intrigue with a certain Mrs. Raikes, a neighbouring farmer's wife. This having come to his stepmother's ears, she taxed him with it on the afternoon before her death, and a quarrel ensued, part of which was overheard. On the previous day, the prisoner had purchased strychnine at the village chemist's shop, wearing a disguise by means of which he hoped to throw the onus of the crime upon another man to wit, Mrs. Inglethorp's husband, of whom he had been bitterly jealous. Luckily for Mr. Inglethorp, he had been able to produce an unimpeachable alibi. On the afternoon of July 17th, continued Counsel, immediately after the quarrel with her son, Mrs. Inglethorp made a new will. This will was found destroyed in the grate of her bedroom the following morning, but evidence had come to light which showed that it had been drawn up in favour of her husband. Deceased had already made a will in his favour before her marriage, but and Mr. Philips wagged an expressive forefinger the prisoner was not aware of that. What had induced the deceased to make a fresh will, with the old one still extant, he could not say. She was an old lady, and might possibly have forgotten the former one; or this seemed to him more likely she may have had an idea that it was revoked by her marriage, as there had been some conversation on the subject. Ladies were not always very well versed in legal knowledge. She had, about a year before, executed a will in favour of the prisoner. He would call evidence to show that it was the prisoner who ultimately handed his stepmother her coffee on the fatal night. Later in the evening, he had sought admission to her room, on which occasion, no doubt, he found an opportunity of destroying the will which, as far as he knew, would render the one in his favour valid. The prisoner had been arrested in consequence of the discovery, in his room, by Detective Inspector Japp a most brilliant officer of the identical phial of strychnine which had been sold at the village chemist's to the supposed Mr. Inglethorp on the day before the murder. It would be for the jury to decide whether or not these damning facts constituted an overwhelming proof of the prisoner's guilt. And, subtly implying that a jury which did not so decide, was quite unthinkable, Mr. Philips sat down and wiped his forehead. The first witnesses for the prosecution were mostly those who had been called at the inquest, the medical evidence being again taken first. Sir Ernest Heavywether, who was famous all over England for the unscrupulous manner in which he bullied witnesses, only asked two questions. "I take it, Dr. Bauerstein, that strychnine, as a drug, acts quickly?" "Yes." "And that you are unable to account for the delay in this case?" "Yes."<|quote|>"Thank you."</|quote|>Mr. Mace identified the phial handed him by Counsel as that sold by him to "Mr. Inglethorp." Pressed, he admitted that he only knew Mr. Inglethorp by sight. He had never spoken to him. The witness was not cross-examined. Alfred Inglethorp was called, and denied having purchased the poison. He also denied having quarrelled with his wife. Various witnesses testified to the accuracy of these statements. The gardeners' evidence, as to the witnessing of the will was taken, and then Dorcas was called. Dorcas, faithful to her "young gentlemen," denied strenuously that it could have been John's voice she heard, and resolutely declared, in the teeth of everything, that it was Mr. Inglethorp who had been in the boudoir with her mistress. A rather wistful smile passed across the face of the prisoner in the dock. He knew only too well how useless her gallant defiance was, since it was not the object of the defence to deny this point. Mrs. Cavendish, of course, could not be called upon to give evidence against her husband. After various questions on other matters, Mr. Philips asked: "In the month of June last, do you remember a parcel arriving for Mr. Lawrence Cavendish from Parkson's?" Dorcas shook her head. "I don't remember, sir. It may have done, but Mr. Lawrence was away from home part of June." "In the event of a parcel arriving for him whilst he was away, what would be done with it?" "It would either be put in his room or sent on after him." "By you?" "No, sir, I should leave it on the hall table. It would be Miss Howard who would attend to anything like that." Evelyn Howard was called and, after being examined on other points, was questioned as to the parcel. "Don't remember. Lots of parcels come. Can't remember one special one." "You do not know if it was sent after Mr. Lawrence Cavendish to Wales, or whether it was put in his room?" "Don't think it was sent after him. Should have remembered it if it was." "Supposing a parcel arrived addressed to Mr. Lawrence Cavendish, and afterwards it disappeared, should you remark its absence?" "No, don't think so. I should think someone had taken charge of it." "I believe, Miss Howard, that it was you who found this sheet of brown paper?" He held up the same dusty piece which Poirot and I had examined in the morning-room at Styles. "Yes, I did." "How did you come to look for it?" "The Belgian detective who was employed on the case asked me to search for it." "Where did you eventually discover it?" "On the top of of a wardrobe." "On top of the prisoner's wardrobe?" "I I believe so." "Did you not find it yourself?" "Yes." "Then you must know where you found it?" "Yes, it was on the prisoner's wardrobe." "That is better." An assistant from Parkson's, Theatrical Costumiers, testified that on June 29th, they had supplied a black beard to Mr. L. Cavendish, as requested. It was ordered by letter, and a postal order was enclosed. No, they had not kept the letter. All transactions were entered in their books. They had sent the beard, as directed, to "L. Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court." Sir Ernest Heavywether rose ponderously. "Where was the letter written from?" "From Styles Court." "The same address to which you sent the parcel?" "Yes." "And the letter came from there?" "Yes." Like a beast of prey, Heavywether fell upon him: "How do you know?" "I I don't understand." "How do you know that letter came from Styles? Did you notice the postmark?" "No but" "Ah, you did _not_ notice the postmark! And yet you affirm so confidently that it came from Styles. It might, in fact, have been any postmark?" "Y es." "In fact, the letter, though written on stamped notepaper, might have been posted from anywhere? From Wales, for instance?" The witness admitted that such might be the case, and Sir Ernest signified that he was satisfied. Elizabeth Wells, second housemaid at Styles, stated that after she had gone to bed she remembered that she had bolted the front door, instead of leaving it on the latch as Mr. Inglethorp had requested. She had accordingly gone downstairs again to rectify her error. Hearing a slight noise in the West wing, she had peeped along the passage, and had seen Mr. John Cavendish knocking at Mrs. Inglethorp's door. Sir Ernest Heavywether made short work of her, and under his unmerciful bullying she contradicted herself hopelessly, and Sir Ernest sat down again with a satisfied smile on his face. With the evidence of Annie, as to the candle grease on the floor, and as to seeing the prisoner take the coffee into the boudoir, the proceedings were adjourned | have had an idea that it was revoked by her marriage, as there had been some conversation on the subject. Ladies were not always very well versed in legal knowledge. She had, about a year before, executed a will in favour of the prisoner. He would call evidence to show that it was the prisoner who ultimately handed his stepmother her coffee on the fatal night. Later in the evening, he had sought admission to her room, on which occasion, no doubt, he found an opportunity of destroying the will which, as far as he knew, would render the one in his favour valid. The prisoner had been arrested in consequence of the discovery, in his room, by Detective Inspector Japp a most brilliant officer of the identical phial of strychnine which had been sold at the village chemist's to the supposed Mr. Inglethorp on the day before the murder. It would be for the jury to decide whether or not these damning facts constituted an overwhelming proof of the prisoner's guilt. And, subtly implying that a jury which did not so decide, was quite unthinkable, Mr. Philips sat down and wiped his forehead. The first witnesses for the prosecution were mostly those who had been called at the inquest, the medical evidence being again taken first. Sir Ernest Heavywether, who was famous all over England for the unscrupulous manner in which he bullied witnesses, only asked two questions. "I take it, Dr. Bauerstein, that strychnine, as a drug, acts quickly?" "Yes." "And that you are unable to account for the delay in this case?" "Yes."<|quote|>"Thank you."</|quote|>Mr. Mace identified the phial handed him by Counsel as that sold by him to "Mr. Inglethorp." Pressed, he admitted that he only knew Mr. Inglethorp by sight. He had never spoken to him. The witness was not cross-examined. Alfred Inglethorp was called, and denied having purchased the poison. He also denied having quarrelled with his wife. Various witnesses testified to the accuracy of these statements. The gardeners' evidence, as to the witnessing of the will was taken, and then Dorcas was called. Dorcas, faithful to her "young gentlemen," denied strenuously that it could have been John's voice she heard, and resolutely declared, in the teeth of everything, that it was Mr. Inglethorp who had been in the boudoir with her mistress. A rather wistful smile passed across the face of the prisoner in the dock. He knew only too well how useless her gallant defiance was, since it was not the object of the defence to deny this point. Mrs. Cavendish, of course, could not be called upon to give evidence against her husband. After various questions on other matters, Mr. Philips asked: "In the month of June last, do you remember a parcel arriving for Mr. Lawrence Cavendish from Parkson's?" Dorcas shook her head. "I don't remember, sir. It may have done, but Mr. Lawrence was away from home part of June." "In the event of a parcel arriving for him whilst he was away, what would be done with it?" "It would either be put in his room or sent on after him." "By you?" "No, sir, I should leave it on the hall table. It would be Miss Howard who would attend to anything like that." Evelyn Howard was called and, after being examined on other points, was questioned as to the parcel. "Don't remember. Lots of parcels come. Can't remember one special one." "You do not know if it was sent after Mr. Lawrence Cavendish to Wales, or whether it was put in his room?" "Don't think it was sent after him. Should have remembered it if it was." "Supposing a parcel arrived addressed to Mr. Lawrence Cavendish, and afterwards it disappeared, should you remark its absence?" "No, don't think so. I should think someone had taken charge of it." "I believe, Miss Howard, that it was you who found this sheet of brown paper?" He held up the same dusty piece which Poirot and I had examined in the morning-room at Styles. "Yes, I did." "How did you come to look for it?" "The Belgian detective who was employed on the case asked me to search for it." "Where did you eventually discover it?" "On the top of of a wardrobe." "On top of the prisoner's wardrobe?" "I I believe so." "Did you not find it yourself?" "Yes." "Then you must know where you found it?" "Yes, it was on the prisoner's wardrobe." "That is better." An assistant from Parkson's, Theatrical Costumiers, testified that on June 29th, they had supplied a black beard to Mr. L. Cavendish, as requested. It was ordered by letter, and a postal order was enclosed. No, they had not kept the | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
The Bird showed her the place, which was just by, and she went and filled a little silver flagon which she had brought with her. She returned at once and said: | No speaker | tell me where it is."<|quote|>The Bird showed her the place, which was just by, and she went and filled a little silver flagon which she had brought with her. She returned at once and said:</|quote|>"Bird, this is not enough; | things, I ask you to tell me where it is."<|quote|>The Bird showed her the place, which was just by, and she went and filled a little silver flagon which she had brought with her. She returned at once and said:</|quote|>"Bird, this is not enough; I want also the Singing | things which are of importance, but I am overjoyed that you have shown your goodwill and prevented me. I have been told that there is not far off a Golden Water, the property of which is very wonderful; before all things, I ask you to tell me where it is."<|quote|>The Bird showed her the place, which was just by, and she went and filled a little silver flagon which she had brought with her. She returned at once and said:</|quote|>"Bird, this is not enough; I want also the Singing Tree; tell me where it is." "Turn about," said the Bird, "and you will see behind you a wood where you will find the tree." The princess went into the wood, and by the harmonious concert she heard, soon knew | The princess's joy was the more inexpressible, because the conquest she had made had cost her the lives of two beloved brothers, and given her more trouble and danger than she could have imagined. "Bird," said she, "it was my intention to have told you that I wish for many things which are of importance, but I am overjoyed that you have shown your goodwill and prevented me. I have been told that there is not far off a Golden Water, the property of which is very wonderful; before all things, I ask you to tell me where it is."<|quote|>The Bird showed her the place, which was just by, and she went and filled a little silver flagon which she had brought with her. She returned at once and said:</|quote|>"Bird, this is not enough; I want also the Singing Tree; tell me where it is." "Turn about," said the Bird, "and you will see behind you a wood where you will find the tree." The princess went into the wood, and by the harmonious concert she heard, soon knew the tree among many others, but it was very large and high. She came back again and said: "Bird, I have found the Singing Tree, but I can neither pull it up by the roots nor carry it." The Bird replied: "It is not necessary that you should take it | themselves to preserve my liberty. Though in a cage, I was content with my condition; but since I am destined to be a slave, I would rather be yours than any other person's, since you have obtained me so courageously. From this instant, I swear entire submission to all your commands. I know who you are. You do not; but the time will come when I shall do you essential service, for which I hope you will think yourself obliged to me. As a proof of my sincerity, tell me what you desire and I am ready to obey you." The princess's joy was the more inexpressible, because the conquest she had made had cost her the lives of two beloved brothers, and given her more trouble and danger than she could have imagined. "Bird," said she, "it was my intention to have told you that I wish for many things which are of importance, but I am overjoyed that you have shown your goodwill and prevented me. I have been told that there is not far off a Golden Water, the property of which is very wonderful; before all things, I ask you to tell me where it is."<|quote|>The Bird showed her the place, which was just by, and she went and filled a little silver flagon which she had brought with her. She returned at once and said:</|quote|>"Bird, this is not enough; I want also the Singing Tree; tell me where it is." "Turn about," said the Bird, "and you will see behind you a wood where you will find the tree." The princess went into the wood, and by the harmonious concert she heard, soon knew the tree among many others, but it was very large and high. She came back again and said: "Bird, I have found the Singing Tree, but I can neither pull it up by the roots nor carry it." The Bird replied: "It is not necessary that you should take it up; it will be sufficient to break off a branch and carry it to plant in your garden; it will take root as soon as it is put into the earth, and in a little time will grow to as fine a tree as that you have seen." When the princess had obtained possession of the three things for which she had conceived so great a desire, she said again: "Bird, what you have yet done for me is not sufficient. You have been the cause of the death of my two brothers, who must be among the black stones | up with intrepidity. She heard the voices and perceived the great service the cotton was to her. The higher she went, the louder and more numerous the voices seemed, but they were not capable of making any impression upon her. She heard a great many affronting speeches and raillery very disagreeable to a woman, which she only laughed at. "I mind not," said she to herself, "all that can be said, were it worse; I only laugh at them and shall pursue my way." At last, she climbed so high that she could perceive the cage and the Bird which endeavoured, in company with the voices, to frighten her, crying in a thundering tone, notwithstanding the smallness of its size: "Retire, fool, and approach no nearer." The princess, encouraged by this sight, redoubled her speed, and by effort gained the summit of the mountain, where the ground was level; then running directly to the cage and clapping her hand upon it, cried: "Bird, I have you, and you shall not escape me." While Periezade was pulling the cotton out of her ears the Bird said to her: "Heroic princess, be not angry with me for joining with those who exerted themselves to preserve my liberty. Though in a cage, I was content with my condition; but since I am destined to be a slave, I would rather be yours than any other person's, since you have obtained me so courageously. From this instant, I swear entire submission to all your commands. I know who you are. You do not; but the time will come when I shall do you essential service, for which I hope you will think yourself obliged to me. As a proof of my sincerity, tell me what you desire and I am ready to obey you." The princess's joy was the more inexpressible, because the conquest she had made had cost her the lives of two beloved brothers, and given her more trouble and danger than she could have imagined. "Bird," said she, "it was my intention to have told you that I wish for many things which are of importance, but I am overjoyed that you have shown your goodwill and prevented me. I have been told that there is not far off a Golden Water, the property of which is very wonderful; before all things, I ask you to tell me where it is."<|quote|>The Bird showed her the place, which was just by, and she went and filled a little silver flagon which she had brought with her. She returned at once and said:</|quote|>"Bird, this is not enough; I want also the Singing Tree; tell me where it is." "Turn about," said the Bird, "and you will see behind you a wood where you will find the tree." The princess went into the wood, and by the harmonious concert she heard, soon knew the tree among many others, but it was very large and high. She came back again and said: "Bird, I have found the Singing Tree, but I can neither pull it up by the roots nor carry it." The Bird replied: "It is not necessary that you should take it up; it will be sufficient to break off a branch and carry it to plant in your garden; it will take root as soon as it is put into the earth, and in a little time will grow to as fine a tree as that you have seen." When the princess had obtained possession of the three things for which she had conceived so great a desire, she said again: "Bird, what you have yet done for me is not sufficient. You have been the cause of the death of my two brothers, who must be among the black stones I saw as I ascended the mountain. I wish to take the princes home with me." The Bird seemed reluctant to satisfy the princess in this point, and indeed made some difficulty to comply. "Bird," said the princess, "remember you told me that you were my slave. You are so; and your life is in my disposal." "That I cannot deny," answered the bird; "but although what you now ask is more difficult than all the rest, yet I will do it for you. Cast your eyes around," added he, "and look if you can see a little pitcher." "I see it already," said the princess. "Take it then," said he, "and as you descend the mountain, sprinkle a little of the water that is in it upon every black stone." The princess took up the pitcher accordingly, carried with her the cage and Bird, the flagon of Golden Water, and the branch of the Singing Tree, and as she descended the mountain, threw a little of the water on every black stone, which was changed immediately into a man; and as she did not miss one stone, all the horses, both of her brothers and of the other gentlemen, | I comprehend from your discourse, the difficulties of succeeding in this affair are, first, the getting up to the cage without being frightened at the terrible din of voices I shall hear; and, secondly, not to look behind me. For this last, I hope I shall be mistress enough of myself to observe it; as to the first, I own that voices, such as you represent them to be, are capable of striking terror into the most undaunted; but as in all enterprises and dangers every one may use stratagem, I desire to know of you if I may use any in one of so great importance." "And what stratagem is it you would employ?" said the dervish. "To stop my ears with cotton," answered the princess, "that the voices, however terrible, may make the less impression upon my imagination, and my mind remain free from that disturbance which might cause me to lose the use of my reason." "Princess," replied the dervish, "of all the persons who have addressed themselves to me for information, I do not know that ever one made use of the contrivance you propose. All I know is that they all perished. If you persist in your design, you may make the experiment. You will be fortunate if it succeeds, but I would advise you not to expose yourself to the danger." "My good father," replied the princess, "I am sure my precaution will succeed, and am resolved to try the experiment. Nothing remains for me but to know which way I must go, and I conjure you not to deny me that information." The dervish exhorted her again to consider well what she was going to do; but finding her resolute, he took out a bowl, and presenting it to her, said: "Take this bowl, mount your horse again, and when you have thrown it before you, follow it through all its windings, till it stops at the bottom of the mountain; there alight and ascend the hill. Go, you know the rest." After the princess had thanked the dervish, and taken her leave of him, she mounted her horse, threw the bowl before her, and followed it till it stopped at the foot of the mountain. She then alighted, stopped her ears with cotton, and after she had well examined the path leading to the summit began with a moderate pace and walked up with intrepidity. She heard the voices and perceived the great service the cotton was to her. The higher she went, the louder and more numerous the voices seemed, but they were not capable of making any impression upon her. She heard a great many affronting speeches and raillery very disagreeable to a woman, which she only laughed at. "I mind not," said she to herself, "all that can be said, were it worse; I only laugh at them and shall pursue my way." At last, she climbed so high that she could perceive the cage and the Bird which endeavoured, in company with the voices, to frighten her, crying in a thundering tone, notwithstanding the smallness of its size: "Retire, fool, and approach no nearer." The princess, encouraged by this sight, redoubled her speed, and by effort gained the summit of the mountain, where the ground was level; then running directly to the cage and clapping her hand upon it, cried: "Bird, I have you, and you shall not escape me." While Periezade was pulling the cotton out of her ears the Bird said to her: "Heroic princess, be not angry with me for joining with those who exerted themselves to preserve my liberty. Though in a cage, I was content with my condition; but since I am destined to be a slave, I would rather be yours than any other person's, since you have obtained me so courageously. From this instant, I swear entire submission to all your commands. I know who you are. You do not; but the time will come when I shall do you essential service, for which I hope you will think yourself obliged to me. As a proof of my sincerity, tell me what you desire and I am ready to obey you." The princess's joy was the more inexpressible, because the conquest she had made had cost her the lives of two beloved brothers, and given her more trouble and danger than she could have imagined. "Bird," said she, "it was my intention to have told you that I wish for many things which are of importance, but I am overjoyed that you have shown your goodwill and prevented me. I have been told that there is not far off a Golden Water, the property of which is very wonderful; before all things, I ask you to tell me where it is."<|quote|>The Bird showed her the place, which was just by, and she went and filled a little silver flagon which she had brought with her. She returned at once and said:</|quote|>"Bird, this is not enough; I want also the Singing Tree; tell me where it is." "Turn about," said the Bird, "and you will see behind you a wood where you will find the tree." The princess went into the wood, and by the harmonious concert she heard, soon knew the tree among many others, but it was very large and high. She came back again and said: "Bird, I have found the Singing Tree, but I can neither pull it up by the roots nor carry it." The Bird replied: "It is not necessary that you should take it up; it will be sufficient to break off a branch and carry it to plant in your garden; it will take root as soon as it is put into the earth, and in a little time will grow to as fine a tree as that you have seen." When the princess had obtained possession of the three things for which she had conceived so great a desire, she said again: "Bird, what you have yet done for me is not sufficient. You have been the cause of the death of my two brothers, who must be among the black stones I saw as I ascended the mountain. I wish to take the princes home with me." The Bird seemed reluctant to satisfy the princess in this point, and indeed made some difficulty to comply. "Bird," said the princess, "remember you told me that you were my slave. You are so; and your life is in my disposal." "That I cannot deny," answered the bird; "but although what you now ask is more difficult than all the rest, yet I will do it for you. Cast your eyes around," added he, "and look if you can see a little pitcher." "I see it already," said the princess. "Take it then," said he, "and as you descend the mountain, sprinkle a little of the water that is in it upon every black stone." The princess took up the pitcher accordingly, carried with her the cage and Bird, the flagon of Golden Water, and the branch of the Singing Tree, and as she descended the mountain, threw a little of the water on every black stone, which was changed immediately into a man; and as she did not miss one stone, all the horses, both of her brothers and of the other gentlemen, resumed their natural forms also. She instantly recognised Bahman and Perviz, as they did her, and ran to embrace her. She returned their embraces and expressed her amazement. "What do you here, my dear brothers?" said she, and they told her they had been asleep. "Yes," replied she, "and if it had not been for me, perhaps you might have slept till the day of judgment. Do not you remember that you came to fetch the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water, and did not you see, as you came along, the place covered with black stones? Look and see if there be any now. The gentlemen and their horses who surround us, and you yourselves, were these black stones. If you desire to know how this wonder was performed," continued she, showing the pitcher, which she set down at the foot of the mountain, "it was done by virtue of the water which was in this pitcher, with which I sprinkled every stone. After I had made the Talking Bird (which you see in this cage) my slave, by his directions I found out the Singing Tree, a branch of which I have now in my hand; and the Golden Water, with which this flagon is filled; but being still unwilling to return without taking you with me, I constrained the Bird, by the power I had over him, to afford me the means. He told me where to find this pitcher, and the use I was to make of it." The Princes Bahman and Perviz learned by this relation the obligation they had to their sister, as did all the other gentlemen, who expressed to her that, far from envying her happiness in the conquest she had made, and which they all had aspired to, they thought they could not better express their gratitude for restoring them to life again, than by declaring themselves her slaves, and that they were ready to obey her in whatever she should command. "Gentlemen," replied the princess, "if you had given any attention to my words, you might have observed that I had no other intention in what I have done than to recover my brothers; therefore, if you have received any benefit, you owe me no obligation, and I have no further share in your compliment than your politeness toward me, for which I return you my thanks. | her, said: "Take this bowl, mount your horse again, and when you have thrown it before you, follow it through all its windings, till it stops at the bottom of the mountain; there alight and ascend the hill. Go, you know the rest." After the princess had thanked the dervish, and taken her leave of him, she mounted her horse, threw the bowl before her, and followed it till it stopped at the foot of the mountain. She then alighted, stopped her ears with cotton, and after she had well examined the path leading to the summit began with a moderate pace and walked up with intrepidity. She heard the voices and perceived the great service the cotton was to her. The higher she went, the louder and more numerous the voices seemed, but they were not capable of making any impression upon her. She heard a great many affronting speeches and raillery very disagreeable to a woman, which she only laughed at. "I mind not," said she to herself, "all that can be said, were it worse; I only laugh at them and shall pursue my way." At last, she climbed so high that she could perceive the cage and the Bird which endeavoured, in company with the voices, to frighten her, crying in a thundering tone, notwithstanding the smallness of its size: "Retire, fool, and approach no nearer." The princess, encouraged by this sight, redoubled her speed, and by effort gained the summit of the mountain, where the ground was level; then running directly to the cage and clapping her hand upon it, cried: "Bird, I have you, and you shall not escape me." While Periezade was pulling the cotton out of her ears the Bird said to her: "Heroic princess, be not angry with me for joining with those who exerted themselves to preserve my liberty. Though in a cage, I was content with my condition; but since I am destined to be a slave, I would rather be yours than any other person's, since you have obtained me so courageously. From this instant, I swear entire submission to all your commands. I know who you are. You do not; but the time will come when I shall do you essential service, for which I hope you will think yourself obliged to me. As a proof of my sincerity, tell me what you desire and I am ready to obey you." The princess's joy was the more inexpressible, because the conquest she had made had cost her the lives of two beloved brothers, and given her more trouble and danger than she could have imagined. "Bird," said she, "it was my intention to have told you that I wish for many things which are of importance, but I am overjoyed that you have shown your goodwill and prevented me. I have been told that there is not far off a Golden Water, the property of which is very wonderful; before all things, I ask you to tell me where it is."<|quote|>The Bird showed her the place, which was just by, and she went and filled a little silver flagon which she had brought with her. She returned at once and said:</|quote|>"Bird, this is not enough; I want also the Singing Tree; tell me where it is." "Turn about," said the Bird, "and you will see behind you a wood where you will find the tree." The princess went into the wood, and by the harmonious concert she heard, soon knew the tree among many others, but it was very large and high. She came back again and said: "Bird, I have found the Singing Tree, but I can neither pull it up by the roots nor carry it." The Bird replied: "It is not necessary that you should take it up; it will be sufficient to break off a branch and carry it to plant in your garden; it will take root as soon as it is put into the earth, and in a little time will grow to as fine a tree as that you have seen." When the princess had obtained possession of the three things for which she had conceived so great a desire, she said again: "Bird, what you have yet done for me is not sufficient. You have been the cause of the death of my two brothers, who must be among the black stones I saw as I ascended the mountain. I wish to take the princes home with me." The Bird seemed reluctant to satisfy the princess in this point, and indeed made some difficulty to comply. "Bird," said the princess, "remember you told me that you were my slave. You are so; and your life is in my disposal." "That I cannot deny," answered the bird; "but although what you now ask is more difficult than all the rest, yet I will do it for you. Cast your eyes around," added he, "and look if you can see a little pitcher." "I see it already," said the princess. "Take it then," said he, "and as you descend the mountain, sprinkle a little of the water that is in it upon every black stone." The princess took up the pitcher accordingly, carried with her the cage and Bird, the flagon of Golden Water, and the branch of the Singing Tree, and as she descended the mountain, threw a little of the water on every black stone, which was changed immediately into a man; and as she did not miss one stone, all the horses, both of her brothers and of the other gentlemen, resumed their natural forms also. She instantly recognised Bahman and Perviz, as they did her, and ran to embrace her. She returned their embraces and expressed her amazement. "What do you here, my dear brothers?" said she, and they told her they had been asleep. "Yes," replied she, "and if it had not been for me, perhaps you might have slept till the day of judgment. Do not you remember that you came to fetch the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water, and did not you see, as you came along, the place covered with black stones? Look and see if there be any now. The gentlemen and their horses who surround us, and you yourselves, were these black stones. If you desire to know how this wonder was performed," continued she, showing the pitcher, which she set down at the foot of the mountain, "it was done by virtue of the water which was in this pitcher, with which I sprinkled every stone. After I had made the Talking Bird (which you see in this cage) my slave, by his directions | Arabian Nights (1) |
He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. | No speaker | any bulls in my hand?"<|quote|>He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small.</|quote|>"There are thousands of bulls," | he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?"<|quote|>He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small.</|quote|>"There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not | 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?"<|quote|>He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small.</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small.</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small.</|quote|>"There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand," Brett said. "I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of | 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?"<|quote|>He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small.</|quote|>"There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand," Brett said. "I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression 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. | wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we could see the mountains. The wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon. Below us were the dark pits of the fortifications. Behind were the trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon. "Don't feel bad," I said. "I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk." We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered. "It's cold." "Want to walk back?" "Through the park." We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the park it was dark under the trees. "Do you still love me, Jake?" "Yes," I said. "Because I'm a goner," Brett said. "How?" "I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think." "I wouldn't be if I were you." "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?"<|quote|>He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small.</|quote|>"There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand," Brett said. "I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression 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 | 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?"<|quote|>He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small.</|quote|>"There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand," Brett said. "I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression 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 | The Sun Also Rises |
"Obviously unfair," | Margaret | a fair deduction," he said.<|quote|>"Obviously unfair,"</|quote|>said Margaret. "I was only | annoyed. "I hardly consider that a fair deduction," he said.<|quote|>"Obviously unfair,"</|quote|>said Margaret. "I was only thinking how tangled things are. | thoughts still strayed after Helen. "Do you realise that it s all your fault?" she said. "You re responsible." "I?" "This is the young man whom we were to warn against the Porphyrion. We warn him, and--look!" Mr. Wilcox was annoyed. "I hardly consider that a fair deduction," he said.<|quote|>"Obviously unfair,"</|quote|>said Margaret. "I was only thinking how tangled things are. It s our fault mostly--neither yours nor his." "Not his?" "No." "Miss Schlegel, you are too kind." "Yes, indeed," nodded Evie, a little contemptuously. "You behave much too well to people, and then they impose on you. I know the | I cannot think what set him off. It has been most unpleasant for you." "Oh, I didn t mind." Then he changed his mood. He asked if he might speak as an old friend, and, permission given, said: "Oughtn t you really to be more careful?" Margaret laughed, though her thoughts still strayed after Helen. "Do you realise that it s all your fault?" she said. "You re responsible." "I?" "This is the young man whom we were to warn against the Porphyrion. We warn him, and--look!" Mr. Wilcox was annoyed. "I hardly consider that a fair deduction," he said.<|quote|>"Obviously unfair,"</|quote|>said Margaret. "I was only thinking how tangled things are. It s our fault mostly--neither yours nor his." "Not his?" "No." "Miss Schlegel, you are too kind." "Yes, indeed," nodded Evie, a little contemptuously. "You behave much too well to people, and then they impose on you. I know the world and that type of man, and as soon as I entered the room I saw you had not been treating him properly. You must keep that type at a distance. Otherwise they forget themselves. Sad, but true. They aren t our sort, and one must face the fact." "Ye--es." | said their visitor. "Ought she to?" At once she went. He resumed. "I would have chimed in, but I felt that you could polish him off for yourselves--I didn t interfere. You were splendid, Miss Schlegel--absolutely splendid. You can take my word for it, but there are very few women who could have managed him." "Oh yes," said Margaret distractedly. "Bowling him over with those long sentences was what fetched me," cried Evie. "Yes, indeed," chuckled her father; "all that part about mechanical cheerfulness --oh, fine!" "I m very sorry," said Margaret, collecting herself. "He s a nice creature really. I cannot think what set him off. It has been most unpleasant for you." "Oh, I didn t mind." Then he changed his mood. He asked if he might speak as an old friend, and, permission given, said: "Oughtn t you really to be more careful?" Margaret laughed, though her thoughts still strayed after Helen. "Do you realise that it s all your fault?" she said. "You re responsible." "I?" "This is the young man whom we were to warn against the Porphyrion. We warn him, and--look!" Mr. Wilcox was annoyed. "I hardly consider that a fair deduction," he said.<|quote|>"Obviously unfair,"</|quote|>said Margaret. "I was only thinking how tangled things are. It s our fault mostly--neither yours nor his." "Not his?" "No." "Miss Schlegel, you are too kind." "Yes, indeed," nodded Evie, a little contemptuously. "You behave much too well to people, and then they impose on you. I know the world and that type of man, and as soon as I entered the room I saw you had not been treating him properly. You must keep that type at a distance. Otherwise they forget themselves. Sad, but true. They aren t our sort, and one must face the fact." "Ye--es." "Do admit that we should never have had the outburst if he was a gentleman." "I admit it willingly," said Margaret, who was pacing up and down the room. "A gentleman would have kept his suspicions to himself." Mr. Wilcox watched her with a vague uneasiness. "What did he suspect you of?" "Of wanting to make money out of him." "Intolerable brute! But how were you to benefit?" "Exactly. How indeed! Just horrible, corroding suspicion. One touch of thought or of goodwill would have brushed it away. Just the senseless fear that does make men intolerable brutes." "I come back | We wanted to help you; we also supposed you might help us. We did not have you here out of charity--which bores us--but because we hoped there would be a connection between last Sunday and other days. What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our daily lives? They have never entered into mine, but into yours, we thought--Haven t we all to struggle against life s daily greyness, against pettiness, against mechanical cheerfulness, against suspicion? I struggle by remembering my friends; others I have known by remembering some place--some beloved place or tree--we thought you one of these." "Of course, if there s been any misunderstanding," mumbled Leonard, "all I can do is to go. But I beg to state--" He paused. Ahab and Jezebel danced at his boots and made him look ridiculous. "You were picking my brain for official information--I can prove it--I--" He blew his nose and left them. "Can I help you now?" said Mr. Wilcox, turning to Margaret. "May I have one quiet word with him in the hall?" "Helen, go after him--do anything--anything--to make the noodle understand." Helen hesitated. "But really--" said their visitor. "Ought she to?" At once she went. He resumed. "I would have chimed in, but I felt that you could polish him off for yourselves--I didn t interfere. You were splendid, Miss Schlegel--absolutely splendid. You can take my word for it, but there are very few women who could have managed him." "Oh yes," said Margaret distractedly. "Bowling him over with those long sentences was what fetched me," cried Evie. "Yes, indeed," chuckled her father; "all that part about mechanical cheerfulness --oh, fine!" "I m very sorry," said Margaret, collecting herself. "He s a nice creature really. I cannot think what set him off. It has been most unpleasant for you." "Oh, I didn t mind." Then he changed his mood. He asked if he might speak as an old friend, and, permission given, said: "Oughtn t you really to be more careful?" Margaret laughed, though her thoughts still strayed after Helen. "Do you realise that it s all your fault?" she said. "You re responsible." "I?" "This is the young man whom we were to warn against the Porphyrion. We warn him, and--look!" Mr. Wilcox was annoyed. "I hardly consider that a fair deduction," he said.<|quote|>"Obviously unfair,"</|quote|>said Margaret. "I was only thinking how tangled things are. It s our fault mostly--neither yours nor his." "Not his?" "No." "Miss Schlegel, you are too kind." "Yes, indeed," nodded Evie, a little contemptuously. "You behave much too well to people, and then they impose on you. I know the world and that type of man, and as soon as I entered the room I saw you had not been treating him properly. You must keep that type at a distance. Otherwise they forget themselves. Sad, but true. They aren t our sort, and one must face the fact." "Ye--es." "Do admit that we should never have had the outburst if he was a gentleman." "I admit it willingly," said Margaret, who was pacing up and down the room. "A gentleman would have kept his suspicions to himself." Mr. Wilcox watched her with a vague uneasiness. "What did he suspect you of?" "Of wanting to make money out of him." "Intolerable brute! But how were you to benefit?" "Exactly. How indeed! Just horrible, corroding suspicion. One touch of thought or of goodwill would have brushed it away. Just the senseless fear that does make men intolerable brutes." "I come back to my original point. You ought to be more careful, Miss Schlegel. Your servants ought to have orders not to let such people in." She turned to him frankly. "Let me explain exactly why we like this man, and want to see him again." "That s your clever way of talking. I shall never believe you like him." "I do. Firstly, because he cares for physical adventure, just as you do. Yes, you go motoring and shooting; he would like to go camping out. Secondly, he cares for something special IN adventure. It is quickest to call that special something poetry--" "Oh, he s one of that writer sort." "No--oh no! I mean he may be, but it would be loathsome stuff. His brain is filled with the husks of books, culture--horrible; we want him to wash out his brain and go to the real thing. We want to show him how he may get upsides with life. As I said, either friends or the country, some" "--she hesitated--" "either some very dear person or some very dear place seems necessary to relieve life s daily grey, and to show that it is grey. If possible, one should have both." | little mistake. We tried knowing another class--impossible." But the Schlegels had never played with life. They had attempted friendship, and they would take the consequences. Helen retorted, "I call that a very rude remark. What do you want to turn on me like that for?" and suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar row. "You ask me why I turn on you?" "Yes." "What do you want to have me here for?" "To help you, you silly boy!" cried Helen. "And don t shout." "I don t want your patronage. I don t want your tea. I was quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me for?" He turned to Mr. Wilcox. "I put it to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?" Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humorous strength that he could so well command. "Are we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use, or shall we go?" But Margaret ignored him. "I m connected with a leading insurance company, sir. I receive what I take to be an invitation from these--ladies" (he drawled the word). "I come, and it s to have my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair?" "Highly unfair," said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a gasp from Evie, who knew that her father was becoming dangerous. "There, you hear that? Most unfair, the gentleman says. There! Not content with" "--pointing at Margaret--" "you can t deny it." His voice rose; he was falling into the rhythm of a scene with Jacky. "But as soon as I m useful it s a very different thing. Oh yes, send for him. Cross-question him. Pick his brains. Oh yes. Now, take me on the whole, I m a quiet fellow: I m law-abiding, I don t wish any unpleasantness; but I--I--" "You," said Margaret--" "you--you--" Laughter from Evie as at a repartee. "You are the man who tried to walk by the Pole Star." More laughter. "You saw the sunrise." Laughter. "You tried to get away from the fogs that are stifling us all--away past books and houses to the truth. You were looking for a real home." "I fail to see the connection," said Leonard, hot with stupid anger. "So do I." There was a pause. "You were that last Sunday--you are this to-day. Mr. Bast! I and my sister have talked you over. We wanted to help you; we also supposed you might help us. We did not have you here out of charity--which bores us--but because we hoped there would be a connection between last Sunday and other days. What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our daily lives? They have never entered into mine, but into yours, we thought--Haven t we all to struggle against life s daily greyness, against pettiness, against mechanical cheerfulness, against suspicion? I struggle by remembering my friends; others I have known by remembering some place--some beloved place or tree--we thought you one of these." "Of course, if there s been any misunderstanding," mumbled Leonard, "all I can do is to go. But I beg to state--" He paused. Ahab and Jezebel danced at his boots and made him look ridiculous. "You were picking my brain for official information--I can prove it--I--" He blew his nose and left them. "Can I help you now?" said Mr. Wilcox, turning to Margaret. "May I have one quiet word with him in the hall?" "Helen, go after him--do anything--anything--to make the noodle understand." Helen hesitated. "But really--" said their visitor. "Ought she to?" At once she went. He resumed. "I would have chimed in, but I felt that you could polish him off for yourselves--I didn t interfere. You were splendid, Miss Schlegel--absolutely splendid. You can take my word for it, but there are very few women who could have managed him." "Oh yes," said Margaret distractedly. "Bowling him over with those long sentences was what fetched me," cried Evie. "Yes, indeed," chuckled her father; "all that part about mechanical cheerfulness --oh, fine!" "I m very sorry," said Margaret, collecting herself. "He s a nice creature really. I cannot think what set him off. It has been most unpleasant for you." "Oh, I didn t mind." Then he changed his mood. He asked if he might speak as an old friend, and, permission given, said: "Oughtn t you really to be more careful?" Margaret laughed, though her thoughts still strayed after Helen. "Do you realise that it s all your fault?" she said. "You re responsible." "I?" "This is the young man whom we were to warn against the Porphyrion. We warn him, and--look!" Mr. Wilcox was annoyed. "I hardly consider that a fair deduction," he said.<|quote|>"Obviously unfair,"</|quote|>said Margaret. "I was only thinking how tangled things are. It s our fault mostly--neither yours nor his." "Not his?" "No." "Miss Schlegel, you are too kind." "Yes, indeed," nodded Evie, a little contemptuously. "You behave much too well to people, and then they impose on you. I know the world and that type of man, and as soon as I entered the room I saw you had not been treating him properly. You must keep that type at a distance. Otherwise they forget themselves. Sad, but true. They aren t our sort, and one must face the fact." "Ye--es." "Do admit that we should never have had the outburst if he was a gentleman." "I admit it willingly," said Margaret, who was pacing up and down the room. "A gentleman would have kept his suspicions to himself." Mr. Wilcox watched her with a vague uneasiness. "What did he suspect you of?" "Of wanting to make money out of him." "Intolerable brute! But how were you to benefit?" "Exactly. How indeed! Just horrible, corroding suspicion. One touch of thought or of goodwill would have brushed it away. Just the senseless fear that does make men intolerable brutes." "I come back to my original point. You ought to be more careful, Miss Schlegel. Your servants ought to have orders not to let such people in." She turned to him frankly. "Let me explain exactly why we like this man, and want to see him again." "That s your clever way of talking. I shall never believe you like him." "I do. Firstly, because he cares for physical adventure, just as you do. Yes, you go motoring and shooting; he would like to go camping out. Secondly, he cares for something special IN adventure. It is quickest to call that special something poetry--" "Oh, he s one of that writer sort." "No--oh no! I mean he may be, but it would be loathsome stuff. His brain is filled with the husks of books, culture--horrible; we want him to wash out his brain and go to the real thing. We want to show him how he may get upsides with life. As I said, either friends or the country, some" "--she hesitated--" "either some very dear person or some very dear place seems necessary to relieve life s daily grey, and to show that it is grey. If possible, one should have both." Some of her words ran past Mr. Wilcox. He let them run past. Others he caught and criticised with admirable lucidity. "Your mistake is this, and it is a very common mistake. This young bounder has a life of his own. What right have you to conclude it is an unsuccessful life, or, as you call it, grey ?" "Because--" "One minute. You know nothing about him. He probably has his own joys and interests--wife, children, snug little home. That s where we practical fellows" he smiled--" "are more tolerant than you intellectuals. We live and let live, and assume that things are jogging on fairly well elsewhere, and that the ordinary plain man may be trusted to look after his own affairs. I quite grant--I look at the faces of the clerks in my own office, and observe them to be dull, but I don t know what s going on beneath. So, by the way, with London. I have heard you rail against London, Miss Schlegel, and it seems a funny thing to say but I was very angry with you. What do you know about London? You only see civilisation from the outside. I don t say in your case, but in too many cases that attitude leads to morbidity, discontent, and Socialism." She admitted the strength of his position, though it undermined imagination. As he spoke, some outposts of poetry and perhaps of sympathy fell ruining, and she retreated to what she called her "second line"--to the special facts of the case. "His wife is an old bore," she said simply. "He never came home last Saturday night because he wanted to be alone, and she thought he was with us." "With YOU?" "Yes." Evie tittered. "He hasn t got the cosy home that you assumed. He needs outside interests." "Naughty young man!" cried the girl. "Naughty?" said Margaret, who hated naughtiness more than sin. "When you re married Miss Wilcox, won t you want outside interests?" "He has apparently got them," put in Mr. Wilcox slyly. "Yes, indeed, father." "He was tramping in Surrey, if you mean that," said Margaret, pacing away rather crossly. "Oh, I dare say!" "Miss Wilcox, he was!" "M--m--m--m!" from Mr. Wilcox, who thought the episode amusing, if risque. With most ladies he would not have discussed it, but he was trading on Margaret s reputation as an emancipated woman. "He | do I." There was a pause. "You were that last Sunday--you are this to-day. Mr. Bast! I and my sister have talked you over. We wanted to help you; we also supposed you might help us. We did not have you here out of charity--which bores us--but because we hoped there would be a connection between last Sunday and other days. What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our daily lives? They have never entered into mine, but into yours, we thought--Haven t we all to struggle against life s daily greyness, against pettiness, against mechanical cheerfulness, against suspicion? I struggle by remembering my friends; others I have known by remembering some place--some beloved place or tree--we thought you one of these." "Of course, if there s been any misunderstanding," mumbled Leonard, "all I can do is to go. But I beg to state--" He paused. Ahab and Jezebel danced at his boots and made him look ridiculous. "You were picking my brain for official information--I can prove it--I--" He blew his nose and left them. "Can I help you now?" said Mr. Wilcox, turning to Margaret. "May I have one quiet word with him in the hall?" "Helen, go after him--do anything--anything--to make the noodle understand." Helen hesitated. "But really--" said their visitor. "Ought she to?" At once she went. He resumed. "I would have chimed in, but I felt that you could polish him off for yourselves--I didn t interfere. You were splendid, Miss Schlegel--absolutely splendid. You can take my word for it, but there are very few women who could have managed him." "Oh yes," said Margaret distractedly. "Bowling him over with those long sentences was what fetched me," cried Evie. "Yes, indeed," chuckled her father; "all that part about mechanical cheerfulness --oh, fine!" "I m very sorry," said Margaret, collecting herself. "He s a nice creature really. I cannot think what set him off. It has been most unpleasant for you." "Oh, I didn t mind." Then he changed his mood. He asked if he might speak as an old friend, and, permission given, said: "Oughtn t you really to be more careful?" Margaret laughed, though her thoughts still strayed after Helen. "Do you realise that it s all your fault?" she said. "You re responsible." "I?" "This is the young man whom we were to warn against the Porphyrion. We warn him, and--look!" Mr. Wilcox was annoyed. "I hardly consider that a fair deduction," he said.<|quote|>"Obviously unfair,"</|quote|>said Margaret. "I was only thinking how tangled things are. It s our fault mostly--neither yours nor his." "Not his?" "No." "Miss Schlegel, you are too kind." "Yes, indeed," nodded Evie, a little contemptuously. "You behave much too well to people, and then they impose on you. I know the world and that type of man, and as soon as I entered the room I saw you had not been treating him properly. You must keep that type at a distance. Otherwise they forget themselves. Sad, but true. They aren t our sort, and one must face the fact." "Ye--es." "Do admit that we should never have had the outburst if he was a gentleman." "I admit it willingly," said Margaret, who was pacing up and down the room. "A gentleman would have kept his suspicions to himself." Mr. Wilcox watched her with a vague uneasiness. "What did he suspect you of?" "Of wanting to make money out of him." "Intolerable brute! But how were you to benefit?" "Exactly. How indeed! Just horrible, corroding suspicion. One touch of thought or of goodwill would have brushed it away. Just the senseless fear that does make men intolerable brutes." "I come back to my original point. You ought to be more careful, Miss Schlegel. Your servants ought to have orders not to let such people in." She turned to him frankly. "Let me explain exactly why we like this man, and want to see him again." "That s your clever way of talking. I shall never believe you like him." "I do. Firstly, because he cares for physical adventure, just as you do. Yes, you go motoring and shooting; he would like to go camping out. Secondly, he cares for something special IN adventure. It is quickest to call that special something poetry--" "Oh, he s one of that writer sort." "No--oh no! I mean he may be, but it would be loathsome stuff. His brain is filled with the husks of books, culture--horrible; we want him to wash out his brain and go to the real thing. We want to show him how he may get upsides with life. As I said, either friends or the country, some" "--she hesitated--" "either some very dear person or some very dear place seems necessary to relieve life s daily grey, and to show that it is grey. If possible, one should have both." Some of her words ran past Mr. Wilcox. He let them run past. Others he caught and criticised with admirable lucidity. "Your mistake is this, and it is a very common mistake. This young bounder has a life of his own. What right have you to conclude it is an unsuccessful life, or, as you call it, grey | Howards End |
They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of "Men's Beavers" and "York Tan" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he said--" | No speaker | stand upon your own virtues."<|quote|>They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of "Men's Beavers" and "York Tan" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he said--"</|quote|>"But I beg your pardon, | Ford's, and your popularity will stand upon your own virtues."<|quote|>They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of "Men's Beavers" and "York Tan" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he said--"</|quote|>"But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking | say they sell gloves." "Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because you were Mr. Weston's son--but lay out half a guinea at Ford's, and your popularity will stand upon your own virtues."<|quote|>They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of "Men's Beavers" and "York Tan" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he said--"</|quote|>"But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me, you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_ _patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of public fame would not make me amends for the loss | seven, and has always business at Ford's. If it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must buy something at Ford's. It will be taking out my freedom.--I dare say they sell gloves." "Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because you were Mr. Weston's son--but lay out half a guinea at Ford's, and your popularity will stand upon your own virtues."<|quote|>They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of "Men's Beavers" and "York Tan" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he said--"</|quote|>"But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me, you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_ _patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in private life." "I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her party at Weymouth." "And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a very unfair one. It is always the lady's right to decide on the degree | effect was--fortunately he need not attempt to describe what the effect was. "Well," said Emma, "there is no disputing about taste.--At least you admire her except her complexion." He shook his head and laughed.--" "I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her complexion." "Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same society?" At this moment they were approaching Ford's, and he hastily exclaimed, "Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of their lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford's. If it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must buy something at Ford's. It will be taking out my freedom.--I dare say they sell gloves." "Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because you were Mr. Weston's son--but lay out half a guinea at Ford's, and your popularity will stand upon your own virtues."<|quote|>They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of "Men's Beavers" and "York Tan" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he said--"</|quote|>"But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me, you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_ _patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in private life." "I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her party at Weymouth." "And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a very unfair one. It is always the lady's right to decide on the degree of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.--I shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow." "Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any body, that I really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance with her." "May I, indeed?--Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had | else) joined me there at last, that I had been actually sitting with them very nearly three-quarters of an hour. The good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before." "And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?" "Ill, very ill--that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look ill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it? Ladies can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health.--A most deplorable want of complexion." Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss Fairfax's complexion. "It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her face." He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he had heard many people say the same--but yet he must confess, that to him nothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health. Where features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all; and where they were good, the effect was--fortunately he need not attempt to describe what the effect was. "Well," said Emma, "there is no disputing about taste.--At least you admire her except her complexion." He shook his head and laughed.--" "I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her complexion." "Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same society?" At this moment they were approaching Ford's, and he hastily exclaimed, "Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of their lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford's. If it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must buy something at Ford's. It will be taking out my freedom.--I dare say they sell gloves." "Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because you were Mr. Weston's son--but lay out half a guinea at Ford's, and your popularity will stand upon your own virtues."<|quote|>They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of "Men's Beavers" and "York Tan" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he said--"</|quote|>"But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me, you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_ _patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in private life." "I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her party at Weymouth." "And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a very unfair one. It is always the lady's right to decide on the degree of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.--I shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow." "Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any body, that I really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance with her." "May I, indeed?--Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a little in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set. Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly, warm-hearted woman. I like them all." "You know Miss Fairfax's situation in life, I conclude; what she is destined to be?" "Yes--" (rather hesitatingly) "--I believe I do." "You get upon delicate subjects, Emma," said Mrs. Weston smiling; "remember that I am here.--Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say when you speak of Miss Fairfax's situation in life. I will move a little farther off." "I certainly do forget to think of _her_," said Emma, "as having ever been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend." He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment. When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, "Did you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?" said Frank Churchill. "Ever hear her!" repeated Emma. "You forget how much she belongs to Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began. She plays charmingly." "You think so, do you?--I wanted the opinion of some one who could | enough, broad enough, handsome enough. It would hold the very number for comfort. They ought to have balls there at least every fortnight through the winter. Why had not Miss Woodhouse revived the former good old days of the room?--She who could do any thing in Highbury! The want of proper families in the place, and the conviction that none beyond the place and its immediate environs could be tempted to attend, were mentioned; but he was not satisfied. He could not be persuaded that so many good-looking houses as he saw around him, could not furnish numbers enough for such a meeting; and even when particulars were given and families described, he was still unwilling to admit that the inconvenience of such a mixture would be any thing, or that there would be the smallest difficulty in every body's returning into their proper place the next morning. He argued like a young man very much bent on dancing; and Emma was rather surprized to see the constitution of the Weston prevail so decidedly against the habits of the Churchills. He seemed to have all the life and spirit, cheerful feelings, and social inclinations of his father, and nothing of the pride or reserve of Enscombe. Of pride, indeed, there was, perhaps, scarcely enough; his indifference to a confusion of rank, bordered too much on inelegance of mind. He could be no judge, however, of the evil he was holding cheap. It was but an effusion of lively spirits. At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown; and being now almost facing the house where the Bateses lodged, Emma recollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him if he had paid it. "Yes, oh! yes" "--he replied; "I was just going to mention it. A very successful visit:--I saw all the three ladies; and felt very much obliged to you for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt had taken me quite by surprize, it must have been the death of me. As it was, I was only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes would have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper; and I had told my father I should certainly be at home before him--but there was no getting away, no pause; and, to my utter astonishment, I found, when he (finding me nowhere else) joined me there at last, that I had been actually sitting with them very nearly three-quarters of an hour. The good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before." "And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?" "Ill, very ill--that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look ill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it? Ladies can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health.--A most deplorable want of complexion." Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss Fairfax's complexion. "It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her face." He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he had heard many people say the same--but yet he must confess, that to him nothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health. Where features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all; and where they were good, the effect was--fortunately he need not attempt to describe what the effect was. "Well," said Emma, "there is no disputing about taste.--At least you admire her except her complexion." He shook his head and laughed.--" "I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her complexion." "Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same society?" At this moment they were approaching Ford's, and he hastily exclaimed, "Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of their lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford's. If it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must buy something at Ford's. It will be taking out my freedom.--I dare say they sell gloves." "Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because you were Mr. Weston's son--but lay out half a guinea at Ford's, and your popularity will stand upon your own virtues."<|quote|>They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of "Men's Beavers" and "York Tan" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he said--"</|quote|>"But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me, you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_ _patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in private life." "I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her party at Weymouth." "And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a very unfair one. It is always the lady's right to decide on the degree of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.--I shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow." "Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any body, that I really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance with her." "May I, indeed?--Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a little in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set. Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly, warm-hearted woman. I like them all." "You know Miss Fairfax's situation in life, I conclude; what she is destined to be?" "Yes--" (rather hesitatingly) "--I believe I do." "You get upon delicate subjects, Emma," said Mrs. Weston smiling; "remember that I am here.--Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say when you speak of Miss Fairfax's situation in life. I will move a little farther off." "I certainly do forget to think of _her_," said Emma, "as having ever been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend." He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment. When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, "Did you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?" said Frank Churchill. "Ever hear her!" repeated Emma. "You forget how much she belongs to Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began. She plays charmingly." "You think so, do you?--I wanted the opinion of some one who could really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with considerable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.--I am excessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill or right of judging of any body's performance.--I have been used to hear her's admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:--a man, a very musical man, and in love with another woman--engaged to her--on the point of marriage--would yet never ask that other woman to sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down instead--never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other. That, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof." "Proof indeed!" said Emma, highly amused.--" "Mr. Dixon is very musical, is he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you, than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year." "Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a very strong proof." "Certainly--very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger than, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable to me. I could not excuse a man's having more music than love--more ear than eye--a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings. How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?" "It was her very particular friend, you know." "Poor comfort!" said Emma, laughing. "One would rather have a stranger preferred than one's very particular friend--with a stranger it might not recur again--but the misery of having a very particular friend always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!--Poor Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland." "You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she really did not seem to feel it." "So much the better--or so much the worse:--I do not know which. But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her--quickness of friendship, or dulness of feeling--there was one person, I think, who must have felt it: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous distinction." "As to that--I do not--" "Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax's sensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human | features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all; and where they were good, the effect was--fortunately he need not attempt to describe what the effect was. "Well," said Emma, "there is no disputing about taste.--At least you admire her except her complexion." He shook his head and laughed.--" "I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her complexion." "Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same society?" At this moment they were approaching Ford's, and he hastily exclaimed, "Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of their lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford's. If it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must buy something at Ford's. It will be taking out my freedom.--I dare say they sell gloves." "Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because you were Mr. Weston's son--but lay out half a guinea at Ford's, and your popularity will stand upon your own virtues."<|quote|>They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of "Men's Beavers" and "York Tan" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he said--"</|quote|>"But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me, you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_ _patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in private life." "I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her party at Weymouth." "And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a very unfair one. It is always the lady's right to decide on the degree of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.--I shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow." "Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any body, that I really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance with her." "May I, indeed?--Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a little in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set. Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly, warm-hearted woman. I like them all." "You know Miss Fairfax's situation in life, I conclude; what she is destined to be?" "Yes--" (rather hesitatingly) "--I believe I do." "You get upon delicate subjects, Emma," said Mrs. Weston smiling; "remember that I am here.--Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say when you speak of Miss Fairfax's situation in life. I will move a little farther off." "I certainly do forget to think of _her_," said Emma, "as having ever been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend." He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment. When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, "Did you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?" said Frank Churchill. "Ever hear her!" repeated Emma. "You forget how much she belongs to Highbury. I have heard her every year of | Emma |
Subsets and Splits
No community queries yet
The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.